There's just something about....

...Grandmas.

2011-12-02T09:00:00.004-07:00

My Grams passed away a few weeks ago. And I was Grams favorite.

She told me that all the time.

Then she told me not to tell.
(I’m sure it’s because she told every other kid the same thing.)

Grams and I would always banter back and forth about how all of my not so positive physical traits were her fault. Like my super wide feet, and my ugly pinky toe. The fact that I have man hands (you know, the girl version of my Dad’s and clearly we know where he got them), and Jenni’s eyebrow. (Cause why couldn’t I get that??)

Grams would take me out to eat every semester I got on the honor roll, we’d go Golden Coral or JB's – not necessarily because we liked the food, but because they were the only restaurants in town.

She'd kiss me on the mouth sometimes (which I still hate) but that's how she did it.

I remember helping her clean out her cupboards and she’d have us write our name on her stuff that we wanted so we would get it once she died. Guess I'm the proud new owner of a bowling pin/bowling ball salt and pepper set.

She loved to read.

Grams couldn't use a computer to save her life.

She had six children, 35 grandchildren and a whole trundle of great grandchildren.

She hated to drive in the winter but loved to sit out on her lawn in the summer and watch all the kids play in the canal.

Grams still drove the same car she bought in the 90's. It suited her.

Her garage is a mess. And whomever the poor sucker is that has to go through all of that mess is ...well...a sucker.

Grams gave us $2 bills for nearly every birthday of my life. I still have most of them.

Grandma also liked to give me towels for Christmas, and by “towels” I mean I received multiple towels, but only one at a time, over several years. I imagine she She only ever gave me one at a time, because really, that’s all I needed.
I think it's amazing she still gave every grandchild and great grandchild including spouses Christmas gifts every year.

Grams tricked Grandpa into quitting smoking. He had a stroke with memory loss and when he said he wanted a smoke she convinced him he'd quit smoking years before.
Gramps never smoked another cigarette.

Grams lost her husband, a daughter, two sons-in-law and 5 grandchildren before she died. I’m pretty sure they were there waiting that morning when she went home.
I hope my Gramps was there and that he held her tight and told her himself that he loves her.

I hope my kids were there, too. So that she'll know them. So that she'll be able to just think of me for a minute and know that everything turns out exactly right...and then, I hope she gets to whisper that in my ear.

So yeah, I was Grams favorite...just like everybody else.

There’s just something about Grandmas.

...not expecting anything back...but getting it anyway.

2011-08-29T22:46:00.003-06:00

I learned a valuable lesson the other day. I think the talk with my 12 year-old self is really paying off.

I spent all last week brooding, worrying, festering. If you’d have asked me last week it was because I was feeling used and neglected, in truth, I was being insecure and selfish. I packed all of that into my shoulder bag and carried it like a chip all week long. It even spilled over into Monday morning.

Then, mid morning I received some information that changed my perspective. I won’t go into all the details, but this is what I learned: When I give to someone (whether it’s money, a gift, friendship, love, anything) I need to give it to them.

Too often we give things expecting something in return, perhaps not immediately, but we expect to get something in kind. That’s just how mortals are built.

I was worried all last week that I had an unbalanced friendship. I was concerned I needed this friendship more than my friend did and continued to further worry that I needed her more than she needed me (so basically, I was totally worried about me). When the truth of the matter is, my friend was having a terrible week and just needed her friend to check in on her and not be so worried about herself (that being me).

I get that maybe if she was more worried about other people she wouldn’t feel so bad for herself, but I’ve been where she is… and she has to decide all that for herself. Meanwhile, I need to be there for her. Offer a hand to that might pull her out of her rut, invite her to stuff, even when she may not be the best friend ever to me. I had a friend that did just that for me not so long ago, the most wonderful part, she didn’t even realize until I thanked her that she’d even done it.

Her comment to me, “Glad I could be that person who pulled you out of a rut… I had no idea...but you know, that’s what friends are for…right?”

So that’s my lesson I learned today. To stop focusing so much on what I need and more on what other people need. To give without expectation of something back, because I don’t NEED something back right now, but someday, I might… and someone will be there for me. Not that I’m expecting that, but that’s just how God works.

There’s just something about not expecting anything back...but getting it anyway.

...talking to a 12 year-old.

