A Tongue in Chic Perspective

I was thinking about my oddest relationships. I was trying to figure out what the “weird factor” was, based on who I dated, and under what circumstances. They weren’t a bunch of freaks, but they were freaky enough!

The biggest freak show was meeting some of my boyfriend’s friends. They weren’t strange per se, but the lot of them possessed a seemingly odd quality– staying friends with their exes. And not just acquaintances that say hi and turn around to their friends and say, “OMG what are they doing here?!”

No, these people remain close and keep in contact on a regular basis and act as though their history is just really good friends. The freaky part of this “relationship taboo” is that their current squeezes are OKAY with it. Odd? I sure think so.

With the exception of my boyfriend (his former serious girlfriend cheated on him) all of his friends remain cordial and NORMAL with their exes.

Based on my past experiences, there is no way I could be great friends with them:

A) Too awkward

B) The demise of our relationship

C) Why would I want to? I I was uninterested at all during the relationship, why would I be interested in a platonic friendship?

In When Harry Met Sally, Harry says men and women can never really be friends because the sex part is already out there.

I have to take Harry’s side on this one.

No offense to my guy friends, I don’t find them attractive on the surface. I’m friends with them because we got to know each other on that “great friend with a killer personality level.”

Maybe I’ve dated backwards.

Again, with the exception of my current boyfriend, I hardly knew anything about my previous flames prior to dating them. Although I learned a lot about my boyfriend while dating him, but I think knowing a little history helps.

Maybe the key to dating the perfect person is one who could potentially be your best friend.

“Marry your best friend and live happily ever after.” Hmm.

But honestly, can exes really be friends? Or is it something that needs to be (like red wine and cheese) ripened with age? The more history, the better?

Some believe that saying it just want to be friends really works. I’ve said it, you’ve said it, but did we really mean it?

For some reason I don’t think so.

Perhaps they really are a group of freak, or maybe I’m the freak for not having this revelation sooner.

I’ll keep you posted if, and when, it happens to me.

“There ain’t no easy way out…” ~ Tom Petty

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It’s 2 a.m. and I’m wide awake. And I started thinking about my unfiltered mind and mouth. I think certain profanities are sentence enhancers. Why not just use ‘em, right?

I was watching “Private Practice” on Wednesday (though I was always Team MerDer on Grey’s) and I was more in tune with the fact that they were discussing Addison’s inability to “do that” without a man. And my first though was: what a crock of shit.

Why? Because I think more people do it more than they admit. And I find it funny that on public television you cannot use the word “masturbate”, and yet, you can watch a movie on cable T.V. or any FX show, and the words “asshole” and “shit” are said as casually as “Today I am going to Chipotle for lunch.” What is with the censorship?!

My message to the executives of these broadcasting networks: just say it! You weren’t endowed with the First Amendment just because the Bill of Rights looked pretty with it!

Which brings me to this: They can say “ho” on T.V., put shows like “Oz” and “Sex and the City” on demand where anyone can see it, and soap operas use the word “bitch” and “whore” as common as pronouns; but all the while, alluding to the idea of sex is bad, but showing it on public television (simulation that looks ridiculously authentic) is completely acceptable. As Lewis Black would say, “Now isn’t that just a load of horse shit? Hahahaha”

This is the reason why I love raunchy comedies (and why they make so much money)… they take all of the things we can’t say on television or in normal conversation, and then make millions.

One brilliant approach on this was an episode of “How I Met Your Mother”, when the guys refer to smoking pot as “eating a sandwich”. It worked brilliantly, and had the dirty minds cracking up.

My point is this: sex and all things related to it (oral fixations, quips and quirks) shouldn’t be sheltered or locked away. I refuse to change who I am and how I feel to cater to someone else’s BS.

~A

*To my reader: I wrote this for my creative writing English class in college. This actually happened to me… only I exaggerated certain parts of it to make the point! Basically, it’s a lesson when a relationship goes nowhere fast and my need to get out…

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“What made you turn off the Clearview?! Elizabeth and Matt said turn right off Bell Boulevard,” Malaia shouted.

“I know where I’m going,” Chris responded. “Trust me.”

“They’re calling. Hold on. They said you definitely missed it,” Malaia replied back.

