Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Blogs.
Loaded word.
I've been blogging a long time. Too long, I think. All these years later I still have no idea "why" I do it other than word catharsis. Self indulgence is a factor, but mostly, for me, it's cathartic.
I've had ups and downs with blogging. I've experienced the good, the bad, the ugly and the bizarre.
It's been mostly friendly and generally positive.
I've "met" a lot of people. Mostly friendly and generally interesting people.
But there's an odd, disjointed aspect to friends met via the blog.
Sure, they, you, are nice people, we obviously have something in common, and I consider them, you, friends. People who don't blog, or read blogs, don't understand this. They defend their opinion saying, "They're not real friends, they're not even people you know. They're just people who read a blog and maybe send an email or two. They're not helping you fix your closet door that keeps coming off the track, they're not taking you out to dinner when you're skint, or sharing jumbo packages of toilet paper from Costco, or having marathon phone conversations with you when you're upset. And they're not the first people you tell when something really exciting happens, you don't go shoe shopping with them, you don't show up with a power screwdriver and put their IKEA together, you don't tell them those jeans aren't doing their ass any favors and you don't babysit their kids when you and your husband really need a night out. They're just people who read a few select tales of your life. They don't know you and you don't know them. Not really."
And I kind of agree with that. There is a difference in the friendship. But mainly due to logistics and/or a certain level of personal internet safety.
I don't feel a need to make distinctions in my relationships. If you're my friend, you're my friend. I don't classify you as, "My friend from work," or "my friend from college," or, "my friend who loves live music," or "my friend who used to date my friend's brother."
But other people argue that blog friends are, if not not-real-friendships, at least different friendships. See above, sharing jumbo packages of toilet paper, assembling IKEA, et al.
So let's do something I don't like to do. Let's define friendship.
1 a: one attached to another by affection or esteem
b: acquaintance
2 a: one that is not hostile
b: one that is of the same nation, party, or group
3 : one that favors or promotes something (as a charity)
4 : a favored companion
5 capitalized: a member of a Christian sect that stresses Inner Light, rejects sacraments and an ordained ministry, and opposes war —called also Quaker
Hmmmmm. Okay. Well, apart from #5 (although, strong arguments could be made...), the people I know via the blog all qualify as friends. Don't worry. I don't expect you to fix my closet door or share jumbo packages or toilet paper. Some would interject here saying, "Because you have real friends for that."
There are people who use their blogs to meet people. There are blog meet-up groups.
I am not one of those people.
There are myriad reasons why.
I have met a few readers. But generally I refuse. And in doing so I've hurt some feelings. And I feel bad about that.
But. As I gently explain to them, the times I've met blog readers in person I've disappointed them. I don't meet their expectations or, more usually (and more confusingly for me) they're surprised to learn that I am exactly what/how/who I am on the blog...and that's disappointing to them. I dunno. I don't get it, either, but it's happened enough times for me to make quantifiable conclusions. With notable few exceptions it's best for everyone involved if the forum in which our lives collide and friendships form remains the only forum in which the friendship continues.
"Ahhh, see?" the opposition will say, pointing an accusing Henry Higgins'-esque finger in my face, "They're not friends! These are not friends! There are conditions, and real friendships do not have conditions, real friendships know no bounds."
And that's when I dismiss the whole theoretical conversation by saying, "Labels are treacherous. The best and most complex things in life cannot be defined and categorized and neatly organized. Some things, the best things, just are. Friends are friends, period."
I refuse to think about it. For whatever reason there are people who read my blog. I've given up trying to figure out why. But let me tell you, the variety amongst people who read it is staggering. Age, race, gender, financial status, location, marital status, child status...one thing that remains utterly mysterious and bizarre to me is the extreme diversity in the people who read this blog, and thus the diversity in friends I've made herein.
There are a few demographics that score slightly higher on the reader profile bar charts, but not enough higher to launch a definitive marketing campaign. Which is why it's good I've never tried to market the blog. I wouldn't have a clue where to start because there is no obvious target audience.
I love that. It's like a Googlewhack. I call it Demogwhack®. The product or service that is so diverse it defies all demographic definition.
It's a nice, blissful, label-free, anonymous-but-intimate little world. People reach out to me to congratulate, commiserate and just say hi or suggest a book, a band or a movie. Rockin' on.
Way, way, way, way back when this was primarily a geeks and freaks place on another bloghost, there was this guy who was as awkwardly geeky, socially stupid and as much of a music fan as I am.
I know.
Scary and yet oddly compelling that there would be two of us on one planet at the same time. He was the first person who ever sent me an email via the blog. He was the one who made me aware that my blog was, in fact, public, not private. (Hey, back then the public/private settings area was more than a little vague, there were no dashboards or account settings pages. There were parameters with toggle buttons and several "saves" required to toggle parameters where you wanted them. Just because you selected "private" in one area didn't mean your blog was actually, fully, private. And "public" had a couple definitions. You could be "public" within the confines of a selected group, but private to the rest of the world, or, you could be public to the whole world.) I thought I was public within the confines of a select group, but, heh heh, I was telling the whole world about level 6 of "Starship Titanic." Live and learn. This guy was kind and helpful. He ascertained that I didn't realize I was publicly posting my love and hatred of the game and how much I hated a certain band.
This guy lived in a land far, far away so meeting in person was never going to happen. There's a certain amount of freedom in that knowledge. You can say anything you want because you are never going to meet this person in person. He already knew I was a SuperGeek and it was obvious he was, too. Why pretend, or even try, to be someone I'm not? He already knew some embarrassing things about me, the "damage" was done, so the whole warts and all aspect was nice.
We emailed now and then. He wasn't much of a reader in general. Other than tech manuals and HTML code he didn't read much of anything, so for him to read the blog was kind of unusual. After a few emails he confided that the only "great" work of literature he'd read cover to cover was Don Quixote, and he only slogged through that so that he could perform well on his debate team. He faked his way though his school lit classes by reading a few paragraphs from each chapter and looking up the themes and characters of the story in encyclopedias. But he knew Don Quixote so well that he could reference to it on enough significant levels that it seemed like he knew a lot about literature in general.
When he confided this to me I was a little surprised that someone who, by his own admission, didn't like to read anything that was not technical was reading my blog. I was more surprised to learn that someone could fake their way through college entrance exams, undergrad and grad school having only ever read one real piece of literature cover-to-cover, and even more staggering, that that one book was Don Quixote. Sure, it's a good book and it explores a lot of significant themes...but...could that really work? The more I thought about it the more I realized the genius of his choice. If you're a guy and you're going to read only one fiction book cover to cover, and you want to get into a decent college, Don Quixote is the best choice. There's enough material to a) explore in essay questions, b) quote during interviews with college deans, and c) impress the ladies and d) do all of that without arrogance. This guy was brilliant.
So I wrote back with one question, "So, you're an idiot Cervantes?!"
And thus a beautiful friendship and nickname were born. IC and I shared occasional emails, sometimes containing nothing more than a link, other times containing "real" friendship kinds of correspondence.
We both love music in almost every form and '50s science fiction . You might find it surprising to learn that finding someone who likes Hank Williams, Sr., Screaming Blue Messiahs and Prince is not easy. (I can't believe I'm single, either.) And when that person also owns more than one Severed Heads LP (yes, vinyl)? That's a demogwhack® to the third power. Unless you have something bordering on mental illness to confess I'm fairly certain the only two people on the planet who can point to purchases of all those artists in their physical music collection (or digital for that matter) are me and IC.
Then he met a girl he really liked. She was an editor at a magazine. He told me he used the "idiot Cervantes" line on her. "My friend calls me an idiot Cervantes." I won't take all the credit, but, six months later they were married. A bunch of years later they have a house, a dog and two kids.
The emails between us ebbed and flowed. Sometimes sparse and sporadic, other times daily depending on what we each had going on in our lives. There was no need to explain or apologize - we were friends, after all, and we understood we lived full lives in places other than in front of our computers.
I didn't hear from the IC for a while but didn't think too much of it - he has a wife, two kids, an ever-higher-ranking demanding job, a house under seemingly constant renovation, a huge music collection to digitize and an ailing father. And I have my own crises-du-jour to manage.
I was happy when IC's name appeared in my in-box a couple weeks ago. I realized that it had been a while since I heard from him and I felt remiss that I hadn't emailed him, either. No matter, I was excited to see what links and new music he would surely have to share with me, and the paperclip icon next to the subject meant only one thing: photos of his kids. We never share photos of each other, I have zero clue what he looks like, but proud father that he is he sends me photos of the kids. And no, this doesn't fill me with dread, I love seeing photos of his kids.
"Dear Trill,
This isn't IC, it's me, [IC's wife]. I'm so sorry to have to tell you this, but IC is very ill. He didn't want you to know but I thought you would worry and be hurt if you never hear from him again without explanation. Yours is a unique relationship. Blogs are binging a new frontier of affection but the social complexities are still murky. How and when do you tell someone you've never met in person that you're dying? They don't cover this in internet etiquette books. I just thought you should know. The doctors feel there's no point in continuing the treatments and..."
I read on through a haze of dizziness and confusion and grief. The wind knocked out of my stomach like a kick in the gut feeling? The weak knees that buckled? The tears? The "nooooooo" that gasped from my mouth? If IC is not a real friend how do you explain all of that?
No. I've never shared a jumbo package of toilet paper from Costco with him or even gone to a concert with him. No. I've never met him in person. We've never taken a road trip or met for drinks after work. We've never even spoken to each other.
But. If we're not friends why did the news of his illness and the termination of treatment for it hurt me so badly? If he's just someone who reads my blog why am I worried about his wife and children? Why do I care? Only real friends have the capacity care with this depth.
I feel helpless because I am helpless. My friend is dying. There's nothing I or anyone else can do. It's "let go with dignity, peace and a steady drip of morphine" time.
He lives on the other side of the planet but even if he lived two miles away I would feel the same helplessness.
But it would certainly pose a new etiquette conundrum. As IC's wife said, we're in a new frontier of affection. What does one do at the death of a friend they've never met in person?
In this case logistics rule out any and all possibility of me racing to his deathbed or even the (gulp) funeral. (It took me four attempts over the span of an hour just to type that word. If he's not a real friend what is he and why am I feeling such grief?)
