Besties or bitches?

Women always complain about men being terrible communicators.

Ironically, we're terrible about communicating with each other.

When men get into fights, there's usually punches, blood drawn, and quick forgiveness.

With women, our fights are a little more...complicated. And unnecessarily drawn out.

First of all, we often don't tell the other girl why we're upset. That's our first mistake. We just figure, well "she should KNOW."

We talk shit behind their back. "Omg, she's SUCH a bitch." We complain about them behind their back. "I'm so tired of her crap." We lie to their face. "I love you too!" And then finally, when we can't take it anymore, we often just cut them out of our lives without a single word.

There's no heart-to-heart chat. There's no rational explanation. The friend is left potentially mystified, devastated, and justifiably outraged.

And oftentimes the reason for the fight is something so silly, that over time, with all the manipulation and back-stabbing, it has morphed into something incredibly pointless. But in the meantime, the hatred has deepened.

Like snowflakes, no two girl fights are alike. Each are complex, messy, and bizarre in their own delightful way.

I have lost so many friends through this process. Sometimes I've been the victim. Other times, I've been the bitch.

A few significant friendships of mine were shattered this way. Girls I considered my dearest sisters.

Remember Nancy?

She's a textbook mean girl. She had been talking badly about me behind my back for years. She never voiced to me why she was upset with me. She just simply vanished one day, out of my life, after five years of close friendship. To this day, I'm completely clueless as to what happened.

What's even worse is that literally, the very next morning after I wrote that blog post about her last year, I went out to the parking lot of my apartment complex and discovered somebody had painted the word "bitch" all over my car. It took poor Rian an hour to wash off.

Coincidence? I think not.

I wish with all my heart that girls would just fucking communicate with each other.

I wish that instead of defacing private property, Nancy would have just sent me an e-mail that said, "I read your stupid blog and I hate you. The reason we're not best friends anymore is because _____, you fucking bitch." At least then we would be off to a good start! I could write back either, "I had no idea that's why you were so upset with me! That was a misunderstanding!" or "Oh wow. So that's why you were mad at me? Well I didn't mean to hurt you. I had no idea it offended you. I'm very sorry." And we could have gone on from there. Either patched things up or decided collectively to part ways. I was never given that respect.

I'm not going to lie. I've been guilty of pulling a Nancy in the past. And I regret it. When it comes to a friend, there should always be straightforward communication. Do not be afraid to pour your heart out in a letter. Over the phone. Even through a fucking text message. Anything is better than nothing.

And what's worse is that this is the reason so many female relatives have fights spanning over decades. I once had two aunts who didn't speak for 15 years over a squabble they couldn't even remember. My boyfriend's mom and her youngest sister stopped speaking several years ago over something petty. You all know what I'm going through with my aunt. Eight months and that shit still hasn't been resolved.

It's pathetic.

Why are we so good at expressing our feelings with our boyfriends and husbands, but we're so idiotic at communicating with our friends? Our sisters? Our mothers?

I want to change. I'm trying.

I'm sick of being a mean girl.

Are you?

"Where are you from?"

People in the United States are obsessed with color.

Yeah, we're a melting pot. Our pedigrees are like recipes. One-fourth cup of Ireland. One-eighth cup of Puerto Rico. Half cup of Germany.

But that doesn't mean anything.

If you're white, you're American. If you're black, you're American. But if you're not white or black...well, you must be something else then, right?

My father immigrated here from India 43 years ago. My mother's ancestors immigrated here from Sweden more than 100 years ago.

And my entire life, there is one question I have been asked more than any other: "Where are you from?".

Never mind I have an American accent. Never mind I'm living in the Midwest. Never mind my name is JENNIFER.

No, no. I simply must be from somewhere else. Because I'm brown.

Some of you may not really understand why it upsets me so much. After all, people are dumb and it's just a question. But to constantly be asked where I'm from in a country that is my home is insulting, frustrating, and sad. When I was a kid, it almost felt like I didn't really belong here, which was a very scary and lonely feeling.

