http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/alltherage/2008/05/bff-the-kiss-of.html
What the hell is wrong with the LA Times recently? Have they lost their collective minds? Since when do we actually use celebrities as our gauge for what constitutes a healthy friendship? It’s actually not so much the article that makes me go *snert*, but one of the comments:
“I personally have learned to keep women at arm's length. They are dangerous. I like them, I just don't trust them. My life is full of women. But my personal approach is to know thy enemy and proceed accordingly … For the most part, the best approach to women is about the same as petting a snake.”
Wow. Just … wow. (Keep in mind that the above was posted by a woman.)
Why is it that the friendships between women are held to a different standard? Fighting can actually be healthy – it’s how we learn about ourselves, about our friends, and it allows us to grow as people. As long as it’s healthy fighting, it also strengthens that relationship/friendship. Are we all supposed to be in lock-step with each other and agree on everything? If so, that makes for a pretty damn bland friendship.
Regarding this line:
“Haven't you ever bickered with a bestie? Or felt the sting of a friendship ulcer when you introduce two pals and later find out that they're planning a road trip to Baja and forgot to include you? ¿Qué?”
I have a varied group of girlfriends, and unlike a monogamous relationship, I don’t expect to be their only “bestie”. (That term just makes my teeth itch.) The core group of women around me now … each one of us has a different role, a different character, and we show those sides to the others. If one of us needs a creative revenge tactic, we go to friend X. If we need a sympathetic ear, we go to friend Y. And if we need some true, albeit hard to hear, advice, we go to friend Z. Sometimes it can hurt, having your friend turn to someone else for advice or support, but if you know yourself, maybe you’ll realize that you aren’t the “right” person for them at that moment.
“They get angry at each other, throw a kidney punch and call it a day.” I think that we women do as well, however our kidney punch consists of words. Communication. (And with less chance of peeing blood too. Kidney punches hurt … )
Women aren’t bad at friendships – we excel at them. If it wasn’t for the women I met, and have in my life as friends, I sure as hell wouldn’t be the person I am today.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Friday, May 2, 2008
Golden
The ring came today – it’s beautiful. It even fits (granted, it only fits on my wedding ring finger, but still … it fits!)
I took it off and just sat outside, rolling it between my fingers, rereading the inscription over and over, and thinking that this is something my mother touched. This is something she picked out, had inscribed, and gave to her best friend out of joy and love. A small band of gold, given and received in friendship.
I can imagine Auntie Fran rolling it between her fingers, the same way I did, probably thinking about her friend. After Mom died, I’m sure she rolled this same ring in the same way, but instead of thinking of her friend in the present tense, she was thinking of her in the past tense. Remembering that day when she got this ring, the day they met, the days they were there for each other in tears and in laughter.
As I was looking at this tangible memory of friendship, I realized that Matt probably did the same thing that I did, after Franne died. That I’m assuming Auntie Fran did after Mom died.
Holding a piece of the past so full of happy memories, thinking of hands – hands open in friendship, hands open in marriage, hands open in love.
His hands, my hands, their hands. The ring has come back (almost) to where it started.
Everything is circular.
I took it off and just sat outside, rolling it between my fingers, rereading the inscription over and over, and thinking that this is something my mother touched. This is something she picked out, had inscribed, and gave to her best friend out of joy and love. A small band of gold, given and received in friendship.
I can imagine Auntie Fran rolling it between her fingers, the same way I did, probably thinking about her friend. After Mom died, I’m sure she rolled this same ring in the same way, but instead of thinking of her friend in the present tense, she was thinking of her in the past tense. Remembering that day when she got this ring, the day they met, the days they were there for each other in tears and in laughter.
As I was looking at this tangible memory of friendship, I realized that Matt probably did the same thing that I did, after Franne died. That I’m assuming Auntie Fran did after Mom died.
Holding a piece of the past so full of happy memories, thinking of hands – hands open in friendship, hands open in marriage, hands open in love.
His hands, my hands, their hands. The ring has come back (almost) to where it started.
Everything is circular.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
For the day you stood up
How friggin’ appropriate is this? Especially now. The day I stood up for me, for my needs, wants, and desires. I stood up and am becoming myself again. I stood up and said, “No, this is unacceptable. This is not okay.”
It’s a tough road ahead, that’s for damn sure. But I’m strong. I can handle it. (Granted, I still need those moments to go sit in the corner, rock back and forth and cry, but who doesn’t?)
