By: Angela Gillaspie Copyright © January 2004

After a recent, rather serious injury, I've been wallowing in self-pity. My doctor said no heavy housework, no heavy lifting, and no heading soccer balls. The only things I could do were cook and earn a few dollars programming.

My personal pity party kept me from feeling funny, so I set the writing aside and began reading an uplifting novel by Faulkner - As I Lay Dying. As I commiserated with poor dead Addie Bundren, my daughter Ashley interrupted, "Mom, I need to (sniff) talk to you."

I dropped the book, "Did a boy hurt you? I'll kill him. Is it a female problem? Do we need feminine hygiene products? Did your brothers lock you in the closet and play the SBD (silent-but-deadly) game again?"

She handed me a folded piece of paper, "Read this," she sniffed.

It was an email from her "best" friend Bonehead, "Hey, I am so mad at u right now!!!!!!! Me and Hare-Brain r not talking 2 u 4 a long time... If I am mad at u then Hare-Brain is gunna be mad at u and if Hare-Brain is mad at u then ill be mad at u!!!!! Well I g2g Hare-Brain is over here and she is gettin bored so bye..... Write back... From, Bonehead"

I laughed, "Who's Hare-Brain? And what did you do? Did you write her back?"

Wiping away a tear she said, "Oh, Hare-Brain used to go out with Ralph - remember? He was my boyfriend two months ago, but anyway, now she goes out with Eddie and she's Bonehead's best friend now. Not me. I didn't do anything, Momma, I swear. Bonehead broke up with Cain's twin Abel, and Abel has been calling me - well, so has Cain - but we're just friends."

My husband asked, "Who are just friends? Did a boy hurt you? I'll kill him."

"No honey, it's a pre-pubescent catfight - my specialty," I grinned.

"Oh. I'll be … uh … in the garage," said He Who Fears Estrogen as he slinked toward the door.

"Are Cain and Abel the boys that call here all the time?" I asked.

"Yeah, but Abel likes me - so does Cain - but like I said, we're just friends and I think that's why Hare-Brain and Bonehead are mad."

What?

To get to the bottom of this problem, I logged on and read through her other email. I found that after Bonehead said, "me and Hare-Brain r not talking 2 u 4 a long time," she sent seven other emails. Most of them were forwards of a forward of a forward that said if you sent this email to fifty-seven of your friends, a dancing critter would appear on your screen and moon you.

Neither one of us could figure out what triggered Bonehead's angry use of exclamation points. We decided to do the right thing ... reply to her email. It took us the good part of an hour to address all the intellectual issues Bonehead brought up, and Ashley sent a heart-felt (yet witty, if I do say so myself) response. It was late and as I logged off the computer Ashley asked, "Aren't you going to send her an email?"

I couldn't believe it. My almost teenager asked me to get involved. Wow.

After logging back on I asked, "What do you want me to say? Threaten to send your brothers over to lock her in the closet and play the SBD game?"

"No, Momma. You're a humor writer, you'll write something funny - not mean."

"Well, I could try."

And I wrote a reply to Miss Bonehead. It said, "I read your email to Ashley and I wondered what she did to get you so upset that you'd write so many misspelled words. Did she break the law?  Will I need bail money for it?  Will it go on her permanent record?  Should we move to another state?  Should I contact the FBI to get us into the witness protection program?  If this is about a boy, then I feel sorry for all of you.  Misunderstandings about boyfriends aren't worth ruining a good friendship, unless that friendship wasn't real to begin with. Grow up and calm down. Sincerely, Mrs. Angela"

I sent the email, turned to Ashley, and asked, "Anything else, sweet pea?"

She grinned like a possum, "Nope. Thanks Mom, I love you."

After giving me a long hug, she ran off to bed.

Feeling better, I decided that it was about time I stopped focusing on what I couldn't do and look forward to what I could do … like stop pouting. I didn't head a soccer ball into the goal or win a Pulitzer, but I was there when my daughter needed me and her sweet hug felt just as good as any win. This buried my pity party.

Stay tuned for more SouthernAngel's pouty fun!