Dirty Little Secret

I suck at email. Unless it’s something that I can answer in one sentence or less, it can take me weeks to reply to an email. Last night I got this long apologetic email from L., an acquaintance that I’m hoping becomes a friend. She is one of the few people I’ve met lately that I really hope to become friends with. Anyway, we’ve been emailing and it took her a while to reply to me, for which she was very apologetic.

I, of all people, understand how email becomes low-priority. I owe people dear to me, like my best friend from high school and my beloved cousin, emails. I very rarely answer comments in email (though I do reply in the comments section, mostly) because I SUCK at email. Before I discovered blogging, I was much better about email. But now there’s always a blog to read or write. And I LOVE to read and write blogs. So I didn’t feel L. had any reason to apologize for taking a while to reply to my email.

But (and this would be the part that embarrasses me) I was afraid that L. hadn’t replied to me because I had offended her. I was so relieved that she didn’t hate me. Even though I am notorious for taking weeks to reply to emails that require serious thought, I assume that people will reply to me in a timely fashion. And if they don’t I assume that they are upset or annoyed with me.

Clearly I am mentally ill.

And what’s worse? I haven’t replied to L. yet.

Is there a name for my emailing problem? Am I the only person afflicted?

*When I taught in the inner city, my co-workers and I used to talk about “issues”. Whether it was a guy’s commitment issues or a student’s problem with math homework, we covered a lot of ground with the word “issues.” One day my student Latisha was having a really rough day. She threw a huge temper tantrum and during it screamed what sounded like, “I got D’issues!!!!” And ever after that, whenever issues were very SERIOUS, we would call them “D’issues”.

I am a member of Meetup.com. It is how I found my mom’s group and my book group - it is basically the source of my entire social life. And though I’ve met some great people through those meetups, I’m still searching for the PERFECT meetup. The one that’s called, “Sarcastic Moms who like to blog, read and watch football, have a tight budget and only fit into their fat jeans.” Or maybe, “Funny Women who are comfortable swearing, drinking beer and wearing sweatpants in public.” Or possibly even, “Smart women who can talk about more than where they shop but still love trashy reality tv.”

So far, no one has started one of these groups. And because I haven’t entirely embraced my dorkiness, I am afraid to start one of these groups for fear that it will be listed and have the dreaded member number (1) next to it.

So I examine the manifestos of other groups, hoping to find another group with semi-compatible people. The newest mom group is The Hip Mamas. “Am I too hip for my mommy friends?” asks the group. Uhh. . .I don’t think so. I’m sure there are a few mommies on farms in Wyoming that I may be too hip for, but generally I’ve given up describing myself as hip. (Is ‘hip’ the cool word again? I had no idea.) Most of the groups that look like fun (besides the other mom groups, of course) are for singles.

So how am I supposed to make friends? Anyone got any ideas? We’ve been here for nearly a year and all I have are acquaintances.

But this time I SWEAR it’s justified. After we moved back to Stuck-Up, I joined a large playgroup on Meetup.com. I thought it would be a good way to make friends and have Lovebug and Ironflower learn social skills. I made some acquaintances and the kiddos had some fun. I generally found it hard to socialize while chasing the kids, but I didn’t think I’d offended anyone or anything.

Tonight I got a form e-mail from the organizer saying that the group was closing, though she would be sending personal emails out for some playdates. I went over to Meetup to quit the group and then to look at the other mommy groups. I noticed that a new group with the exact same name and the exact same organizer has started up.

Is it wrong of me to be bothered by this?

I am tempted to start my own damn mommy group. But then I think, what if no one joins?

I have tried to remind myself that just because something similar happened to me in eighth grade (yeah, I’m talking to you, Kerry and Kim) it does not mean that history is repeating itself. But it’s not really working.

So I’m posting for advice. What do you think I should do? Join the new mommy group and see what happens, start my own mommy group and risk feeling even more friendless or give up on the mommy group thing.

BTW, except for that brief period in eighth grade, I have always had friends. I have had some friends for more than twenty years (not Kerry and Kim, of course). I SWEAR (again) that I am not unlikeable. Really.

I SHOULD take this post down, because I just got an email from the organizer saying that she was explaining the reason on the message board and that it had nothing to do with me and she would still love to get together. But I’ve decided to be honest and freely admit that I AM totally paranoid and now I need advice on what to do about that.

This is a repost. I’m sorry. But I’m tired and I can’t think of anything to say tonight. Oh, and I still like it. Besides, most of you were not reading this blog way back then (to those of you who were, I apologize.)

When I was in high school, I had a lot of friends. I was in a lot of activities and considered attractive. Of course, I still felt pretty insecure. Who doesn’t, in high school? But because I had a lot of close friends, I knew that breathtakingly beautiful girls still felt insecure, that brilliant girls had moments of doubt, that the talented and funny girls still spent time crying in their rooms. I never had any illusions that anyone was without faults or angst or embarrassment.

Until I had eleventh grade English with. . .hmmm, let’s call her ELAINE. She was attractive and smart and very popular, all of which didn’t bother me. What bothered me was that she never had a bad hair day, or said something stupid in class, or even dropped her pen. When we had to write an essay about our two most important possessions, one of Elaine’s was her iron. I mean, I still don’t iron and this 16 year old girl ironed her whole family’s clothes (in addition to sports teams, good grades, lots of friends, etc.). Elaine never got stains on her clothes, never seemed to sweat or get flustered or feel sad. . .she just glided down the hall, kind to everyone, living in her bubble of perfection.

Of course, I’ve met women like her since high school - Erika in college, Jen at my first teaching job. But no one really matched up to the Real Elaine until I moved back to Bergen County and tried to meet other mothers. Every time I see a mother in the park, I swear she’s been taking lessons from Elaine.

