RULES FOR FRIENDS

If you are going to claim to be my friend, there are just a few rules.

First of all, we need to establish some guidelines regarding the times you can call my house.  Back when I was young and hip (Kind Reader, you are so right - I still am!), my good friend Kristin made it clear that we were not to call each other until there were double digits on the clock.  This meant no 7 a.m. phone calls to talk about last night's Survivor show.  It was fine, however, to call each other during 7:30 p.m. Jeopardy and stay on the phone for the duration of the game, shouting out answers and chiding Alex Trebek for his condescending tone.  These days, we both have children.  Everyone knows that there is no way on this green Earth that either one of us can sleep until there are double digits on the clock, so if you can hold off until 8 a.m., then I give you permission to dial away.  Please be aware that, young and hip as I am, I may be falling asleep before 8 p.m. and thus will not be able to mock Alex with you.  This may also be attributed to being a parent of a child with Spirit.

Next, we should discuss being the passenger in my car.  Just because you are my Friend does not mean that you can change any of the controls at your own personal whim.  You may not adjust the temperature or change the radio station without expressly asking for and receiving permission.  Feel free to roll down your window or adjust the air vent on your side of the car.  I am considering a ban on all beverage containers in the car unless they have screw top lids, with a doff of my cap to my good friend Larry H. (he will deny that this is his rule, but believe me, it is), and it is absolutely not permissible to consume dairy products in the car at any time.

If you are my true friend, you will alert me when my appearance is not up to snuff, whether in public or not.  This means that if I have a head of lettuce in my teeth, or merely a frond, you will kindly point it out to me before I go grinning at every stranger on the street.  If I have toothpaste on my shirt, please do not allow me to walk around in oblivion.  Is my skirt tucked up in my underwear behind me?  Please, tell me before I go teach teenagers.  Do I have a string hanging from my clothing?  It won't hurt my feelings if you tell me.  Is my shirt buttoned wrong, or worse, not at all?  I would like to know about it from a friend, not a stranger.  Is there a spot on my pants?  I have a Tide Stain Stick to use if you would only tell me that I need to use it.  If we are at the Friday Market in New Denver, B.C., do not let me peruse the booth of every single vendor in town with the zipper down on my shorts (Aunt Helen, and every other member of the Family Reunion who was on that field trip).  Chances are, if the situation were reversed and it would embarrass you to appear this way, I will be grateful to be informed of the perceived problem.

Now that that is all settled, do these pants make my butt look big?