2011-08-28T23:23:00.003-06:00

I have this very painful memory from when I was 12 years-old, in the sixth grade. I was in Miss Luke’s class and the lunch hour had finished and I was standing just outside the door to the class room.

Some background you should know is that I was still in that VERY awkward stage where you’re teeth are too big for your face, I had a terrible hair cut, and oh… red hair was SO not cool in the sixth grade. Did I mention freckles? I was taller than most everyone, oh, and I’d “developed” quite early… plus, I still had all my baby fat. (oh right.. STILL have that baby fat…. Not so cute when you’re 12 or 36, but enough about that) I had serious self esteem issues.

So I’m standing just outside of this class room, imagining what a wonderful teacher I’d be when I grew up, when Lane Bradford* (*name has been changed to protect the innocent, equally as unfortunate looking boy who was also a victim in this whole story… oh did I mention he was also red headed...again, not cool.)

So Lane walks up to me in front of what had to be the entire school and practically shouts at me, “How many times do I have to say I don’t want to 'go with you'? Can you not understand that?”

I was baffled.

Embarassed.

And Baffled.

Apparently a group of girls in his class thought it would be funny to pass him notes from me begging him to ‘go with me’. I’m not sure who exactly they were trying to make fun of, him or me. (probably both, you know…the red hair). Nonetheless, I was mortified. First of all, I didn’t WANT to go with Lane Bradford. He wasn’t my type.

Second, the only friends I had were the girls my big sister had threatened that if they weren’t nice to me she’d make their lives a living hell…so yeah, I was pretty popular.

Third, there were a million people standing around staring at me, and I doubt if at age 12 many of them had developed a sense of empathy and understanding.

So you’re wondering what in the world dredged up this story. Well, apparently I’ve been hanging on to this 12 year-old version of myself and her self esteem, self worth, and lack of understanding and empathy for about 24 years now. And I promised a friend I’d have a talk with this 12 year-old self and in a very kind loving and gentle way explain to her that she’s not doing me any good.

I need to explain that we (and by we I mean ‘I’) am worthy of being loved.

I am a beautiful daughter of God (red hair is SO in now days).

I have friends who love me, that somehow I managed to get all by myself and that most of my friends have never even met my big sister.

I am loved and I love a lot of people, I'm loving.

Being vulnerable makes me even more beautiful and more loveable.

I have at least one friend who thinks I’m patient, persistent and constant. When I am honest with myself, I know I have far more than one.

I am not responsible for other people’s actions.

I also need to explain to my 12 year-old self that the Atonement encompasses it ALL, the pain and the sorrow. It even covers the part of my heart that for some reason insists on believing that I am unworthy of finding and experiencing falling in love and allowing someone to fall in love with me.

And so little Ang, sit down awhile and let’s chat. It could be a series of chats, but let’s just start with a hug and a smile. Know that I love you, all of you… baby fat and all.

There’s just something about talking to a 12 year-old.

…being silly.

2011-08-24T13:08:00.006-06:00

I am at times silly. Not silly as in stupid or dumb, just giggly and silly. Sometimes it comes on because I’m super tired and sometimes the silly just happens. The times I most enjoy being silly is when I have friends to be silly with me.

A few months back I went to Hawaii with two of my very best friends.

We.
Were.
Silly.

In case you were wondering, this is just one of many times 'silly' happened.

This is a cliff. You can't tell it's a cliff because of all the grass, but when you get up close, you can see down through the little bare spots on the sides and see that it goes pretty much straight down.
The silliness started when Stephen said, "Look at that! If you got very close you could fall down there."

And then he stood too close...

And he fell down 'there'.

And I thought he was kidding.

And I started to laugh.

And laughed so hard that as I grabbed for him so he wouldn't fall down the entire cliff, I didn't have enough strength to pull him up.

After Tim and I were finally able to pull Stephen back up onto stable ground, we continued to laugh... and laugh... and then we stopped... and laughed some more.

Some silly faces...

Yeah... sooo the thing about silly, is that "you have to be there"...

Huh.

There's just something about being silly.

...my Dad.

