I consider myself to have had ample experience with ‘break-ups’. There was my husband, after all, the Moby Dick of break-ups, the kind of thing you think is never going to be over or better, but then one day it just…is. You wake up one morning after a good night’s sleep - maybe the first good night’s sleep you’ve had in years - and you realize that you don’t miss him. And it no longer bothers you that he DEFINITELY doesn’t miss you. So the next time he comes to pick up the kids you can chat or possibly even have coffee because now you’re going to be friends. The other ‘stuff’ is over. Hallelujah!!
So what does one do when the break-up is with a friend? You see, this is my problem - I almost hate to admit it, but the man break-up thing doesn’t really ever affect me anymore. Because we can compartmentalize dates and boyfriends and relationships all the way into marriage - and then sometimes even after that. Your girlfriends, though…They know you. They are the ones who normally stand the test of time, who pick up your kids from school if you’re running late or bake you cookies if you’re sad. They’re the cream in your coffee. They’re everywhere, in every pocket of your life.
But as with everything else, sometimes it just…ends. And I really hate that. Especially when there’s just the tiniest little possibility that it was my fault. I definitely hate to be at fault (which is a little disconcerting considering how frequently I AM at fault). Sometimes you are at different times in your life, sometimes you have just run out of new stories to tell each other or sometimes there’s just too much - crap. Am I allowed to say crap? Because that’s the only name for it. Crap. So you break-up.
Not that you call it a break-up - no, only romantic relationships get titles. Or actual official endings. The phone calls trickle away, a week or so goes by when you both think about calling and mutter under your breath “Wait a minute; I’m always the one that calls!! It’s her turn now!” and then you pretend to not care. And mention not caring to your husbands 30 or 40 times over the next few days. The week ebbs away, another comes and goes, then a month, and with the start of the new month you’ve broken up. It’s official - I believe one month to be the official best friend break-up time period.
When you go through your break-up with a friend, there is no social consideration, I must tell you. Hallmark has yet to come out with a card that says - “Hey, it’s too bad you and your best friend just broke up, go eat some chocolate.”. Not that I really need Hallmark to remind me to eat chocolate, but you get my drift. People in general don’t really acknowledge this ending of all endings. Because it really ends, doesn’t it? Sometimes with your ex-boyfriend or husband you can say, “Look, I know we aren’t in love any more but we’re still friends, so let’s go for a drink.” You can’t call your ex-best friend and say “Look, I know we’re not friends any more - but can we still hang out sometime?”. Not that I haven’t considered calling, but I think it might seem a little…
At some point or another, you are both probably going to get a new best friend, or at least good friend. She will probably have one before you, prepare yourself. And that is just the worst. Not that you don’t want your ex-friend to be happy - or at least you should, somewhere deep, deep down within your heart - you just can’t quite stomach seeing them wander around town with their jaunty matching purses, the purse YOU had been about to buy. Especially since you need to accept that the first time you run into each other, you are going to be alone and looking lonely and exhausted - it’s just the way the world works, don’t fight it.
The truth is, we are all going to lose friends along the way. Whether it’s their fault, your fault or someone else’s fault (my personal preference - I really don’t like to take the blame), it happens. The important thing is to let yourself accept this loss the same way you accept everything else. With a lot of whining, crying, wine and fattening foods. It’s really the only way.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Blame It On Harlequin!!
I started reading Harlequin Romances when I was about 12 or 13. I had been reading the Sweet Valley High series before then (remember the Wakefield twins, Jessica and Elizabeth?) but found I was ready to move on. You see, while I did enjoy reading about Elizabeth and her steady, sweetheart of a boyfriend Todd, they didn’t seem in any hurry to ‘close the deal’. And my curiosity was killing me (although not really bringing me any closer to actual flesh and bone boys). I was ready for some bodice-ripping good clean fun. Enter Harlequin.
I will admit I took a lot of comfort in the standard romance novel formula. Possibly far more than I should. I sort of liked the idea that there were really only six or seven regurgitated stories, basically half a dozen ways of falling in love. And that they generally took place somewhere a little cooler than where I lived (sorry, Owen Sounders). As most of us know the stories all go something like this;
-Pretty Girl owns cute shop, Swarthy Man comes along and buys up half the town. They hate each other, he kisses her roughly and she simpers. All ends well.
-Beautiful Girl and Handsome Man were in love once and ended it badly over a misunderstanding. He comes back, rich, to punish her. Meets his son who looks just like him (gasp!). He’s a little bossy but they fall back in love. But not until after he kisses her roughly.
-Simple Girl has amnesia. I actually always hated this story line so I will spare you the details. Needless to say at some point, despite her obvious mental incapacitation, he kisses her roughly.
- The Sheik kidnaps Haughty Girl and holds her for ransom. They fall in love after he kisses her roughly a whole lot more than the Western guys are allowed.