What hurt even more is that my childhood best friend was a Polish immigrant. She had only been in the country for a few years. Her name was ridiculously foreign. People always fucked it up. But nobody ever asked where she was from. The girl named Jennifer got asked all the time. It was like Katarina was the American and I was the immigrant. Being around her caused a lot of resentment and bitterness for me. Why was she treated like the insider and I was treated like the outsider?

I hated being a mixed race kid. It was embarrassing always having to explain to everyone that the blonde haired, blue-eyed woman standing next to me was my mom. Always. Nobody ever assumed she was related to me. I was always unsure what to checkmark in that box when we took standardized tests. Was I Caucasian? Or Asian? Seriously, what the fuck was I? (This problem was eventually solved 20 years later when I was arrested and the police officer wrote down 'Caucasian female' in his report. I was thankful to finally know the answer, despite being in handcuffs).

Growing up, the world idolized Heather Locklear and Britney Spears. I so badly wanted to be a beautiful blonde American like my mother. No one ever asked her where she was from. I was determined that one day I was going to marry a white man so my kids and descendants would NEVER be treated like a foreigner in their own country.

(My first serious boyfriend ended up being half-Egyptian and half-Irish. So much for that.)

When I grew up, the world started changing and I started maturing.

There are now Indian immigrants everywhere in this country. There are gorgeous women all around me named Anika and Ridhi and Navya. There are so many that now when people learn my name is "Jennifer" I don't get asked where I'm from as often. I've become less exotic.

And I no longer have the desire to marry a white guy. I simply want to marry someone who makes me happy, whether he's black or Chinese or a global mix.

I love that Rian is a quarter Sioux. The stories that run through his blood are inspiring and heartbreaking. His grandmother, who grew up on a reservation, is one of the most fascinating people I've ever met. And even though I'm not super close to Rian's mom, I feel a bond with her that I don't share with many others. She is also half-Indian (the other kind) and from what Rian tells me, it wasn't easy for her either.

I've learned that to be a part of the melting pot, I need to embrace it. I need to respect it.

But I'm only one person.

The United States as a whole is still obsessed with color. My name could change to Jennifer Smith tomorrow and I would still have people curiously asking me, "where are you from?".

And no matter who knocks me up, my kids will be multi-racial. They will have color in their skin. When I was a child, I hated that fact. Now, I adore it. They'll be just like me!

Except there is one major difference. They will be far removed from India. They will be far removed from Sweden. They will be far removed from the Native American reservation, perhaps.

And when someone asks them, "where are you from?" they will have to just shrug, with a smile, and say

"the world."

Summer of 2006

I knew what he was going to say before he said it.

The panicky feeling of dread enveloped me, squeezing tighter and tighter. I nearly collapsed under its clutch. It had started six days before. He took longer to answer his cell. He wouldn't talk more than a minute. He didn't want to make plans. That warmth in his voice, reserved especially for me, was gone. He stopped saying "I love you."

It was so out of the blue.

There had been no fight. No obstacle had presented itself.

But there he was, standing on my parents' doorstep that sweltering summer day, looking sheepish and grim at the same time. He shuffled on the welcome mat. He didn't even want to come inside.

I grabbed his arm, desperately. Too desperately.

"I bought your favorite bagel," I cried out. "And that jalapeno cream cheese you love so much! Come eat lunch. Please."

He reluctantly stepped inside.

"I can't stay," he said, awkwardly. "I need to do something. I wanted to do it in person. Please don't make this any harder than it is."

I stood there in shock. A large mass blocked my throat from uttering any sound. Tears welled in my eyes.

"It's over, Jen," he said.

There were other words. I think there was even a fucking speech. I'm not sure. All I remember is crumbling on the floor in my white sundress like a giant tissue.

I was so pretty back then. Ninety-nine pounds. Twenty-two years old. Long brown hair.

"You can have any guy you want," he comforted me.

"But I want YOU!" I wailed back.

A panic attack arose in me. I begged him to reconsider. I told him he just needed time to think. He didn't even have a reason, other than he didn't think we were right for each other.

"WHY?"

"I just do."

Pride didn't exist that day. I threw myself at his feet. He didn't care.

