Oh, Frankie!

When I was in middle school I had virtually no self-esteem.

Of course, I wasn't alone. But when you're 13, it feels like it.

I had been a really cute kid. But then things drastically changed. My teeth grew in severely crooked, thanks to a gum surgery (a benign tumor was removed). My front teeth grew in sideways. When I opened my mouth I looked like a freak. I stopped smiling when I was nine.

I hadn't grown into my nose yet. It was wide and had a hump and not at all like the dainty little upturned noses my blonde peers flaunted.

My hair was long, stringy, and frizzy. The humid south Florida weather promised I would never see a good hair day, no matter how many products my mom gave me.

I was pretty damn miserable.

I had crushes on boys, but they were pretty cruel to me when they found out. One popular boy even shouted "woof!" when he discovered I had the hots for him. If that doesn't shatter a sixth-grader's self-image, I don't know what does.

I suppose you could say being an awkward, unattractive pre-teen developed my character. I became extremely sarcastic. I didn't have many friends. I holed myself away at home, spending weekends writing humorous stories and fake magazine articles on the computer, instead of going to the mall with other girls my age. The Jennifer you know today was founded on that time period.

But I desperately wanted a boy to like me. I didn't even want a boyfriend. I just wanted a boy to LIKE ME. I wanted to feel pretty. I wanted to feel like I wasn't the biggest loser on the planet.

On the first day of seventh grade, that changed.

Frank, the new kid, sat next to me in algebra class. He was cute, in a non-threatening sort of way. He didn't use hair products and he didn't dress like a douchebag. He wore flannel. He had a strange accent. He had kind eyes.

I cracked a joke in class, and while my other classmates stared at me blankly, Frank laughed. Not at me, but at my joke! I couldn't believe it! It was a miracle!

Later that day in the cafeteria, my friends and I looked up to see Frank holding his lunch tray, hovering over us.

"Can I sit here?" he asked.

I nearly knocked my milk over the table, I was so eager to make room for him.

"Everyone here seems really superficial," he said, narrowing his eyes at a group of popular girls applying makeup at the next table. "I'm from New Jersey. I'm not used to palm trees and all these fancy houses."

After the girls I was sitting with went to hang out in the sunny quad, Frank and I talked. He was so easy to talk to, which surprised me. Other than my cousins, I didn't have much experience talking to boys my own age.

We became fast friends. He ate lunch with me every day. He laughed at all my jokes. He talked a lot about New Jersey. He was clearly very homesick. I didn't mind though because I didn't know much about the east coast. I found it all very interesting. I couldn't imagine not going to Disney World every weekend. I couldn't imagine a beach without palm trees. It all seemed very odd and exciting. Industrial and cool.

We started hanging out after school. I even went to a school dance with him, as friends, and taught him the Macarena. I couldn't believe Frank had never done it before! It was like hanging out with a Martian! Even President Clinton knew the Macarena!

And of course, from the moment we became best friends I knew I was madly in love with him. I had never been treated so nicely before by a boy who wasn't a relative. He made me feel so special.

Suddenly, my life changed.

My parents took me to Bennigan's for dinner during a weeknight. I should have known something was up because we only went there for special occasions and never during the week. I was halfway through my delicious hot wings when my parents dropped the bombshell.

We were moving to Nebraska.

Haha wait, what?

My dad had been offered a much better job up there in Omaha. One he simply couldn't turn down.

I was devastated.

I awkwardly parted ways with my friends. Saying goodbye to Frankie was the hardest. He promised me he would write.
And guess what. He did.

For a month, we wrote each other once a week. Neither one of us had e-mail back then. It was all snail mail, which, looking back on it, made his correspondence even more impressive.

But I was miserable in Omaha. I thought about Frankie all the time. I slept with his letters underneath my pillow. It was torture knowing he was there and I was here. That I was in love with him and he didn't know.

So, I decided I needed to tell him how I felt.

I recorded myself singing "Don't Let Go" by En Vogue onto a cassette tape and I mailed it to him.

It seemed like a really good idea at the time. It seemed so rational!

I didn't take into account that my singing voice sounds like a dying cat. I didn't realize that my wailing "there's gonna be some LOVE-MAKIN', HEART-BREAKIN', SOUL-SHAKIN' loooOoooOoove" was severely inappropriate.

After I mailed him the tape, I never heard from him again.

I was crushed.

