Zoë Stagg

Colleen Yelps. I imagine anyway. That is to say she does research into new places to go, actually spends time considering options, and picks new favorites. I, on the other hand, have like a dozen places I always go and rarely stray. Nordstrom bar, what up!?

That’s how I ended up meeting her at Rye last night after watching the boss do a wildly entertaining Q&A at the Commonwealth Club. She wanted to go, she did the investigative reporting on it, I didn’t argue. True, they do have a cage, but I deemed it a more riffraff-out barrier than “you’re serving 10-15 at the Q.”

That’s also how we ended up at a table next to the entire cast of Boiler Room. I bet that wasn’t mentioned on any Yelp scenario.

It was merely a prelude to the important stuff though, Thai next door at Osha. A menu where I can pick from more than one thing and don’t have to have intense negotiations on ingredients? Sold. Plus sometimes the turn the tables at warp speed service is really welcome. Curry in a hurry.

Sorry.

I suppose it’s weird to search for oneself on your friend’s blog when you’re actually intending an internet-based toast to their birthday, not yours—but in looking for a picture of us, I found this post Beth wrote for my birthday, lo almost four years ago. I love it.

Her blog, perhaps the first one ever on the entire internet it seems, is now this priceless living thing that shows her growing into the wonderful woman she is today. It’s a perfect scrapbook of… well all of our lives, (complete with varying hair colors it seems) and I for one am incredibly grateful for it—and her.

Having dinner with her this week I realized just how much we’ve both been through—and how much we’ve been through together. It’s an astonishing list of well, all the big life changes you can imagine (save, eek, kids) and the epiphany that started over guacamole, crystalized as I waited for an ambulance yesterday for what could have easily been me. I realized then that the only number I know by heart is hers, and that if the hospital would have called it, she would have come. She’s saved my life a hundred different ways over the jillions of years we’ve been friends. She’s my first grown-up friend, and I hope she always will be.

Happy birthday Beth.

I don’t know what you were doing at 8 p.m. last night, but I had just witnessed, and more disturbingly heard a compound fracture on the trampoline at gymnastics. The girl taking the turn after me… well, let’s just say it didn’t end well.

As we all did a collective turn away in horror as it happened, and the coaches ran for ice, I ran for my phone. Now, I get all kinds of crap for having my phone in arms reach at all times, but guess what y’alls. I know a 911 job when I see it, and I’m a crackerjack with the dispatch. I can give all details: cross-streets, compass directions, relay medical advice, and maintain. Not so stupid to have that phone leashed to me now, is it?

Standing outside as self-assigned ambulance flagger (trying and miraculously succeeding in not throwing up) I waited. And waited. Dudes, SFFD. My brother’s station’s range is something like 150 square miles—and I bet they can get to most of it in under 20 minutes. Don’t get me wrong, I heart. But… bone OUTSIDE of body. It was slow last night. That’s all I’m saying.

Debriefing with the bro after and self-medicating with the Duggars, I have to say seriously reconsidering this whole gymnastics scenario. I love to run too much to be… hobbled. Horrifyingly hobbled.

“Yeah. You wouldn’t do so good if you were hurt.”

“No kidding. You’d have to shoot me like a race horse.”

“Totally. We’d have to put you down.”

It was a close call, though not as close as almost getting nailed by a speeding garbage truck this morning. Seriously now. I can’t decide if I’m jinxed and awaiting the third and final catastrophe, or the luckiest girl in showbiz. Stay by your phones for the exciting conclusion.

I suppose.

I had dinner with the lovely Miss Spotswood last night. While I have some friends (ahem.) who will shun a mall-based dine-and-shop, one of Beth’s many, many charms is that she knows her way around a retail environment almost as well as yours truly. If there was an Amazing Race: Mall Edition, we’d be a team and clean. up. Just saying.

After sharing like a dozen too many details of my personal life within earshot of the tableside guacamole steward (and then I’m pretty sure, eating all of it by myself) we shopped. The highlights:

• At the J. Crew: “If any of these headbands looked good on me, I’d totally get one so you could get the 2-for-1 deal.” “Damn you and your Alice in Wonderland head.”
• Upon refusal to enter Zara because I have a “won’t allow returns” vendetta against them. “Mango is the new Zara.” “Uh, no it ain’t. It’s not even Zara-light.”
• On her making me go into the weirdo hobbit hole-inspired and retail-confounding Ruehl, “Is this a Hickory Farms? Are you making me shop a Hickory Farms?
• At the Banana sale rack: “Is this cute?” “Who cares? It’s $15.”
• And the reason blood is thicker than register tape: “Sometimes I really question your taste.” See? That’s love.