But if he lived locally, or within a time zone or two, would it make any difference?
Attending the funeral seems kind of insulting - the only time I "met" him in person was after he died? This takes "Too Late for Goodbyes" to a very different, far more complex level. It's too late for hellos.
After all these years (and he was there at the blog birth, so it's been a lot of years), now that he's dying, would I visit him or even speak to him on the phone before he dies?
If he wanted it, requested it, yes, I would. Of course. It wouldn't be easy for me and it would undoubtedly be weird or even awkward for both of us, but if he wanted to see or talk to me, yes, I would do it.
But he didn't even want me to know he was sick, let alone dying. So...I mean, you know, where do you go with that? Respect, dignity, silence = valor...it's been a huge emotional abyss for me. This is a new frontier.
The dynamic of our relationship is such that it's wholly cerebral to the exclusion of the physical. Ours is an entirely communicative relationship. We know each others' vernacular, slang, turns of phrases...yet we've never heard the sound of each others' voices. Wrap your head around that for a moment and then ponder this: Are we friends? And, if so, does the nature of our friendship (wholly cerebral) preclude all sensory contact with each other?
It was exactly that thought that I stumbled over while making my way from grief to the blog.
True affection isn't sensory. It's cerebral, cognitive. And the internet, for all it's maddening limitations and dangers, is the only conduit by which friendships can form, take root and flourish on a purely cerebral level. All of the physical is stripped away. Sure, we may communicate to evoke the physical, "I love that song!" "I saw the most gorgeous sunset!" "They boiled the flavor out of the carrots." "I've never felt anything so soft as the baby's skin!" "...but those diapers really stink at 2 AM" But ultimately these friendships are purely cerebral. And one could argue that if both parties are honest, sincere, open and willing this is the most pure form friendship. There's no physical detritus. Or judgment.
I was trying to think of a good Don Quixote quote for IC and soon realized how very quixotic I was being. And that produced choking sobs. Not a lot of people would get the joke within an allegory within an allusion the way IC would get it. That understanding, that friendship, is irreplaceable.
So I responded to his wife, thanked her for overriding IC's request to keep me in the dark, and among other things, asked her to tell him, "I tried to think of a good Don Quixote quote but fortunately I realized how quixotic that is and thought better of it. Ultimately all I feel, and all I want to say is thank you for being such a good friend. The music is sometimes questionable, the insights are often obtuse, but the laughs are always out loud."
Last night I received another email "from" IC. His wife said he chastised her for telling me he was ill, but he wanted me to know he laughed when she read my email to him.
She also told me he died peacefully listening to the Clash a few nights ago.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
I hesitate to even bring this to anyone's attention because it would a) prove that I have read Ask Amy at least once, which is one time too many; and b) indicate that I am either hurt, offended or in some way provoked to emotion over Ask Amy which is troublesome in ways I cannot articulate at the moment.
And I am not in the business of being a better journalist than the published journalists in "credible" news sources. I leave that job in the good and truly credible hands of Steve Rhodes and his Beachwood Reporter.
But.
Friday's Ask Amy hit very close to home for me and any other single people with married friends.
This is a letter which ran in Friday's (March 10) Chicago Tribune. A married woman has concerns about one of her single friends. The married friend, rather than just asking her single "best" friend directly, chose to ask a complete stranger, a stranger with a published advice column, no less, for advice regarding her "best" friend's "weird" and "strange" behavior.
Let's join the column already in session, shall we?
Dear Amy: My best friend, "Betsy," is a lovely, independent, funny thirtysomething who has not had a mate for a few years.
Betsy has nurtured a friendship with "Glen" for the past few years -- sometimes "hanging out" with him, having long phone conversations and that sort of thing.
My husband and I have known Betsy for nearly eight years. She comes over for dinner and parties, and we always include her when our extended families get together. Some weekends she spends the night with us because the drive between our houses is a long one.
Betsy is my best friend -- and by association one of my husband's best friends.
We have recently been pressuring Betsy to include Glen in some of our outings -- offering dinner, tickets to sporting events or to visit us at home.
We still have not met Glen!
Don't you think this is weird?
Betsy says that it doesn't make sense for her to introduce him to us because they aren't "dating."
Believe me, I've tried to figure out what that means. I told her I didn't care if she was dating him or not. The fact that he has been a part of her life for a few years and we have heard a little about him but have never met him (even though we have extended invitations repeatedly in his direction) is strange.
What do you think?
-- Wondering
Dear Wondering:
Here are a few possible scenarios:
"Betsy" might be gay and not want to disclose it to you at this time.
"Glen" might be married.
Betsy might be embarrassed. Glen might be a figment of her imagination.
Why are you worrying so much about this? I'm sure that every time you bring this up, Betsy wonders why you are so invested in her having a "mate." You never mention that she is unhappy with the state of her life, so why are you?
Let it be.
Great. Problem solved! Where would we be without Amy? She makes it all so obvious and easy to understand.
It's simple, really. If you're a single woman in your thirties who has not had a mate "in years" yet has a male friend she doesn't drag on a "long drive" to her "best" friends' house for dinner, sporting events or visits at that far away home you are either a) a lesbian, b) having an affair with a married man, or c) psychotic, making up imaginary friends.
Wow. Where would we be without sound advice from Amy Dickinsin? I feel so much better about my life now. Now all I need to figure out is if I'm a lesbian or psychotic. (or don't realize I'm seeing a married man which would make me a psychotic adulteress.)
I am bothering to bring this to attention because "Wondering" could be one of my friends. Not one of my "best" friends, because luckily for me, my best friends talk to me. They ask questions and know enough about me to not have to seek out advice from a complete stranger about my lack of desire to invite one of my male friends to their houses for an evening of, "so, when are you two going to get married?" or even the matter of dealing with the sleeping arrangements during that visit. My friends may think I'm weird, but they accept my weirdness and don't splatter what they perceive as my "strange" problems all over an advice column in the Chicago Tribune.
I have several single male friends with whom I talk on the phone and regularly "hang out" with. I talk on the phone and hang out with these men because they are my friends and they have time to talk and hang out with me. They have time for me because they are not married or parents. And they live within a close distance. Unlike my female friends who are married and some of whom have children and live a "long distance" away. These guys, my friends, are single city dwellers like me.
We're not "involved" because we don't want to be "involved." We're friends. Period.
Some of them are gay. (and one of them has questionable mental acuity which may manifest an imaginary friend or two) None of them would be remotely interested in schlepping a "long distance" to any of my married friends' homes for dinner or a sporting event, and none of us would be comfortable sharing a bedroom at one of those houses for an overnight visit.
I am increasingly dreading visits to my married friends' homes. Why would I subject an evening of "married life is great in the suburbs" to any of my single friends, male or female?
To Amy's credit she did, eventually, make the point that this is effectively none of "Wondering's" business, but the implication is that it's none of "Wondering's" business because "Betsy" has some deep, dark secret she's hiding.
Maybe, like me, "Betsy's" deep dark secret is that she's struggling with feelings of envy and resentment over her "best" friend's marriage, house and lifestyle that affords tickets to sporting events. Maybe "Betsy's" struggling to maintain a friendship with a person whom she has increasingly less in common. Maybe "Betsy" is a really tactful and swell friend and knows swutting well "Glen" would be miserable visiting "Wondering" and is trying to spare "Glen's" and "Wondering's" feelings.
Or maybe she's a psychotic lesbian having an affair with an imaginary married man.
Amy really blew an opportunity to speak out for single people. I suspect (hope) there's some sarcasm in Amy's three chosen possibilities. I really hope she's trying to point out the extreme weirdness (her term, not mine) of "Wondering's" inappropriate concerns by offering extreme possibilities. But I'm not convinced Amy was being sarcastic or extreme. And she completely ignored the opportunity to point out single person/married friends social and emotional issues.
"Wondering," if you're out there, here is a response from a single woman who has not had a mate "in years," probably far more accurate to your "best" friend "Betsy's" point of view than Amy Dickinsin's.
Dear Wondering.
First of all, let's give Betsy a big round of applause for traveling a "long distance" to your home to visit you and your husband. She sure is a great pal and apparently a gracious guest. That's why she's your "best" friend, right? She's swell. She's always there for you and really takes a lot of effort to visit you.
Since you're married, it's possible you've lost touch with single life. You have a husband and a home, perhaps two incomes, at least a married tax break, and you and your husband sound like you're satisfied with your life. So satisfied, perhaps, that you are a bit smug in your accomplishments. Not intentionally, of course, but, by virtue of being married and successful, you are calling attention to the fact that your "best" friend Betsy is not married. Even if that's not the case, you opt to make it the case by continually inviting one of Betsy's male friends to join you, calling attention to the fact that as is, on her own, Betsy is not enough. You are implying she needs a man because on her own she's incomplete and needs fixing. Your repair is a man, any man, so she can be like you and your husband.
Let's look at your motivations with your issues with Betsy's life. Why do you care about Betsy's friendship with Glen? Do you exhibit the same interest and concern over her single female friends? If Glen were instead Gina would you push Betsy to invite her to dinner, sporting events and stay over visits? Have you invited any of Betsy's other friends? Have you offered an open invite instead of one directed at Glen? Something like, "We've got two spare tickets to the baseball game next weekend, we'd love to have you join us, bring a friend, it'll be fun!" Or, "We're dying to fire up the barbecue, we'd love it if you could come out and join us next week. Bring whomever you'd like, the more the merrier, let's have a party!"
I realize you're happily married and enjoying the fruits of that union and you want the same thing for your "best" friend. But by continually inviting a male friend to join her in visits to your home, a "long distance" away, you're effectively telling your freind she's not enough on her own, you want a couple to visit you. This could also be perceived as pimping out your friend. You're essentially saying, "I keep harping on this Glen fellow because he's a guy and you haven't had a mate 'in years' and I'm going to do whatever I can to see to it that you two get together in the same bedroom."
Maybe that's not your actual motivation, but, the more you harp on the Glen issue to Betsy (and spend time dwelling on it in your own mind) the more it's going to seem that way to her. Trust me, she knows you want to see her happy and in a good relationship. She understands it's sometimes painful for happily married people see the loneliness and struggle their single friends endure.