“I’m sure it’s over there; I saw the movie theater from the bridge,” he said.

“No, we passed it and I would’ve gotten us here if we asked for directions again. Yeah, Matt’s an idiot, but it doesn’t mean you should be one right now too.”

“I know where I’m going. Trust me.”

“Jesus Christ. We just passed Shea Stadium! We’re on Northern Boulevard! Dude, this is nowhere near Whitestone Cinemas. So much for the movie.”

Malaia sat with her arms folded across her chest, peering out to the eeriness of the streets of Queens. She didn’t want to do this anymore. The air conditioner in the car broke down last week. It took way to much manual power to open the windows, so Malaia just sat there in the cracked leather seat.

“No, it’s up ahead. We need to drive further up,” Chris assured her.

“I’m telling you we’re headed west toward the other boroughs. When the numbers on the streets decrease, it means you’re heading toward the city!” Malaia retorted.

“No, that’s not true,” Chris answered.

“Okay, because you’re a fucking genius right? You always know where to go?” Malaia scoffed.

“Call Elizabeth and ask then,” Chris told Malaia.

“I’m trying,” Malaia stated. “I have no reception.”

“Why did I see it from the bridge and not here now?”

“I told you already, you got off at the wrong exit. Pull over before we head further in the wrong direction.”

Malaia thought about the temptations she had at college orientation, and how Malaia spoke of Chris so lightheartedly and affectionately to her new friends. Yet he was none of those things.

She looked out the window, noticing the reflection of the monster. The conspicuous people on the corner of the each block waned as they moved further north.

“No, I’m sure we’re going the right way,” Chris informed her in his false tough voice.

“No, we’re REALLY NOT though,” Malaia huffed.

Instead if smiling at her stubbornness, he made a grimace that made his nose flare… he really did look like a rat-like retard.

“At least we know we’re on Northern Boulevard,” Chris pointed out optimistically.

“Too bad we’re not on Long Island though,” she stated plainly.

“We’re still in Bayside,” Chris said.

“Okay Chris, we’re still in Bayside,” Malaia she replied, rolling her cold blue eyes.

The car was officially overheated. Chris breathed heavily, causing more difficulty for his girlfriend to breathe, let alone concentrate on her thoughts. The sweat from Chris’ crew cut began to landslide down his face. Malaia was praying he could sweat away to dust.

“Why aren’t there many people out right now? It’s only 11 or so.”

“Maybe because they’re smart and don’t wander the streets of the middle of nowhere! We just passed the sign. It said Brooklyn, Staten Island, left. Bronx, right. You jerk!!!!” Malaia bellowed.

Chris was stunned. He had never seen his girlfriend this angry since her graduation party when he failed to call for a ride home.

“I’m the one driving,” he asserted.

Malaia thought about her driver’s license, and the fact she didn’t have hers yet. She sighed in frustration. She never found the words to say what she wanted. All she could was, “You shouldn’t be. Why can’t we just turn around? It’s that fucking simple.”

Chris peered up to his rearview, examining the miles behind him.

“I didn’t see any sign,” Chris said puzzled. “Besides,” he pondered, “this isn’t so bad.”

“So bad? So bad? So bad?!” Malaia’s face grew scarlet.

Chris attempted to soothe her. “Come on, I’ll find it.”

This was no longer about his ignorance. To Malaia, this was deeper than that. She could not handle the anguish and the wrath she felt. She wanted to slap his across his shaven face, make his beady rat eyes wince like the baby he truly was.

“I’ll give you so bad! Do you remember getting lost in the Hamptons? During the day time?! And we couldn’t get back onto the L.I.E from the Sunrise Highway because you kept missing the exit.”

Chris defended his actions and his ego. “We couldn’t figure it out. I never drive on the Sunrise!”

“Did you also forget how terrified you were going to get lost in Flanders? Well, I’m afraid of going to Long Island City or Jackson Heights or whatever that I don’t know the area and no one here knows us and they would happily help us by car jacking us or holding us at gunpoint!”

Silence. Chris continued heading north, despite Malaia’s request to head home. Malaia eyed the dreary summer streets; steam rising to the windows from the surrounding sewers.

Malaia thought about the first time they officially met. She was stacking magazines at Barnes & Noble (which she wanted to quit so badly) and they bumped into each other and he gave her a lift home which gave her butterflies.