2011-08-09T00:31:00.002-06:00

I recognize that nearly every little girl whether she’s 2 or 92 thinks her dad is pretty much the greatest man who ever lived. I think it’s wonderful that as women, we revere these men who have such influence in molding and shaping our lives. I’m sure your dad is absolutely wonderful. However, mine, really is the best. Ever.
He’s the best at taking my sisters and I horseback riding & camping when we were so young we couldn’t even reach the stirrups. We’d ride double (I always ended up on back because I was the tallest, got thrown nearly every time…)
He’s the best at teaching me how to drive and then sending me out in the hay field to practice. I was 7. (Again, because I was tall and could reach the petals and still see over the steering wheel.)
He’s the best at teaching us to put up a shelter for girls camp, teaching me how to tie a double half hitch (it’s a knot you silly city kids), and showing us how to howl at a full moon.
My dad is the best at teaching me life lessons and then allowing me to make my own mistakes (even though his not so subtle guidance of “Well, you can do what you want, but if I were a little girl your size….”)
My dad is the best at preparing me to go on a mission, “I don’t think you realize just how hard a mission is going to be. Once you’re there, home is not an option.”
My dad is the best at showing me what an honest day’s labor looks like. Showing me how to love the land, love the soil, how to leave things better than you found them.
My dad is the best at telling stories – Benjamin Beaver, life lessons, or tall tales, Dad tells them all the best.
My dad is a wonderful father, a respected uncle and a loving grandpa. He imparts wisdom and council in a way that makes you want to please him.
My dad is also the very best a being stubborn. In case you wondered, that’s where I learned it, from my Pop.
My dad is one of the very best men I know. I don’t think he’s ever been in a boardroom and only wears suits to the temple, weddings and occasionally to church and most of the time to funerals. He prefers his clothing loose and comfortable and would rather entertain a 2 year-old than pretty much anyone else on the planet. Given the chance to go anywhere in the world, he’d probably just stay home in his mountains (or go back to Alaska… he likes it there too. Sparse population.) He loves his wife, his children and his grandchildren. He takes his church responsibilities seriously and although he may never be a Bishop, Stake President or a General Authority, he teaches Sunday School in a manner that I think even the Savior would sit and listen to, supports his leaders with unfailing sustaining and has a love of God that is unquestionable.
But did I mention my Dad’s a little stubborn?
Just a little bit.
Like nearly every little girl, I love my Dad. I love how each time I leave his home he tells me to “try and be a little bit better girl” and has even on occasion told me he loves me.
Yep. My daddy is the best one.
I just wish he weren’t quite so stubborn.
There’s just something about my Dad.

...feeling the pure love of Christ.

2010-08-19T00:11:00.002-06:00

It’s really an indescribable feeling. Sometimes for me it feels like a “burning in the bosom” or a “fire in my chest” other times I simply find my eyes filled with tears. When I’m really feeling it the most, feeling like my entire chest is about to explode from the swellings of my heart, I find I just want to put my arms around everyone I see, hug them, and never let go. I want them to really feel how much I love them—I’ve even done it to perfect strangers.
In the April ’09 General Conference Elder Todd Christofferson spoke of this love in his talk The Power of Covenants. “It is by the Holy Ghost in you that others may feel the pure love of Christ and receive strength to press forward.” (emphasis added)
The past few weeks, with our ward putting Elder Ballard’s 21 day promise to the test, this quote and its implications have once again come to the forefront of my mind. As I’ve prayed each day for my friends and loved ones, I’ve prayed they would feel of our Savior’s love, that they’d have a desire to come closer to him, to repent, and to experience the true joy of the gospel of Christ.
I’ve felt so strongly that this phrase from Elder Christofferson is a reminder of how I must be more valiant, more conscious of working to have the Savior in my life. How can I help others to feel of God’s love if I am not living worthy to have the Holy Ghost and therefore help others to feel the love of Christ? How can else can I help them to have the desire to have the light and love of Christ in their life--light and love that I need… that I must have so that they can see it… then want it... then work to have it.
“Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid. Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house. Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.” (Matthew 5:14-16)
It is the Holy Ghost that lies within each of us that allows others to feel of the pure love of Christ. It is this love that gives confidence and instills faith and hope. These are the tools available to all of us as we enlist in the fight to press forward, to engage that perfect brightness of hope, and to come unto Christ once again.
There’s just something about feeling the pure love of Christ.

...someone who would desert a dessert in the desert.