These other mothers never have their children’s handprints on their shirts. They have lost of their baby weight and wear a size I couldn’t even wear before I had baby weight. Their clothes are fashionable - and ironed. Their hair is styled (or at least not in my usual ratty ponytail). Their children never fluster or frustrate them. They seem serene and organized as their children willingly eat organic tofu cookies. Standing near them, I feel the exact same way as I did sitting next to Elaine in English class.

I remind myself that I am an adult now. I tell myself that it’s pretty pathetic for a 16 year old girl to count an IRON as one of her prized possessions. I explain to my hubby that the women at the park probably don’t talk about the things I like to talk about anyway (books, politics, trashy reality tv, sex ). I tell myself that no one is perfect and no one’s life is perfect - no matter what it looks like to an outsider. I lecture myself about being a kinder, less judgmental person. But I still don’t want to befriend anyone of these Elaines.

However, as soon as one of them shows up with stains on her shirt, messy hair or pretzels for snack, I’ll be all over her. I promise.

Seventeen years ago today, my friend Picklestraw died. Though his life really ended, I believe, four days before when he drove his car into a tree. Or maybe it even ended before that, when he got into the car after drinking for hours and proceeded to go four times the posted speed limit through the streets of our hometown. We didn’t do that, you see. We didn’t race and we didn’t drive drunk. I saw more people snort coke in high school than I saw fight, race or drive under any influences.

I met Picklestraw the summer before our sophomore year of high school and he died right before our sophomore year of college. In the scheme of things that’s not a very long time to know someone. But of course those particular years are the crucial years, aren’t they? To this day when I am with friends from that time, whether we’ve kept in touch or not, it’s like all the time has disappeared.

We don’t talk about Picklestraw much anymore. We’ve accepted that we’ll never know what he was thinking. He wasn’t alone in the car when he drove into the tree. But he wasn’t with any of our friends, or his girlfriend’s friends, but I still can’t believe that if he was planning on killing himself he would want to take anyone with him. He wasn’t selfish and crazy like that.

He’d had a party that night. His parents were out of town and the old gang had gathered for a last Hurrah before we left for school. Picklestraw and I had gone from being the Sam and Diane of RHS (that’s a Cheers reference, youngsters) to being cautious friends. He was in love with someone else and so was I. But we had been able to read each other so easily. Yet I couldn’t read anything in his behavior that night, except that he seemed especially disheartened as people began to leave.

He invited M. to spend the night (a common platonic thing in our crowd), but she couldn’t. She might even have had to drive me home. No one stayed, so Picklestraw went to the party down the street. Filled with people who were not friends. And apparently those not friends needed to go to the 7-11. At least, that’s what I heard. No one really knows why they were driving, or why Picklestraw was speeding. The two with him were hurt but not killed.

Picklestraw never woke up from his coma. And I never gathered the nerve to visit him at the hospital. I fantasized about going in there and yelling at him, ticking him off so much that he’d wake up. But I couldn’t gather the nerve to try. I didn’t cry until I saw his girlfriend at the wake. All I could do was imagine that her pain would be so much worse than mine, and mine was bad. The wake was the only time I cried that whole week - from the news of the accident to the final after funeral gathering at his parents’ house.

Picklestaw’s headstone simply says, “A Poet” under his birth and death dates. I think he could have been so much more. He was a great poet, but he was also smart, kind funny, an actor, a public speaker, a confused, insecure adolescent. He loved Led Zeppelin and sometimes I imagine telling him about Ironflower’s tantrums if she can’t listen to Led Zeppelin in the car.

Maybe it’s weird to still imagine talking to him all these years later. Maybe it’s weird to wonder if I would have kept in better touch with some of our old friends if they didn’t remind me of him so much. Maybe it’s weird to be writing this blog at all. But I don’t care.

Picklestraw, we still miss you.

I moved to Kansas City under duress. Most people, especially in the late ’90’s, did not move from Seattle to Kansas City. Prior to Seattle, I had lived in Portland, Boston and New Jersey. I was not a mid-western kind of gal. But my ex-husband’s graduate school options were limited, to say the least. At that point, I still had vague hopes of saving my marriage, so I went along. Then he declared he wanted to have a trial separation upon moving to KC. I agreed, knowing that it would be the end of our marriage (no way would I return to living with him after the freedom of living alone). I went along to feel like I had tried my best - and because I had a teaching job there.

When I moved to Kansas City, I didn’t know anyone. I had visited briefly for my job interview and that was it. I didn’t know about 3.2 beer, that some people still didn’t believe in evolution, that strangers apologized after bumping into you. I could only get from my job to my new apartment. By the following spring, I had friends who called me for directions. I had become a Chiefs fan and actually went to Royals games. I even started calling soda, “pop”.

Instead of staying for the year it took my marriage to officially fall apart, I stayed for nine years. At the start, I was somewhat satisfied with my inner-city teaching job. I liked the early spring and the late summer (not to mention the days of sun, something that the Pacific Northwest sorely lacks). I liked the affordable housing. I liked how nice people were at the grocery store. I liked Chiefs games and the manageable yet impressive Nelson Art Museum. I liked Jerry’s Bait Shop, Kennedy’s Bar and Grill, shopping in Lawrence and Parkville, the preponderance of Targets and the fact that I always ran into acquaintances while I was out.

But I stayed because I made wonderful friends - the kind of friends that I didn’t expect to make this late in life. Friends who put up with my moods, my wild bouts of drinking and my tendency to retreat. Friends who listened through my disasters of post-divorce dating, who braved my sad attempts at community theater and karaoke, who threw me baby showers.

I will miss you guys more than I can say.