Those who read me around here and are at least quasi-familiar with my usual garbled warblings have most likely heard me make mention of something I refer to as “Framily.”
FRAMILY is a concept, a construct, a core group of people with whom you don’t necessarily share DNA (well, “share DNA” in the relatively relative sense — but with whom you may have, in a drunken rampage, certainly swapped spit or other bodily fluids…but of this, I shall SPEAK NO MORE), but to whom you may as well be biologically related.
Friends, hand picked, whittled down to a tight loyal unit, us against the world, friends that you trust with your life, your children, your dogs, your house, your clothing, your money, your humor, your loyalty, your writing, your secrets, your devotion, your heart. When you need to belly laugh, when you need to belly cry, when you need a thrift shop wing man, a good fight, a new vintage brooch, an ending for your essay, a ride home, rent money, yummy lunch, yummy love, an opinion, the truth, a lie, a reminder of why you do what you do and love who you love, someone to help you dispose of the body, you call upon one of these motherfuckers and IT IS DONE. When this improbable cabal of writers, performers, actors, and activists convene over delicious food and even more delicious conversation, it’s like a goddamned event, it is. It’s rather like being part of a single organism — a bitchy, hilarious, groovy, glittery, brilliant organism that constantly shimmers and shifts and shit-talks. Friends who are Family.
These are the people who carry my secrets, who carry my truths, who carry ME — and believe me, don’t think I don’t know that my trashy Fresno self is the luckiest girl in the world to be accepted by them, embraced by them, celebrated by them, and loved by them.
There are MANY Framilies in the world — including, no doubt, your very own — but THIS ONE IS MINE.