Birthday Jerk

I forgot Chrystal's birthday. That's okay, you say. We're all adults, who really cares? Let's see, if I had remembered her birthday more than just one year out of the thirty I have known her, it might be a bit more okay. If she did not remember my birthday every year, it might be a bit more okay. Chrystal and I have always been friends. There was never a stretch when we were out of touch, or when our friendship was in question. That's just weird. She was in Canada for college, I was in Pennsylvania. She studied math, I studied sociology. She attended my high school graduation, my college graduation, and everything else. The night before I was married, we took a bath together, and she shaved my legs.

There is a lovely museum-quality (it's actually from a museum, so I think that makes it museum-quality) calendar on my wall with birthdays on it. I proudly watched Chrystal's birthday approach with great enthusiasm. It was listed under an etching of a gardenia, or some other hoity-toity flower. This year I would remember! What would I buy her? Well, nothing, that's what! I bought her nothing. And as the day approached, I ignored her birthday as I rifled through the pile of clothes just under the museum-fucking-flower-quality calendar.

She called me a few days ago. June 22. Whaddayadoin, I asked. She said she was on her way back from dinner at The Four Seasons, a way swanky restaurant and hotel. I was like why do you spend so much excellent time with your family? What's so great about them? And then she told me: it's my birthday. I didn't have the heart to let the whole day go by without telling you. I was crushed, really. Another year, another one missed. Do ya notice who the jerk is in this scenario and who the kindhearted person is? If you missed it, I am the jerk. Arg! I could have sent flowers at that point, but did I? Take a guess!

One year, back when Chrystal Husband One hadn't yet revealed his lack of parenting IQ , I threw her a surprise party. It musta been fifteenish years ago. I was making up for lost birthday time. Everyone loved it. Chrystal was happy. People drank beer, sat on the couches, and talked graduate school. Chrystal smiled a lot and we joked about my rehabilitation as birthday friend. I basked in the glow. I was a good person back then, and Husband One gave me all of the credit I deserved. Western Mass was lovely that June.

Then there were all the years that followed. I confused the 22d with the 23d. I called several days late. I forgot completely. I called on the 22d about things completely unrelated. I called on July 23d to say Happy Birthday. Do I forget other birthdays? No, not usually. It's not my forte, but I remember my sister, my brothers, my kids, my husband, certain friends, my parents, etc. okay there are probably others I forget, but certainly not with such vigor and routine. There is one friend who has a birthday on May 23, and I suspect that his 23 and her 22 somehow became mangled in my mind and it was never the same after that. Also, Chrystal is Chrystal, and the very consistency of our long friendship makes it a rather shabby omission, to say the least.

Back to this year. I was contrite. I had forgotten her birthday, yet again, in a year when she has been so tired with her many responsibilities that it would have been extra-helpful for me to remember. I did not remember, though. I, jerk, forgot. She seemed to be amused, and I truly felt bad. So we made a tentative time when I could take her out. Perfect! She called to confirm today and mentioned tomorrow night. Tomorrow night is the one night when I absolutely cannot take her out. I am going to a small event for which I have already made the commitment. Chrystal is going away for a conference, and I, Jerk, the supposed best friend, will have ditched her for perhaps the twentieth time. I am Ass. Or Jerk. You choose.

Becca, Clouds and Weddings

Now that I posted about Beanpole, Becca is wondering why I have not posted about her. Well, first of all, I have not blogged about anything in eons and am returning now, just after school's out. And, to be utterly truthful, an old college pal wrote me and complimented my writing and I thought I'm a lazy bum and then I decided to blog.

Regarding Becca: When someone is around for years and years and years you might not blog about her, but she has definitely received mention. She is a great writer and one of her essays - a combo of traditional rigorous research, contemporary culture, and a frank voice - was recently published in a well-known magazine that shall remain unnamed. She has published other work, as well. Does that count for me - my friend's publications?

I met Becca in high school. I was the new girl, and she was the serious girl who knew everybody and put herself down a lot. She encouraged me to speak up in class (something about which I did write in our alumni newsletter, so there), and she accepted me as I was, despite my lack of cool. Obnoxious Guy made fun of the elasticized waist on the back of the blazer I wore the first day, but Becca never did that stuff. Nowadays, Becca still knows everybody - she moved away for years, came back, and is fully installed, as if she never left. More importantly, she looks really good. Reference photo above. See what I mean? (Beanpole! She is straight.)

Becca was not at my wedding. It is hard to say "my wedding" after seeing the Sex and The City movie, because the main character is all ego-freaky about her wedding, but if I say "our wedding," it sounds like Becca and I are married, but we are not. (Incidentally, Sarah Jessica's wedding dress was a horror, especially since her boobs were too small for it. Those breast things are sticking out, and let's not get into the teal blue taxidermy on her head.) Okay, Becca was not there! Not at The Sex and The City wedding, and not at mine. Follow my digressions, please. At that point we were not in touch, and she was a high school pal whom I had not seen in ages. I did not want some of the people who were at my wedding to be there, and I wanted other people who were not there to be there, and it was all please-your-parents-ish. If Becca had been there I am quite sure it would have been better, but she wasn't, and I am still married. And both Becca and I had excellent wedding dresses sans the dead bird.

At Becca's wedding I had two clouds of guilt over my head. First, because she had not been at my wedding. And second, because I was seated with the most lovely couple, both of whom (I'm whoming a lot today) were classmates at the pre-Becca school I attended. Since Becca knows everybody, she eventually found them. She had told me that they were "the nicest people she had ever met," and she had traveled with them in India. Mrs. Nice-People was a former friend from sixth grade. I was new to private school, and she was a sweet, long-legged and friendly kid who sat with me. We were good friends - I remember sleeping on her top bunk - until The Popular Girls started paying attention to me, at which point I promptly dumped the now-Mrs. Nice-People. At least that's how I remembered it. Sitting there, next to them, as a shallow-child-turned-shallow-adult.

