My Other-Mother, Gerrie Poutous, told my very best and greatest, irreplaceable, one and only Alexis and I, years and years ago – that if by the time we hit 35 years of age and could count true friends on one hand, we’d be damn lucky. This was when I was working out dress designs with nine bridesmaids, which would almost fill two hands and I just couldn’t imagine any of them being un-true, less than great or… shitty. But Gerrie's math dictated otherwise.
My friendship with Alexis has been the bane of many’s existence. Some finding it unusual and it’s certainly uncommon – the breadth and width of what exists between her and I. It has generated rifts in our friendships with others, causing everyone outside of the Jenny and Alexis bubble to feel like just that – outsiders. In the early years of our declaration and solid knowledge that we’d be BFFs far past the end of time – many were dubious, including Other Mother, who had both enjoyed spectacular friendships and grieved the shocking ends of other assumed to be forever-friends. Thus, her dry warning that was worded much better than I’ve paraphrased here. It’s stuck with me ever since and in specific moments, it’s as though we’re back under her gazebo with our Loreal Coco Bean lips, the late 90's super-flare jeans and Fair Isle sweaters, smoking Marlboro Lights, ashing into this excessively vaginal looking Pepto-pink ashtray and through tendrils of smoke, Yia Yia Poutous low talks her wisdom. I remember it hanging in the grey air and Alexis and I telling each other with our eyes “Never us. Not you. Not me.”
And it’s not been us. We have survived and thrived, the Alexis and I. Her family is mine, mine is hers and she is my For and With Everything Friend. Spinning out of control in my early twenties? She spun right along with me squealing “Weeeeeeeee” all the while. Settling down mid-to-late twenties, we were Girls in the Mirror - trading tips on things like peeling garlic and laughed while dumping entire bottles of Chianti into sauces du jour. Martha Stewart didn’t have shit on us (and still doesn’t – aside from minions, millions and mansions plural. We still do it better and plus, we’re hot.)
No matter where I’ve been in my life, she’s been right there - holding the door saying “Yes” or, stepping on my neck with a lead foot screaming “No!” like only this tiny but fierce Greek force can do. She and her and all things Alexis, Lecksee, Alekka, Nouna, Lex - somewhat spoiled me – leading me to believe that all friends were, if not so stellar, if not so beautiful, if not so positively and consistently fascinating - at least good, at least somewhat loyal, at the very least invested. That even if the all-other-friends were outside the bubble – they would still rise up, be like us, or at least want to be. But they weren't. They're not. Maybe they just couldn't.
But then again, there are some people who are just shitty. Shitty people make shitty friends.
But then again, there are some people who are just shitty. Shitty people make shitty friends.
It took me a while and great distance along with re-reading some Maya Angelou to realize that with a particularly shitty crowd of friends that I’d fostered and nurtured for years - that old saying “with friends like these, who needs enemies?” was really always in the back of my mind. I knew they were snakes even with their perfect lipstick and cute share-able clothes. I knew no topic was safe, no secret sacred, and that someone was always on their shit list. It was always someone’s turn and woe be the one! Those that broached the fold were questionable and usually verbally flayed to pieces in gossip unless they had a lake house, or until they made some grand gesture, or were funny enough at the bar the weekend before (read: paid the whole tab).
I coasted for many years thinking myself immune to their special blend of Fuck You Very Much. I thought our long histories together somehow protected me from their venom. But somewhere in my subconscious – I knew there were ulterior motives, agendas along with turn-coat, fair-weatheredness that me, in all my fix-it-confident glory, thought ...but they wouldn’t do that to me, it's different, with me, even though I’d witnessed the long parade of their friendship victims.
In reading the Maya Angelou and secretly eating up every one of Oprah's interviews with her - The Great Maya A. repeatedly said something to the effect of: when people tell you who they are, when they show you themselves, you better believe them. Never have truer words been spoken. I did myself a disservice by continuing to believe that some people were better than what they demonstrated time and time again. There were red flags littering the fields of these friendships.
In reading the Maya Angelou and secretly eating up every one of Oprah's interviews with her - The Great Maya A. repeatedly said something to the effect of: when people tell you who they are, when they show you themselves, you better believe them. Never have truer words been spoken. I did myself a disservice by continuing to believe that some people were better than what they demonstrated time and time again. There were red flags littering the fields of these friendships.
Then, there’s the dreaded opposite sex best friend. Who, unless is a flaming homosexual that you also share cute clothes with – their mere presence generates rumors with the above type. (Omigod, they’re totally banging. I just know it.) I have always had a handful of very close male friends. It’s how my own mister and I came to fall in love – we were best friends. We cracked each other up. There was innate loyalty and even as just friends, he had a territory-marking protection over me. We laid the foundation for a kick-ass marriage. I really liked Rw’s teeth and swagger, I loved (love still) to just watch the way his mouth moved over words. He really liked my boobs, my feet and most of my little ways and if it weren’t for liquor and premarital sex, we might not have ever discovered how perfectly well we fit together.
