The Thing About Best Friends

I've been having this thing with best friends lately. Seeing all these people go home to, ultimately, see those "best friends" they've had since childhood. Jess has her Amy (and the other Torpedos), Xtina has her Angry Vegan, even the boy has the three guys from Iowa. People who know everything about you--the time you peed your pants in first grade, the exact date of the first time you kissed a boy, everything.

Right after the whole bachelorette party meltdown with my best friend, I saw Wedding Crashers. Even after their big fight, the best man refused to miss his pal's wedding. That's loyalty I think only boys can have. I wish for the lack of pettiness and grudges that boys seem to possess. They forgive and truly forget. They don't let one night of drunken misfortune spoil the years and years of good times together.

And this movie was only the first of so many "best friendisms" I've noticed lately. Now, the people that seem to know me best are the people I've only known for 2 1/2 years. Somehow this doesn't seem right. We can't sit in a room and recall what went on at my 10th birthday party. Or gossip about who got fat and who might be pregnant.

I stopped myself from driving by her house over Christmas. As much as I hurt, all it takes is a reread of one email to know I'm not ready to forgive her anymore than she's ready to forgive me. We're both stubborn like that. I read even older emails: "Sorry I haven't had the time to write back. I realized it's been weeks, but I've been so busy." And yet somehow I'm the one who was selfish, who didn't come to see her enough or something like that. I called and emailed and wrote. She didn't have money for a phone card, access to internet, time to write.

My mom doesn't talk to anyone she went to high school with (or middle school, elementary, etc). Neither does my dad. Yet both have found a tremendously tight group of friends to keep in touch with--college friends. Friends who shared their love of music. Friends who have become more than family to me, who raised me during summers at lakeside cabins. Maybe I don't need childhood best friends.

Dodge: Who needs a "Best" best friend when you have a whole group of people who love you?

On the first day of Christmas my husband gave to me a bottle of perfume the stripper was wearing when we went last week. When her boobs were in my face I was busy thinking about her smell. We nicknamed her "Smelly." She looked like Malibu Barbie.

On the second day of Christmas my sis-in-law gave to me two, too-large hurricane candle glasses that I plan to return. Would have today but they're suddenly half-price and I want a full-price return.

On the third day of Christmas my dog's girlfriend (in-laws' dog) gave birth to three (well, four but the first one didn't make it) little shih tzu pups. All male. The day after we left, so we missed everything. There's a little black one. I've already named him Sebastian. I'm fighting the desire to bring this one home with me someday, and I'm losing. I'm told he's four inches long.

On the fourth day of Christmas my brother gave to me four homemade coasters in the shapes of the different card suits. (We decided to give homemade gifts this year as none of us had any money--made for an interesting time. No expectations and no disappointments. I suggest everyone try it.) I made my dad four bowls out of records melted in the oven.

On the fifth day of Christmas my mother gave to me a set of five pink notecards with large K's on the front. I also got a Christmas themed basket of flavored coffees and cocoas.

On the sixth day of Christmas I got a whole lot of money, some of which was already spent on my new leather jacket.

Leaving the tired format, I'll just briefly get to the rest. Christmas at my house was spent with my four-month-old niece. She's finally starting to look less like a baby and more like an actual person. We had a potluck of sorts with fondue and the boy's soups, and the Fat Bastard my uncle thoughtfully brought. The middle brother made a rocking chair for Ellen. Cute.

We made our way to the boy's house. Christmas morning was spent eating customary nachos and relish trays (Yes, at 9am.) We opened presents, napped, and ate again. Spent the next day at the mall, sifting through clearanced baby clothes with sis-in-law and friend. Realized I'm really not interested in having kids before I'm thirty.

Today I got another ultimatum. Finish thesis or lose advisor. Fair enough, I suppose. Maybe that's the motivation I've been needing, though I still don't feel very motivated.

We've already taken down our tree, the few sad silver balls, the stockings, the garland, and everything else Christmas. I'd wonder if it ever existed if it wasn't for the abundance of leftover marsala in our fridge and a pile of things to return.

It's beginning to look a lot like...oh *$%# it.

Christmas really managed to sneak up on me this year. I don't think I even noticed until about the time people started handing me mail keys on their way out of the state. I was lucky enough to remember to take the days off--yes, BW3s is open 365 days a year--more than Wal-Mart.

I pretended yesterday was my last day there. Ever. Not just a two week break. I made myself believe that in the next week I would find some kind of "real" job. I even had an interview yesterday. Too many errors with the first keyboarding test. HR man wanted me to take it over. Sixty words, no errors. Even the secretary was impressed. Though he told me to try out other positions in sub companies, he did offer me a job. I was almost tempted to take the $7/hour. Benefits and vacation days. A desk. A computer. More data-entry than I ever wanted. I had to bite my lip nearly through to keep from crying in that office. Seven dollars. People at McDonalds make more than that.

But back to Christmas. Last year I was on top of things. Decorations. Presents. Cookies, cookies, cookies. This year I managed one batch of Spritz for the Panko party (You know, the one that NONE of you went to--Smith discounted.) The boy promised single, elderly relatives repeats from last year. I'm trying to muster the energy to sift flour, mix dough.