2010-01-21T12:58:00.002-07:00

It came to my attention today that the English language is once again just plain weird. Did you know that desert, desert, and dessert are all the same word yet totally different?

desert - a landscape or region that receives very little precipitation

desert - abandon: leave someone who needs or counts on you; leave in the lurch; "The mother deserted her children"

dessert - a course that typically comes at the end of a meal

I knew the difference between spelling the place desert and wanting some dessert (cause who doesn’t want seconds (you know, two “s’s”) but deserting dessert? And I’m not talking about a sand cheesecake…

Huh.

There’s just something about someone who would desert a dessert in the desert.

...wearing an extra long shirt.

2009-04-24T11:34:00.006-06:00

I had a softball game last night, the first of the season. We hadn’t received our shirts yet, so I wore an old jersey with an extra long shirt under it, you know, so I can change into my new shirt w/out flashing anyone, and a pair of my favorite new Capri’s. Favorite because they have such a great light weight fabric that is both strong (in case I have to slide) and comfortable (for running, bending, stretching for the ball… you get the drift).

So, I’m playing away, minding my business and I keep feeling this draft in the zipper area of my pants. I checked it probably five or six times, but it was always zipped up, so I chalk it up to the breezy light-weight fabric and kept going. Then, about the second or third inning a grounder came my way, I went to scoop it up and run for the base and that’s when I heard it:

Rrrrrrrip

HUH?!? For real? I reach down and feel near my zipper, but it’s still up. That’s when I feel it, right NEXT to the zipper… the now 3 inch hole where the stitching either didn’t catch or has now come apart and all of my running, bending and stretching for the ball is only helping to make the seam unravel more quickly.

I pull my EXTRA LONG SHIRT down and keep on playing.

Internal dialog: I'm glad I have this shirt on.

3 outs… I head for the dugout. I go off to a corner, lift up my shirt and discover that 3 inches has now become 4 and I have no pins or any way to stop it from unraveling more. I quickly pull my shirt back down, let out a panicked giggle and pray for quick innings.

Internal dialog: I'm SO glad I have this shirt on.

Fourth inning. Several plays to first later, I hear it again:

Rrrrrrrip

More nervous laughter.

3 outs… back to the dugout. 6 inches. (yes, I’m serious… no, I’m not exaggerating). Now not only has it pulled completely away from the zipper, but is now TEARING down my right leg. I can’t keep it to myself any longer and flash the hole to a couple of girls on the team…

“Check this out! Can you believe this?!?”

Loud laughter from all who see.

"It's a good thing you have that long shirt on underneath."

More innings. More at bats. More of the sound that has become worse than fingernails on a chalkboard:

Rrrrrrip

Internal dialog: I am SO SO glad I have this shirt on.

I finally make it home and check out the damage in the mirror… the tear in my pants has extended an additional 5-6 inches from the bottom of my zipper, down my right leg and is a good 2 inches LOWER than the crotch of my pants.

There’s just something about wearing an extra long shirt.

finding out who Santa REALLY is...

2009-01-02T14:26:00.005-07:00

The oldest of my nieces and nephews is my nine year-old niece, Saige. She cornered me on Christmas Eve at my Mom's house.

"Ang, is there really a Santa Clause?"
"Well, what do you think?"
"No."
"Why do you think that?"
"My Mom said so."

I admit I wasn't totally surprised as she'd tried to ask the same question the week before. So, I'd been trying desperately to think of how to answer her. On the drive up to my parents I thought of several different ways I could answer her. I knew she desperately wanted to believe that there was a fat old man who lived at the North Pole with his magic elves and reindeer who could deliver presents to all the children in the entire world. I wanted her to keep believing as well. I wanted her to maintain her innocence for as long as possible, to believe in the magic of Santa and all that he represents.

I remembered a story in a book I read once, about a child asking his Aunt the same question, if she believed in Santa. She, being much wiser than I, saw a flag blowing in the distance and asked him what it meant to him, what he thought of when he saw the flag. And went on to explain to him how Santa is like the flag of Christmas, how it represents an ideal.

I tried to use the same explanation for Saige, but I could see in her eyes that it was simply not working. I decided I had to get real with Saige, and I told her something personal, something real, something from ME.

