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Stellas.

 

(Previously on The War Bride: narrator watches a 4-hour Emma miniseries, experiences a moment of clarity.)

I have good, reliable friends. Smart, too. The kind of smart you trust will tell you if you’re deluding yourself.

No need for the bullet list now. Let’s go straight to the main course.

Two girls named Stella.

(The overabundance of Stellas isn’t anything to write home about, per se. Were they male instead of female, we’d be facing an overabundance of Fabios. Funny how first names can rise up and dominate a generation only to be regarded as quaint little artifacts ten years down the line.)

(But we’re not majoring in dude history here. So bear with me.)

Stella One is married, living abroad, and older – but not that much.

Stella Two is half of a lovable twosome, living in Italy, and younger – but not that much.

Each Stella knows about the Other Stella. They never met.

As it happens, though, they share an uber-feminist take on popular culture, a mate who worships the ground they walk on, an enviable grasp on current events, a warm, easy way with words and an uncanny ability to balance any household chore with a career in traditionally male-dominated fields. If 2012 brings us even a fraction of the disasters we fear will strike, and the only people in the northern hemisphere that manage to survive are the Stellas, in a couple weeks electricity’d be up and running again. I love them dearly.

Let’s see what they made of my situation, as of last week.

Stella One:

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but panic’s a sneaky fucker, therefore its trigger will change as it pleases. Just sayin’.”

Stella Two:

“You’re so bothered by our political situation because you don’t have a man. I’ve got a man, see what I care.” (sips tea; inhales, exhales; looks me dead in the eyes) “Yeah, you’re pretty much doomed to carry your unhappiness along, no matter where you move.”

It’s all in good faith, and the sentiment is appreciated, but I wonder why all of a sudden everyone decided that “unadulterated honesty” is where it’s at. Was there a big girlfriend convention while I was gone? Was it called Sorry If I Hit A Nerve?

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Filed under Bride Mom: unlikely voice of reason, mates of fail, regrouping wheee, things the social contract should be more specific about