Confidential to those of you who asked

I'm sorry, I cannot explain the significance nor the raunch of pearl necklaces to you. I just cannot do it.

Don't take it to be squeamishness. Oh no. I was just fine explaining in age-appropriate language that my son's boy parts are not, in fact, "round bones."

I'm good being the person who will go into further detail as time and curiosity and questions roll on about sex and bodies and, God help us, what kind of corsage to pick for the prom date.  I might pause momentarily just to gather my breath and thoughts and giggles into composure, but I'm good laying it out there.

But, friends, I just can't do you this one. You're going to have to look it up on Wikipedia yourself. And when you do, you will see why I can't even link to the entry here. But if you do look it up (on. your. own.), you will be sure to read the alternative phrasings. Then you will also see why, when I called my friend Lulu to read it aloud to her, she had to pull her car over because the two of us were so doubled over in laughter.

If that's not enough of for you, do look it up on Urban Dictionary. Again, on. your. own.

It's not that I'm in any way opposed to raunch (I love raunch), it's just that I'm too busy looking up what round bones actually do to explain that to those of you brave enough to ask.

And by too busy, I mean...no. No no no, kittens, I just cannot do it. Really, you all are lovely and dear and I hope you will just skip the whole Wikipedia horror and stay sweet forever. Really. Do that. Forget you ever heard or read about pearl necklaces.

And if you've already been tainted, please just flood your brain with visions of Jackie O. Really. Do that. Anyway, the legend of Jackie O. is far more believable than Wikipedia or even silly courtroom superstitions.

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What ever happened to your very first best friend?

Lizzie was my very first best friend. We met when we were two and lived across the courtyard from each other when Lincoln Park was a bad neighborhood.

Our birthdays are only ten days apart and one year, we shared a party. We were at home in each other's apartments and once even tried to carry each other down the stairs, landing in a heap of tears and bruises at the bottom.

Even through grade school, we insisted on call each other "best friend," having sleep overs that got more difficult each time our families moved and as we changed schools and circles. Inevitably, our lives pulled at us and we lost touch.

But by the grace of Facebook, Lizzie found me and last night, we had dinner. I haven't seen her in 14 or 15 years and only heard tidbits of her life passed on when our mothers ran into each other around the city.

This time, there weren't crayons or homemade, scribbled Playgirl magazines (that was her idea, I swear). There were no Luke Skywalker trading cards to kiss or thrift store outfits to model for each other.

Instead, we came with stories about our husbands, our children, our divorces and our writing careers. We live very different lives now but we still share a lot.

We told long and winding explanations of how we got to here and then we agreed to meet up with our kids and spend some time going over childhood memories.

It was just so easy and lovely, which doesn't always happen when you meet up with someone from the way-past. Best friends don't stick forever, and sometimes, that connection falls completely through the cracks on the long road between preschool and post-partum.

It's no surprise that I drove home wondering who Lil E will know or meet up with at some little restaurant in the city when he is in his mid-30s. Will he still be friends with the kids from playgroup or our neighborhood? Will he even recognize them after all those years?

Of course, not all friends are meant to be in our lives forever. Some serve their purpose or good in a short time and others are with us through it all. Just as I get to know and enjoy the familiarity of Lizzie, I am curious to see who becomes Lil E's very first best friend and who sticks around as his life unfolds.

And just like I know my mom is anxiously awaiting a synopsis of my night with the girl who taught me to swear and how much fun throwing water balloons from a balcony could be and why sharing a birthday is fun even for a small child, I will be waiting to hear the details of his reunions too.

It was a full-circle kind of evening and I hope that circle just keeps on turning.

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In my head, the punchline's always dirty (I can't help it, blame my mother)

All this talk about wearing the Pearls of Believability made me remember a lovely little gift the Almost-Ex gave me on the day I defended my thesis.

He gave me a string of beautiful, black pearls with matching earrings. It was so thoughtful and kind.

But as I look back on it, the gift makes me laugh. Not because we're undoing all this. Not because it's in a drawer with lots of other pretty stuff I am pretty sure I will never wear again. Not because the last gift he gave me was a...umm, what was that? Oh yeah, a card.

It makes me laugh looking back on that because he gave me a pearl necklace. For getting a degree in Women Studies.

A pearl necklace, people. For a degree in being an ass-kicking, empowered, independent woman.

Let that sink in a bit. And when the irony strikes you, come on back and I'll pour you a nice gimlet and we'll laugh a little bit more about it together. Maybe even make a plan for how this single mama's going to get her a double-strand next time.

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