So I'm at this wedding with Ball & Chain, who is happily oblivious to my guilt-clouds, and downing kosher appetizers. (There was Jewish-wedding guilt, too, but that's another story.) Mr. Nice-People is thrilled to see me because, well, he's just thrilled to see me. We had only been in that class together for one year, as he arrived as a freshman, and then I left. He kept saying "I can't believe it! Lucy van Pelt!" or something to that effect. Mrs. Nice-People seemed much more believing and definitely less interested. I was sure she was remembering what an awful girl I had been, and I kept wondering how to say something about what an awful girl I had been. I randomly recalled two coincidental meetings with other members of her family over the years, both of which were awkward: Mom (part of Mom and Dad when I had known her) at a lesbian potluck when I was lesbianing in college, sister dating the fiancee I had ditched and then evil-eyeing me at a party at his house. Anyway, when Mr. Nice-People said goodbye to me, we hugged, but then he did not completely let go, and holding on to my waist with both hands, he looked into my eyes and told me how great it was to see me. I could see Mrs. N-P in my peripheral vision. It was was guilt cloud number three, but admittedly a small thrill.

There are other stories I could tell about Becca or Beanpole or Mrs. Nice-People, as women seem to be most of the main people in my life, and we all kind of come and go, like something out of Gertrude Stein. Recently I had a painful exchange with my dear sister. Becca once described to me the essence of her family, the way - no matter what - family stays together. She said she would tolerate anything from her sister because she was her sister. In high school, we would have scoffed at that type of loyalty, or an admission that friendships come and go. "Friends 4-Eva." But I think Becca was on to something. As my family tries to get up after a few awful swats, I am more conscious of the connection. Becca's insights help.

A Flintstone Friendship Fable

I gotta tell a story about my parents. They definitely have flaws. Fortunately, I don't, but I am compassionate, so on with the tale.

Years ago, like in the seventies, they had three couple-friends, as in six people, in hitched sets. We rarely do the couple-friend thing nowadays, but they did, along with The League of Women voters, the casual cigarette, and dinner parties to which I was not invited. We hung around the top of the stairs, coveting the adult conversation and undoubtedly excellent food. Or, if Mom & Dad went out, we had a range of babysitters, some with boyfriends on the phone, and others with apparent abnormalities that kept them from having boyfriends: short brittle hair and a mannish expression, or another with a birthmark running down half her face. We ate American Chop Suey - macaroni, hamburger, and tomato sauce. Yummm.

My parents had more elegant ideas. Chinese food, the symphony, and movies. One set of friends, The Rubbles - as I actually thought of them - were particularly intelligent, polite, and also petite. My parents were both tall, so there was a physical similarity to The Flintstone situation, as well. The other two couples were very friendly, except for one woman - we'll call her Wicky - who seemed to have a bitter edge, and looked at me like she might clip my ear off if I said the wrong thing. Her husband was a jovial furniture salesman, aptly named Joe - at least here, if not in reality. The other folks were a charming and wealthy couple. The wife, Flora, was a gracious, warm woman, and her husband, Earl, was easy-as-pie. He had a pipe hanging out of his mouth and a croquet court in the back yard. She had a large mole and crinkly eyes.

After a few years, it dawned on the Wicky-Joes and the Flora-Earls that they had not been invited to Barney and Betty's for years. There started to be tension, and Wicky made lots of cutting remarks, out of earshot, or when the Rubbles were not in attendance. No invitation was forthcoming, however. The four couples visited together at three homes, but never at the Rubbles' house. My mother told me about it, and I got a bit Wickyish, really. It seemed unfair, and just plain wrong. Friends were supposed to reciprocate. Mom said that she knew that when she called, Barney and Betty were happy to hear from them - my parents, of course, were Fred and Wilma. Jeez, I thought, when Mom rationalized the Rubbles' behavior. My mother's such a wimp! I wanted to tell her to get a grip, that if they were never calling, and never inviting, the Rubbles just weren't great friends.

Eventually the Wicky-Joes and the Flora-Earls dumped the Rubbles. Someone had finally had words, and what the words were remains a mystery to me, but they were had, or whatever. It was awkward for my parents - Fred and Wilma - but they continued their friendship with the Rubbles. They saw the other two couples separately.

Eventually, the Rubbles confided in Wilma and Fred. Barney had had a major problem with major depression for a long time, and having people in their home had not been an option. They never knew when Barney would be well, or not. They also never told Wicky et al, and they remained my parents' dear friends. Later, Barney got rich and gave bucketloads of money to universities and hospitals for research and support for psychiatry. He spoke openly about his own depression, and when we talked on a few occasions, he tried to be supportive of me as I became accustomed to living with depression myself.

The morals of the story are: the Flintstones and the Rubbles were better friends than any of those other extras that wandered into the scene now and then. Also, even when they didn't understand the eccentricities of the Rubbles, Fred and Wilma stuck with them. Never mind that Bam-Bam was a horrid kid, and Barney a bit of an oaf. They were pals, and that was that. Also, Pebbles may have grown up to be a lovely person, and she undoubtedly tolerated her parents' foibles, because they were themselves so forgiving. Plus, Pebbles knew that her own perfection would be hard to match. Finally, it is wicky important to say something when a friend's behavior is hurtful. Otherwise, you may never get to be in another episode.