Now, she was stuck in the car with a nimrod, and there were no butterflies. Just nausea.

“There’s a used car dealership up ahead,” Chris muttered.

“Where the sign is written in a different language,” Malaia pointed out exasperated.

“Oh shit!” he cried, as he u-turned to head eastbound toward Long Island.

“Oh, now you listen, when we could have just turned around before when Matt and Elizabeth told us to? God, how dense are you?” she snapped.

“Um, sorry,” Chris managed to say.

Malaia held her hand up. At last! Reception on her cell phone was their gift from God for the night.

“Elizabeth is calling again.”

Malaia answered and gabbed for a few minutes. Chris entered the Long Island Expressway, stalling slightly with his stick shift car, meticulously watching the lanes surrounding them. His feet touched the pedals gently as though he was playing a piano for a different sound than the lack of conversation in the car. The car slowed as red taillights illuminated the night.

The radio repeated the top requested songs of the night from two hours prior their journey to the middle of nowhere. Malaia tapped the window with her chipping manicure, prodding the radio buttons with another. There wasn’t a station that played a song that didn’t make her want to regurgitate everything- everything she wanted to say or do. She wondered what Chris was thinking and why he so patient, why she saw this distorted face staring back at her from her passenger window and why there was a traffic jam on the expressway at this hour.

Cars were on all sides, slowly boxing them in. Chris just looked straight ahead. What was he thinking? she wondered. Probably about college. He was always talking about going to this merchant marine academy. They were going to different schools this year, and it was going to change. High school was easier. Senior year was easier. College was a dead end for their relationship; or what was left of it.

Chris drummed his fingers on the edges of the steering wheel. He never honked the horn. He should, especially due to the fact that there was no reason for people to adhere to a speed limit of 55 mph without any logical explanation. One time there was a woman driving on the wrong side of the road, charging for them headfirst without a clue. Malaia reached over to honk the horn for him and he continued to resist. They could have died!

She was wondering if she should say something like, “So that was interesting and kind of nightmarish,” but it no time seemed appropriate to break the silence. All Malaia really wanted was to hang out with Elizabeth before the summer was over, before Malaia and Matt were home taking nightly trips to Dunkin Donuts, and complaining about how boring their town was when their friends were no longer home.

Chris didn’t say much. Come to think of it, he never really did. He pretended to be outgoing. He was sometimes so phony around certain people, and when he and Malaia were alone, he would tell her what he really thought of her friends. Not the smartest thing for a guy to do when his girlfriend has been best friends with the same people for so many years. Chris continued on with his stupid driving skills, his stupid facial expression, his stupid stupid-ness…

But Malaia realized she was stupid. It was no longer about going to the movies.

She started thinking about “The Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allan Poe. How although the man was dead, the killer could hear his victim’s heart beating. The madness of the guilt had taken over him. The monster she had become was the same way. It was going to win. It would make her say or do something she may regret.

The traffic began to move more rapidly on the expressway. Exits 28 to 34 were a blur. Malaia was incredibly tired and bitter. She was even being meaner to her parents and siblings. Malaia acted like she hated them, when she really wanted to say “I love you, I’m being held prisoner by my own guilt to let it go this far! I don’t like him as much as I thought! Please, for the love of God, help me!“

Malaia turned up the volume on the radio to drown out the voices in her head.

Chris mumbled when they got off at their exit while his girlfriend watched her monster conceal itself in the shadows. He finally spoke up a few blocks from Malaia’s house.

“So, are you coming to my training camp ceremony for school?” Chris asked her.

Z100 played “This Love” by Maroon 5 on the radio. It was too disgustingly appropriate for the moment. Each lyric kept going and going…

Malaia was paying close attention to the lyrics. They were speaking to her.

She said goodbye too many times before…

He waited for her response. “Huh, M?”

“Oh, um I don’t know. What date is it?” Malaia inquired, though she knew perfectly when it was.

And her heart is breakin’ in front of me…

“The thirteenth,” Chris replied. “And I’m not going to be back until after your birthday.”

And I have no choice…

“Oh, um that’s cool,” Malaia said, shielding her disappointment. “I mean, I doubt I’ll be doing anything serious.”

