2001-03-29 :: 4:27 p.m.

Today is my first best friend's birthday. Somewhere, in Greece, Stacey turned 25.

Our mothers were best friends. I don't remember ever actually meeting her. We grew up with each other. When we were in grade school, we'd buy the same clothes. We'd call each other on the weekends and if she was wearing a skirt, I'd wear a skirt and vice versa. We did e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g together. Ballet lessons, family trips, you name it.

We always got some absurd kick out of imitating the Girl Scouts of America commercials, the ones where they'd try to recruit. We never wanted to be Girl Scouts per se, we just loved re-enacting the commercial complete with pantomime of activities ("Swimming!" "Races!") and jingle.

We also loved Alice in Wonderland and would act it out -- in costume -- every other freaking weekend for our poor parents and her younger brother.

her brother's was the first schwank I ever saw because he had a habit of tearing his clothes off during a tantrum.

They moved away to greece when I was twelve. My mother forced me to be friend's with Stacey's neighbor, a girl our age with white-blond hair. It would never work out; she was a poor consolation prize.

About that same year I met Laurie in junior high. I still miss Stacey sometimes. She was a riot. I heard, a while ago, that she was getting married. I can't ever picture her older than 11. She's always 11 in my head.

Happy Birthday, Stace.

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