Don't single her out, literally, by trying to couple her up with one of her friends. She's a "lovely, independent, funny thirtysomething." She can and should define the boundaries of her relationships.
Let's talk about Glen.
It is very probable Glen is not interested in you, or at least not interested in investing time and effort to travel a "long distance" to your home for dinner or a visit. He's either a single guy or is married or he has a girl/boyfriend. His marital/available status is insignificant to everyone in this situation. He's friends with Betsy. They talk and hang out because they have things in common and enjoy each other's company. This in no way obligates him to meet any of her other friends, much less spend a lot of time and effort traveling have dinner or attend sporting events. Maybe he doesn't like sports. Maybe he has strict dietary concerns. Maybe he's busy living his life and couldn't care less about you, your husband and your nagging insistence on judging Betsy's life and his. Maybe he has a girl/boyfriend/wife/partner and the little free time he has he spends with Betsy, therefore spending a lot of time traveling a "long distance" to your place is out of the question for him because he's got other priorities and obligations.
Maybe Glen's political and life leanings are in direct opposition with yours and Betsy is doing the right thing by avoiding awkward social moments when the differing opinions/biases hit the fan.
I guarantee Betsy has discussed you and the invitations with Glen. While Betsy is a swell pal and your "best" friend, the fact is that she has probably relayed some of your less attractive qualities to Glen. She has told Glen about your inference as to the nature of their relationship. This probably, and justifiably, offends Glen. So out of respect to your mutual friend Betsy, he declines the invitations.
Frankly, Glen is sounding like a much better friend to Betsy than you. She doesn't have to travel "long distances" to see him, he has the time and desire to talk to her on the phone and hang out with her. If he's single he is probably very aware of the cost of living on one income and he and Betsy probably hang out doing low or no cost things because they both understand they cannot afford to do much more than hang out. They're buddies in similar circumstances.
Be honest, are your conversations with Betsy short and frequently cut off because you have to tend to a child or leave to do something with/for your husband? Are you able and do you give Betsy one on one gal pal time? That's what single women with married friends miss most when their girl friends get married. Do you listen with sincere concern when she talks about a singleness related issue or do you dismiss her with, "you need a man?" Do you do most of the talking in conversations with Betsy? Are these sporting events and dinners going to cost Betsy and Glen more than $20 each? (remember to factor in travel expense, a bottle of wine or other food item(s), parking fees, cost of beer at the sporting venue) It's impolite to discuss money, so my guess is that Betsy and/or Glen simply cannot afford the $20+ visiting you for dinner/sporting events would cost. And yes, $20 is a big deal to most single people. The choice may come down to traveling to see you and having dinner v. going to a movie/having a drink after work/getting back and forth to work the rest of the week. Betsy, in her swell pal way, makes that sacrifice. But Glen should not be expected to do the same. Do you really remember what it's like to be single? Can you honestly relate to much of anything in Betsy's life?
Leave the poor woman alone on the Glen issue. Being single in a world of married friends is difficult enough. Do not call constant attention to Betsy and her single status by continually inviting Glen to join her. If she felt strongly enough about Glen, in any capacity other than friends, and if you are "best" friends, she would have introduced you to him and he would want to meet you.
Instead focus on spending time with Betsy in a girl friend capacity. Your husband's probably swell and Betsy probably really likes him. But. She's single. She likes doing single girl things like chick flick night or in home spa day or shoe shopping or whatever it is you two have in common that makes you "best" friends. Assuming you are her best friend she undoubtedly really misses the time you two shared together before you were married. Fortunately for Betsy she found Glen to fill a void or two you left in her social life when you got married.
Monday, September 26, 2005
So this is a new twist on being single.
It’s not actually new, it’s just taken me a while to realize what’s happening.
With the exception of a few people who are divorced or widowed, most of my friends, family, colleagues and coworkers are married. Many of them have children or are nesting in preparation for children.
I’ve gone through the whole “still single” thing at wedding after wedding, outing after outing, dinner party after dinner party. My friends no longer try to bridge the single/married gap. They’re very cozily married and are openly smug about all the benefits of marriage. They have now for the most part forgotten what it’s like to be single and are not capable of relating to anything about being single. From ordering a pizza to joint tax returns, their lives are different in every way from those of single people.
For a while some of my friends tried to keep everything the same as when they were single. They tried to live as they did when they were single except with the benefit of a constant partner.
Most of them very quickly succumbed to the fact that being married is very different than being single. First and foremost, if the spouse works, there are huge financial benefits. They automatically have more spending money. And once the wedding bills are paid, their lifestyles improve greatly. Which is why I’ve given up on the whole conventional love thing. I need a financial partner. I’ve seen the financial benefits of being married and I want a piece of that action. Because I’m really, really sick of managing on one small income in a two income society. It’s wreaking havoc on my bank account and contributing to a lot of my sleep problems.
My married friends seem to very quickly forget what it’s like to live on one income. They go places, do things, buy things, basic things, like food, without giving it much, if any, thought. Without budgeting a night out with friends as an expense which will eat into their monthly operating budget. They don’t stock up on store brand cereal when it’s on sale as a means to go out with friends one night during the month. True story: I went out with a friend for dinner and drinks. In order to afford this extravagence I had to eat store brand cereal for every meal for three weeks. My friend thought the night out was an inexpensive treat and which we should do every week.
I kept making polite excuses, she kept countering them. Finally I had to explain to her it’s simply not in my budget.
She offered to pay my way. Because she’s a good friend and happy to help/share. Which is really nice and I’m grateful to have such a swell friend and everything.
But.
I’m sick of being a charity. My friends and family already pity me and worry about me, you know, alone, single, on my own all the time. And now comes the charity. At first it was charity in the form of trying to set me up with some guy or another. Usually a coworker of their spouse. Usually not someone they would have ever considered going out with when they were single, but since I’m still single they figure I’ll go out with anyone and be happy to do so. Which, yes, you know, in my case has become true, but this was back when I was still trying to maintain some sort of base standard for dating. Note to people who like to fix up their single friends on dates: Don’t offend or insult us. If you wouldn’t date the person, why would you inflict them on anyone else?
The financial issues are frustrating and embarrassing on a lot of levels. Every time someone invites me to do something, I have to re-evaluate my budget and either cut back on a basic living expense, usually food, or make a polite excuse to not attend. Because my friends are married and have more disposable income. Their tastes have increased with their income. They are not really into ordering a pizza and picking up a cheap bottle of wine and renting a movie. They’re into full fledged dinner parties. Or big nights out. Or spa weekends. And yes, I’m into all of those, too, but as a huge, save up for it event. Not as a matter of course, as a matter of lifestyle. Most of my friends “understand” my “situation” but they think, “she’s single, no kids, she’s free as a bird to do whatever she wants...” which is fairly true, but the “whatever I want” part is not accurate. I can do whatever I want within my means. Which is one income. The embarrassment takes me by surprise. My little compartment without much furniture is a huge embarrassment to me in light of my friends’ swanky condos and big houses, all decorated lovely creating a comfortable and pride swelling place to live and entertain. I’m generally okay with my compartment, you know, it’s nice and everything. But it is very small. I’ve adapted but when I visit a friend I realize how pathetically small and, well, impoverished my compartment is. I live a very, very, very different life than my friends live. A meagre, impoverished, pathetic life compared to theirs.
Jealous? Well, yeah, a little bit. I wish I could see my friends more often but because of my financial limitations I cannot afford to go where they go or do what they do.
My good friends and I manage, you know, we get together now and then. But. Well. It’s getting to be more then than now. They’re involved with a lot of other things. They have spouses and children and activities and vacations involving those spouses and activities which is, you know, normal. I’m the odd one, I’m the one not conforming to the normal stages of life. It’s not them, it’s me.
We’ve been all over this territory.
So to the new issue.
This aspect hasn’t reared its ugly head until recently.
Some of my friends have young children. Whom I adore. (and yes, I am jealous of their children. The more I see them, the more I long to have at least one of my own. Another aspect married people don’t understand: Their children, wonderful as they are, can cause a lot of angst and sadness or at least some serious pangs of sadness and longing in their childless friends.) Right. My friends are becoming parents. Another step through the normal stages of life, another step further away from me.
And because I’m stalled behind them, stuck in single land, and therefore immature in comparison to them, they are starting to treat me like one of their children. This is not an isolated incident. This is happening to me with increasing frequency from all of my friends who have become parents. They talk down to me. They over explain everything. They tell me what to do. They make decisions and plans for me before even speaking to me about it. They don’t offer advice on any topic in my life, they tell me what I’m doing wrong and compare how they would handle a situation to my apparently incompetent plan. They forget details like money. My friends now all tell me to quit my job. “Just quit!” they’ll scream at me. “Just quit that job. You hate it, you’re not getting ahead, stop complaining about it and just quit!” Uh, yeah, you know, I’d really like to, I fantasize about that on a regular basis, but, erm, I’m not actually independently wealthy, and the actual reason I’ve stayed as long as I have is because I, well, I need the paycheck. I can’t afford to quit until I have another job.
One of my friends was honestly taken aback by my explanation of the need for a paycheck.
“You mean you don’t have at least a years’ salary saved? My God, Trill, you really need to start saving some money. My entire paycheck goes into the kids’ college fund and our savings account.”
“How nice for you, Friend, great that you’re able to be so responsible. But I don’t actually have a husband earning twice my salary so I have to, you know, live on my salary.”
“Seriously Trill, you need to save money. I had no idea you were living that way. You need to have at least one year of your income in a non retirement account. You do have a retirement account, don’t you? I mean, you’re not getting younger.”
That way? You mean the way you lived until a few years ago? “Yes. I have a retirement account.”
“Whew, Trill. I love you but I can’t take care of you when you’re old.”
“Gee, thanks, but that’s okay. I’ve got a few boxes in mind for retirement. Nothing elaborate, just a modest little fridge box.”
“Trill, you’ve got to do something with your life. If you’re not going to get married you need to save money and get a better paying job.”
“Okay. Thanks for the advice.”
“Really Trillian. You can’t keep on this way.”
Uh, yeah. I know. I’m not actually 7 and I’m not actually an idiot and I’m not actually happy with my life. Thanks for the support and understanding, Friend.
I can deal with the bigger issues, the “Trill, do something!” commands.