Yeah, nothing serious, Malaia thought. I’m only turning eighteen! “I mean, I’ll come but my brother has a Swimmer’s Banquet I have to go to.”

“You’ll be back on time. I promise,” Chris said, “my parents will get you back quick.”

Unlike you, she wanted to say, but hesitated.

They pulled up to her steep driveway, as though it was to pull her to the high heavens and away from the craziness of Jackson Heights, the hideousness of his old car, the drama of this soap opera-worthy relationship!

He leaned in for his routine kiss good night. Malaia really wanted to extend her hand out like it was a meeting. Like a “sorry we can’t and shouldn’t be together anymore, nice knowing you, lose my number, don’t ever come to my job ever again” type of thing. Instead, she kissed him on the cheek.

“I’ll see ya,” he said, his typical one-liner that caused her to cringe and cackle inside.

She looked at him inquisitively, one last time, trying to remember what she fell for.

“Yeah,” she said, “I’m sure you will.”

As she closed the door, her monster, the one she tried to hide from all this time, gave her a wink and a nod through the passenger window.

My mother forbade us to walk backwards. That is how the dead walk, she would say. Where did she get this idea? Perhaps from a bad translation. The dead, after all, do not walk backwards but they do walk behind us. They have no lungs and cannot call out but would love for us to turn around. They are victims of love, many of them.

~Anne Carson, “On Walking Backwards”

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You may be asking yourself: Why include this in your blog? To me, it’s a constant reminder that the inability to speak up makes people similar to death. Women especially.

To me, anyone should be allowed to say what they wish. Regardless of consequence or others’ opinions, what people want out of love or relationships should be addressed.

For me, I realized I needed to practice what I preach. I mean, hey, we accommodate, we cater and “yes” things to death, but why bother if we’re unhappy too?

“Love is a many splendored thing”, but why are we always afraid to speak up?

One word: rejection.

In the 1960s, the idea of “free love” meant without rules, without restrictions, without fear of your partner (or partners… remember that monogamy was a lame idea!). Now, we walk around with our guards up, being afraid to say: “let’s try that new Asian-fusion restaurant”, “we should act out our fantasies”, or “missionary is boring”.

I have been dating the same person for the past few years (I know, young, stupid and in love… I’m happy at this point, deal). We are comfortable with each other… sometimes maybe too comfortable. I wouldn’t suggest doing things new because sometimes the comfort zone you build gets just that… comfortable. There were a few points in time when I honestly thought he would find me boring. And when we started seeing less and less of each other because of scheduling conflicts, whose friends from home were in town, etc., it hit me: if you want to change something, you can’t be part of a revolution if you are unwilling to evolve too.

I did something I never thought a brazen person like myself would do: I pleaded my case before my boyfriend. There were things that were grinding my gears, i.e. us not hanging out as much as he did with his friends (one of my prime deal breakers), not taking me out to places (I like to bowl and play pool… I’m not asking to go to the Met for an exhibit).

When things progressed and improved, it dawned on me that prior to my “state of distress” I made the classic mistake most females do: I thought my boyfriend was a mindreader. Surprise! He’s not. He knows things that I like, love and downright hate (football… I don’t understand the point and no, I don’t plan on learning appreciate it. But give me Johnny Depp on a field and let him tackle me… football will have a totally different meaning ).

So practicing what we preach is easier said than done. But it could’ve been worse– I could be sitting on a couch eating food I don’t like, watching a six-hour football game between two teams I know nothing about.

~Allison

Have you ever walked into a room and realize everyone in it was just talking about you? They have faces of shock and surprise, and yet, you know they are thinking that you walked in at the perfect moment.

It happens. To me, it happened long before I realized it did.

My inner circle of friends has changed dramatically since I began college. There are those I am friendly with, those that are the keepers of my secrets, and those that are the keepers to everything that makes me who I am. This set is my elite—my select few.

I have been thinking for the past few days about loyalty and true friends. I believe that your relationships with your friends are just as crucial than your significant other. Why? Because before you are willing to completely open up to that one person you think is “the one”, your friends are your lifelines a la “Who Wants to be a Millionaire”.