At the time, I couldn't figure out why. Didn't he like me back? Wasn't my message obvious? Did he not like R&B?

I was flummoxed.

Of course, looking back now, I realize that I pretty much made the worst decision in the history of the world. And I laugh hysterically thinking about it.

Oh, man. Poor Frankie. I wish I could have seen his reaction when he hit play. I must have scared the shit outta that poor boy.

I wonder if he still has the tape.

Jezebel?

I know a girl who was kind, funny, and sweet

But her life was merely deceit

She had long blonde locks then cut them short

She might have had babies she had to abort

I wanted to be her best friend

I didn't know her presence would end

(so abruptly)

The lies caught up with the image

We were left to pick up the wreckage

Was she...? Did she...? She was, she did

It breaks my heart the secrets she hid

Cheating, lying, scandals, and sex

Paying her bills thanks to horny rednecks

(it seems)

I want to believe it's not true

I want to believe that's not you

In times of desperation I can understand

But not when it comes to cheating on your man

Maybe we're wrong, maybe we're right

But why would you block us out of spite?

(otherwise)

This is a terrible poem and I know it

If you're not guilty, why don't you show it?

I'd like to think you weren't faking the sweetness

But either way, it's a terrible mess

I guess you really just don't know someone

Until you hear the truth and they're long gone

(without a word)

It's okay. Don't cry.

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?

(kiss my shades)

He was fucking crazy.

It was what we loved and hated about him.

Will came wrapped in an emotionally broken package, carelessly stapled together with an over-consumption of liquor.

Almost everything that poured out of his mouth was fiction. He was in a rock band. He had his graduate degree in art. He was going to be famous.

I knew him long before we became friends. But I remember the minute it changed. We were standing outside Jonny's downtown loft one winter evening, sipping champagne and tipsily reciting lyrics from Hand in Glove.

"I used to hang out with Morrissey back when I lived in LA," Will casually told me, flicking a spark of fiery cigarette ash onto the snow-covered sidewalk.

I laughed at him. It wasn't true. But I didn't care.

"You're gorgeous," he told me seriously, looking into my eyes.

I smirked back.

We spent most of our nights running around town, chugging wine from the bottle and puking in alleys. We danced in neon-lit gay bars. We snuggled together, watching horror movies. We climbed rooftops for no reason. We were such an all-American pair.

The man with tattoos. The girl in the sun dress.

Lounging on the sprawling lawn outside the art museum one summer afternoon, he asked me to run away to St. Louis with him. It'll be fabulous, he said. We need to run away together, Jenny Bunny, it would be so fabulous.

So fabulous, so fabulous.

I laughed into the sky.

"So fabulous," I whispered, watching the clouds stare back at me.

A warm spring evening, we met at one of our usual hangouts. He was with a boy.

"I'm so in love," Will said, gazing at the cute curly-haired guy smiling back at him. "This is it. This is the rest of my life."

"When did you two meet?" I asked.

"Two days ago," Will said, dreamily.

I smiled.

They stayed together for more than a year.

At 2 a.m. on a chilly fall night we found ourselves at a park overlooking the river. Sitting on a rock.

"I love you, Jenny Bunny," he said.

I love you too.

"You're the most fabulous girl I know," he said.

You're sweet.

"Let's run away together," he said.

Where?

"Santa Fe," he said.

Okay.

(But we stayed.)

It wasn't long before his life completely spun into oblivion. Drunk nights led to emergency room drama. His temper got out of control. He used people, especially his boyfriend. We all started to avoid him.

And the lies. So many exposed. What was real? What was fake? Who was he? Did he exist?

After a nasty break-up with his boyfriend, he moved back to his hometown, a few hours south.

He called me several times. Laughing. Talking. Lying.

And then we had our first and only fight. Bitterness was spit at each other. Goodbye.

We were out of each other's lives.

I thought I would never see him again. And I was right. I'll never have that chance.

Two days ago, his life was taken away as recklessly as he lived it.

And as I'm still trying to digest this reality, all I can do is think about those two words he always brought up.

Run away.

The Green Monster

I think one of the biggest aspects of growing up is self-acceptance.

At least it was for me.

Throughout my life, there have been so many instances where I wanted to be somebody else. Desperately. And it would consume me.