But what’s really annoying the crap out of me is the “do it this way” and the “no, I believe it’s pronounced THIS way” and the “don’t wear that, borrow my_____ ” and the general condescending attitude and bossing around I’m getting from my friends with children. Even if they’re wrong, I have learned to keep my mouth shut. I don’t want to argue or quibble or split hairs over whether or not the ingredient is indigenous to Brazil or Argentina because it doesn't swutting matter!!! But what does matter is offending and hurting someone over an issue which doesn't swutting matter. Correcting and directing and generally mothering a grown adult is rude and disgusting behavior. Even if that grown adult is stuck in a phase of life she should have moved on from several years ago.
If this were an isolated incident with one friend I would write it off to too much motherhood, not enough adult interaction. Or a nitpicking nature.
But.
This is happening at a staggering rate with all of my friends, female and male, who have become parents. It hit home to me when I realized they do not talk to or treat people who are married the same way. I notice they only talk to and treat me this way. Until I stopped to notice that aspect, and then took the time to wonder why they treat me differently, I didn’t connect the dots to get the full picture they see of me. I thought maybe my skills of decorum and general intelligence had taken a dive. I've never claimed to be anything other than a socially awkward idiot, but I think I know how to handle myself in public. I think I know a thing or two about a thing or two, and certainly know when to keep my mouth shut. But their near constant remarks, thinly cloaked criticisms, made me second guess myself. It began to eat away at what little confidence I have. I said increasingly less and let them do all the talking. I let them tell me what to do, what to wear, where to go and generally boss me around. I wasn't very happy with that arrangement, but, they're the ones who are successful in life and I'm the pathetic single ugly loser so I thought the best and smartest thing to do was to listen to them and let them boss me around. I thought if I was more like them I'd be more successful. I was trying to learn.
But what I learned is that they are frequently wrong. They are frequently overbearingly opinionated on topics about which they know very little. But they're my friends and I accept and love them so, you know, I just kept quiet. And I certainly didn't want to treat them the way they'd been treating me, correcting them and bossing them. That's not me. Live and let live Trill. And I'm not one to play tit for tat.
And they're not meanspirited. They're just parents. They're in that phase of life. And I’m stuck behind them, single, financially hurting most of the time, in a job I should have left a long time ago, stagnant. They moved forward. They have all the benchmarks of adulthood. “Single” is now something they associate in terms of their children. Single is the next generation behind them. I’m single and therefor: Behind them. And so they treat me very, very differently than they treat the people who are keeping up with them on their trip though life.
My wrist is in a brace thing. It’s been difficult not to mention painful to type. My friends know what happened, they know my wrist is not functioning up to par.
And yet not one but three of my friends replied to an email I sent apparently for no other reason than to correct a transposition.
Okay. These are not people who in the past have been nitpicking jerks. One of them is a bit of a perfectionist. But since I generally avoid social contact with nitpicking jerks, hair splitting bores and anyone else who feels a need to tell everyone they’re right and therefore superior by pointing out someone else’s mistake, it’s safe to assume this hasn’t been an issue with any of these people until they became parents.
None of them stopped to assume that since in the years they’ve known me I have generally spelled, you know, okay, or at least decipherably, that I do in fact know how to spell perusal. Or that at the very least I know it’s not spelled preusal.
None of them stopped to think, “Gee, Trill’s wrist is sprained and yet she’s sending me an email. What a pal. What a thoughtful friend she is.”
None of them stopped to think, “Gosh, poor Trill, her wrist must be bothering her. She made a transposition.”
None of them replied to inquire about my health or general well being.
All three of them made either a sarcastic comment or simply corrected my spelling.
“Yes, friend, I meant perusal. Jsut a bti pianful ot tpye tehse dyas.” was my response to her.
Let me state loud and clear: These are not bitchy, mean people. These are generally thoughtful, nice, caring people. Who have become parents. Who spend their days teaching and correcting and generally bossing around young children. And they apparently view me as another of their children. Because I’m not one of them. Because I am single and broke and not keeping up with them in any aspect of life they have come to view me and treat me very differently.
It’s gone from pity to intolerance and lack of respect.
It took a while to happen. I never saw it coming. But now that I start adding it up, connecting the dots, that’s the conclusion I’ve drawn.
I don’t think it’s a conscious lack of respect on their part, but the intolerance is conscious. It’s not possible to berate someone for their lack of savings or transposition in spelling a word without realizing you’re berating them. And you cannot berate someone, especially a friend, without knowing you are showing a serious lack of respect and tolerance. Which, correct me if I’m wrong, are the cornerstones of friendship. What separates friends from just other people is that we have shared experiences, respect and tolerate each other. Without respect and tolerance I think we’re just people, not friends. So on some level it IS conscious.
What I’m wondering is if I were to somehow pull off a marriage, would they once again treat me as an equal, or at least as an adult? Or would I need to have children to actually regain their respect?
Do I put these friendships on ice until I get married and have children? What if, as it seems to be the case, I never marry and/or have children?
I mean, these are my friends. My real friends. Or at least they have been until the whole parenthood thing happened. Do I ride out their parenthood years taking their bossiness and constant “advising” as a sign that they care about me but are completely out of touch with my life and leave it at that? That’s the approach I’ve been taking.
When it first started happening I was more than a little surprised. So I’d fire back with an occasional comment and one or two conversations about the issue. I did stand up for myself, I didn’t let them walk all over me. They apologized, but apparently my objection to the way they talked to me didn’t really sink in with them. They went right back to correcting me and being very condescending to me.
And I don’t really mind - not in the grand scheme. Now that I think I’ve figured it out I realize this is a parenthood thing. And a me still being single thing. I don’t want to argue over it. I don’t want it to cause a bitter end to our friendships. But. I also don’t want to be treated like a child.
So I’m backing off a bit. Leaving them alone to do their parent thing. And so far they don’t seem to notice. Which is good. They’re not hurt or wondering what’s wrong or, you know, missing me. There was already a chasm between us. The married/single chasm is huge and cavernous. More huge and more cavernous the longer you remain unmarried and childless
Tuesday, August 16, 2005 Opposing Ideas
Most of my friends live very normal and successful lives. Jobs they enjoy which provide them with good salaries. They have stable, loving relationships with spouses or partners. They have nice comfortable homes, good health, satisfying social and extracurricular lives. They are leading, you know, normal, well adjusted lives. Do they want more or better? Oh sure. They’re not stinking rich or charmed with non stop good luck. But they are happy with what they’ve got and are comfortable. They’re not struggling. They have worries and concerns, but not the keep you up at night sort of worries and concerns. And when they do have a problem or challenge, they’ve got partners to support them emotionally, financially and whatever other way they need.
I’m glad my friends are all doing well. I really am. I’m not jealous or envious of them. Maybe of some of their successes, but not of them. I still allow myself to feel a lot of emotions for and about them. Happiness, pride, compassion, love, gratitude... lots of emotions. These are my friends. I like them. I care about them. I want good things for them.
I certainly don’t wish my life on anyone, especially my friends.
I don’t usually talk about the weirdness and unsuccess in my life with them. They get worried and upset for and about me. They feel guilty for having what they’ve got and feel like their mere presence is flaunting success in my face. And yes, sometimes, that is that case. But I don’t blame them, I’m not mad or resentful at them. The situation, yes, but not them. Over the past few years I’ve learned it’s best for everyone if I just say nothing about the failures and strangeness in my life. I don’t lie, I just don’t say anything. I keep the conversation about them and their lives, their spouses, their jobs, their children, their vacations, their homes, their cars, their evolving lives. There’s nothing new, really, in my life anyway, nothing really to talk about which isn’t obvious or hasn’t been discussed. They’ve moved on to the next normal phases of life and I have not. If any of us dwell on it too much it would make us all upset and feel weird and probably erode or at least cause some distance in the friendships.
Consequently most of my friendships have become a little lop sided in the areas of communication. And I’m okay with that, I’ve pretty much orchestrated it. I am not an agony aunt, yet. They’re not only calling me when they have a problem or need a sympathetic ear because they know I’m the one person who will listen and understand. Most of them email or call just to say hi when things are good, which is most of the time. So no resentment in that regard. They do ask how things are with me, but, well, this is where it’s down to my orchestration, “Oh you know, the usual, weird, stupid, frustrating and a little scary. Status quo. How about you? How’s the new job/baby/house/car/vacation?” And from there the conversation involves whatever’s new in their life. Because there are always new things in their lives, and they are almost always good, positive, exciting, happy things. There’s a lot to talk about, a lot of ground to cover in their new whatever. Everything that can be said about the same old status quo in my life has been said, there’s nothing new to discuss.
So last night the phone rang. It was a good friend who lives far far away from me. We usually email and talk only now and then. I could tell she was upset the second I heard her voice. She tried to act casual, “Hi Trill (fake upbeat tone), how’s it going?”
“Hi friend! (sincere upbeat tone) you know, the usual, how about you?”
“Well, you know, okay...” (voice cracking, tears could be seen through the sound of her voice)
“Friend, what’s going on? Are you okay? Husband okay? Parents okay? Dogs okay?”
“Yes, yes, we’re all fine, everyone’s okay. Except, well, me, I guess. I didn’t get the promotion.” (Baaaa haaaaaa haaaaaa, sniff, sniff, waaaaaaaaahhhhh waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh)
“Oh, friend, I’m so sorry. I know you really wanted that job. They’re stupid for not giving it to you, you were clearly the perfect candidate for it. Probably stupid politics which have nothing to do with you or your abilities.”
“That’s just it, that’s exactly what happened. I was the best candidate for the job, but they gave it to (younger, less qualified boy just out of University). I am certain they gave it to him because someone knows we’re trying to have a baby and they don’t want to risk me leaving in the middle of a project. I mean, I wouldn’t do that! And now that I didn’t get the job and the pay increase the baby plans are going to have be delayed (waaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh waaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh) it’s all so unfair!”
“Wow, yes, friend it is really unfair. Have you gone to HR? Did you ask anyone specifically why you didn’t get the job when you were clearly the best candidate? It probably won’t change anything, but at least it will make them squirm for a few minutes. And more importantly, it will make them aware that you know how their decision was made and that there are potentially serious discrimination issues.”