I told her how just a few nights earlier I'd come home from a dinner party with some friends, and how on my door step was a bag with some presents inside. All the tags on the presents said the same thing, "To: Ang, From: Santa". I told her how inside were two wrapped gifts and a gift bag, and that inside the gift bag were several gift cards for gas and groceries and a few other fun things. I explained that not having a job right now was really scary for me and I wasn't sure how I was going to get money to pay all my bills.

I told her that somewhere there was a someone who knew I was going through a hard time and who cared about me and wanted to help me. Not only did they want to help, but they didn't want me to know who was helping me. I told her THAT is what Santa represented. How just as she believed that the flag stood for freedom, that Santa represented love and giving and all that is good inside of people.

Then I explained that maybe Santa wasn't a fat man who lived with elves at the North Pole, but that Santa was real. Santa might be her Mom or Dad, Grandma or Grandpa, or it might even be her. That as long as there was people in the world who were loving and kind and thoughtful that Santa would exist.

I have no idea who my Santa was this Christmas, but I know that I'm grateful. How I pray that He who is the Giver of ALL things will bless them for their sacrifice, for their kindness, for their love. So, Santa, whoever you are, thank you, from both me and from Saige.

There's just something about finding out who Santa REALLY is.

being forced to make a change...

2008-12-29T15:22:00.004-07:00

I am currently being forced to make a change. Several actually. Anyone who knows me knows there are a few things I simple to NOT like:
1- Being told/forced to do something.
2-Change.
3-Uncertainty.

About a month ago I was laid off from a job I loved that I had been doing for just over seven years. (Now, when I say "loved" I mean that I enjoyed the people I worked with and felt as though I was making a difference in the world and that I helped promote a cause I believe in.)
Now, for the first time since I was eight years old (yes, eight) I find myself unemployed. No job. No direction. No set schedule.

Forced change.

Uncertainty.

I have learned so much during the past month, about myself, about things I need to change.

1-I have found the whole series of events both freeing and stressful. Freeing because I can do whatever I want with my days, no schedule, no accountability to anyone. Stressful because I have no schedule, no accountability to anyone.

2-I've been telling myself for years that I'm a people person, that I get energy from being around others. Honestly, I thought it was a line I was telling myself because of the necessity to be around people. I'd often come home so tired at the end of the day that I really thought that people drained me.. you know, actually being NICE to people. So, the lesson I learned: I really am a people person and really do get energy and motivation from being around other people. When my roommate is home studying, I get more done. It's almost magical how much better I can concentrate. When I'm around people, I can hardly stop talking, just blabbing on and on. PLUS, I'm funnier. I know, it's hard to believe, but I think because I spend a limited time with actual people that my best material just flows out effortlessly.

3- I prefer going to the temple in the middle of the day in the middle of the week.

4- I am a ridiculous procrastinator.

5- I am afraid of more things than I ever knew.

6- I am strongly motivated by fear.

7- I am stronger than I realized.

I plan on taking that last lesson and putting it to the test. I’m not a fan of change, but now that I’m faced with it, I’ll be it’s fiercest ally. I’ll find whatever it is that God has in store for me, I’ll accept the challenge and even if it scares the crap out of me, I’ll conquer it. THAT is my new resolution, my new challenge.

There’s just something about being forced to make a change.

...making a commitment.

2008-11-13T14:44:00.005-07:00

I have commitment issues.

I know, shocker.

How is it possible a fabulous 33 year old girl (cause I can't quite get myself to type "woman." It's like when someone calls you "Ma'am" or "Lady" as in "That lady helped me" it made me feel old when I was 18, it makes me feel worse now.)

How is it possible that I could be single and 33 and not have commitment issues?

Case in point, this blog. Notice the last time I posted? August. August 26. Officially 2 1/2 months ago. People meet and get married in shorter time. (Clearly, not people with commitment issues.)

So, as I was looking over the blogs of my fabulous friends, I realized that this is a commitment I should keep. I started it, I should finish it.

My dad has a saying: "If not me, who? If not now, when?"

I've decided I need to reinstate that mantra BACK into my life. Mostly because if I can't keep commitments I make to myself, (going to bed, going to the gym, reading my scriptures, staying within my budget) how do I expect to be able to keep commitments to anyone else? Or have I just been putting myself at the bottom of my priority list? Have I been keeping commitments to everyone else before keeping commitments to myself?

