A Different Kind Of Love Song

My darling Ashley (I See!) sent me a Jane Austen scarf for my birthday last month, and she is featuring it on her blog today. It's basically one of many love letters I write to Ash, turned blog post.

Once upon a time, if you had sat me down and told me one of my best friends on this planet was going to be a blonde sorority girl who was obsessed with Southern vampires, I would have never believed you. Because, 1.) I wasn't too keen on the whole Greek system in universities, and I usually had very little in common with the girls who joined and 2.) The only true Southern vampire is Lestat, thankyouverymuch. But when Ashley and I met at a graduate meet-n-greet at the Southlands bar at Roehampton University, it wasn't just friendship. It was fate.

In fact, it was fated from the moment I was preparing to leave for London. You see, when I get a little tipsy, I tend to talk about one subject in particular. Any guesses?

(The answer is always David Bowie.)

And if you get me flat-out drunk, I'll most likely start on about The Man Who Fell To Earth. Which caused this exchange between Mr. B and me before I left for London: True Story. (If you don't click the link, here's a hint: It's about David Bowie's penis.)

At the graduate meet-n-greet, Ashley and I were sitting next to each other after a few glasses of free wine. The evening was winding down, and most of the other students and future friends had already left for the night. We were both a bit buzzed; me in my black high-heeled boots that were pinching my feet and this blonde whirlwind of energy who spoke a mile a minute and who, when she smiled, seemed to be smiling with the whole of her body -- a genuine, heart-on-her-sleeve smile that was a mini flaming sun.

When we became friends, it was instant. It took two little words to unlock a beautiful, bickering, blessed friendship that gave me a sister-in-arms and fellow flaneur.

"So." I spoke, my mouth soft with wine, "Do you like David Bowie?"

You know the rest.

Artistic representation of Ashley and me.

In Bossypants, Tine Fey has a chapter titled, "I Don't Care If You Like It (One in a series of love letters to Amy Poehler)" that opens this way (thanks, Google Books!):

“Amy Poehler was new to SNL and we were all crowded into the seventeenth-floor writers’ room, waiting for the Wednesday read-through to start. There were always a lot of noisy ‘comedy bits’ going on in that room. Amy was in the middle of some such nonsense with Seth Meyers across the table, and she did something vulgar as a joke. I can’t remember what it was exactly, except that it was dirty and loud and 'unladylike.'

Jimmy Fallon, who was arguably the star of the show at the time, turned to her and in a faux-squeamish voice said, 'Stop that! It’s not cute! I don’t like it!'

Amy dropped what she was doing, went black in the eyes for a second, and wheeled around on him.

'I don’t fucking care if you like it.' Jimmy was visibly startled. Amy went right back to enjoying her ridiculous bit.”

Tina Fey and Amy Poehler's relationship is one that envied until I met own little blonde dynamo. One who is brave and sweet and will look a jerk in the eye and give them the hell they deserve.  One who, despite my being a bit older, I kinda want to be when I grow up. That's my Ashley.

I've mentioned before that I was lonely in my youth, and one of the most surprising things about adulthood are the friendships I have made that would have caused Teenage-Me to cry with joy. It's my only "It Gets Better" moment: As an adult I have made many real, true, honest, life-long, loved friends that I can't possibly deserve but somehow have. And I am so, so thankful for each and every one of you.

Once upon a time, a loud, Southern, feminist brunette and a blonde, Northwestern, sorority girl met in a bar. And became friends for life.

"Let's go on an adventure!" Ashley and Natalie ride a magic turtle.