“(Husband of friend) wants to talk to a lawyer. But I’m not sure that’s a good idea just yet. I have to keep my job, at least until I find a new one, because I can’t stay here now, I have to find another job, I mean, I just can’t stay after all this. And I want (younger, less qualified boy just out of University) to fall flat on his face when I’m gone. I got straight on the phone to (executive recruiting firm), emailed my CV (executive recruiter she used to get her current job). He said there are a couple of opportunities brewing which would be perfect for me.”
“Ah yes, the best revenge is quitting your job. Are you seriously considering a discrimination suit?”
“As soon as I find another job, yes.”
“Isn’t that kind of expensive? And I mean, once you find another job and move on will it really be an issue? I’m not saying it’s right or that they should get away with it, but, I’m just thinking of the legal expenses. The main issue here is that you wanted that promotion because you were qualified and you wanted the extra money so you could begin those baby plans. Without the job and extra money you have to wait a bit longer to have a baby. Won’t legal expenses further delay those plans, too?”
“Yes. And that’s another reason I don’t want to run to a lawyer. But (her husband) is really hot to have a discussion with a lawyer.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to have a conversation about it.”
“No, I guess not. But I really wanted that j j jo jo job (waaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh waaaaaaaaaahhh)”
“I know, friend, I know. This stinks.”
And there was a long conversation about not getting what she really wanted, rejection, dignity and how to go on after the defeat. All areas I know enough about to be considered an expert. So I knew exactly when to just listen and when to offer some encouragement or ideas.
But here’s the thing. There were several times I was tempted to employ the opposite technique. But what I think were manners and responsibility prevented me from pointing out some issues which make this not such a big deal as it might seem.
She’s currently earning an amazingly high salary. And the promotion would have put her in the “top earner” category. And she does work very hard and is very clever and smart and experienced and all that. I’m not saying she isn’t worth it. And rejection’s the same no matter what the job or salary. If you really want a particular job, it’s the same hurt, the same disappointment, the same licking of wounds and trying not to be too resentful about the whole thing if you’re turned down for senior VP position or a fast food cashier. A lot probably hinges on those potential jobs and paychecks no matter what the job or amount of the paycheck.
But. Many, many people would give anything to be in her current job. She’s got a great gig and she earns a lot of money. She is basically very happy there and didn’t even think about leaving until the new job opened and she applied for the promotion.
And, if she does decide to quit, her husband also earns a very handsome salary in a very secure job in a thriving industry and successful company. She’s got a cushion. She has an out. I’m not saying she should quit just because she can rely on her husband for a few months or however long it takes for her to find a job. Her career is important to her beyond a paycheck. Until she has that baby, next to her husband she devotes much of her time and energy to that job and her career. So no, I’m not saying, “oh big deal, she can quit and her husband can take care of her.”
Normally I would never remind her that she is fortunate to have the cushion to fall into in case she does want to quit or hire a lawyer. Because that’s not the point. The point is that she was not given a promotion she honestly deserved, probably because she is a woman of child bearing age.
But. The fact is, she can hire a recruiter or a lawyer or quit or do whatever she wants because she’s got a partner who can soften at least the financial blow to the budget.
All of that was going through my mind and I nearly employed the oppositing technique. I wondered if a few reminders about her not so awful life might help her feel better about the whole thing. I chose to take my usual route and stayed very quiet about her not so bad life because right then she was upset about not getting the job and that’s understandable. I feel very bad for her. The licking of wounds and realizing things aren’t so bad after all will come in a few days or weeks.
And I was concerned it might come across as catty or jealous or angry. And I was truly not feeling any of those things. I was feeling very little emotion at all, actually. I wasn’t trying to void emotion, or even having no expectations. But. It’s kind of becoming a way of life. Which is good, for the most part. However, in the case of the people I actually care about I’m not sure this is a good thing.
Maybe if it weren’t involving issues which hit so close to home for me. Maybe if I were in a job I liked or at least paid a decent salary for the work I do I could be more sympathetic. Maybe if I had a husband. Maybe if I were trying to have a baby. Maybe if I weren’t sitting there looking at a bowl of dry store brand cereal for dinner because the store brand is 40 cents cheaper than the national brand and milk isn’t on sale until Thursday. Maybe then I could risk saying the opposite of the conventional supportive comment. I wouldn’t sound bitter and jealous. But that’s a lot of maybes. So I was sympathetic and understanding of her emotional distress.
We ended the conversation on a positive note, she had calmed down and seemed to be in a lot better mood. And that’s really all that matters.
Except. I’m now trying to sort out if the void of emotions, no expectations, do the opposite thing might be helpful in the relationships where I didn’t think I would employ the technique. Would it make me a better or worse friend to point out the obvious? That can come across as dismissive. “Eh, so what. You didn’t get the promotion, big deal. You still have a great job, money in the bank, a husband with a great salary. Rejection sucks, they’re stupid and wrong for not giving you the promotion, but you’re no worse off than you were before the job became available. You’ll have a baby in the next few years and probably not even be working. In the grand scheme of things this is inconsequential to your five year plan.” However, it’s true. But the slap in the face sort of reality has never been something I like to administer to people whose emotions matter to me. (Hence my inability to ever slate out HWNMNBS or even get angry with him.) But I wonder if maybe that’s not actually a good thing. Maybe I’m not actually being a good friend. Oh sure, I’ll be tactfully honest about an unflattering dress or recipe that needed a little more something, but those are inconsequential honesties (unless the dress is to be worn on a first date or the recipe served to a mother-in-law). Maybe doing the opposite would ultimately be better in some of these cases. Maybe my friend needed to be brought back to reality. Maybe by being understanding and well mannered and responsible I did both of us an injustice. But she’s my friend and I would never do anything which would offend or hurt her. What would be the point of bitch slapping her with reality, maybe even my reality, when all she needed was a sympathetic ear and friendly shoulder for a few minutes?
I knew there would be situations where the no expectation, no emotion, oppositing technique would cause questions, concerns and hurt feelings. But I didn’t anticipate the main issue and how I feel about it:
Selfishness.
I’m not a selfish person. It’s just not how I am. Emotions or not, I have almost no ego and never think of myself or needs first. I just simply do not. Don’t tell me to change. I can’t do that any more than I can change my height or eye color. But. The no emotions thing, and the subsequent honesties and reality bitch slaps it might cause are going to make me feel selfish. Yes. Feel. And that’s a problem. The whole point of this was to void emotions. But, it could potentially cause a big emotional vortex in the form of selfishness. I’m not giving anything of myself, investing emotions on anyone but a few close and trusted people. This is selfish behavior. Oh sure, manners, responsibility and all that. Those will get me through the casual encounters with strangers or inconsequential situations. But. The bigger situations where I opt out of emotions and walk away leaving no trace of myself behind are going to make me feel very selfish. Feel. I’ll end up exactly the opposite of my goal. I’ll be feeling a humdinger of an emotion in the form of selfishness.
Monday, August 15, 2005 Desperate Housewives: Not Just for Primetime Anymore
A woman I used to know, a woman who was sort of a friend, well, I mean, yes, we were friends, for a while, came into town from the suburbs.
We worked together, briefly, several years ago. She had a young child and husband but she managed to find time do "single" stuff with me. She worked, she didn't want to move to the suburbs, we shared affinities for Will Self and Danish Modern, and, well, we had enough in common to be friendly.
But then she had another baby. And they needed a bona fide home instead of a cramped condo in a high rise.
They grudgingly began looking to the suburbs because that's where they could afford a home large enough to make a move "worth it." I understood their situation. I encouraged them. "Hey, you both work in the city, it wouldn’t be so awful. It's all about attitude. You don't want to be a suburbanite so you won't become one. You'll just happen to live outside the city limits. Really. It's for the best for everyone. And it really is a lovely home. Think of all the space you'll have. And a yard. And really, it'll be fine."
Their second baby was born with a lot of serious health problems which required many doctor and special care facility visits.
Eventually the choice was made that she would quit her job because their children needed a full time mother more she needed a full time job. I understood. I applauded and encouraged her decision. It was going to put a huge financial strain on them, but, it was all about priorities and the children, and, I mean, most of us would do the same if there was a way we could.
Naturally her trips into the city became very infrequent. She was becoming a suburbanite. I understood. I was a little surprised because she was so, well, unsuburban, but, well, I mean it's not as if it's a bad thing, what with the children and everything. Every time I talked to her she seemed happy. And that's all that matters. Period.
I haven't heard from her in a while. We drifted. That's what happens when you don't follow a normal life path, or, well, the path most people take: Spouse, house, children. We're living very different lives with very different realities and concerns to manage. She barely remembers what it's like to live in the city, seems to have no recollection of what a pain in the behind an office job can be, and she certainly is completely out of touch with what it's like to be single.
I have no clue what it's like to be a married housewife with two children in the suburbs. She hasn't read a book except for what's on Oprah's reading list or childrens' books in years. Danish Modern? Not child friendly. Not warm and inviting. Bring on the overstuffed floral prints.
We have nothing in common.
Neither one of us sent holiday greetings, not even emails this year. Every now and then she'll forward me something she thinks I mind find interesting, and every now and then I ask how she and the kids are doing.
Then I got an email: Hi Trill, a group of us are coming into the city Saturday night. It would be great if you could join us for a drink or dinner. Also, could clue me in on some of the better night spots? I haven't been downtown in so long I don't even know where the good places are. I'm the only one in the group who ever lived in the city and they are leaving the choices up to me. Help! I'm so out of touch! I'm so suburban!
Well. At least she's self aware.
And so I donned my cute pleated skirt and bright blazer (well, metaphorically) and became: Tricia McMillian: Social Planner.
And it's not that I mind doling out some ideas for places to go. Chicago has a lot to offer. And in a weird way, it's almost flattering she thinks I am in touch with the good places and wants my advice. A bit difficult for me, you know, still single, still "out there" in clubland.
Well. I've never really been in clubland. I'm more of a small bar/lounge/concert venue type of gal, but, I am at least aware of The Places To Go and which are worth the effort and which are not.
I dashed her a list of some of my favorite places as well as the places I know suburbanites flock to when they're in town for a big night in the city wanting to do it up right and go home and feel like they're cool and relevant and not suburban. I told her maybe I could meet them for a drink or two.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "NOOOOOOOOO, Trillian, don't go! This is not a good idea for you! Don't do it Trillian, don't do it!!!!"
