As mentioned in the last post, I’ll be using the next few posts to share memories of my friend Tammy who recently moved on to another realm. Whilst this concept might sound rather maudlin and sad, I’ll do my best to keep things light. After all, Tammy could get me giggling over the silliest of things, and I know and trust that she would want laughter to be a big part of her legacy.
As I was poking about in my digital Tammy memorabilia, I ran across a cache of Facebook messages that we sent one another, words that I somehow had the foresight to capture. It’s a bit tricky sharing these, as yanking the quotes out of context causes them to lose some of their power, since many of the conversations were long and intricate, but I’m hoping that it doesn’t dilute the essence of Tammy’s spirit. And to be honest, much of this will be ado about nothing for most of you, with the humor perhaps lacking, but the words resonate for me, and I’m choosing to be selfish in this moment.
As for background, all you really need to know is that Tammy referred to herself as HRH, Her Royal Highness. It was all part of an ongoing ruse at feigning yet also poking fun at royal aspirations, and I was only a very minor character in the courtly drama during a limited part of her reign. You might notice that my name changes rather often, but such are the whims of sovereigns.
I should also point out that things get a bit ribald here and there, which is another whim of monarchs. (And there’s a certain bit that might startle Tammy’s husband, King Consort Bruce the Mighty, but I really don’t think he’ll be all that surprised.) Enjoy.
[I believe this first excerpt occurred after Partner and I returned from a trip to Paris.]
The Little Prince and I hope this finds you well-rested from your Grande European Tour. We’re terribly disappointed not to have hosted you, Sir Terry and your entire party for a long weekend at the Gibraltar Estate. Such beautiful weather for sailing, all summer and into early fall. Caroline and Albert send their best, and thank heavens that TRASHY Stephanie only came twice…”
[Then there was the time that Tammy was forced into Facebook time-out.]
“Well, to answer your question… Why did Facebook have the GALL to ban HRH? Well, as it turns out, too many people like me and I had too many friends. Yes, darling, you read that correctly. I had too many friends….”
[Tammy later tries to smooth over her apparent FB indiscretions. (This ordeal went on for a while.)]
“I apologized up one side and down the other, kissed ass and sucked more snake than I did to get hubby to propose. I wanted to vomit.
“I got a response that was several paragraphs long but can be summed up as: What part of no don’t you understand? We don’t give a shit whether you intended to break the rules or not. You’re banned. Stop bitching because we won’t change our minds. FOAD and thanks for understanding. Luv, FB.”
[An interchange in which we intermix Tammy’s Facebook plight with our shared obsession concerning Restaurant City, an online game.]
Me: “I cannot even begin to respond. Rest assured that this will be worked into a future blog. How and when this will transpire is entirely up to you. I must, of course, have your full blessing before turning your outrageous experience into a golden blog post of damnation and revenge. Suffice it to say that we are sisters in the drive to restore you to your rightful throne. These heretics must burn.
“In the interim, I humbly offer you my spare 67 mushrooms in Restaurant City as meager recompense for your violation. Tis not enough, I fully realize, but it’s the least I can do until Facebook burns in hell for their Scorning of the Queen…
“Have your staff work with my staff and we shall triumph in the end. Our place in history shall not be tarnished…”
Tammy: “My Dearest Duke, I only just now logged into the Little Prince’s account and thus just got your message. I have no problem with your using my account of my FB tale of horror in your blog. Their Nazi Regime MUST DIE!
“I don’t really need mushrooms right now… cheese, chicken, milk.. yes. But shrooms? Not so much.”
[Another interchange, another online game (Farmville!), another example of too much time on our hands.]
Me: “Dearest High, I had to harvest one section of the pumps (wow, that makes me sound like a drag queen at a Macy’s sale) because they were about to go. But I’ll leave everything else for you. Just send me a message over here when you are prepared for manual labor. (The horror!)
(The Wonder Bull)”
Tammy: “Darling Baron, please tell me that you saved several pairs of jewel-toned pumps in a size 7. Preferably with kitten heels and a fetching bow or some such ornamentation? That’s what GBF’s are for, isn’t it?
“I expect to be around the rest of the day. HRH has been laid up with a royal pain in the ass. Literally. Once again I am out of commission with back pain. This is nothing new. It comes with fibromyalgia. Just send a messenger when you are ready and I’ll send the gardeners around quickly.
“I’ve decided The King Consort is correct for once. A better title is in order befitting your station in life as HRH’s GBF. Therefore, you will now be known as: Le Duke du Fondue.”
[And then we have this final bit, which is somewhat out of order, considering all my title changes, and these are actually MY words rather than Tammy’s, but the last line speaks volumes about a regret I now have.]
“Wait, I just realized that I’m a Baron in your eyes. I tremble with gratitude at such an honor. Am I wearing an appropriate outfit for such a ceremonial situation? One never knows, as all the hip people are running around sporting such outlandish couture. It’s difficult to keep up. Again with the hiring of plebians to look after our personal affairs, it bears repeating…
“Glad you’re back in the mix. Surely lunch at the Waldorf is in order, hmm?
And Thrilled to Be Such”
We never had that lunch.
But I still have Tammy’s words, tucked in files here and there.