__________________
Matt and Frannie have always been in my life. I haven’t heard from Matt in over a year – since Auntie Fran died. This morning I see a Houston area code pop up on my phone, and since I don’t recognize the number I let it go to voice mail. After the phone vibrates, letting me know I have a message, I check it. Lo and behold, it’s Matt asking me to call him. He had been going through some of Frannie’s things shortly before Passover and came across a ring my mom had given to her on her graduation day.
The past few weeks he’s been going back and forth over what to do with this ring: keep it? Give it to Mara, his daughter? When we were on the phone he told me, “You know, I think the best place for this ring is with you. I think it would be appropriate.” Cue the waterworks. After taking a semi-deep breath (can’t show emotion! Must not show feeling!) I said, “Thank you. That would mean a lot to me.” And it does. Much more than I can ever put into words.
The kicker? She had it inscribed – “For the day you stood up.”
__________________
Mom was just a few years older than Frannie when they met. How did they meet? Oddly enough, through a help wanted ad. Auntie Fran’s mother had recently passed away and her father couldn’t keep up with working, maintaining the house, and raising two children on his own. Even though Frannie was capable of doing the housework and minding her younger brother, I think her father wanted her to concentrate on her school. So, he placed an ad in the paper looking for someone to help around the house.
From what I’ve been told, Mom read the ad and thought that it sounded like a fun job to have. So she responded. When they opened the door to my mom, aged 18 or 19, they saw a semi-hippie standing in penny-loafers (no socks), Levi’s, and a peasant blouse. It was the wearing of no socks that started their friendship.
From that point forward, they were always together. If they weren’t together, or were separated by school and life, they spoke weekly. Their relationship reminds me of some of the relationships I have with my friends, and for that I am thankful.
__________________
I haven’t fully stood up yet. But I’m getting there and I know that if I waiver or wobble on my way up, “my girls” will be there to lend a steadying hand. And behind them? The ghosts of friendships past will be sending their own brand of silent support.
It’s a tough road ahead, that’s for damn sure. But I’m strong. I can handle it. (Granted, I still need those moments to go sit in the corner, rock back and forth and cry, but who doesn’t?)
__________________
Matt and Frannie have always been in my life. I haven’t heard from Matt in over a year – since Auntie Fran died. This morning I see a Houston area code pop up on my phone, and since I don’t recognize the number I let it go to voice mail. After the phone vibrates, letting me know I have a message, I check it. Lo and behold, it’s Matt asking me to call him. He had been going through some of Frannie’s things shortly before Passover and came across a ring my mom had given to her on her graduation day.
The past few weeks he’s been going back and forth over what to do with this ring: keep it? Give it to Mara, his daughter? When we were on the phone he told me, “You know, I think the best place for this ring is with you. I think it would be appropriate.” Cue the waterworks. After taking a semi-deep breath (can’t show emotion! Must not show feeling!) I said, “Thank you. That would mean a lot to me.” And it does. Much more than I can ever put into words.
The kicker? She had it inscribed – “For the day you stood up.”
__________________
Mom was just a few years older than Frannie when they met. How did they meet? Oddly enough, through a help wanted ad. Auntie Fran’s mother had recently passed away and her father couldn’t keep up with working, maintaining the house, and raising two children on his own. Even though Frannie was capable of doing the housework and minding her younger brother, I think her father wanted her to concentrate on her school. So, he placed an ad in the paper looking for someone to help around the house.
From what I’ve been told, Mom read the ad and thought that it sounded like a fun job to have. So she responded. When they opened the door to my mom, aged 18 or 19, they saw a semi-hippie standing in penny-loafers (no socks), Levi’s, and a peasant blouse. It was the wearing of no socks that started their friendship.
From that point forward, they were always together. If they weren’t together, or were separated by school and life, they spoke weekly. Their relationship reminds me of some of the relationships I have with my friends, and for that I am thankful.
__________________
I haven’t fully stood up yet. But I’m getting there and I know that if I waiver or wobble on my way up, “my girls” will be there to lend a steadying hand. And behind them? The ghosts of friendships past will be sending their own brand of silent support.
Friday, April 18, 2008
A rant
So, this is something I posted on Craigslist, and someone picked it up to post on his blog (http://falsesenseofmaturity.com/). The universe seems to tell me to write more often, so I'm going to dust off this blog and post more often. Here is the aforementioned post:
How dare you. You lied to me, bald-faced, and I bought it.
Almost.
I almost believed you when you said, "I have never ONCE cheated on you when we were together." That isn't a complete lie if you use the definition of together as being physically in the same place at the same time. Using that, yes, it's true that we weren't together when she was riding your purple pony. Nor was it just once, it was numerous times. Bravo – you never once cheated when we were together.