Believe me, I thought that, too. I thought about it a long time. Normally I would have been filled with expectations about how a night with a bunch of suburban housewives I don't even know in town looking for fun would be nothing shy of torture and agony.
But not now.
No expectations. No good, no bad.
And I did the exact opposite of what I would normally do. I agreed to meet them for a drink.
Of course the second I met them in one of the "cool" bars I suggested I was scrutinized by six pairs of judging eyes. I was: Exhibit A: Never Married, No Children, Career Woman. And they were studying me with all the curiosity and jokes and photo opportunities people use when looking at a dinosaur or primitive living display at a museum.
All the polite introductions and remarks were made with a lot of comments. "Hi, I'm Jill. Mary told us all about you. It's so cool you live in the city. I always wanted to, but I married right out of college, got a job in the suburbs and the commute and high cost of living just never made sense."
"It is expensive down here. Do you own or rent?" another quickly chimed in, with what I am sure was an "a ha! gotcha!" look.
"I rent." I said. No emotion. I'd like to think they wouldn't be able to tell if I was happy or upset about being a renter because I said it so flatly. But rent is a four letter word to people like this. Most of them are probably half way through a 20 or 30 year mortgage and are feeling very smug and secure in the escrow they're accumulating.
My friend said, "Trllian just moved to a place on the Lake." (Thanks friend, I owe you one for that attempt at redemption.)
"Ooooooh, I love the Lake!" A woman, the one woman apart from my friend in the group I thought I might actually like, said, or rather slurred. She'd undoubtedly doesn't drink often and that cosmopolitan was going straight to her tongue.
"Yeah, me, too. It's the main reason I chose Chicago as a place to live. The Lake really is a changing canvas every hour of every day..." I started to enthuse about the picturesque qualities of Lake Michigan. But I was interrupted by another one of the women.
"Are you by Bloomies or are you in one of those old places up North?" a woman I affectionately named Bitsy barked at me.
I'd like to think she didn't mean that to sound quite as aggressive as it did. But that would require me to lie to myself and you. She was absolutely fishing to see just what part of town I lived in and subsequently my net worth. I wanted to lie and say, humbly, apologetic like, "one of those old places up North" in an attempt to make her look like the snob she is in front of her friends. But my friend, my friend who thought she was coming to my rescue butted in and said, "Right in the epicenter of the Gold Coast," and began rattling off all the Gold Coast features of my neighborhood. You know, the ones I never talk about because they're the ones I don't care about or even know exist. I never, ever refer to my address as the Gold Coast and I don't like it when other people badger me about "admitting" where I live. Yes. I'm in a bit of denial over this. But, on the other hand, I'm not exactly livin' la vida lavish so it's honestly a misnomer for me to say I live in the Gold Coast for any implication other than the physical address of my compartment on a real estate boundary map.
Bitsy, however, was visibly impressed, but was sizing me up even more aggressively. She was sussing out the obvious: I'm not typical Gold Coast material. So I must be the white trash of the neighborhood. Her unnaturally sharp angled nose was visibly higher in the air after her thorough assessment of me.
Booze. I need booze over here! Stat!
The evening progressed in much the same manner. The conversation was dominated by talk of husbands and children and home decorating and vacations and lots and lots of remarks about other people in the bars we visited. Apart from my friend and the nice woman, the women were getting proportionally cattier and louder with each passing drink. My friend, nice woman and myself were getting proportionally more embarrassed and quieter with each passing drink. The catty remarks were coming from insecure women. They were out of their suburban element and comfort zone. They wanted this big night in the city, they bought new outfits and had their hair done and wore the good make-up. But they all have obvious suburban looks to them. Even my friend who used to have a pretty hard edge to her look and manner has taken on that suburban look.
The women were like young girls, awe struck by the other women out on the town, city girls who do this whenever they way, maybe even as a way of life. But they were obviously feeling insecure in their suburban, unhip, I don't get out much except to a chain restaurant now and then looks.
Ha! Yes! She scores! I know I'm being as catty as they are, but I'm thinking of this is a check and balance sort of thing. They called most of the younger, prettier, better dressed women they saw out on the town sluts, bitches and skanks. They may have been true in a few cases, but, not worth stating or even noticing in the first place. I made a few attempts to defend some of the girls who fell under their attacks, "I like that top." "That's a great haircut, I wish my hair would do that." "She doesn't seem that skanky to me." It was a loosing battle. These were drunk, insecure women. There's nothing cattier known to humankind. So I just shut up and nursed my drink and tried to talk to my friend and the nice girl.
Once we settled into a comfy place, a place I'd made a few table arrangements at for the evening because, well, I could, I know the place, I've booked events there and well, I did something I rarely do, I pulled out a favor and had a very cool best table in the crowded lounge. Right. I did them all a huge favor and not only got them into a very hot lounge on a Saturday night, I got them a VIP table. Yeah yeah. Whatever. Hold your applause or abuse until the end of the program. I'm not trying to impress you or them. I was trying to do something nice for this group of complete strangers simply because I could. They are friends of my friend. I thought they'd get a kick out of it. I thought they'd have a good time. I thought since they don't get into the city much it would be something they'd really enjoy. I didn't expect them to be gracious or humble or even polite guests.
But. I also didn't expect them to be catty, foul mouthed embarrassments, either. I didn't expect anything, good or bad.
But as we know, I'm an idiot.
Yadda yadda yadda, lesson learned. Note to self: Never again.
The doing a nice thing for complete strangers where alcohol is involved thing, not the no expectations thing.
Fortunately I'm not feeling a lot of emotions these days. If I were the old me I'd be feeling embarrassment, shame, humility, sorrow, regret, and well, probably a lot of anger. Now I'm just glad the whole thing is over. The women are home, safe and secure in the suburbs, nursing super sized hangovers. In a few days, when they're able to face the day light without vomiting, they'll start remembering some of the evening. I suspect most of them will remember that wild night they went into town, got really drunk and had a great time.
Memories can be selective that way, especially with that oh so special cocktail of 40 proof vodka and no self awareness or shame with an insecurity chaser. That cocktail is what keeps suburban housewives smug and superior and singles bar guys self assured and back in the clubs and full of hope and bravado every weekend. Oh sure, they all behave badly, make fools of themselves and drag innocent victims into their boozey display of bad manners and bad taste. But all they'll remember is what a great time they had.
They won't remember how they set up an ad hoc judging table, criticizing everyone they could see, loudly enough for almost everyone in the lounge to hear, even over the increasingly loud music. They won't remember how they embarrassed a girl celebrating her 21st birthday by loudly proclaiming she looks a lot older than 21 and criticizing her entire outfit. They won't remember how they ganged up on a gay couple when their "oooh, let's flirt with those cute guys" game of sending several rounds of drinks and salacious winks and cleavage at them backfired in a bad way. They won't remember the way too loud mean and callous remarks they made about every woman there. They won't remember how they made vulgar and rude comments about and to every man in the club. They'll especially forget that part. Just like they forgot about their husbands and children after two drinks. They certainly won't remember how they became proportionally cruel to the woman they had never met but who arranged their VIP table for them. They won't remember how they told her it was obvious why she's single and always will be, even though she didn't ask for their opinion or even slightly hint that she was unhappy being single. (Hey, there are people who want to be single. They didn't know I'm not one of them.)
They won't remember any of that and it's just as well for everyone involved.
I had no expectations and have no emotions invested in them or any of what happened that night. However, it occurred to me even though I'm not feeling anything, there are still lessons to be learned. So I allowed myself to review a bit of the evening and some of the comments which were made. This was an honest effort to try to learn something from this. You know, out of the mouths of babes (or drunk housewives) and all that.
I didn't come up with anything. Which is a bit frustrating because I thought maybe a lesson or insight learned from all of it might make it all worth while. The challenge for me is that every time I take one of their criticisms or digs at me and try to spin it into a positive lesson and advice I am confronted with the problem of considering the source. There's a bigger umbrella issue here.
What I'm not understanding is the duality of their mindset. On the one hand they seem either smug in their suburbaness, their husbands, children, home and lack of job or financial contribution to their family income or, uncomfortable with it and subsequently overly defensive about it. They are united in their need to show off their lives as being superior to mine, or, if not superior, at least normal.
And yet, it never seems to occur to them that either a) I might actually want what they've got, or, that, maybe, I'm upset because I don't have a husband and family and a home to call ours, and maybe, just maybe, their not always so passive aggressive observations and remarks about my carefree party all the time single life which must get boring or shallow sometimes (another quote from Bitsy) hurt me and make me feel even worse about my lonely, pathetic isolated life, or b) I might not want any of what they've got and am in fact very happy with my life and they shouldn't judge or care about how I (or anyone else) lives their life.
They can be smug because yes, they've made a success of their role in evolution. They found a mate willing to, well, mate with them, and they've reproduced. They earned that and deserve the superior attitude over me, she who was unsuccessful.
However, it's not their job to criticize anyone in the herd who's not successful. The sick, elderly and unsuitable of the species are always abandoned by the rest of the herd. It's for the greater good of the species. Any member of the herd who is unsuccessful and will in any way jeopardize the herd by either calling attention to it from stalkers higher up the food chain or being a drain on the resources and not provide much in the way of anything useful for the herd's way of life and evolution. So the herd simply abandons them. They don't ridicule or gang up on them. This would call attention to the outcast and act as a beacon to stalkers higher up on the food chain. They just leave them alone and let them fend for themselves, letting nature take it's course. There's no insult with the injury. They just move on and get on with their evolution.
I realize insecurity is a human emotion and concept and therefore these woman cannot be dealt with in a rational herd like manner.
But.
Even so.
It's interesting to note that they do not realize if there's anything they should feel about me and my "situation" it's silent pity without a look of pity or in any way calling attention to my situation. They are not completely unaware, because they observed and reacted and comment. Yet they are completely intolerant or at least uncompassionate to any woman who doesn’t have what they have.