But that doesn’t mean that all boy-best-friends turn husband material. Not at all. For me, my boy best friends were great because there wasn’t all the bullshit drama that comes with girlfriends. There wasn’t jealousy, back-biting, or them secretly being in total love with my mister and blindly (and unsuccessfully) attempting to ransack our marriage to get a foot in the door. (Ah hem, you know who you are… bygones.) And they never borrowed purses without returning them, a bonus.
In spite of all that, I discovered that boy best friends, just like hormonal self serving women, can also be the worst, shittiest friends ever. One in particular stands out currently. I’ve been friends with this cat for twenty two years. We’ve tangled in every capacity possible – we’ve hated each other with certain ferocity, we loved each other the same, we drifted, reunited and stayed good, true and constant for a great many years, until recently. The term “Bros (and Jenny) before hoes” has always been a quiet part of his credo… until recently.
He has seemingly and unfortunately fallen victim to an ultimatum from a generic, mediocre at best, dishwater-blond girl whose nose conjures images of W.C. Fields and whose only redeeming quality is her overly large white teeth. She has the personality of a wet noodle, the saddlebags of a gymnast-gone-soft and she’s far behind the eight ball by way of At This Point In Life – still lives with her parents, has been unemployed until recently and won that job only as favor and not by merit. So naturally, she’s insecure, see. She can’t possibly have her boyfriend constantly measuring her against me. And I agree, it is grossly unfair (to her.) It makes her do nutty things like scour Google for pictures or information about me, harass me while I vacation with my family, steal quotes from this very blog – sentences selectively chosen from each post, arranged in a way intended to intimidate. She’s so un-smart she even misquoted the stolen quotes. If it were 1989, I’d have received it by postman with mismatched letters cut from magazines and pasted on notebook paper.
Conversely, this same friend of mine and boyfriend of hers can’t possibly start over with a new chick. He in his own right is difficult, and by the sheer stubbornness and staying power as a stray that’s been fed, she has outlasted all of his other “Just Ass” girls and has a toothbrush at his place. It’d be inconvenient to throw it out. And by golly – he’d miss that consistent albeit mediocre ass and the light cleaning of his man-space she affords while he watches Bill O'Reilly. I get it. Complacency is a killer! A very wise woman reminded me yesterday that she's not the shitty friend, he is. She's merely the symptom. Just as I am not the problem in their broke-ass relationship. Me too, a symptom. True as that is, it no less diminishes her teeth, saddlebags or psychosis, nor the fact that she outright attacked me. Remember what I said in the beginning - all's fair in love and war - and writing is both.
Ultimately he's given up one of the greatest friends he’s ever had over it. Not that I would suggest or want him to dump her benign ass, but rather have the balls to man-up and say "We're friends, get over it." The girls mentioned above and their inability to mentally or emotionally be anymore than they were at eighteen cost themselves the only one of them that is what I expected and thought them to be: loyal, true – above and beyond. And they know it, even if only the newly gone best boy friend will admit it out loud (I can still hear your thoughts, man). They are less for it, individually and collectively.
The question it all begs is: was it ever really true? Were they ever really friends? At what point does someone just… turn?
It seems my sweet Gerrie was right. I’m damn lucky with the ones I have. And they're equally blessed to have me. Because I am the kind of friend I want and expect others to be. If I love you, I show it and you know it. (Ask Alexis. She just can’t say enough good things about me.)
That other cliché saying about friends or people coming into your life for a reason, a season and time – or something, might just be true. These people, friends turned foes or simply friendships with an exacting shelf life – I don’t necessarily regret them. I wouldn’t know what I know without them. I might not have realized the pure power and import and rareness of that bubble that Alexis and I still and will forever float in, or the genuinely precious value I have in those that fill thumb-through-ring-finger in counting. I might’ve unwittingly turned out to be a shitty friend myself.
None of this means that the crowds of people I am acquainted with that are not close friends are less than fabulous, or not valued. Everyone brings their own sauce to the table. I'll taste it, enjoy it and if it's great, say so and repeat. But in making new friends as an adult, I am cautious to a fault. Not ever fully trusting new people, having the quick ability to identify the difference between simple friends – lunching ladies and drinking buddies, from those I’d call first if something terrible were to happen. Or something phenomenal.
So, a nod to you fair weathered, less than great disappointments. It must be hard without me, certainly less fun. And I'm big enough to admit that I even miss some of their non-snake-ish ways, however few they might have been. Nonetheless and if nothing else - thanks for the lessons on how not to be.
One hand, minus the recently severed pinky finger. And I’m getting to be okay with that.
One hand, minus the recently severed pinky finger. And I’m getting to be okay with that.
