Avoiding Drama With Your BFF (and Everybody Else)

I learned back in middle school not to take someone else’s word for who or how another person is. Had I not learned that lesson early, and decided to choose my friends – or not – based solely on my own experiences with a person, I would’ve missed out on a friendship that was most important to me, the friendship that sustained me throughout most of middle school, all of high school, and college, too. Honestly, I can’t even say for sure that I'd be alive today if not for this particular friend, whom we’ll call Hillary.

Due to family problems, Hillary had been sent to live with extended family, the summer before seventh grade, which is how she ended up in our school district. She arrived at our decidedly preppy middle school with her hair parted down the middle and feathered, no makeup or jewelry, wearing an old concert T-shirt, and the wrong jeans and shoes – by "wrong" I mean that her jeans and shoes weren’t the same jeans and shoes that everybody else was wearing. And while I know that middle-parts and concert T-shirts are very stylish now, the fact is they weren’t considered stylish back then, at least not at our school – think Stepford-Wives-To-Be.

No, if you were a young girl back then, and you wanted to be accepted at our middle school, you started the day by parting your hair on the side – under absolutely no circumstances whatsoever did you feather it – you made yourself up to look “natural”, put on a tasteful gold chain, a top from either Ralph Lauren or The Limited, a pair of Guess jeans, and middle-school-approved shoes – which consisted of cute sandals, ballet flats, moccasins from L.L. Bean, or Tretorn sneakers.

Hillary didn’t have any of these things. What she did have was a brilliant mind and a sharp tongue, and she used them. Often. If her tongue didn’t get you, the rumor was, she’d use her fists.

Which is why I tried hard not to look at, and especially not to talk to the girl named Hillary, who sat next to me in Advanced English. I’d heard all about Hillary, and frankly, I thought she was a little scary. But when she talked to me, what was I supposed to do? I didn’t want to make Hillary mad by ignoring her – she might clobber me. So, I answered her – very politely. When lunchtime rolled around, and Hillary and I were mid-conversation, we naturally sat together in the cafeteria, so we could continue talking.

Soon, I counted Hillary as my very best friend in the whole wide world. I loved her, and for some strange reason still unknown to me, she loved me. We shared our darkest secrets, our highest hopes, and our smallest, most vulnerable dreams, not to mention approved middle school clothing, shoes, and makeup tips.

But looking back, I have to say that the most important thing Hillary and I shared was an unwavering loyalty to one another. Were we both deeply flawed? Yes. Did we make mistakes? Of course. Did we make great big glorious messes of our lives? You bet we did. Over and over again. But we talked openly and honestly about these things, called it like we saw it, called one another on all our crap, and at the end of the day, we understood and loved one another, right or wrong. And right or wrong, I never put up with anyone talking about Hillary, just like she never put up with anyone talking about me. In short, we had each other’s backs, and that is no small thing in the social war zones known as “middle school” and “high school”.

It’s no small thing to me today. I’ve learned that loyalty is rare and precious in any arena – middle school, high school, business and personal relationships – at any stage of life.

Hillary taught me that. She also taught me that you can’t take someone else’s word for who another person is, what they’ve done, or why they did it. You have to judge people based on your own experiences with them. (Yes, I know that we should never judge anyone, but face it: we do.)

Thanks to Hillary, I have friends I might have never given a chance, and I give those friends the benefit of the doubt, because they are my friends. When I can’t give my friends the benefit of the doubt, then I sit down with them, and I ask the questions I need to ask, directly. They tend to answer as I do – truthfully. And then, we move forward with understanding and without drama.

For me, avoiding drama simply means being forthright, dealing directly and honestly with people, and asking them to be direct and honest with me. It pretty much works. Which is good, because I am against drama. In a BIG way.

Thanks, Hillary.

Sentimental vs. Stylish

I’m cleaning up my website, which is a lot like cleaning up my room (translation: not that much fun) and I’ve realized that this little story, as much as I love it, can’t continue to have its own page on my new website. Well…it can, but I won’t end up with the pretty, well-organized room that I want. No, my room will just continue to be mismatched, overstuffed, and haphazard at best. I can be sentimental, or I can be stylish and streamlined, but I can’t be both. I am sentimental; I want to be stylish and streamlined.

Even so, I can’t just toss this little story into the garage sale box and be done with it. I can’t. I just can’t. Why not? Because this little story, this little girl, single-handedly carried me for at least a month – maybe more:

When my first novel was officially released, it received only one immediate review, by Kirkus, who is known for shall we say…tart (translation: downright cruel) reviews. Do I need to tell you that this review was not favorable? Well, it wasn’t. And I felt horribly ashamed, mostly for my family. I mean, how awful to have someone criticize your mother, daughter, sister, niece, or friend, on a national scale!