But what do they have? I’d like think if I’d had a marriage and house and children I wouldn’t have ended up like them. Maybe that’s what they thought, too. Certainly my friend didn’t think she’d end up like this, but then again, she’s not really like them. Well. Not too much. She did make it clear that I “need” a husband if for no other reason so that I can buy a home. (See a trend here? Lately everything and everyone in my life is consumed with homeownership. It’s really weird. Every day I am confronted with some conversation about this topic and the horrible state of my lowly renter’s existence.) I’ve been thinking about this random sampling of women. All married, all mothers, all homeowners, all suburbanites. I’m not saying all suburbanites are like this, okay? I’m not. I’m just saying this is a type of suburban woman: Smug and superior, yet insecure and threatened.
I took me a day of thinking about it, but I realized there’s really nothing to be learned from them. I don’t value their opinion or their lifestyles. Would I like what they’ve got? No. The surface stuff, the husband, the children, the home, yes, that would be great. But. Underneath the basic commodities, they’re emotionally bankrupt. You’re sitting there thinking, “Well, Trill, so are you. Remember? The whole void of emotion thing?”
Yes. I remember it very well. It got me through yet another potentially upsetting episode. And I thought about that, too. I thought maybe they’ve found the secret of void of emotions to deal with less than loving or idea marriages, motherhood which isn’t the nonstop joy they thought it would be, and the fiscal realities of providing a comfortable and secure home for themselves and their children.
But I don’t think that’s the case. They are not void of emotion, they are emotional voids. I can and want to function in society. My void of emotions state requires me to be responsible and maintain manners. They are irresponsible and lack manners. They are functioning in society but not really.
And they are delusional. The really weird thing about all of this (at least to me) is that they “jokingly” referred to themselves as desperate housewives. I don’t watch the show, but, I know the premise. It’s not exactly a lifestyle worth identifying with or mimicking. Call me stupid, pathetic or crazy, but I don’t want to identify with a group of women who struggle to maintain a façade of bliss and calm success in the suburbs when inside those successful exteriors they’re having sex with underaged boys, covering up murder and raising ill mannered, troubled children. These are not successful people. These are deeply troubled and, well, really swutted up characters on a television show. Suburban women everywhere: Desperate Housewives is making fun of you, it’s parodying the dark side of your Betty Crocker lives. It’s not something to which you should be aspiring. And if that sort of thing IS happening in your neighborhood, it’s not exactly brag worthy. The name of the show is Desperate Housewives. Desperate. Do you understand what desperate means? It’s not a good thing. It means involving extreme danger or possible disaster. Like the characters on the show, you should be trying to keep it all very quiet. You should be worried and embarrassed and well, really concerned, if not for yourselves, for your children.
And if you are desperate housewives, why are you so quick and eager to criticize anyone who is not like you? You’re the ones who should be taking a good look around at people who are not like you and trying to learn how to change your lives.
I’m not going to say this was an eye opening evening and that I have a newfound happiness in my singleness. Nothing’s changed for me. In fact, it’s given me hope that I might actually find that unemotional financial marriage partner. These women did it, or that’s what most of their marriages seem to have become. If I’m successful in my plan to find a financial marriage partnership I’ll be in exactly the same situation as these women. All I will have done is skip the early delusional we’re so in love and raising children years. The end result will be the same. An emotionally void marriage with a home and some financial security.
Am I judging them too harshly when I only them on one drunken evening? Probably. But. That's how they judged me. A level playing field with one exception: They brought their predetermined expectations of me with them. I didn't have any expectations for or of them. This isn't a lesson in right and wrong, but an observation on a tale of two mindsets. They left with exactly the same expectations of me that they brought with them. Nothing I could have said or done would change their opinion of me or their expectations. I went into the evening with no expectations or opinions, and came away with plenty of observations and data to form concrete theories and behavior models.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Everyone who likes me better when I’m not in a good mood will be (ironically) happy to know the good day was just that: A good day. Not the start of a new Trill order.
I know you don’t want me to succeed. Because then you wouldn’t have a gauge. No one to hold up as an example of things which could be worse. I know this, I understand this. I long ago realized this is probably one of my main purposes for existing. Society needs people like me. Society needs losers. If everyone were all up and successful and happy there’d be even more dementia than there is already. It’s like the Christian excuse for why there is evil in the world. We need it to keep the good on course and to serve as an example of what will happen if we stray from the flock.
I strayed, look what happened to me.
Let that be a lesson and warning to you.
See? You’re sniggering. You really do not want me to be successful or up or happy. You need me to be the malcontented example of what happens when you don’t behave and do as you’re told and blindly believe anything and ask the uncomfortable questions and speak the realistic and honest words. You need me to do this so you can go about your life knowing there is at least one person who’s got it worse than you.
It’s okay, really. I don’t mind. I’m used to it. It’s my public service to the Universe. My gift.
Don’t sit there feeling all guilty and uncomfortable.
It’s not just you.
Even my friends feel this way about me. They need me to fail and be plagued with weird and unfortunate events so they can feel good about themselves and their lives. I’m the Rhoda, remember? Every Mary needs a Rhoda.
But then there are the foul weather friends.
Which are horses of different colors than Marys.
Marys genuinely like you. They subconsciously like that they’ve got it better than you, but they feel genuine compassion and concern for you. They’re there for you every time you get kicked, no matter how many times, no matter how weird or bad, they’re there, not judging and trying to help or at least listening, yet again, to another tale of woe or disbelief. They’re supportive. And hopeful that this will be the day things change for you and you get just one lucky break.
Foul weather friends, though, consciously like that they’ve got it better than you. They may feel genuine compassion and concern, and every now and then they’ll do their time and be there for you. Which is how they view it: Doing what they’re supposed to do only because it’s the thing they’re supposed to do because Rhoda’s always there for them and it would look bad if they didn’t return the favor once every three years or so.
I’m painting them in a bad light.
Which isn’t totally the case.
Foul weather friends don’t usually start that way. They’re usually just regular friends, maybe even Marys. Until they start to accumulate more success, more good things, more up moments than you. The disparity between your continued Rhoda-ish life versus their growing success makes them uncomfortable. After all, you’re working and trying just as hard as they are, maybe even harder. But success continues to elude you while they are making great strides in their life. They might even start to feel guilty. Especially if you are in fact smarter, more clever, funnier, harder working and nicer than they are. They have by rights what should be yours.
I’ve been through this a lot. My friends, for the most part, are all very successful in most areas of their lives. I’m genuinely happy and proud of them. I am not jealous. At times envious of what they’ve got in comparison to my own pathetic life, sure, but not of them. I wouldn’t wish my life on anyone. I like and care about my friends and would hate for this to happen to them.
Them includes you, too, so relax and stop feeling guilty and uncomfortable.
Unless you happen to be a foul weather friend.
Because as of today, I’m cutting foul weather friends out of my life.
I never do anything expecting anything in return. I do whatever I do because I sincerely want to help - be it a work or family or friendship situation.
Yeah. I’m a swutting saint.
Well. Used to be. Not anymore.
There’s this friend. A person I used to hang out with a lot. He worked in the biz, too, and we shared war stories and helped each other out with ideas or tech help or manual labor when needed.
I never thought about the give and take aspect of the relationship. He was a friend. It never occurred to me to keep score of anything.
He happens to be a bit of a stud. Okay, a lot of a stud. Okay, he’ll sleep with anyone. As long as she’s slim, petite, blonde or Oriental, preferably Japanese. He never, ever factors in personality when he’s seeking a bed partner or girlfriend. It simply does not matter to him. “That’s why I have friends. I don’t need another friend or a best friend. I’ve got a best friend and loads of friends. I just need someone to fulfill me sexually and be my date.” Those are not paraphrased remarks. Those are his oft quoted philosophies.
But he is a friend and so I never judged, always tried to understand his point of view on this and other topics and respected his opinions and ideas, even though they smacked of a shallow, chauvinistic, immature lout, this area of his life was not causing him trouble or making him unhappy. Interestingly, he never seems to run out of women who fit his criteria. Willing women. Eager women. If it’s working for him and them, who am I to judge?
Since I’ve known him he’s steadily increased his income by rising through ranks and changing jobs for better paying higher level positions. He’s carving out a decent career for himself.
This has not hurt his ability to find willing and eager women.
A few years ago, however, he started using people, friends and colleagues, the way he uses women. He would charm and be nice to whomever could help him in whatever his current need was. Okay, that’s just business, I thought to myself. He’s doing more of what I should be doing. And these people are not stupid, and if they help him it’s because they want to or because they’re thinking they’ll get something out of it, too. He burned a few bridges in this process. I defended him. Because in one of these cases, I know the miffed person would have used anyone, anyone to get the job our friend got. As the jobs and girlfriends got more exclusive I saw less of him. He wasn’t crying in his beer as often. He didn’t have much reason to cry in his beer. The life he wanted back when he was crying in his beer was becoming his. Except now the beer was very expensive martinis at very swank clubs. Playing the game. I know that. I knew that. Occasionally we’d have drinks, “like old times.” It didn’t seem like it was mercy drinks, that he was doing his bit to remember the little people who got him where he was heading. Because he would bare his soul to me, and usually, after the fourth martini, he’d end up crying about his insecurities to me. Because, you know, he trusted me. We’re friends. So when he rang, I’d go. Even though when I rang he was busy.
And if he needed help with a work related issue, he continued to ring me. I continued to help him. I knew he wouldn’t call unless he really needed help, and I would never let a friend down in their time of need.
Yeah. I know. I’m a swutting saint.
Then he met The Woman of His Immature Fantasies. (WHIF) I didn’t like her from day one. But then, I typically didn’t like any of his partners or girlfriends. These are not women with whom I share anything in common. I actually possess a personality. I seek others with actual personalities. I read books. I keep current with news, even the stuff with big words about places where there’s not a Prada boutique. I have a permanent address at which I reside. I don’t work on a tan. I don’t sleep with men who only want me for sex. (Not that I have a lot of that sort of opportunity these days...) I don’t sleep with or be the “girlfriend” of men who give me expensive items or take me to exclusive places and events in exchange for sex. I don’t sleep with men simply because they’re good looking and wealthy. (Not that I get a lot of this opportunity, either...) I don’t have breast implants, veneers, extensions, tucks or other plastic surgery. I don’t have a vague job at a vague company yet drive a car more expensive than many homes. I don’t have unexplained unlimited amounts of credit cards with which I go shopping at very expensive stores three or four times a week, maybe more. You know, I’m not a slut.
