Text war with the single chick who dumped me

My friend A. and I were singleton partners in crime, circa 2001. I mean, we had it sooo bad, which was actually really good, since we were both masochistic drama queens. She was coming out of an epic, seven year tale of heartache, and I was coming out of a deep period of self-inflicted man-drama. It was a match made in heaven.

We had a lot to talk about, many reasons to feel sorry for ourselves, and cookies. Lots and lots of cookies. To this day we still get that faraway look in our eyes when we remember the nights spent laying on her bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to Sarah McLachlan, and chain-eating chocolate chip cookies until .... well, until they were gone.

A. scoured the internet daily to find uplifting horoscopes and anecdotes, just to give us reasons to wake up in the morning, bathe, etc. etc. She found one that became our mantra. Something about how you will most likely heal within five years of heartbreak. So we'd chant "Fabulous in five!" every chance we could; sometimes randomly, after 20 minutes of silence, with a mouthful of cookie. Whatever works, you know?

Those were the glory days.

But, sadly, just as what goes up must come down, so it is that what is already down must go back up. When you're the singleton that finds another boy, there's survivor’s guilt. When you're the singleton left behind there's ... well ... all the more cookies for you.

A. left me on a warm summer night, when she was supposed to be out with another angsty friend, drowning their woes in swanky cocktails. But, instead, she found a guy who was wearing the same exact shirt that she was wearing and struck up a conversation with him. They fell in love about 30 seconds later, and the rest is history.

(Note to A: it was fabulous in five YEARS!!! Not MINUTES!!)

Ah, l'amour. You're right, A. There's just something about a man wearing women's clothing. But I digress.

This whole A-getting-married thing has actually worked out quite well for me, and that's what's important. For example, I was frequently thrown together with her hubby's cute single man friend, who was frequently thrown together with me while we were both the respective third wheels hanging out with the happy couple every other Friday night. Also, A. is quite a stylish clotheshorse who has become more conservative in her married life. So guess who gets her sexy, name brand hand-me-downs? That's right. Moi, moi and moi. I have found that some of the shirts look especially good with cookie crumbs splayed across the chest.

For as happy as I am that A. found the love of her life, and that I acquired a fantastic wardrobe for free, I still feel a little sorry for her and the fact that timing has prevented her from ever experiencing the sport of online dating.

Do I sound cheeky? Funny thing is that I'm not kidding.

I've had conversations with the girl about it, and she's riveted. Fascinated. To her, it's a quaint cultural phenomenon, and something she completely missed out on. While she would never trade in her transvestite husband -- er, I mean, um ... classy wedding band -- just to try her hand at e-dating, I think she thinks it would have been a total blast to give it a go. And I'm not completely sure, but I think she obsesses vicariously through her single friends, just so she doesn't miss out on it completely. What makes me think so?

Two weeks ago, when I hadn't heard from her in about a week, AND while she was in the middle of a wholesome family reunion with nieces, nephews, parents, and home cooked food, I get a text message from her.

A: Have you considered eHarmony?

and then, 2 minutes later:

A: As a deeper online dating experience?

Ohhhhhh, a deeper online dating experience. I could see at this point that she'd been completely sucked in by the mezmorizing marketing machine that is eHarmony. I'll admit, it's hard not to think eHarmony is magic, what with their happy little Aryan couples polluting banner ads all over the internet. I had the urge to tell her that, no matter how brilliant their marketing is, their service is a gargantuan waste of time. At least it was for me, and I've got the battle wounds to prove it. Alas, my poor thumb could not face typing those stories in text via cell phone, so instead I sent back:

Me: Sister, I've tried 'em all.

Her: Sluuuuuuuuuuuuuut!

Me: AND I was wearing your clothes while I was doing it!!

That shut her up. I'm not sure, but I think that means I won.