A while ago we had a conversation in which you stated that you finally understood what it felt like to be hurt - when your ex's would say, "I loved you, you hurt me", and you said you FINALLY got it. You were thinking about her.
Thank you – thank you for making me feel like an ass. All those years of self-work I did so that I can be happy with who I am? I took a major step back. All those struggles to overcome the need to slit my wrists because I felt I never measured up to "other girls", or just wasn't the person everyone wanted me to be? You proved me right.
I truly was happy with the 'me' that you married. I am very happy with the 'me' that I turned into, and am continuing to become, after the divorce. However, your actions have set me back a few emotional steps. Once again I'm comparing myself to others, once again I'm feeling like I have nothing of importance to contribute, once again I am feeling unwanted, and feeling "less".
Thank you – thank you for picking off the scabs to my (once thought healed) self-esteem. You have shown me that I AM strong and that I WILL move forward: emotionally strong, with pride in myself, strength of character, and still with the capability to love. It was painful, but great for growth, and once these wounds heal, I'll have some nifty scars.
I hear men dig scars.
You know, it's the hypocrisy that kills me – you've always said, on cheating, that everyone BUT the partner will die. So that they will live with the pain and knowledge that THEIR actions brought about so much pain and hurt to others. Tell me … why is it okay for YOU to go and f00k around WHILE WE WERE MARRIED and yet it is not okay for me to date, now that we are over? Hmmm.
Thank you – thank you for teaching me to trust my gut. When I hear that niggling voice deep down saying something is wrong, or that something feels right, I will now pay credence to it. No longer will I brush it off as doubt or second guessing. My inner-voice, my gut, is no longer silenced and is allowed uncensored speech.
I don't feel our hearts are designed to love just one person. Yes, I am pissed off that you had (at least one) affair (that I can prove beyond all reasonable doubt). Yes, I am pissed that you fell in love with her. That apparently you're still in love with her, whilst hinting to me that maybe things could work out between us. And denying the affair the entire time. Tell me – is that fair to her? She loved you, she cried over you, you ripped out her heart. You loved her, you cried over her, your heart is torn. By lying to me to save your ass, you are belittling those feelings that you two had/have. In order for all involved in this to move forward, you need to be honest. Openly, harshly honest. Honest with her, honest with me, but most of all, honest with yourself. Tear down those macho walls you've built and finally admit that you're human. During our relationship I would like to think that I allowed you a safe place to do so, but apparently I wasn't safe enough.
Want to know what else really hurts? I mean punch in the solar plexus hurt? Everyone knew, and yet nobody said a word. THAT makes me feel like a fool. And an ass. So again, thank you – thank you for teaching me that I CAN get egg on my face and live to realize that it's not the end of the world, but the beginning of a new one.
How dare you. You lied to me, bald-faced, and I bought it.
Almost.
I almost believed you when you said, "I have never ONCE cheated on you when we were together." That isn't a complete lie if you use the definition of together as being physically in the same place at the same time. Using that, yes, it's true that we weren't together when she was riding your purple pony. Nor was it just once, it was numerous times. Bravo – you never once cheated when we were together.
A while ago we had a conversation in which you stated that you finally understood what it felt like to be hurt - when your ex's would say, "I loved you, you hurt me", and you said you FINALLY got it. You were thinking about her.
Thank you – thank you for making me feel like an ass. All those years of self-work I did so that I can be happy with who I am? I took a major step back. All those struggles to overcome the need to slit my wrists because I felt I never measured up to "other girls", or just wasn't the person everyone wanted me to be? You proved me right.
I truly was happy with the 'me' that you married. I am very happy with the 'me' that I turned into, and am continuing to become, after the divorce. However, your actions have set me back a few emotional steps. Once again I'm comparing myself to others, once again I'm feeling like I have nothing of importance to contribute, once again I am feeling unwanted, and feeling "less".
Thank you – thank you for picking off the scabs to my (once thought healed) self-esteem. You have shown me that I AM strong and that I WILL move forward: emotionally strong, with pride in myself, strength of character, and still with the capability to love. It was painful, but great for growth, and once these wounds heal, I'll have some nifty scars.
I hear men dig scars.
You know, it's the hypocrisy that kills me – you've always said, on cheating, that everyone BUT the partner will die. So that they will live with the pain and knowledge that THEIR actions brought about so much pain and hurt to others. Tell me … why is it okay for YOU to go and f00k around WHILE WE WERE MARRIED and yet it is not okay for me to date, now that we are over? Hmmm.