But he was really taken with WHIF. This one lasted longer than three weeks and a trip to Fiji. So, you know, I tried to like her. When I knew there was no way I would actually like her, I pretended to like her.
And let me just take a time out to say this: Never, not once, in any way, drunk or otherwise, did I harbor any sort of romantic or sexual feelings for my friend. Really. It has simply never occurred to me to think about him that way. So no, there is no jealously at play here.
She hated me. It was obvious from the start. Maybe she saw me as a threat, but I seriously doubt it. Because she’s her and I’m me and he’s him and if she’s the sort of girl he chooses to sleep with clearly he’s not interested in sleeping with me and clearly she’s got nothing to worry about in regards to me interloping on her territory.
To say they’ve have a tumultuous and volatile relationship would be candycoating it.
She doesn’t like it when he has to work on something that isn’t high profile or cool or glamorous. So on those increasingly rare occasions when he’s got to get down in the trenches with the rest of us mortals, she pouts and falls into the arms of someone doing something more high profile or cool or glamorous. For some reason, this doesn’t bother my friend. “She always comes back to me. She likes to make the scene. It’s important to her. She’s got to be careful about where she’s seen. She always comes back to me. I could use a break anyway, she wears me out in bed.” Ah. That would be some reason.
But hey, you know, he’s happy. He’s successful. He’s got almost everything he wanted back when he was regularly crying in his beer and so I am happy for him.
I haven’t heard from him in a while. I got a Christmas card. A few emails. (“We’ve got to have drinks soon...”) But that’s okay. I know he’s busy. I’m busy. I’m not fond of his girlfriend. She hates me.
You know, the slow descent known as growing apart.
And then yesterday I got a frantic call.
“Trillian, HELP!”
“Hi friend, calm down. What’s up?”
“Huge crisis, Trill. The (expensive gifts) we’re giving out at the big opening tonight are sitting at the freight company dock and they won’t release them to the messenger guy and all my people are busy, and your office isn’t too far from there Trill, can you go with me to pick them up?”
“Sure friend, no problem, I can cut out for a few minutes, when are you going to be here?”
“I’m in your lobby.”
“I see. That soon. Okay. Give me a few minutes and I’ll be down.”
“Thanks Trill, I knew I could count on you.”
So off I trotted to tell my boss I was taking a late lunch to help a friend, donned my ever at the ready sneakers, and went to meet friend, bail him out and get back to work.
I haven’t seen him for a while.
He’s erm, well, changed. He’s had something beyond Botox. He’s five years older than me but now looks 12 years younger. And his lips, which used to be, you know, regular thin guy lips, are now plumper. Poutier. Prettier. But that’s not what really caught me off guard. His hair. He used to have brown stubborn curls which would fall in his face if he didn’t get a monthly haircut. He’s now got jet black hair gelled, but not too much, into a slicked back ‘do.
Yeah. Wow. Whoa. Midlife crisis for $500 please, Alex. With a daily double of Pussy Whip.
But you know, hey, he’s a friend, I’m not judging. Who am I to talk? I recently had very blonde highlights.
It’s just, well, to me this was the final step which said, “I’m not the guy I used to be. I’m the guy I wanted to be. The transformation is complete.”
Worse? He gave me one of those air hugs. You know, the non embrace hug?
Which is fine because I don’t want this person I obviously do not know anymore touching me. And I don’t want whatever’s in his hair on me or my clothes.
Off we went to freight company dock.
I learned something. Freight companies share docks. I never gave it much thought. Until I was forced to think about it. We were at the Greyhound Bus terminal.
I’ll do anything for my friends. Really I will. I’ve done a lot for my friends. I’m not proud, I have no shame, I get in there and do what needs to be done.
Have you been to a Greyhound Bus terminal?
Yeah. Me either.
Let’s leave it at: They’re everything movies and television makes them out to be. Multiplied by 50.
Within 5 minutes of entering the freight area I was filthy. Dust and dirt covered filthy. My friend had a big swanky do in a few hours, and didn’t have time to shower again. So it was me pawing through pallets and boxes and bulk shipments of you name it to find my friend’s boxes of very expensive gifts for the evening’s swanky do.
There’s weird stuff on freight company docks.
It occurred to me I might like working at a freight company dock. If it weren’t for the dust and dirt. It’s sort of like a customs check area, only without customs agents. Seriously. It’s really interesting. You name it, it was there, boxed or otherwise, coming from or going to destinations near and far. Where else could you see this:
Yeah. I told you it was interesting.
But time was a wastin’ and I was a gettin’ dirtier and already wheezing from the dust which would inevitably turn into a full blow asthma attack complete with watering eyes and sniffly nose.
We found the boxes, the dock guy and me, and loaded them on a push cart, and rolled them to my friend’s car, and of course they didn’t all fit, so of course I got a cab and we loaded them into the cab and of course I tipped the loading dock guy out of my own purse and of course I rode in the cab to the big swanky do event site and of course I was filthy and coughing and eyes watering and nose sniffling and was in my sneakers and looked like the full blown loser I am in front of all my friend’s posh colleagues and new friends.
But that wasn’t what bothered me. Anything for a friend in need, right? Of course.
I schlepped the boxes to the area they had set up for the gifts, a very white, very pristine, very regal looking display table. A woman with very sticky and tall hair said, “Oh, just set them behind the table, dear, mind that you don’t get the table dirty.”
No one, not even my friend, who had been grabbed and barked at by all manner of people who needed him right this minute the second we arrived, offered to help me. No one.
No big deal. I plopped the boxes behind the table, minding to not soil it.
I saw my friend with a swarm of people around him, mobile phone to his ear while signing something and talking to people. He’s busy. I know. I waved a “see ya” wave.
“No, wait. Trill, hang on a minute.”
“I have to get back to the office.”
“Come by after work, you’re on the guest list.”
“Okay, maybe, thanks.”
Right. Like I was going to stop by the swanky do after work wearing my now filthy clothes, wheezing at coughing and sneezing and eyes watering. Like I wanted to go anyway. Like I wanted to spend the evening with people who think I’m a delivery person. He knew I wouldn’t show. I probably wasn’t even actually on the guest list. He was just saying that because it looks and sounds good to him and the people around him.
But that wasn’t what bothered me.
What bothered me, in final analysis, is that my foul weather friend used me. Blatantly used me. And as yet anyway, has not uttered anything remotely sounding like thank you.
And no. Normally I don’t care about things like thank yous with friends. I don’t do anything expecting something, even a thank you, in return.
But this time around, this guy, whom I haven’t seen in almost a year, this guy who is busy getting a face lift and collagen treatments, didn’t ask one of his coworkers, hoity toity friends or even one of his minions and of course not WHIF to do his dirty work. He couldn’t risk asking one of them to step foot on a dirty freight loading dock, but worse, he couldn’t risk looking like he hadn’t planned ahead, or that he cut this to the last second and almost had no expensive gifts to give away. He had to call on someone a) he could trust and b) wouldn’t mind dropping everything to get dirty and schlepp for him and c) wouldn’t think less of him because of it.
He got it wrong on count C.
I know I’m good ol’ reliable there when you need her Trill. I’m okay with that.
What I’m not okay with is his complete lack of gratitude for me helping bail him out of a potential work disaster. (Yes, at these things, not having an expensive gift to give away is a bona fide disaster. It’s all relative.)
He’s a foul weather friend. He calls when he’s down or when he needs help.
When things are good, he’s nowhere to be heard or seen.
I wasn’t feeling bad about being a chump, I helped him because I wanted to, and I’d do it again. But as I laid there trying to breathe last night, knowing he was on his 10th glass of champagne, WHIF on his arm all decked out in her cut down to here and up to there dress with her perfect implanted boobs and tucked bum, making the rounds, calculating what this event will mean to his bottom line, I realized how much I really don’t know him anymore, and that there is no way we could be construed as friends.
It’s not about “what’s he ever done for me.” I don’t think that way, I don’t want to think that way.
It’s about him becoming someone else. Someone I don’t really like. Someone who only calls when things are bad in his life.
Things are generally bad in my life, no one even asks anymore, they just assume things are bad and either don’t want to be depressed or don’t want to feel guilty for having good things in their lives. A roll of the eyes and “what now” are reactions I get a lot. I’m okay with that, too. I understand. So I keep quiet about most stuff and am honestly relieved when no one asks. But I can’t understand or excuse complete and total lack of appreciation or gratitude.
Friend expected me to help him. Friend expected me to drop everything for him. Because I haven’t changed, and my core values probably never will. I’m, you know, reliable.
And that bothers me. It wouldn’t bother me if we were still buddies. But we’re not. WHIF hates me, I don’t like her, and he’s whipped by her and by his need to be the person he wanted to become. The only place for me is as his foul weather friend.
And what really bothers me, to the point of resentment, is that he’s put me in the situation of having to decide, make a conscious choice, the next time he calls with a problem, to not help him. Either by way of polite excuse lie or out and out No!, I have to either stop this person from making me feel used and stupid and even lower about myself by refusing to help him, or I have to accept him, changes inclusive, WHIF inclusive, and continue to be a supportive, reliable friend and have these moments of feeling low about myself after the fact.
Yes. The irony here is that I am so reliable, I am so “good ol’ Trill” I even have to take on the responsibility for ending what’s left of the friendship, which, is just another way in which foul weather friends use you. They don’t even take on the guilt inducing role of never calling and just letting the friendship drop.
Do I miss him? Would I miss him? Not anymore. I did miss him when he first stopped crying in his beer. I mean, I didn’t miss him crying in his beer, but I missed hanging out with him. It was always interesting to watch him go from crying in his beer to drunk again and lookin’ to score with a slim, petite blonde or Asian. He could make that transformation in an hour on a good night. Very interesting to watch. But that was then. This is now. He’s changed. Things are different now.
Evolve or die aren’t just pretty words. I’ve got to change, too. So. This is day one of No More Foul Weather Friends. Fortunately, so far, none have surfaced so I haven’t been faced with a dilemma of conscious choice.
So actually, that makes it a good day. I haven’t had to decide to go against my nature and tell a using former friend that I will not be allowing them to use me. Things could be worse
