Skip to main content

How I Met Kate (Or, The Importance Of Recognizing When a Seminal Friend Walks Into Your Life For The First Time)

Kate and I met a lifetime ago. This was before September 11th, before babies, before night creams and stretched bellies and when dinner plans could be made at the last minute, at 9 pm, and could be enjoyed because no one had to get up the next morning to pack lunch boxes.

We met at dinner. Truth be told, Kate had met The Prince through work in London, and he had told me too many times how much I would love her. Because we shared the same hair. (You have to understand The Prince. He’s actually quite bright.) I did what any sensible person would do when their husband announces they’ve found a new best friend for you – I thought he was nutters and I brushed off the whole deal. Until he came home a month later and told me had made plans for the four of us (Yes, Alpha Male) for dinner. Since The Prince makes plans as often as Hailey’s Comet, this required some attention. I agreed.

We met at a dark restaurant in Southwark, a dark neighborhood on the wrong side of the Thames, which I had already fallen in love with for its twists and turns, and fallen down appearance. I even remember what I was wearing – a leather coat from the 60s I had bought in a flea market in Florence. (Still have it. Still fabulous.)

I walked in, late, met Kate and shockingly The Prince was right. The bond was instantaneous. And we had the same hair. Curly. Corkscrewed. Unruly sometimes. (Hers is better.)

But there was probably more. Maybe our hunt for bargains. Or chatter about having babies one day. Or shared cynical humor. Or the fact we both had roots in California.

And then, The Prince got transferred to New York suddenly. And yet, despite the fact we haven’t been in the same physical space, let alone time zone, except for a brief visit to London seven years ago (when, it must be said, Kate in fine pregnant form stood up to a strange King’s Road bird who tried to pick a fight with her), our friendship has never waivered. Our first babies were even born within months of each other.

Her friendship has meant everything —  she never fails to remind me to laugh when I grow dramatic and whingy. (The sign of a great friend.) And she’s even taught me a very important lesson: That despite all signs to the contrary, The Prince can actually be right.

Comments

Plastic paddy said…
Ah that's so sweet and yes Kate doesn't realise she has lovely hair even in this heat and humidity!
Manhattan Mama said…
I know!! Whereas I basically keep the conditioning companies in profits and still battle the frizz...sigh.
Kate B. said…
(blushing)

Stop focusing on the hair.

You haven't told them about your endless legs though Lauren. It's like Bambi and one of the Seven Dwarves when we get together (which one? Grumpy, probably). Sigh.
Kate B. said…
Also meant to say, I love your drama because it's an important part of who you are, plus it never fails to entertain me :-) But you are rarely whingy and if you ever are then it's always because you're got something proper to whinge about. And, of course, you always return the favour.

God, that coat was fabulous, wasn't it? So pleased it still lives on. xxx
Manhattan Mama said…
Seriously...Seven Dwarves? If one of them took hormones maybe and shot off like Rapunzel. You're hilarious. xo

Popular posts from this blog

The Grim Reaper

Firstborn is obsessed with death. It started with the odd comment, such as; "Mummy, what happens when you die?" OK, I thought, I was expecting this at some point, what a cute little curious brain she has. So I trotted out all the cosy Heaven stuff and left out all the things that could worry her, such as worms and bones and holes in the ground. This went down pretty well, although somehow Firstborn made the jump from my view of Heaven (filled with love, joy, always warm, never rains, has a huge discount designer shoe outlet and I never have to pay my Visa bill) to her own view of Heaven; a wonderous place where small girls don't have to eat their vegetables before they're allowed pudding, and where Barbie dolls grow on trees. Anyway, I digress. Last week Firstborn started shouting "Kill! Kill!" in a bloodthirsty tone while bashing her hithero-beloved teddy against the wall. This was topped by her purposely flushing her favourite My Little Pony down the loo. ...

What Price Romance?

Let's talk romance for a moment. Manhattan Mama clearly feels deprived in this department and this is one of the most bewildering aspects of life with her. My latest attempt to remedy this is to make a reservation at A Voce--some interpretation of Tuscan cuisine--that the NYT recently gave three very optimistic stars. I've been a few times on my employers expense, so I know it's nice but I also know what it's going to cost. I'm thinking lucky if we get out of there for less than $150. Tack on another $50 for the babysitter. Then drinks, cabs, etc. Better not to do the math. It's not that MM wouldn't be perfectly happy with a kabab or a trip to the hipster taqueria, maybe some flowers from the corner stand. None of that would register in her mind as this mythic thing know as a DATE, and thus would win me no more points on her end than remembering to take down the recycling. Making a DATE means you're thinking of her, which means you're engaged with h...