Presents were hard this year. My oldest brother decided that, since we were all feeling financial crunches, we should make presents. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Still kind of does considering I have zero dollars. Popcorn bowls made from old records bought at the Salvation Army? Check. French bulletin board for Mom? Check. Too many whatever-in-a-jar recipes? Check. Leftover miscellaneous tools in a bag for the other brother? Check. The boy's dad was easy--new underwear and t-shirts. His are worn through (Unfortunately, I know this is fact).

Our sad, hand-me-down tree has one strand of lights and two boxes of silver balls (and a Yoda doll somehow found its way to the top). It's really pitiful. Hopefully we can pick up a few things for next year with after X-mas shopping.

Eh.

Fifteen

1) Once, in first grade, I was wearing overalls and they fell into the toilet while I was peeing. I had to pull them up, walk to the nurse's office, and call my mom to bring me new pants.

2) Once, in seventh grade, I, um, bled through my pants. I had to walk to the nurse's office and call my mom to bring me new pants. I've had issues with "monthly things" ever since.

3) I missed two months of school in seventh grade, claiming I had headaches. I missed the entire art unit. The school threatened to take my parents to court if I didn't go back. They brought me one day, kicking and crying.
3a) This lead to an eigth-grade prescription for Prozac.

4) I make less in a month than I did when I was fifteen and washing dishes for a preschool program.

5) The first time I threw up after drinking too much, I told everyone it tasted like ravioli. I hadn't eaten ravioli.

6) I still don't have my thesis finished. I fear I'll never get it done.

7) When my grandma died, every night for the following week I dreamed that someone in my family was killed.

8) Once I pushed my brother down the stairs while he was holding a glass of milk. The glass broke.

9) I have three stitches just below my nose. I was hit with a wooden swing we had hooked up to a spring.

10) I sold my 1973 Volkswagon Beetle to buy a computer. The computer didn't work two years later.

11) When I was younger I wanted to be a fashion designer.

12) The average person farts fourteen times a day. I believe I'm well above average.

13) The boy used to be afraid of Mary Poppins. I used to be afraid of the scene in Pee-Wee's Big Adventure when he's riding his bike in the dark alley...or something like that. I was also afraid of 9 to 5 and Gremlins.

14) I had a crush on Boy George in high school. I bought his poster on Ebay.

15) I can play hackey-sack in platforms.

All I want for Xmas is...

1) A decent tip







2) Scattegories!!

3) Llamas

4) Flannel PJs

5) A drunken Dodge

(on a trampoline)

(in May)

An addendum...

I have also failed at HTML. Don't use the links. They don't work.

Old goal: Finish thesis.
New goal: Learn to link.

I'm taking bets on which happens first.

I don't want to admit failure again...

but I haven't finished my thesis. I did get some leads and ideas in re-reading many of the stories, things I should have picked up on the first time but did not, and I am a little excited to get them all down on paper.

but I got a form letter back as a response to my job inquiry at the local publishing company. We had a great interview this summer. They called me in on my birthday, asked if I could be there in an hour (this meant no shower and missing the English dept. picnic). I gladly obliged. Best interview ever; extrememly comfortable environment; left pretty confident I'd have the job. It took the weekend for them to decide to go with someone with more experience. I ask, though, if it was experience they were seeking, why did they even waste my time with an interview? I had no more experience that day as I did three days later. I call bullshit.

but I came home with seven dollars after three hours of waitressing yesterday. Some people (too old for hockey hair that's way over-greased) don't feel it's necessary to leave a tip. At all. Nope, not a dime for her because she didn't continue to refill me drink and provide me with quality service with a smile. I'm sure she doesn't have bills that she's really starting to worry over whether they will be paid this month. She doesn't have a husband who is resentful every day he comes home from his real job. Nope. No tip for her. Other people feel 7.46% is a fair tip. It's not. But thank you. You did provide me with enough money to afford gas to come back to work tomorrow.

but nobody has signed up for the few SCC business non-credit classes they have given me. The classes that I'm hoping will give me some of that great "experience" people are looking for.

but I cannot give up Mountain Dew and Christmas cookies and bread. And that need to use the treadmill hasn't been so strong that it can't be overthrown by the need to watch Trading Spouses: Meet Your New Mommy.

but I've been hitting snooze too many times in the morning. And that's my life--not ready to start, stuck on snooze. Please, somebody wake me up.

Thesis, thesis, la la la.

Guess what...it will be done today. Or tomorrow. No! Definitely today. In an hour of actual focused time I've done more than I have in two months. Also, I realized when I cut out the repetitions, material from other collections that "invalidate my study", and moved my last paragraph to the next chapter, I ended up with 4 pages of a body paragraph. For those of you non-lit folks, this is bad. I wanted a novel and wound up with a short story. A bad one. One that ends at the climax (like Smith's 242 stories.)

I'm caffeinated and determined. Give me a week or two to get it through editorial revisions and defense, and then let's drink. Like so much I kill all the braincells that got me through it.

Also, my family decided that, due to certain circumstances (we're all broke!!), we are to make gifts for each other this year. Any suggestions? And no, naked photos of myself somehow do not seem like an appropriate gift for Grandma. Or anyone, really.

Sidenote: If you're going to be in the library, especially on the third floor where the really studious people go, you should shut the *%&$ up. Some of us are trying to finish theses. Grr.