With boyfriends and girlfriends, loyalty may be telling each other if they (honestly) look fat in those pants you bought on sale at Bloomingdale’s, or harboring their guilty pleasures of biting their toenails (I was going with obscure, just go with it) or just being monogamous. Sometimes it’s graver, but like our friends, they are entrusted with allegiance. But unlike friendships, sometimes the relationships are tossed aside when the loyalty is broken. Friendships sometimes sustain more, like a pair of Converse sneakers you can’t bear throwing away, though you are told over and over again they should be.

Since I began college, I realized I had a lot of growing up to do. Not that I am immature (though I love raunchy comedies and would eat chocolate for breakfast), but I realized that my friends were unsupportive of my decisions, personal or professional. Mind you, I wore the clothes I liked, said the things I wanted to say, but I found that I harbored my secrets carefully and did not disclose specific information unless I felt compelled to put it out in the open.

Then, I realized why.

It wasn’t that I was insecure with myself; I felt the need to be approved of by my friends. The difference was that I possessed both integrity and independence. I had both and was afraid to use them. With these girls, every guy I dated wasn’t good enough. I only found out after the fact. Initially, they would beam and say how wonderful he was, whoever he was at the time. Eventually, I learned to not be mistaken—it was a façade, a gilded cradle. And when the bough would break, as it did several times, I will fall from the top of the security tree, and I was (again) the baby that wasn’t caught. Suddenly, I became damaged goods. So the “Oh, he’s great” lampoon turned into “I didn’t want to bring it up but…” and a laundry list of the things he did wrong (according to them) were read off:

“Hear ye! Hear ye! Our dear, dear friend has f*cked up once again!” They try to soften the blow, trying to rip off a band-aid without causing too much pain. Then, when their backs are turned, you know that they are picking a little, talking a little. In your head, you hear “paranoia will destroy ya”, while your heart says, “run out while you still can.” The same thing happened with the relationship… the quips and asinine comments you thought you heard cause you to lean in and listen. Only the guy isn’t the problem; the problem is you, fearing that making a mistake will destroy your being, and if you look back, you are setting yourself up to be a pillar of salt: frozen and inhuman like Stepford wife.

My mom always said that including your mother; your true friends can be counted on one hand, and one hand alone. Turns out, Mom was right. Of these “friends”, I was the only one who felt sexually confident. I could say or do anything I wished, though I wouldn’t act on something unless I felt comfortable with it. With my guy friends, I was comfortable. It grew more apparent that these girls were my enemy, with their noses turned to the sky, craning their necks as though they had been above and beyond anything that had to do with sex. The old saying “don’t judge a book by its cover” was something they lived for.

I decided to escape Neverland, broke the chains and played the courtesy cold superior. I was above the nonsense; until I found out that the freak show of friendships that has remained on tour since childhood… and has no intention of going away. Captain Hook-me-onto-the-B.S. was back in action before I knew it. And on a few occasions, I watched the friends I had left sit idly by and remain friendly, enjoyable, loyal, unaware that the were about to wander into the icy core of Hell, where the Devil chews the heads of the worst friends of all: Brutus, Cassius, and Judas. Needless to say, my old friends were summoned there soon enough too.

Loyalty is a big thing with relationships, whether between friends or lovers. To me, lovers (as in boyfriends and girlfriends, husbands and wives) are the strongest friendships, because they are in touch with every aspect of you… friends are held back from certain things. So being there and being there are two completely different things. Some people need to be showered with support while others are the providers. (In case you’re wondering, I’ve been both). Now, it is played out in every aspect of life. We’re told, “it’s not personal, it’s business.” What they don’t tell you is that it’s the business of bullshit you’re involved in.

There, I said it.

I have a friend of mine who has a tumultuous relationship, a marriage if you will, with one of her best friends. While this girl is her foundation, her keeper, I could see from a mile away as while she has been there for her, she has never been there—the dark and cold recess of opaque oblivion. Friends and lovers that get there and can get you out are the real best friends. This girl is not, despite what she may think.

My friend tells me, “Long story really short, we have a loyalty issue”, and says they are not on speaking terms (although they are living in the same place). I know that eventually, everything will be completely fine (as in masked with content) until tragedy strikes again.

To this I asked myself, are we our friends’ keepers? Or are we supposed to be our own best friends, trust ourselves first before we reach out and touch faith with someone else?
When I find the answer, I’ll let you know.