blaugra

Friend Break-ups are the Worst

Some friendships just drift away, there's no real ending, and there's no feeling of animosity between the two. It just happens. But others, oy. There's a turning point. Is there a turning-back point? That's what I've been thinking about lately.

My old friend Pam and I broke up a few years ago, but she's been weighing heavily on my mind recently.

Our break-up came at a time when we were both mentally deficient. I was struggling with my bipolar disorder and a deep depression, and she was struggling as an unemployed single mother, who couldn't work, who was forced to move in with her cruel mother and she was likely depressed too. She and I had drifted since her daughter was born, but rekindled our friendship probably because of connecting on Facebook.

She sold all of her belongings on eBay and then her PayPal account got hacked. She tried to work but then had painful bouts of rheumatoid arthritis. Her baby daddy was incomunicado, she received no child support. And her daughter had a chronic illness that kept her going to the children's hospital where she lived, about 90 minutes away.

So we started talking on the phone, emailing again, laughing.  We laughed about the weekends down the shore and the fondue party and the partying in Philadelphia and my wedding. She appeared desperate though. Her living situation was getting worse and worse. Her self-esteem was in the toilet. Actually, at that time, mine was too. I was emotional and weepy. But I was excited about being friends again.

Then she said, "I would love to come and visit you." But her car was not running. BUT she could borrow her brother-in-law's van, which wasn't reliable either but she thought she could scrape together some gas money and bring Chloe and visit me. "It'll be so good to get away from here!" she enthusiastically said. I told Salty D. and my parents, who knew her too. They were not enthusiastic. They said I wasn't seeing the situation well. I talked to Therapist Jan about it. She agreed with my supporters.

What would Pam do in my town without money? Would I be spending my non-profit salary to feed and entertain her and her daughter? How long would she stay? What if the van broke down? What if her daughter needed immediate medical attention? What if she tried to sell my stuff on eBay?

So I went from being stoked about seeing her to realizing that it wasn't going to be a good time. And I sent her an email message, saying that I didn't think it was such a good idea after all, that I was concerned about her daughter's well-being and needing to be near her doctor. I didn't say to her that I wasn't well enough myself to host her, or that my support team thought it was a bad idea, and what if the stupid van broke down.

She responded to my email with one word.  "Wow." 

I felt so bad. But I didn't respond. I blocked her on Facebook. I didn't want her shaming me or anything like that. But she had nothing more to say.

After a while, I let it go. I let her go. But lately I've been thinking about her again. Her daughter must be in high school now, and hopefully isn't sick. Were they still living with her cruel mother?  Did Pam get a job? Is she homeless? Does she hate me?  Did she ever get any money from the scuzzball baby daddy? So, I don't know if I want to re-open this or not. I'm in a healthier position now but I'm still anxious thinking about her predicament and getting sucked in.

Deep breath. I think I'll let it go. The end.

So, the friendship ended with a "Wow."

You'll be all right. I love you.

My friend Jeannette just died of cancer.

I had stopped being angry at Jeannette and just wished her love and peace. I told her how amazing she was. I told her I loved her. I was able to hug and kiss her goodbye.

So when I heard that she died I had a moment of sadness, and of course I miss her daily phone call, but I am at peace. I was fortunate to have closure and to see her die a death surrounded by love.

During her last few weeks, she made lists in her head and dictated them. Who should have what items, and what needed to be done in her absence, or as follow-up. Ever organized and considerate.

One day while she was in hospice, her partner gave me a box and a card that she had written on Jeannette's behalf.  Inside the box was this silver ring.  Here's another ring photo, this time with a chipped manicure.

I had always admired her rings.

The card said the ring was given to her in 1961 and that she wanted me to have it. I cried my eyes out.

Then I pulled myself together and went to see her.

"Tell me the story of this ring," I pleaded. Jeannette had great stories.

Another story I asked her to repeat for me before she went to hospice was the one of how she went to Woodstock. She had been a scout leader and was setting up camp for lots of girls, and she and another leader drove to Woodstock just for the day. They had tickets. On the way, her brakes burned out. She walked the rest of the way to Yasgur's farm. She saw everything. She didn't say which music acts she saw...I'm not even remembering which day it was. Anyway, then she realized she had to get back to scout camp for opening day. She walked miles back to the car, it started, she had someone help her with the brakes, and she got back to camp safely. I don't think she took the brown acid.

