The Scandalous Cabinet

Not many people have friends like I have friends. That sounds pompous and asinine, but I think it's true in this case, and I'll explain why.

In particular, I have four friends who are like family. No, they are family. We fight like family, we love like family, we bullshit like family, we reconcile like family. They're it for me. Love them or not, love me or not - they're it. Always have been, since I can recall, and always will be.

Now, you must understand, I have a very, very small biologically related family. (Two parents, one sibling, two uncles, one aunt - two of the three are estranged.) The majority of my family is extended, step, and not at all physically "relative" to me. That being said, the concept of "family" has been, over the course of my lifetime, manipulated, re-ordered, re-justified and profoundly altered. I do have a lot of step-family, which is awesome, but they remain almost as distant as my actual family because we're just not... attentive. Well, some of us are. Others, are not. There seems to be, in my eclectic family, a common strain of DNA that hinders communication. It's odd.

So, these four friends of mine, who've been there for a varying number of years, but let's say round about fifteen, happen to be labeled in my "book," as family. The reason being that I love them, trust them, laugh with them, and couldn't live without them. At a pivotal point in my life, they became all I lived for. My parents were divorcing, my sister was four years younger than me - and at the time, that age difference was an eternal void of dissonance - and, in general, the only people who I felt like really understood me were my best friends. That was maybe true at the time, but it's absolutely, without any question, true today.

Tiffany and I met in fourth grade. Fourth. Crazy... I mean, I could have a child that was in fourth grade right now, that's how long ago that was. (Let us all bow our heads for a moment of silence, thanking whomever you thank Up There for the fact that I do not, in fact, have a child in any grade. Phew.)

I'll never, ever forget the exact moment that we became friends - and I can't say that for the others, just her, and I'm not sure why, but that's the case. And, because of that, because she's my oldest friend, because I remember the moment like it was yesterday, I feel the strongest about our friendship. It's how I imagine one would recall a firstborn - like no other. You've never experienced "it" before, and you freak out, and you remember it 'cause it was the first time you felt that - whatever "that" is. And maybe that explains why I'm lackadaisical about keeping in touch with her sometimes... because I don't feel like there's a need for effort in our friendship, I feel like it's natural, like she'll always be there... because she has been. (Hm. Note to self: Appreciate Tiffany more.)

Anyway - the moment. The moment I met Tiffany - my firstborn, if you're keeping up with the metaphor - was at a school concert in fourth grade at the AJ Gomes School. We were sitting in those plastic, stackable chairs in the "auditorium" and we were listening to - I think - a Navy band. At one point, they played "Tears in Heaven," and I happened to look in her direction, and she had tears in her eyes, and running down her cheek. I won't go into detail as to why, but you get the idea. It was that moment. That's when she became my best friend. My family. Now we're twenty-seven and twenty-eight. Time has passed, our friendship hasn't.

Ohh boy, this post is losing it's footing, and fast, so I'll cut to the chase.

When I was twenty-three, I moved into an apartment in downtown New Bedford, above the restaurant I work(ed) in, with three of the four frienmily (friend, family combo - get it?) members. The apartment was ridiculously nice - probably, without question, the nicest place I'll live for a long time - and we had a blast living there. A blast. Hm. "Blast" might actually be an understatement... but it'll do. Point being: There were four girls, who worked in a bar, were best friends, and lived upstairs from the bar they worked in in the sickest apartment in New Bedford. So... a blast. Yes.

And, in this apartment, in the kitchen, we had what we referred to as "The Scandalous Cabinet." In this cabinet were about fifty-seven shot glasses, a variety of nips that were so fucking disgusting nobody would drink them under any circumstances (and, booze didn't really have a shelf life in that apartment, so that's saying something), and other various paraphernalia.

That cabinet was fucking scandalous.

We all live separately now; some of us have bought houses, or moved in with boyfriends. Others (points to self) have gotten new apartments and tried to grow up a little bit - but not a lot, not as much as the other girls, who bought houses with, and moved in with, boyfriends. I guess in this case I'm establishing "having a boyfriend" as growing up. I'm not sure what that says about me, but I know what people will say back, because it's been said before. They say, "You're in grad school, you're doing things, you're totally a grown up," to which I reply, "School? Really? No. I want to be in love. I want someone to share my life with... besides my dog, who is awesome and loyal, I agree." That conversation never goes anywhere, and usually results in my cold shell of a heart eking at least one tear - or twenty - from my baby blues.

Anyway, The Scandalous Cabinet.

I don't have a scandalous cabinet in this apartment. Now, when my parents come to visit, they meander around my house, opening and closing and cooking and eating and whatever... and there's no risk involved. There's no way they're going to open a door to something - anything - scandalous. My life is an open book. What you see is what you get. Literally. I don't even have doors on ninety percent of the shelving in my kitchen.

Sometimes, though... sometimes, I miss that small piece of us that was kept hidden, set aside, and locked away in our world. Sometimes I miss having a hiding place.

Sometimes I just want to put something away in The Scandalous Cabinet and walk away, knowing that nobody but those three girls will ever know that it existed.