When he left, I ran into the kitchen and threw the bagels against the wall. I picked up the carton of jalapeno cream cheese and smashed it on the floor, glaring at the white and green clumps against the beige tile.

Your first broken heart is the worst one. I heard that somewhere recently. It made me half-smile, because it's true. You honestly think the world has come to an end. It's a shock. It's grief. It's your soul trying to readjust to life without him.

I didn't eat for eight days. I forced down juice. I dropped down to ninety pounds. I was putting on a bikini in my bedroom when my mom came inside. "How can you be so sad when you look so amazing?" she marveled, staring at my body. I looked in the mirror. I had never been so thin. It didn't matter though. Nothing did.

Eventually I ate because my hunger returned against my will. But I was like a prisoner, trapped inside my aching mind. My head physically hurt to think about him.

Later that summer, I got my first real job at the newspaper. It distracted me a little bit. I went on a bunch of first dates and then hit ignore on my cell when the guys called back.

That fall, a guy I knew from an American Literature class in college randomly Facebook messaged me and we became pen pals, sharing our lives and deepest secrets. We fell in love through black and white and have been together ever since.

I'm with the person I'm meant to be with now. It's a comforting feeling amidst all the other troubles occurring in my life.

But that doesn't erase the past.

Today, my dad bought me lunch and the minute I took the first bite, an overwhelming sense of sadness smacked me in the heart. A distinct feeling I hadn't felt for seven years. I looked down.

It was that damn jalapeno cream cheese.

The truth.

I've been gone for a really long time.

Have you noticed?

I know I don't really owe an explanation of sorts. I mean, bloggers are entitled to a break, right?

But if you're still reading this blog, it means you probably care, so I'm going to tell you.

I'm depressed.

There it is, in black and white. Well, pink.

I have several (fifteen to be exact, I actually made a fucking list) major problems going on in my life right now that cannot be easily solved. It's a complicated hot mess involving mistakes I made in the past, a severe lack of finances, and family issues.

And I'm crushed underneath it all.

As a result, I just don't care about anything anymore. I avoid my friends. I have no desire to write personally or blog. I'm not in the mood to learn about anything.

When I'm not working, I'm guzzling black tea and listlessly reading Jane Austen fan fiction novels. Or, you know, sobbing into a pillow.

Anyway, I thought you should know the reason for my unexplained absence.

Tonight is my first step back into writing. I don't have the energy to research doomed starlets or fabulous gay men anymore. I'm sorry.

But since I can't afford therapy, perhaps spilling my soul onto this screen will help me in another way.

I can't let my unhappiness win.

I don't want it to.

The Tale of a Little Bunny

It was a dream that seemed completely unattainable.

Ever since I was a little girl, I desperately wanted to catch a wild rabbit and make it my own. I wanted to play with it. Pet it. Be a friend.

I would chase them, but never catch one.

I gave up the hope, but never the dream.

On Monday, my mom called me and asked me to come over because she had a surprise.

A surprise, indeed!

She had rescued a little baby bunny from the razor-sharp fangs of a blood-thirsty hound. The wildlife center where she volunteered simply didn't have room for him. So, she was going to take care of him herself and release him in a week.

I couldn't believe it! A baby bunny! A wild rabbit!

He wasn't much fun at first. He didn't move much and barely ate. He didn't like being held. But as the days went on, he brightened up. He started eating (loved apples and hated cabbage). He loved to snuggle in my lap (his favorite was getting his ears rubbed). He was curious and would hop all over the couch, ears perking up at all the colorful sights around the room. He even licked my arm, which is the ultimate sign of affection from a rabbit. It means they've bonded with you to the point where they want to groom you.

It seemed he was finally ready for release, so we had planned to take him to a nearby park this afternoon. I was crushed we had to let him go, but I figured that perhaps it was for the best. After all, he would meet new friends and perhaps have a family of his own one day.

But he died this morning.

His internal injuries must have been worse than we thought. His eyes were open, which meant he probably had been awake until the end.

It breaks my heart. I can only hope that I provided him some happiness and comfort during his pain. I hope that he knew how much I loved him.

Goodbye, baby bunny.

Are you a dirty girl?