The ring. In 1961, in high school, she liked to assist her school principal. Brownnoser, perhaps? More like putting herself in a perfect position of power and knowledge. The principal went on vacation to Mexico and brought back this ring to thank Jeannette.

My friend was sharp and witty until the end, remembering that I was going on vacation and cracking jokes about it - until she became unresponsive and her body started really failing, which happened the day after I last saw her. As we hugged on our last visit, she said, "You'll be all right. I love you."

I love you, too. I am all right.

Winter Vacation, day 2

As with most resolutions that I make, I usually forget about them immediately. I'm like a goldfish. Something tonight made me remember that I had resolved to blog each day of winter vacation, right before hitting the pillow. Oh yeah...

We were expecting some guests today, some old friends. They called just as I was expecting them to show up from the next state over, and just as I was removing the brunch casserole from the oven, to say they hadn't even started their journey yet, and they were bringing more people, more old friends.

My anxiety kicked in. I nervously started dusting. I refrigerated the casserole. I hadn't seen all of these friends in a while.  Surely they'll judge me. I had brunch food to offer but not lunch food. Whatever would I do.

They arrived, and the boys went to a gun show while the girls went shopping. Over coffee, we started talking about how our year has been. I unsurprisingly started crying, which I'm not even ashamed of doing in public anymore. We talked about my phobia (how I can't drive on the highways) and how I've just had a hard time dealing, even though life seems to be getting better these days. We talked about their anxiety problems. How one of them gets very stressed out behind the wheel. How the other one was hospitalized for intense physical pain associated with anxiety. 

Then one friend said to me, "Laura, I'm going to give you some tough Cuban talk."  She's Cuban. "You can't sit around feeling sorry for yourself. There are people who have it much worse than you. And everyone's a little bipolar." 

I wasn't insulted.  I didn't think I was feeling sorry for myself, but I hadn't seen her in a while and this was her reaction to me, to the way I was presenting.  

We talked about regrets, we talked about fear for the future, and how hard it is to live in the present.  And we laughed,  too.

Then we had some wine at a restaurant and the guys joined us after their gun show extravaganza and we decided we were definitely going to get together again on New Year's Eve.  

Blaugra vs. Mothra

Those sneaky little monsters! I sought revenge and got the non-subtly labeled traps to capture the dreaded moths. Still, they appear, and when I go to bed, the last thought I have before skipping off to dreamland is the moths. Pantry moths.

Admitting to having pantry moths is as embarassing as buying yeast infection medicine.

My pantry is clean. Nuts and rice that were sealed in impenetrable Tupperware for godssakes fell victim to those determined little creatures of hell.

I tossed flour and cereal into the garbage. I scrubbed twice.  I did my holiday cookie baking at my mom's house. And still...when I come home from a day at the salt mines I see one, sitting on the counter. Lying in wait.

I can't believe I'm so uninteresting that I'm blogging about pantry moths. But seriously, where are they coming from?

And why, after the flurry of activity during Thanksgiving weekend, can I only manage to write about the flurry of the moths?

I hope to change that with a weekend in New York City. 

My mom told me to get into a New York state of mind, and she sang the song to me. So, off I go, Christmastime cocktails in the big city with this girl, and this one, and her.

I'm sure the moths will still be here when I get back.

Chi-cow-go

I was trying to remember the last time I visited Chicago, and it was exactly 10 years ago, summer of '99. I suck. I love Chicago, why don't I go there more often?

This visit was with my girl traveler who had a bright idea to go see the cows. I was all stupid. "What cows? Huh?" but as usual I came around to loving them.  We saw almost every one and took photos of almost every one. It took a few days.  Found the photo album last night and it really is a love letter to Chicago. 

Typical touristas: 

 

It's the bomb....pop!   Also da bomb (hey, it's 1999!) those big Candies sneaks. Wow.

 

Welcome to Miami / bienvenidos a Miami!

 

Mmmmm....Garretts Mix!

 

I believe I said, "It's like a cow-ride! Let's go!"  Note Marshall Fields bags.

 

And then, our girl Beth! came down from Milwaukee and apparently we posed with a Chicago business man of the city.

 

Was this near the Art Institute?  Near the Guernica-cow?  I can't remember.

 

"I love butterflies!"

Note how my nail polish matches my sweater which matches the cow. Totally planned.

  

This is my favorite shot, and not just cuz of the pretty dusk lighting the lake and the aquarium or museum back there. That's a great cow. And who knew then that in just a few years, girlfriend would be focused on la leche with her baby boys.