But worse than the shame I felt, was the knowledge that my writing career was over before it even really began. No one would ever read my little book. Soon, I would be getting letters from my publishing house, offering to let me buy all my books for pennies on the dollar, before they were burned to make room in the warehouse. This is what I get, after all these years, I thought sadly. All these years, I’d worked on the hope that somebody, somewhere, someday, would give me a chance, and finally somebody did. And now I realized – feeling slightly devastated –that the only thing worse than not getting a chance, is getting one and blowing it, so that you never get another one. It was all over. There was no point in ever writing another word. What would I do? Who would I become? A plumber? A real estate agent? A shoe salesperson? – well, I do love shoes!

And then, my very best friend – who is not a reader – called. She said that she’d purchased several copies of my book – as required by The Law of Friendship – but since she’s not a reader, she gave these books away, to local libraries and friends. One of her friends, who received a copy of Something to Sing About – another non-reader, apparently – gave the book to his next door neighbor, who gave the book to his ten-year-old daughter, the day they were leaving for a vacation in Florida. As this girl's parents packed and loaded the car, she began reading.

When the car was fully loaded, and the family was ready to hit the road, the girl got into the car and continued reading. Now, she knew that reading in the car made her sick. Her parents also knew that reading in the car made her sick. So, as the girl continued to read, her parents kept asking her, "Are you feeling sick? Don't you think you had better put that book away, before you get sick?" At first, the girl said that she was fine. Then, the girl admitted that she was perhaps starting to feel a little sick-ish, and said that she would put the book away in a few minutes. She continued to read; her parents continued to ask. The girl kept saying, "Just one more page."

This went on until finally, the girl vomited all over the backseat. "I'm sorry!" she cried. "I'm sorry, but I just couldn't put the book down! I just couldn't!"

The most amazing thing is that when the girl finished the book – out of the car, in Florida – she said she loved it. Loved it! Somehow, that sweet girl found a way to love a book that had literally made her sick!

I consider this my best and most important review ever. (Look, if you knew me, you would understand that it is only fitting that my highest praise comes in the form of puke.) It is the review that carried me through those dark and fearful weeks that followed my first book’s release, before other reviewers rode in to save the day.

(Now if you are reading this, and you happen to be that little girl, well...honey, I am SO sorry. And thank you! Thank you! Thank you! When my next book comes out, I promise to send you a new, signed, non-pukey, copy of Something to Sing About, along with my new one, as well. Just don't read them in the car, okay?)

So, you can see why I can’t just toss this review away. It has great sentimental value, like the tattered chair from the living room of my childhood that now resides in the living room of my adulthood.

Sentimental or stylish? I vote for compromise. And I call it eclectic. Yes, eclectic. (My husband calls it something else. But he tolerates it.)

Happy Anniversary

I couldn't find a card I liked -- I never can when I really need to! SOOOoooo, here I am, in the hope that this will do:

Happy anniversary, with love and gratitude, to my husband who has -- miraculously! -- managed to put up with me for the past 15+ years, most of which have been happy, very happy.

Thank you for all the times you met me at the door, and wrapped me in warm towels straight from the dryer, when I arrived home trembling-cold and rain-soaked,

for all the times you held me and rocked me --when nothing more could be done -- as I cried myself out,

for all the long, lazy days we've spent on the lake together, talking, planning, dreaming, reading and fishing,

for -- and this is a big one -- not letting me give up on becoming a writer, (after all those rejection letters, any husband in his right mind would've said, "Honey, I'm sorry: You're not going to be a writer, just like I'm not going to be a rock star. Welcome to the real world. It's time to focus on your real job." And any wife in her right mind, even me, would've understood -- and agreed.)

for letting me work without interruption --mostly -- when I'm under deadline,

for letting me throw the occasional fit, without getting mad (he usually laughs -- a lot),

for assessing and treating my wounds, when I can't bring myself to look,

for holding my hand when we're out in the world,

for paying attention and remembering, whenever I show interest in something, whether it be a book, a scarf, or a one-of-a-kind antique ring (he hunted that ring down, like it was his only purpose in life, a whole year after we saw it -- I had forgotten it by then!)

for driving our daughter to school with the windows down and the stereo blaring, like a teenager on his way to a party,

for being one of those rare breeds of men who isn't afraid to get out on the dance floor and have a little fun,

for making your way home, night after night, to eat dinner and play games with the family,

for being the kind of guy who sometimes brings strays home with him -- cats, dogs, and people -- and for loving the strays that I bring home, too,

for being full of ambition and motivation and fascinating new ideas all the time,

for being an honorable man, a man of integrity, even -- and especially -- when it's hard,

for being calm and brilliant in the middle of all crises,

for loving my side of the family as your own,

and for making me laugh and laugh and laugh.

Thank you for all these things, for all these times, and more. Thank you for all these years. I love you.