When I was in elementary school, I thought my cousin Tiffany was the most beautiful girl in the world. She was like a teen dream out of a movie. Skinny. Blonde. Blue eyes. Cheerleader. Whenever we would walk places, people would turn and stare.

For example, one afternoon, on the beach, when she was wearing an American flag bikini, a line of hot guys stood up and saluted her, shouting remarks like "god bless America for you, baby!" And she just laughed at them. Because she was young and gorgeous and carefree.

I remember in 1995, whenever Tiffany would come to our house to stay overnight, usually with her best friend, I would linger in the hallway near their room and listen to them gossip and giggle. They often talked about cheerleading practice, what boys were the cutest in their English class, or silly articles from Seventeen magazine. I fervently wished that I could join them, but I doubted they wanted an annoying 11-year-old girl hanging around, making their sleepover lame.

I wanted to be Tiffany so badly that I pleaded with my mother to buy me the same perfume Tiffany wore and the same shampoo she used and a subscription to Seventeen. My parents bought me the first two, but I was deemed too young for the third.

And as a pre-teen, I would stare in the mirror and hate what I saw. Instead of a beaming blonde beauty queen, all I saw was an unattractive brown kid with crooked teeth, long ratty hair, and glasses. It broke my heart. It didn't seem fair. I had absolutely no self-esteem and while my friends were starting to be interested in boys and makeup, I found myself fantasizing about things I couldn't control, like silky blonde locks, ivory white skin, and bright blue eyes.

Several years later, when I was in high school, I was still licking my wounds from my self-destructive childhood image. It didn't help that Britney Spears, basically a younger version of my cousin, was now the face of my generation.

But when I was 16, I met a girl who changed my perspective. Lisa was cute, with long brown hair. She dressed in "skater" clothes. She wore black eyeliner around her eyes. She smoked. She listened to alternative rock music I didn't even know existed. She said "fuck" so frequently, it just became another word.

She also had a wicked sense of humor. Like, she was hysterical. Without missing a beat. She was like a teenage Janeane Garofalo.

I thought Lisa was so cool, I started copying almost everything about her. The way she talked. The snarky attitude. The questionable fashion decisions she made (Hot Topic, anyone?). The black eyeliner. It was very Single White Female of me.

I noticed that adults started treating me differently, like I was a delinquent. And looking back at old photos, I don't blame them. I looked like I should have been dealing drugs behind the gym.

Instead of being weirded out by my transformation, Lisa happily accepted it and we became best friends, walking around the cafeteria making bitchy comments about the popular kids and casually saying "fuck" in every sentence.

When I moved away to college, I never saw her again. And I threw away all those horrible clothes.

Now, ten years later, I'm surprised to realize that it has been a very long time since I've wanted to be anyone else.

I still don't have the highest self-esteem in the world, but I've accepted who I am and what I am. My twenties has been a period where I've discovered a lot about myself. It is fulfilling to know what I really like and what I don't, rather than copying someone else.

I have also embraced my differences. I've grown very pleased to be half-Indian because it's exotic and terrifically unique. The blonde princesses of the world no longer rule. Our role models come in every color. So do our sex symbols.

And while I do envy qualities in the people around me (Rian's brains, Jonny's charm, and my best friend Jenn's jaw-dropping singing voice), I don't want to be them. Instead, I appreciate them even more for it.

After all, I'm sure there are people out there who envy me, right?

That's just how it goes.

Summer of '96

When I was 12 years old, I begged my parents to let me be a junior counselor at a summer camp a couple hours away from town.

Shockingly, they said yes.

The sprawling ranch was in south Florida, near an Indian reservation. There were horses, goats, pigs, rabbits, and other farm animals.

The camp's mascot was a gigantic pot belly pig, Big C, who was gentle as a lamb. He would roam around the ranch, to the delight of the younger children. It was tradition for anyone who saw Big C to shout out "Big C comin'!"

When I was introduced to my bunkmate, Brittany, I was in complete awe. With sun-soaked blonde hair, a gorgeous face, and a bored expression, she was like a 13-year-old Heather Locklear. When she lit up a cigarette inside our cabin, blowing the smoke through a cracked open window, I knew she was the coolest girl I'd ever met in my life.

Even Brittany's background was glamorous, at least for a generic upper-middle class girl like me. Her father was in prison. Her mom was a bartender. Brittany said words like "fucking-A" and "bitchballs" which I had never heard anyone my own age utter aloud before.