Thank you – thank you for teaching me to trust my gut. When I hear that niggling voice deep down saying something is wrong, or that something feels right, I will now pay credence to it. No longer will I brush it off as doubt or second guessing. My inner-voice, my gut, is no longer silenced and is allowed uncensored speech.
I don't feel our hearts are designed to love just one person. Yes, I am pissed off that you had (at least one) affair (that I can prove beyond all reasonable doubt). Yes, I am pissed that you fell in love with her. That apparently you're still in love with her, whilst hinting to me that maybe things could work out between us. And denying the affair the entire time. Tell me – is that fair to her? She loved you, she cried over you, you ripped out her heart. You loved her, you cried over her, your heart is torn. By lying to me to save your ass, you are belittling those feelings that you two had/have. In order for all involved in this to move forward, you need to be honest. Openly, harshly honest. Honest with her, honest with me, but most of all, honest with yourself. Tear down those macho walls you've built and finally admit that you're human. During our relationship I would like to think that I allowed you a safe place to do so, but apparently I wasn't safe enough.
Want to know what else really hurts? I mean punch in the solar plexus hurt? Everyone knew, and yet nobody said a word. THAT makes me feel like a fool. And an ass. So again, thank you – thank you for teaching me that I CAN get egg on my face and live to realize that it's not the end of the world, but the beginning of a new one.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Never eat before bedtime
Okay, my dream. There was a prelude up to the meat of it, something about getting lost in San Francisco, but it wasn’t really San Francisco – it looked like a set on the back-lot at Universal. Anyway, after some random meandering, I get to my cousins apartment. (It is actually her old apartment manager’s apartment, from a long time ago, where I spent many an underage drunken night. Damn those parties!)
I get there and we’re just talking. She leaves the front door open, because in my dream the apartment complex abuts a forest. Outside I see a pack (gaggle? pride? murder? group?) of chimpanzees. I get up to go to the bathroom and as I’m walking down the hall, the chimps come in to the apartment and follow me to the bathroom.
What they do after is what makes me doubt my sanity and am now really curious to know what my psyche is trying to tell me … I’m in the bathroom and each chimp takes turns to fart at the door. What the hell?
I leave the bathroom and come back out and the chimps are all back outside, pointing at me and doing the weird chimp head-bob laugh thing that they do. I’ve had some strange and random dreams, but this one takes the cake.
My brain is a scary place.
I get there and we’re just talking. She leaves the front door open, because in my dream the apartment complex abuts a forest. Outside I see a pack (gaggle? pride? murder? group?) of chimpanzees. I get up to go to the bathroom and as I’m walking down the hall, the chimps come in to the apartment and follow me to the bathroom.
What they do after is what makes me doubt my sanity and am now really curious to know what my psyche is trying to tell me … I’m in the bathroom and each chimp takes turns to fart at the door. What the hell?
I leave the bathroom and come back out and the chimps are all back outside, pointing at me and doing the weird chimp head-bob laugh thing that they do. I’ve had some strange and random dreams, but this one takes the cake.
My brain is a scary place.
Monday, November 19, 2007
My genes. Her jeans.
Not many of you know that Alzheimer’s runs in my family. (Gee, great.) Anyway, Nana is afflicted with this disease. I’m truly learning that if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry, so I continually look for bright spots in otherwise dark situations. (Typically this is in the form of humor laughing at people. I’m mean. Deal.)
Back to Nana – growing up, and until she started developing dementia, she was always very anti-naked. A point of pride with her was that Popi never saw her fully unclothed. She held the concept that sex was only for procreation and never fun. (And you people wonder where I got my body/sex issues. Exhibit A: Nana.)
Knowing this, the next part is really kind of sad and amusing. Earlier this year, my cousin (who is Nana’s caretaker) would come downstairs in the morning to get coffee started and there would be Nana at the counter, reading the newspaper wearing a turtleneck, socks, and … that’s it. (Granny ass isn’t the first thing you want, or need to, see without at least one cuppa in you.) Apparently she LOVES her new-found freedom from pants.
Sunday my cousin calls and tells me, “We have to change Nana’s name.” I’m thinking something’s wrong, or we have to do it for legal purposes or something, so I hesitantly ask, “Whhhy?” It seems that good ol’ Nana has been stripping in the dining room. And I don’t mean stripping wallpaper. The woman is taking off ALL her clothes and not wanting to put them back on. (She will, but it takes some persuading from what I understand.)