So here's the great experiment. I commit to blog again by Sunday. I suppose if I can't commit to blogging for myself, perhaps I can commit to blogging because I'm committing to all of you, my friends. (Wow, just typing this, putting it out there, scary, I've nearly deleted five times... cause if I say this, I really have to do it.)

It's just one step.

One step in a direction I need to go in. Making commitments…because I want to be able to post one day about KEEPING commitments. Scary.

There's just something about making a commitment.

...watching the sunset somewhere you've never been before.

2008-08-26T17:37:00.004-06:00

About ten days ago, I decided I'd had it with my life and I needed a break. I just needed to "get outta town." Generally, that means I head to my parents house and chill, but somehow, even the four hour drive didn't feel far enough. So, as I pondered about where I should go and what I needed to do for my escape I decided I'd take advantage of an offer from my friend's, the Wright's, and head to the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia. Woodstock to be exact.

WOW! I LOVE THAT PLACE!

Seriously, if I weren't so attached to my family, and such a cry baby about needing to go to Idaho every few weeks (...and well, not so attached to my job, let's face it.) I'd move there in a HEART BEAT!

The first night I was there, Kodi and I were driving back from somewhere.. (funny I can't think of where right now)...and the sunset was simply breath taking. Colors splashed across the sky in a way that no picture or painting could ever capture. Then the moon rose, big and full and bright orange. There was this quiet stillness all over the valley that even with four kids in the back seat you could just FEEL. All I could say to Kodi was, "Just look at that sunset."

The next night, we were driving back to the house after my tour of some of the most beautiful homes EVER (.. I heart the River'd Inn..).. and there it was again, this amazing sunset, the enormous moon, the calming, peaceful feeling. I was again, taken back and nearly speechless and once more, my only words were, "Just look at that sunset."

I do actually notice sunsets all the time, and often take a moment or two just to enjoy them, but there was just something about the sunset there, in Woodstock, a place I'd only read about, that made me pause, REALLY pause and feel the peace that comes at sunset. A sunset that actually stopped me from talking not just out loud, but caused my brain to just stop, slow down, and take in it's calm.

I think that's the thing I really wanted to escape from, the noise in my head. It took a sunset somewhere I'd never been before-- to get the quiet, the peace, my soul had been longing for.

There's just something about watching the sunset somewhere you've never been before.

...jumping in a lake.

2008-06-22T22:35:00.003-06:00

I heard a great analogy today. It can be applied to any number of life's situations. It goes something like this.

A young man , just nine years old, went boating with his family. He watched the adults and teenagers take turns wakeboarding, and begged his mother to allow him to have a turn. Soon, the opportunity presented itself, it was finally his turn. He went to the back of the boat and sat at the back with the wakeboard strapped to his feet.. that's when the fear set in. The young man WANTED to wakeboard... but that's all.. he merely WANTED to.

In order to actually wakeboard, there were a few things he would be required to do:

1- Get in the lake.
2- Be willing to drink a good deal of lakewater.
3- Accept that failure is a possibility..and be okay with it.
4- Try again.

It's funny how each of these steps can be tricky. Whether it's life, love, or wakeboarding we must do more than simply WANT something, we must DO it....

There's just something about jumping in a lake.

...a friend who really loves you...

2008-06-19T13:38:00.007-06:00

One of my very best friends ever got married last Saturday. Joshy... (even his nickname proves his love for me. He hated it at first... when I started calling him Joshy that is, now it's how half of my world knows him).

I confess when Joshy first told me he was engaged I had mixed feelings. I was completely thrilled for him, I knew how he REALLY wanted to find someone, but at the same time, I know what happens when male friends get married... and it's how it should be... but it changes the relationship forever.

Josh made a point of ensuring Maria and I became friends. He invited me out for dinner with them, over to his house, encouraged us to do things together (6 a.m. at the gym can bond anyone).. and it worked. I'll love her forever. Very wise man that Joshy, he married an amazing woman.

Josh went back to work yesterday. Today, he called and asked me to go to lunch.

We sat on the plaza and chatted about the wedding, about our friends, about his family... it was almost like life hadn't changed. A little miracle I needed today... to know that even though our relationship has changed the fundamentals of it haven't.

There's just something about a friend who really loves you...