She decided we were going to be best friends and I went along with it. Unfortunately, being bffs with Brittany meant I had to alienate myself from all the other junior camp counselors at the ranch. They all despised her. She never gave them the time of day and when she was forced to talk to one of the other girls, she usually spoke with condescending coolness.

"These other girls here are so fucking-A!" she would groan at night, flicking her cigarette out the window while simultaneously reading Seventeen. "Thank god I have you, Jen."

After a couple weeks of being at camp, Brittany convinced me to sneak out of the ranch almost every night. We would climb the bulky wooden fence and run out in the fields towards a cluster of large trees. Even though I was terrified of heights, I would allow Brittany to coax me up a tree and sit in the branches, gazing out at the stars or the faded lights of the Indian reservation in the distance. I would never climb up as far as Brittany. I would stare up at her, with envy, wishing I could be sitting on the top branch, with my blonde locks flowing in the wind.

One night, we huddled together on a lower branch, and watched in awe as a group of American Indian men, wearing nothing but jeans and cowboy boots, herded a pack of horses in the field right beneath our feet.

Everything about Brittany seemed so grown up. She might have been 13, but she acted 16, at least.

"God, just looking at that tree makes me horny," she once said, pointing to a weeping willow across the lake. "Doesn't it make you horny?"

I nodded enthusiastically, not having the slightest idea what she was talking about.

Another evening, she made me pierce her upper left ear. She already had her ears pierced, but wanted a third hole. Our laughter turned to shrieks of horror as I stabbed her ear with a pin. She had to wear her hair down for several days, to hide the grotesque swelling. Every time I apologized, she laughed.

With a week left into camp, Brittany's school friends showed up one night, with some older boys, in a rusty blue Mustang. Brittany left with them and didn't come back until around 3 a.m.

The next morning, I went to breakfast and immediately noticed something was wrong. Kids were crying. The older camp counselors, college students, were whispering to each other. Some of the camp leaders, the adults, were pacing back and forth, looking stunned.

When I found out the news, I was speechless. Apparently Big C had been slaughtered at the ranch that night. Someone, or some people, had attacked him and cut him open, spilling his guts out. His blood had been splattered and smeared all over the campground.

I felt dizzy with nausea that someone could be so cruel to such a beloved pet. Big C was such a gentle creature. He never would have hurt anyone. He loved everyone. He was so trusting. I went into my cabin and threw myself on my bed and cried. Who could have hurt Big C?

The police were called in. Camp was cancelled. With only a week to go, the ranch owner was so devastated, she couldn't even finish the summer. All events were cancelled.

Brittany had become so attached to me that summer, that she ended up persuading her mom to pay out-of-district tuition to send her to my middle school, about 45 minutes away from where she lived.

I wasn't terribly thrilled by the news. I had cooled our relationship since camp ended. For some reason I felt weird around her now. I didn't find her that entertaining anymore. I certainly no longer wanted to be like her.

Her transfer to my school eventually worked out for her, regardless of me. She instantly became close friends with the popular kids in my school. I rarely saw her in the months before I ended up moving to Nebraska.

In the back of my mind, I always knew what had bothered me about the night Brittany had come home. I always knew why I had severed our friendship without offering her a solid explanation.

The night Brittany had come back from hanging out with her wild friends, she'd reeked of an extremely strong, musky odor. I couldn't pinpoint what it had been at the time. But now, I'm almost certain: it had been blood.

But it hurt too much to put the pieces together. So, instead, I let them fall.

Once in a while, when I think of the summer of 1996, I don't really dwell on Brittany, or the friendship we once shared.

I simply remember lounging on a cold tree branch, feeling a soft breeze run through my hair, watching the horses gallop below in the star-freckled moonlight. Basking in a taste of stolen freedom. Wondering if that's what heaven felt like.

The Girl Who Made Me Cry

Two years ago, I had a rude awakening. Her name was "Nancy."

She severed our five-year friendship like it was meaningless shit.

Nancy and I became close friends around seven or eight years ago, when we were in college. I couldn't have asked for a better fit. She was sarcastic, intelligent, modern, and practical. Sort of like Daria.

We both adored Jane Austen. Our guilty pleasures included the same stupid reality shows. Our book lists held the same titles. We could talk for hours about anything and everything.

But Nancy brought out an ugly side of me. She loved to talk about her friends behind their backs. I would often find myself caught up in dissing everyone and everything.