My aunt thinks we should call her Bubbles La Rue. Any other “granny stripper” names come to mind? Another friend said Nana Rose Lee. I was going for imMoral Millie. (I’m afraid of what I will do when I’m her age. Run around wearing undies on my head?)
Back to Nana – growing up, and until she started developing dementia, she was always very anti-naked. A point of pride with her was that Popi never saw her fully unclothed. She held the concept that sex was only for procreation and never fun. (And you people wonder where I got my body/sex issues. Exhibit A: Nana.)
Knowing this, the next part is really kind of sad and amusing. Earlier this year, my cousin (who is Nana’s caretaker) would come downstairs in the morning to get coffee started and there would be Nana at the counter, reading the newspaper wearing a turtleneck, socks, and … that’s it. (Granny ass isn’t the first thing you want, or need to, see without at least one cuppa in you.) Apparently she LOVES her new-found freedom from pants.
Sunday my cousin calls and tells me, “We have to change Nana’s name.” I’m thinking something’s wrong, or we have to do it for legal purposes or something, so I hesitantly ask, “Whhhy?” It seems that good ol’ Nana has been stripping in the dining room. And I don’t mean stripping wallpaper. The woman is taking off ALL her clothes and not wanting to put them back on. (She will, but it takes some persuading from what I understand.)
My aunt thinks we should call her Bubbles La Rue. Any other “granny stripper” names come to mind? Another friend said Nana Rose Lee. I was going for imMoral Millie. (I’m afraid of what I will do when I’m her age. Run around wearing undies on my head?)
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Ani inspired
Recently I've had a revelation: I'm angry. I'm angry with my mom. Angry with my dad.
She's been gone for almost 26 years, and just now am I allowing myself to admit that I am angry with her. Mad. Furious. Angry for leaving us. Angry that my dad allowed himself to fall into such a deep and dark place after she died. Angry that I felt that I had to be the life-line for Dad. Angry that her parents tried to turn me into their dead daughter, instead of just being okay with me as ... me. It's actually not HER that I'm mad at, just the situation that her death created. There's more to it that I am not saying, but that's all I can really put into words right now.
This catharsis though has an upside - it is making me re-evaluate my needs. Not my wants, my needs. For about 2 years there has been this unknown feeling brewing in me, and finally I realized that it is my "needs" voicing their concerns. Screaming at me, "Hey! Dipshit! Focus here, we are not to be ignored!" For a long time I always thought of others first, put their happiness and THEIR needs first. Now, there is this realization, one of, "hey, this really is MY life. Perhaps I should start living it. Enjoying it. Reveling in it. Bathing in it. Being okay with ME. Knowing that I have value, in and of myself, and not as the offspring of my mom."
The realization that it is okay to demand attention for me, and not as a watered-down version of Mom. A version that could never live up to others expectations. Though some life situations may be untenable right now, the knowledge that the SITUATION sucks, and NOT ME ... that is truly liberating.
The song that has been stuck in my subconscious for the last two years is Asking Too Much, by Ani DiFranco.
And no. I am not asking too much.
Now ... back to your regularly scheduled programming.
She's been gone for almost 26 years, and just now am I allowing myself to admit that I am angry with her. Mad. Furious. Angry for leaving us. Angry that my dad allowed himself to fall into such a deep and dark place after she died. Angry that I felt that I had to be the life-line for Dad. Angry that her parents tried to turn me into their dead daughter, instead of just being okay with me as ... me. It's actually not HER that I'm mad at, just the situation that her death created. There's more to it that I am not saying, but that's all I can really put into words right now.
This catharsis though has an upside - it is making me re-evaluate my needs. Not my wants, my needs. For about 2 years there has been this unknown feeling brewing in me, and finally I realized that it is my "needs" voicing their concerns. Screaming at me, "Hey! Dipshit! Focus here, we are not to be ignored!" For a long time I always thought of others first, put their happiness and THEIR needs first. Now, there is this realization, one of, "hey, this really is MY life. Perhaps I should start living it. Enjoying it. Reveling in it. Bathing in it. Being okay with ME. Knowing that I have value, in and of myself, and not as the offspring of my mom."
The realization that it is okay to demand attention for me, and not as a watered-down version of Mom. A version that could never live up to others expectations. Though some life situations may be untenable right now, the knowledge that the SITUATION sucks, and NOT ME ... that is truly liberating.
The song that has been stuck in my subconscious for the last two years is Asking Too Much, by Ani DiFranco.
And no. I am not asking too much.
Now ... back to your regularly scheduled programming.
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