Tag Archives: best friend

Today’s mail


Random cards like this go a long way towards explaining why BFJ and I have been best friends for over 30 years.

(But honestly, how could you NOT be best friends with a unicorn???)


That’s what friends are for

Today I got a card in the mail from my friend of longest standing, BFJ. We have known each other for something like 32 years. That’s a very long time to be friends with somebody. When you are friends for 32 years, you know each other extremely well.

BFJ is a most excellent friend. She is quite simply a world-class listener, one of the very best in the universe, I’m sure. She is completely non-judgemental – unless you want her to be, of course, such as when relating some perceived personal injustice. She is wise enough to know if and when advice is being solicited, and dispenses it lovingly and sparingly. She is unfailingly supportive and there in times of upset or crisis, and she joyfully celebrates all the good times, too.

Honestly, I know how very lucky I am to have her for a friend. I doubt I could ever do for her even one tenth of what she does for me, but somehow, she still seems to like me.

But by far, BFJ’s most redeeming quality absolutely has to be her sense of humour. Over the years, we have had many, many, MANY side-splittingly funny adventures together – and a few pee-our-pants funny ones, too! Some of our exploits are the stuff of legend, according to her husband. I don’t know. BFJ and I just seem to see the world in the same slightly off-kilter way, and what makes me guffaw, will almost certainly tickle her fancy as well.

So this card she sent me was a “just because” card, for no particular reason. She saw it, thought of me, bought it, and fired it off to me.

Here’s the front:

And here’s the inside:

Yes, PG is younger than me (by three years). Yes, I’m a teacher. Yes, teachers write report cards.

And yes, like I said, BFJ knows me so well.


My good friend BFJ and I have just had another lovely spa weekend. Well, not a whole weekend, really, just a half-weekend. But it was great anyway.

BFJ and I always have a terrific time together and many adventures, some of which I have written about here, here, and here. This time there was a giggly, drunken phone call at 10 pm to her husband to thank him for paying for our dinner – and more importantly, our many drinks. This would, of course, be the dinner that he had no idea he was paying for prior to our phone call. But she had their joint credit card, and since he’s the one who pays it every month, he technically bought us dinner. And drinks. Lots of drinks.

BFJ had booked the hotel room with her own personal credit card, so she ended up paying for that. Usually, we split all costs, but this time we figured that our spa treatments would be roughly equivalent to the cost of the room (and our room service breakfast the next morning), so we decided that I would pay for both our spa treatments and she’d stick with paying the hotel bill.

We were both having hot stone massages and facials. Mmmmmmm. I’m never so relaxed as when I’m face down on a massage table, drooling on the floor, while someone rubs warm oil (and in this case, warm rocks) on my back. It really is a fabulous feeling! I highly recommend it.

Anyway, two hours later, we were dressed and ready to go at the spa’s front desk. BFJ was checking out some of the products that had been used for her facial, and I handed over my credit card to pay our bills. The woman at the desk handed me back their handheld credit/debit machine, with my card placed in the slot. She’d already keyed in the amount, as they do, so all I had to do was okay everything, enter my PIN, and we’d be good to go.

Except I couldn’t remember my PIN. Again. Every effing time I try to use that credit card, I can’t remember my PIN. I can picture the piece of paper on which the PIN is written, the piece of paper tucked into a file in a drawer of my desk. I can picture the exact file, its colour and the other items in it. I can even picture where it is in the drawer. What I can’t ever picture is the actual PIN.

I thought I had the four numbers, but maybe not the correct sequence of them. I punched them in. Error. I tried again. Error. The machine said I had one more try. I don’t know what happens when you try three times in vain – maybe your credit card self-destructs. In any case, I didn’t risk it. I had to cancel the transaction and pull out my debit card, which I hadn’t wanted to use because I wanted to pay at the end of the month, after I got paid myself. But I had to do it.

I miss the olden days when credit cards didn’t come with chips in them, and you just had to sign your name on a carboned slip of paper to purchase something on credit. I even remember further back when the merchant had to physically phone the credit card company for a quick check on you and your card before the transaction could go through.

Now that I’m officially middle-aged and forgetful, NOW I need to remember a new set of numbers. Just perfect. If I was 20 or so, no problem. But at my age, I’ve got so much stuff in my head that it’s really hard to put more stuff in, especially numbers (not my strongest point) – and then remember them instantly when called upon.

And what the hell IS my PIN? When I got home, despite all that wonderful visualizing that I was doing in the spa, I couldn’t find the damn piece of paper with the PIN written on it in the file. So I have no idea what the PIN is any more and I can’t use my credit card except for on-line transactions where I don’t need it.

I’m obviously meant to use cash only. Except I’d probably put it down somewhere and forget where.