-My all-time favourite. The ‘Jenny Craig’ story line. When Chubby-with-Potential Girl is about eighteen and she meets Him. The thirty-six year old (he’s ALWAYS thirty-six) who’s business partners with her father. He hurts her in some brutal yet somehow forgivable way and leaves. She is devastated and goes on a two year ‘frump’ diet of limp hair and no food. She comes out the other end as a butterfly, with a killer figure, a great boyfriend (who is always blond and named either Even or Stephen - if you’re a blond guy in the books, you’re never getting the girl) a cool job and nice apartment. The Man comes back, puts on a tux and kisses her roughly. Bye bye Evan and cool apartment.
There are other elements, of course. Our heroine is beautiful but never trendy, her hair is always timeless. She would never sport a shag or a mullet or a Rachel. She is never seeking love, she is always sought out. And although she may not have any money, when the Greek tycoon comes along and forces her to accompany him to his villa in Crete (else he turn in her 2-bit loveable crook of a brother), she manages to have an amazing wardrobe.
Which is why we love her.
As for our hero - well, he’s always kind of a jerk, isn’t he? Sure, he has great abs and wide hair-free shoulders. But he’s also bossy and mean and arrogant. With a soft, warm centre.
So right there. That is why I’m single. And contemplating a major class action suit against Harlequin (as well as a really harsh letter to the Sweet Valley High series). How dare they give me - give US, sisters! - the impression that this is what we should expect? That every angry, bossy handsome dark haired man out there is really only waiting for us to put on a cocktail dress and give him some love? That if we could only stop looking for love, the Greek tycoon would end up on our doorstep (on the dead end street, mind you) to sweep us off our feet? That we should all hold out for a wealthy, arrogant, dark, autocratic man and keep all those perfectly nice balding, funny next-door neighbour fellas as our buddies? Who the heck do they end up with, I ask you?
Okay, here it is, girls. Time for some hard truths. Bossy is just bossy. Even if it’s attached to a really nice frame. If some guy keeps kissing you roughly do me a favour, and call the cops. It’s actually against the law. Give Evan or Stephen a chance, it’s not his fault if he’s blond. Or even bald!
It’s nice to know that, in real life, there are millions of ways to fall in love. That’s not to say that Harlequin doesn’t still owe us. I think a year’s worth of free books could be a start.
I will admit I took a lot of comfort in the standard romance novel formula. Possibly far more than I should. I sort of liked the idea that there were really only six or seven regurgitated stories, basically half a dozen ways of falling in love. And that they generally took place somewhere a little cooler than where I lived (sorry, Owen Sounders). As most of us know the stories all go something like this;
-Pretty Girl owns cute shop, Swarthy Man comes along and buys up half the town. They hate each other, he kisses her roughly and she simpers. All ends well.
-Beautiful Girl and Handsome Man were in love once and ended it badly over a misunderstanding. He comes back, rich, to punish her. Meets his son who looks just like him (gasp!). He’s a little bossy but they fall back in love. But not until after he kisses her roughly.
-Simple Girl has amnesia. I actually always hated this story line so I will spare you the details. Needless to say at some point, despite her obvious mental incapacitation, he kisses her roughly.
- The Sheik kidnaps Haughty Girl and holds her for ransom. They fall in love after he kisses her roughly a whole lot more than the Western guys are allowed.
-My all-time favourite. The ‘Jenny Craig’ story line. When Chubby-with-Potential Girl is about eighteen and she meets Him. The thirty-six year old (he’s ALWAYS thirty-six) who’s business partners with her father. He hurts her in some brutal yet somehow forgivable way and leaves. She is devastated and goes on a two year ‘frump’ diet of limp hair and no food. She comes out the other end as a butterfly, with a killer figure, a great boyfriend (who is always blond and named either Even or Stephen - if you’re a blond guy in the books, you’re never getting the girl) a cool job and nice apartment. The Man comes back, puts on a tux and kisses her roughly. Bye bye Evan and cool apartment.
There are other elements, of course. Our heroine is beautiful but never trendy, her hair is always timeless. She would never sport a shag or a mullet or a Rachel. She is never seeking love, she is always sought out. And although she may not have any money, when the Greek tycoon comes along and forces her to accompany him to his villa in Crete (else he turn in her 2-bit loveable crook of a brother), she manages to have an amazing wardrobe.
Which is why we love her.
As for our hero - well, he’s always kind of a jerk, isn’t he? Sure, he has great abs and wide hair-free shoulders. But he’s also bossy and mean and arrogant. With a soft, warm centre.
So right there. That is why I’m single. And contemplating a major class action suit against Harlequin (as well as a really harsh letter to the Sweet Valley High series). How dare they give me - give US, sisters! - the impression that this is what we should expect? That every angry, bossy handsome dark haired man out there is really only waiting for us to put on a cocktail dress and give him some love? That if we could only stop looking for love, the Greek tycoon would end up on our doorstep (on the dead end street, mind you) to sweep us off our feet? That we should all hold out for a wealthy, arrogant, dark, autocratic man and keep all those perfectly nice balding, funny next-door neighbour fellas as our buddies? Who the heck do they end up with, I ask you?