The little trip down pre-Y2K history got me all stoked for next week's trip!

time for cake

I have totally been craving cake lately. And I'm not denying myself cake.  Why, just yesterday I had a slice of coconut cake with buttercream icing.  The cake part was meh but the icing was decadent, it was like eating a loofah covered in a stick of butter.  So much for getting the cholesterol count down.   The other day I had a mediocre slice of carrot cake.  Really, I could just eat the icing.  I hate when there are nuts in carrot cake.

A friend wants me to take a cake decorating class with her. I've tried that before.  The "Wilton Way" didn't really work out for me.  I learned how to do the icing roses off-cake, but had a hard time actually putting them onto the cake, then the rest of the cake looked almost as bad as my masterpeeps. 

But she said, "We can learn how to work with fondant!"  Uuuuuhhhh - I think it might be better for me to just buy cakes from someone who's passionate about fondant and icing and making a delicious as well as pretty cake.

Speaking of fondant passion, several people have told me Mary Alice from Ace of Cakes is one of my separated-at-birth sisters.  {call me!}

And speaking of cake sisters, I'd like to wish a girlfriend a very happy birthday!!

letter from Britain

Perhaps you remember that girlfriend Beth! moved her family from Wisconsin to a London suburb recently.  She tells me all about her adjustments and logistics. Her most recent update slayed me. 

She's finally linked into the temporary-ex-pat mommy network. 

"There are moms from Texas, Indiana, Colorado, etc. Finally, I have found my people.  Not that I don't like the British moms, but it's been 5 weeks since someone talked like me and said soccer, dollars, and awesome."

parenting tips

Last night, at the American Legion -- which, may I add, offered a menu consisting of beef jerky, cashews, and peanut butter cups, along with walls that were heavily carpeted -- I was talking to some friends who are moms of teenagers.  One of them said she was irritated by her 16-year-old son dropping the f-bomb all the time.   F-- this  F--- that.  And she couldn't get him to stop.   She wanted to get across the point that you can't go thru life adding the f-word to every sentence with every person you meet.   She knew that she had to do something beyond grounding him, or taking away his air guitar game, or whatever, to get results. 

One evening, when all of his friends were at their house and her son kept saying it, she yelled:  "If you don't stop saying 'fuck' every two minutes, I'm gonna grab your dad and fuck him right here!" 

The kid was mortified.  His friends were disgusted.  And her son has not dropped the f-bomb since. 

After I picked my jaw up off of the floor, I complimented her on her results-oriented approach.   So I felt it my duty to pass it along to other parents, aunts or uncles.

ding dong

I've been talking with a couple of chippies this week, two girls I grew up with, and we've been friends since we were like 9 and we lived on the same street.  One of 'em lives near Milwaukee and one near Boston, and I live, well, here.  In the same damn place where we were kids. 

{note to self:  find 1982 photo of us to post here}  OK.

Prompted by Milwaukee, we were answering one of those "get to know ya" questionnaires that the internets sends around.  Like after 30 years, we needed to.   But this was about Christmasses past and present.  And here's what I learned.

• Garrett's Popcorn in Chicago is the shit.  Actually any can with three different flavors of popcorn will suffice at this point.
• Christmas Wrapping by The Waitresses is one of our favorite xmas songs.  Still. [and I have to say we would each do much better than the singer in Glasgow!]
• Misty of Chincoteague is still in high demand with girls today.  What is it with little girls and ponies?
• H  O  T T boot, now "vintage" (this is similar to Boston's, yes?)
• If you have kids and are keeping the Santa dream alive, what works best is to give each of your kids one unwrapped gift from Santa - then the wrapping paper or handwriting on the tag won't throw them off and you can live with the fantasy one more year if their friends don't blow it for them.  Because we each believed in Santa until we were about 7.

We loved making ornaments, making cookies, making fools of ourselves (or maybe that was just me) and finding gifts for each other.  Even if the gift recipient explicitly stated, "No More Smurfs!"

It occurs to me sometimes that not everyone grows up and keeps her childhood friends. Our parents chose to live on the same little street, we were about the same age, we became genuine friends and not just kids from the 'sac.  Now, separated by states and each with different lifestyles, we're the same but different.  We don't pick up where we left off, like some people say they do.   No leaving off, no matter what.  To me, Milwaukee and Boston are constant.  And I count that as one of the joys of the season.

I'll bring this slightly sappy post to an end with a great movie quote: "Stay gold, Ponyboy."  Which has little to do with my girls except that we liked S.E. Hinton books.   And....scene.