I'm going to be completely honest.

Dirty Girl is not the greatest movie in the world.

The dialogue is syrupy. The premise is cheesy. The music is awkward.

But none of that matters because this movie is FUN.

It's kind of like the theatrical version of a strawberry Starburst. It's a unnaturally sweet. It's just a tiny bit sour. It's not good for you at all. But when you look back, you don't regret opening that wrapper.

This 2010 film revolves around Danielle (Juno Temple) who is the ultimate dirty girl. She's a promiscuous little bad ass suffering through high school in the mid-1980s. As if that isn't bad enough, she lives in a little trailer with her crazy mom.

The sassy blonde is forced to partner with a miserable overweight gay kid, Clarke (Jeremy Dozier), for a homework assignment and the two realize they have more in common than they thought: they're both outsiders and hopelessly misunderstood.

When Danielle realizes her mom intends on marrying a creepy religious man, she persuades Clarke to drop everything and cross the country to search for her real father.

There's bad singing. There's dancing. There's heartache. There's realization.

It sorted reminded me of Napoleon Dynamite fused with Mean Girls.

The cast of Dirty Girl is pretty amazing. William H. Macy, Milla Jovovitch, and Mary Steenburgen are just a few of the big names. Plus, I was pretty impressed with the two young stars.

It's important to note the film highlights the struggles of gay acceptance, which is obviously our civil rights movement right now.

It's a poignant little film perfect for a girls night in or lazy afternoon.

I highly recommend netflixing it.

The most iconic woman you don't know

She's a legend.

And chances are, you probably don't even know her name.

Moms Mabley.

A stage name, of course. But one that became a household name and world-wide sensation in the 1950s and 60s.

She was once deemed the "funniest woman in the world."

But her childhood was far from humorous.

The great-granddaughter of a slave, Jackie "Moms" Mabley was born in North Carolina in 1897. When she was 11, her father, a businessman and volunteer firefighter, died when his fire truck exploded. Soon after, her mom was killed by a mail truck on Christmas morning.

By the time she was 15, the orphan had been raped twice, once by an older black man and another time by a white sheriff. Both rapes resulted in pregnancy. Both babies were given up for adoption.

Her step-father encouraged her to get married, but her grandmother convinced her to strike out on her own. After all, she had singing and dancing talent which couldn't be ignored. Following her grandma's advice, Jackie ran off to Cleveland to join a traveling show.

It was the best decision she ever made. Realizing her sense of humor was far more spectacular than her dancing gams, Jackie turned to comedy. It wasn't long before Jackie was discovered by a famous vaudeville duo and they asked her to join them.

Soon, Jackie was performing at legendary venues, such as the Cotton Club, the Savoy Ballroom, and later, the Apollo Theater. During the 1920s Harlem Renaissance Jackie had become part of an elite circle of performers and jazz musicians who would shape the world.

And although she was having relationships with both men and women, Jackie kept her sexuality to herself. After all, she believed sexuality was something to be expressed, not defined.

Her risqué stand-up comedy routines shocked and delighted audiences who had never encountered someone like her before. She dressed like a man. She talked openly about subjects like racism.

In 1960, she made history by performing for a white audience at Carnegie Hall. It was so successful, her career took off even further, earning her guest appearances on all the hottest television shows of the era.

Her persona, as a frumpy grumpy ol' woman, became one of the most recognized characters in showbiz.

Well into her 60s, Jackie was already shaping the future of comedy for women...and for everyone. She went on to record more than two dozen comedy albums. At 75 years old, she even became the oldest person to ever have a top 40 hit.

In 1975, Jackie passed away from heart failure. She was survived by four children (in addition to the two she had given up for adoption).

Strangely and sadly, her status as a comedic pioneer vanished into thin air after her death. When we look back on the history of comedy, we think of other names first.

Fortunately, Whoopi Goldberg is going to change that soon.

Frustrated that nobody had ever heard of the comedienne who inspired her entire career, Whoopi decided to produce and direct an HBO documentary called "Moms Mabley: I Got Something to Tell You," which will air this fall.

A little late for her legend to be remembered, but better late than never, right?