Okay, here it is, girls. Time for some hard truths. Bossy is just bossy. Even if it’s attached to a really nice frame. If some guy keeps kissing you roughly do me a favour, and call the cops. It’s actually against the law. Give Evan or Stephen a chance, it’s not his fault if he’s blond. Or even bald!
It’s nice to know that, in real life, there are millions of ways to fall in love. That’s not to say that Harlequin doesn’t still owe us. I think a year’s worth of free books could be a start.
A tribute to my Uncle Dexter, passed away June 5, 2007
You know, you can tell so much about a person by their laugh. Some people have a sort of little twitter, some people hide their laughter behind their hand, some never even laugh at all.
Our Dexter had a HUGE laugh. The kind that stopped people in their tracks, mid-sentence when they heard it. It was infectious, and singular and full of happiness. We all heard it often, for different reasons. Whether he was laughing at a slightly off-colour joke, a story amongst the many stories of us, or laughing at himself it was always there. His trademark.
Dexter was passionate about so many things, but mostly he was passionate about - all of us. The people who drove him crazy, who made him laugh, who made him proud. The people who sent him on errands to the airport for midnight pick-ups or to the corner store for chocolate and diet pop.
So much of our time in this great big whirling dervish of a family is spent fighting. Or crying. Dexter was the one who made us all laugh at ourselves through our anger or tears with his outrageousness. For a man who looked so serious, so studious, he was the best fun around. Especially if you were a teenager - he understood your angst, real or imagined. How many of us here were introduced to rock music - and in particular the rock ballads - by Dexter? How many of us were horrified/impressed by his very…original dancing at the family weddings? Or forced to get up and get dancing regardless of how cranky or teenager-y we were trying to be? The only way for him to have fun was to force YOU to have fun. And eventually, no matter how you might resist, it was always fun.
As much as he loved to dance, loved to fish, loved to read, REALLY loved Bette Midler, there was one he loved above all else. Rose. The one he lost before he knew, I think, it was quite possible to lose her. Before any of us really knew it was possible to lose her. She was who he was, in most ways. They were the same person - so much so that the younger kids thought they shared one name, Rosandex. They knew how to make the most of the ridiculously short time they were allowed. Together they travelled, ate, swam, read, lived and loved. And most of all, gave us two of the kindest, best people I know. They left us with Michael and Katie. And millions of memories small, huge difficult and cherished. Memories filled with music, laughter, heartache and even more irreverent laughter.
As well as Dexter’s incredibly good fried chicken - that tasted just as good cold as it did hot, incidentally.
I don’t know if you were ready to go, Dexter, because I am not you. I don’t know if you’d said all of your goodbyes or put all of your demons to rest. But I do know there is someone who waits for you, someone wonderful and kind and yours. And there are so many of us here who you loved for who we were and who you knew we would one day be. So for all of us,
Thank you, we love you and goodbye.
Our Dexter had a HUGE laugh. The kind that stopped people in their tracks, mid-sentence when they heard it. It was infectious, and singular and full of happiness. We all heard it often, for different reasons. Whether he was laughing at a slightly off-colour joke, a story amongst the many stories of us, or laughing at himself it was always there. His trademark.
Dexter was passionate about so many things, but mostly he was passionate about - all of us. The people who drove him crazy, who made him laugh, who made him proud. The people who sent him on errands to the airport for midnight pick-ups or to the corner store for chocolate and diet pop.
So much of our time in this great big whirling dervish of a family is spent fighting. Or crying. Dexter was the one who made us all laugh at ourselves through our anger or tears with his outrageousness. For a man who looked so serious, so studious, he was the best fun around. Especially if you were a teenager - he understood your angst, real or imagined. How many of us here were introduced to rock music - and in particular the rock ballads - by Dexter? How many of us were horrified/impressed by his very…original dancing at the family weddings? Or forced to get up and get dancing regardless of how cranky or teenager-y we were trying to be? The only way for him to have fun was to force YOU to have fun. And eventually, no matter how you might resist, it was always fun.
As much as he loved to dance, loved to fish, loved to read, REALLY loved Bette Midler, there was one he loved above all else. Rose. The one he lost before he knew, I think, it was quite possible to lose her. Before any of us really knew it was possible to lose her. She was who he was, in most ways. They were the same person - so much so that the younger kids thought they shared one name, Rosandex. They knew how to make the most of the ridiculously short time they were allowed. Together they travelled, ate, swam, read, lived and loved. And most of all, gave us two of the kindest, best people I know. They left us with Michael and Katie. And millions of memories small, huge difficult and cherished. Memories filled with music, laughter, heartache and even more irreverent laughter.
As well as Dexter’s incredibly good fried chicken - that tasted just as good cold as it did hot, incidentally.
I don’t know if you were ready to go, Dexter, because I am not you. I don’t know if you’d said all of your goodbyes or put all of your demons to rest. But I do know there is someone who waits for you, someone wonderful and kind and yours. And there are so many of us here who you loved for who we were and who you knew we would one day be. So for all of us,
Thank you, we love you and goodbye.
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