This week I’m going to start a new featured blog post called “Over Coffee.” I came across this format on a couple other bloggers’ sites. And as hard as this may be to believe, I didn’t add their pages to my Safari reading list or bookmarks. If you read my post last week you understand the significance of that little oversight…maybe there’s hope for me yet. Unfortunately that means I can’t give those bloggers their due credit. Just know I’m not claiming any originality for this one.
I plan to share this kind of post periodically, mostly on those weeks when I’m:
- Not jazzed about writing anything in particular
- Struggling for just the right thing to write about
- Procrastinating writing the post I really want to write but am too chicken
This week’s “Over Coffee” is brought to you by number three. More on that below.
Think of these posts as a casual conversation, one you and I would have over coffee. You know, just shooting the shit about our lives and what’s been going on.
I’m personally drawn to this type of post because it feels incredibly intimate to me. I’d never visited the other bloggers’ sites before, but after reading just one post I felt like I knew them. Hopefully, you’ll get the same sense from me.
So, I’m being stood up.
I’m done bullshitting myself. There’s just no other way to say it.
I have a new friend. I’ll call her Jane. She’s the mother of one of my daughter’s friends, and we’ve known each other for only two years. This friendship means a lot to me for a bunch of reasons.
First of all, I’m forty-five and it’s harder to make friends the older you get. I haven’t made a new friend for about seven years. People get so entrenched in their lives and the people who run in their circles that it’s difficult to step outside of that orb and reach out to new peeps.
Second, the way we became friends was one of the warmest fuzziest moments of my life. My daughter started a new school two years ago and became friends with Jane’s daughter, who had been kind of an outcast, or at least not one of the cool kids, before my daughter arrived. My daughter, recognizing and embracing her own weirdness, along with being one of the most empathetic creatures I’ve ever known, took this girl under her wing.
When Jane and I met at the girls’ archery meet, she told me that my daughter had saved her daughter’s life. She told me that she could tell my daughter was the kind of person who appreciated people for who they were and that my daughter genuinely liked hers. I told her how grateful I also was for our girls’ friendship because my daughter was the new kid and that was always hard.
Beyond flattering my offspring, Jane was a down-to-earth, kind woman. We went for coffee a few times and had fabulous talks. It felt a lot like those first dates with the guy (or girl). We could have sat for hours and chatted. Nothing was off the table and it was one of those friendships that felt years beyond its actual age.
And then she started standing me up.
There have been close to a dozen times when we’ve had coffee or lunch scheduled, and then she bailed at the last minute. The first few times I was the one who rescheduled. After so many failed attempts, I left it in her hands, telling her to let me know when she had time to get together.
We’ve gone a few months now not talking or getting together, other than a text here or there. But recently we tried to give our coffee dates another go.
And she bailed, again, at the last minute.
I don’t think it’s me. I know she has a lot of craziness going on in her life now. Actually, I think it’s kind of crazy most of the time. She’s always very apologetic about canceling our plans and says how much she misses me. And I miss her.
But I learned a long time ago that people make time for things that are important to them. I guess I just don’t rank high enough.
My daughter turned thirteen this week.
I have a teenager. Not a tween, which I’m glad about because that moniker irked the shit out of me. It’s like taking famous couples and smashing their names together, like Kimye and Brangelina. Ugh. So annoying.
I was expecting this big shift from the sweet, thoughtful girl she’s been to a raging hormonal nightmare. She seems aware of what she should be like (“rude”) but doesn’t have the time or inclination to act other than like who she is at her sweet candy center.
She’s been that way since the day she was born, except for maybe two temper tantrums when she was a toddler. Oh, and the time when she was seven or eight and told us she was going to run away and live with another family because we were horrible parents.
I told her I would be sad to see her go, but I understood. I told her she needed to understand that when she left, she’d only be able to take what she could carry because we weren’t going to help her move out. I said she should choose carefully because we were going to give the rest of her stuff away so we could buy all new stuff for the replacement daughter we would adopt after she was gone—we wouldn’t want our new sweet girl to have her old mean stuff.
About an hour later she came running downstairs from her room and threw herself into my arms sobbing, saying how sorry she was and that she didn’t want another family after all. 🙂
So besides that, my husband and I have felt like she or the Universe have habituated us to this well-behaved, lovely girl, and that we’re being set up. When the day comes when she turns into a real teenager—you know, the surly, bitchy, smart-mouthed kind—we’ll be so shocked we’ll probably ask her if she’d like some pot or Vicodin or heroin with her Grey Goose, and would she like to bring even more boys home to do all sorts of kinky stuff to her in her room while her dad and I sit in the living room watching Criminal Minds?
We’re just taking it one day at a time.
I’m plucking around the keyboard, working on what I think will be my next post.
Sometime in the future.
It started as one particular idea a couple of months ago and morphed into something else based on some recent events in the news. I ran the idea by my husband and he doesn’t think it’s controversial, but I’m afraid it’s going to piss some people off. But maybe that’s OK(?).
I’m worried it could be like using barbed wire to suture a stab wound . But I’m trying to keep Rachel Thompson’s words in mind: Write what scares you.
The good news is I don’t think a lot of people read my blog, at least not now, and that’s probably not likely to change the week I run this “maybe, if I can ball up” post.
If a controversial blogging tree falls in the internet forest and no one’s around to hear it, then it doesn’t make a sound, right?
But you’ll always be my friend, no matter what. Even if I piss you off.