Dingle-Butt Forever

BFFs Celebrating over 50 years of Friendship.

“Do not call me that again!” With that proclamation, I stomped down the street, intent on never speaking to Connie again.

It was our first — and only — fight.

She’d called me ‘Dingle-Butt’ once too often.

In the usual manner of 14-year-old’s disputes, our fuss didn’t last long. It may have been later that day, or the next…but we were bud’s again. BFF’s, long before BFF was a phrase that meant anything.

Dingle-Butt (me) and Dingle-Dwarf (her). We were destined to be friends forever.

A lifetime later (because back in those days a year was endless), the duo finally graduated from high school — still the best of friends. We were elated that we were ‘released’ from school. “No more teachers…no more books…” We sang those lines with glee.

And then, an ugly reality hit us full force.

Real life.

Dingle-Butt (Me, although I still hated to be called that horrid name) got a job. And Dingle-Dwarf moved far, far away — to her brother’s house in Tennessee.

The inseparable, dynamic duo was destined to live their adult lives apart.

Oh, there were phone calls, few and far between. There were letters. We mailed pictures back and forth. I’ll admit it, more came from Tennessee in my direction than went eastwards towards her. They were the old Kodak variety — dropping off for development and a few days later when we picked them up, we’d see how many heads we’d cut off in the process.

No email. No digital photos. No cell phones, texting, or messaging. No Facebook. No Facetiming. But somehow, despite all of this, we remained best friends.

We each got married.

We each had children.

Two boys for me. Two girls for her.

There were occasional visits. The operative word here is occasional. They were rare and definitely not as frequent as either of us would have liked.

Connie made one memorable trip back to California with an infant in tow. Was Alison walking yet? If she was it was just barely. Because there’s an infamous ‘bathtub picture’ engraved in my memory. In it, Alison sits, surrounded by a bathtub bathing ring keeping her upright. My son, Christopher — about three years old at the time — enjoys the bubble bath with her. I know we relished every moment of that visit. But the memory that lives strongest in my mind is the bathtub picture moment.

I’m sure the fact that I pull this photo out every few years to torment my son with has ingrained this snapshot from the past in my brain. Unfortunately, now Christopher is grown up and lives in another state. But every now and then, to annoy my son with this memory he doesn’t remember, I take a picture of the Kodak version with my cell phone and message it to him. Or, if I’m feeling extra ornery, I post it on Facebook, like every good mother should do.

A funny thing happened on this journey to adulthood. That despicable name, the ‘Dingle-Butt’ we had our solo argument over — it’s not so bad anymore.

It’s become a badge of honor. For several years now we’ve reverted to these old childhood names. Birthday cards and Christmas cards are signed ‘Dingle-Butt’ and ‘Dingle-Dwarf’. As we write these old names (from more years ago than I’m going to admit), memories flood over us. For a brief moment — a very brief one — we’re 14-year-old girls again, writing a note to our very best for-a-lifetime friend. Only this time, instead of a note being stealthily passed across a room, or handed off to one another in the hallways, it’s sent via Uncle Sam, in zippy little postal trucks across the miles that separate us.

Through the years and the age of technology that infiltrated our lives, instead of notes and hall passes, we now have texting marathons and occasional Facetime conversations.

Dingle-Butt and Dingle-Dwarf, sending notes back and forth like the forever friends we are, and will always be.

But this time the messages aren’t about the cute boys in class. They aren’t about ‘come over for dinner tonight ‘cuz Mom is making spaghetti’ and Dingle-Dwarf loves to make spaghetti sandwiches. (Really, Connie? Do you know how many carbs are in that concoction of yours?)

Now our messages speak of menopause tribulations, hot flashes, waking up throughout the night, drooping bosoms, aching joints, bodies that are failing us, and our biggest heartache — kids that grew up too soon. Where are our babies?

Where are our babies? Heck with that, even our grandkids aren’t babies anymore!

We want our babies back. Both generations of them!

That’s not all we talk about. Now, I rescue kittens. Connie carries water and dog biscuits in her car for her adopted little ones along the way. We’d each like our own animal shelter. We still have dreams and hearts that ache for those unfortunate furry ones.

Inside us both, despite the starting to sag skin and children that grew up before we were ready, we’re still two young girls, excited about life and BFF’s forever, no matter how the miles try to keep us apart.

And now, years later, I claim the name Dingle Butt with pride.

And with that, the popular childish taunt rings in my ears — “That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

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