She wasn't very clever at hiding her disdain for my life either. It was clear she hated my boyfriend, couldn't stand my best friend, and thought my blog was stupid. It wasn't uncommon for her to snidely remark, "don't post these on your blog" after I took photos of us together.

One thing I noticed about Nancy is that she never seemed satisfied with anything, especially her own life. There were certain girls she was desperate to impress--these boring, mildly attractive hipsterish girls with etch and sketch personalities.

I don't know why she was drawn to these people. It was weird, especially considering she already had a good thing going. She had interesting friends, she was dating a decent guy, and she had a close relationship with her sisters, something I always envied.

As if those clues weren't enough, I had other people telling me for years how much they couldn't stand Nancy. And I always defended her. I figured they were just jealous of a strong, independent career woman with a mind of her own.

Our five-year friendship ended one summer, when Nancy stopped returning my calls, texts, and e-mails. She eventually blocked me on gmail, facebook, and twitter. It was so completely out of the blue, I felt surely there had been a mistake. After all, it's not like I had done anything wrong. There was no fight. There had been no bad words spoken. I had actually just seen her at her birthday party a week beforehand and we had said goodbye amicably, promising to make plans.

But I was shut out. No warning. No explanation. No apology.

It was bad timing too. I was still mourning the recent loss of my grandmother. I had just been laid off from my job. I already felt worthless.

I e-mailed her, asking for a reason. She owed me that, right?

Nancy wrote back stating she didn't think we had anything in common anymore. That was it.

Five years of friendship. Five years of hanging out. Five years of sharing our personal lives together. Five years.

And after weeks of crying, months of licking my wounds, and now years of acceptance, I finally understand what she meant.

We never did have anything in common.

Because I'm not a bitch.

The Indian Bestie

Growing up, I've stumbled upon many phenomenons in my lifetime.

One is a trend I somehow manage to create in anyone who becomes close friends with me:

The Indian Bestie



Almost every time I become close friends with a girl (black, white, Mexican, etc.) and I either move away, or the friendship dissipates, that girl immediately, with no time to spare, finds another Indian girl to take my place.

This may not seem strange to some of you.

But when I was a kid, this was weird. Because, um, there weren't that many Indian people around in Midwest USA at the time.

Which meant a couple of my former friends had to actually seek out the only other Indian girl living in town and cultivate a close friendship with her in a short period of time. That's a lot of work just to find my replacement!

But the more I think about it, the more I realize I probably did these old friends of mine a favor. I've introduced them to a secret.

Indian girls make the perfect best friend.

Here is why:



Indian girls are hot. It is very important to have a best friend who is just as attractive as you, if not more so. Hot girls attract boys. Hot girls get stuff for free. Hot girls make people smile. The emphasis on the plural is very important. A hot girl by herself is just a bitch.



Indian girls are smart. Nobody wants to tell people their best friend is a 20-something-year-old Wal-Mart greeter. When you are besties with an Indian girl you can proudly inform people, "My best friend is finishing up medical school this May!" or "My best friend is a forensic anthropologist!" or "My best friend is a freelance journalist who also has a successful fashion blog!"



Indian girls are not going to sleep with your boyfriend. Most Indian girls are not interested in whoring around because they have better things to do. Plus, many of them intend to one day marry a handsome, successful Indian man, who has their parents' approval. Chances are, your boyfriend isn't that guy.



Indian girls are loyal. For the most part, Indian girls are devoted and tight-knit. They are very family-oriented and treat close friends like family. If you're one of their lucky close friends, you will be invited to a lot of Indian social functions, involving delicious homemade food, gorgeous bright-colored sarees, and my favorite part, hot Indian guys.

Now who wouldn't want an Indian best friend?! Hell, I event want an Indian best friend now!

Disclaimer: Now some of you may have objections to this list of characterizations. "But Jennifer, my ex-best friend Priya Patel is an ugly dumb ass two-timing penniless bitch who slept with my dad!" Well, kids, obviously not all Indian women have these fantastic qualities. This is just a generalization based on my own observations.

Disclaimer to the disclaimer: In the quote above, Priya Patel is a fictional character made up for the sole purpose of entertainment and educational value. Any resemblance to an actual person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

If you want to see more of my friendly stereotyping, check out my 10,000 word post, Why Swedish Girls Make the Best Lovers.