Unload
February, 2001
We used to call ourselves the A-BOB’s. It stood for A Bunch of Bobs because for a brief period of time in high school we all had identical bob-style haircuts. When we went to parties where nobody knew who we were, we made up fake names, names we really wished our parents had given us like Vanessa, Charlotte, Tiffany and Ginger…you know, good ol’ fashioned slut names. One thing’s for sure, we loved to keep people guessing, and my best friends and I rarely used our real names, Chrissy, Courtney, Kelly and Nicole.
After the funeral, ol’ Charlotte, Tiffany, and I (a.k.a. Vanessa) spontaneously decided to spend a much needed week of grieving in Cabo San Lucas because the funeral after party, if that’s what you call it, didn’t really allow us the opportunity to do that. It was a chaotic blur of entertaining strangers, fake laughing, bad wine, and escaping to our dead friend’s bedroom to get away from it. We took turns smelling her clothes, sitting in her empty bathtub, rummaging through her purse, applying her lipstick, and using her hairbrush. We didn’t let our emotional guard down in front of the guests because it was her house, and she wouldn’t have wanted us to. So, we decided to go to Mexico to mourn in our own way; with old pictures, lots of tears, and massive amounts of tequila. We needed to be hysterically angry one minute and hopelessly lost the next. We needed to throw things at the wall, kick and scream deliriously for no reason and every reason, wish out loud that one of us had died instead, and then quickly admit we’re thankful we hadn’t. We needed to curse God, doubt God, and start believing in God. We needed to refill each other’s glass, fear for our own lives, worry out loud about our dead friend’s child and curse those that foolishly say she’ll be okay. We needed to argue about which one of us was closest to her, laugh at her laugh, talk shit about her stubborn streak, her horrible taste in cars, and her annoying ability to put her own needs ahead of anyone else’s, always. We needed to relive every memory shared with her for the last eighteen years, and we needed to do all of it over and over again until we were ready to face the fact that she was gone. For days we stayed up late, woke up swollen, kept our cell phones turned off, and wore no makeup, jewelry or semblance of a coordinating outfit. We sat by the edge of the pool and burst into unprompted fits of rage followed by long streams of silence. But mostly we made endless toasts to the magnificence of our bond, and we spoke as if all of us were still alive because her death was just too fresh.
There’s Kelly, the voice of reason amongst the four of us. She’s the most awesome wife, mother and school teacher in the entire world. She’s organized and bitchy just like me. But…Kelly and I are about as opposite as two people can be when it comes to our fashion sense. She’s a bargain hunter and a pack rat. She doesn’t live in filth or anything like that, but the chick won’t throw away her old clothes…even the ones from high school! She’s hell-bent they’ll make a comeback and sometimes even throws on something fluorescent to try and convince us of her point.
Kelly’s the one to tell you what’s on her mind, no matter how painful it is to listen to. She’ll tell you your outfit’s ugly, to shut up when you talk too much, and to stop whining when you complain too much. She isn’t a completely horrible person; she just tells it like it is. She’s the one person I’ve never been able to bullshit, and I’ve always gone to her when I needed a dose of reality and a good slap in the face. Kelly doesn’t wear her heart on her sleeve, and she doesn’t really care if you think she has one. Her actions let me know she loves me, but for the life of our friendship, I’ve never heard her tell me so. Well, maybe that one time.
The thing I admire most about Kelly is her confidence, but it’s always gotten in the way of her asking for help when I know she’s needed it. But lucky for her, I’m damn stubborn! I’m the only one who’s had the guts to come to her aid when she’s needed it the most. Like when she told me to stay away when her dad died and I showed up at her doorstep with a big bouquet of flowers anyway. Or when she went into labor after enduring a high-risk pregnancy, she said “stay home and I’ll call you when it’s over.” I didn’t. I paced outside of her delivery room and to her dismay yelled encouraging words to her through the closed door. I know my big sappy heart has bugged the shit out of Kelly for eighteen years, but I don’t care. Even though she’s never admitted it, she’s the only one of my friends who truly needs me.
Ahhhhhh Nicole, the sarcasm of the group. Whenever things get tense between the four of us, Nicole eases the awkwardness by cracking a joke or poking fun at the person who caused the friction. Her honest cynicism, although frustrating at times, has quickly turned major arguments between the four of us into super fun cocktails at happy hour more times than I can count. Thank God for her humor too, it’s gotta be the only thing that makes her f*cked up job as an ER doctor at Highland Hospital in Oakland somewhat tolerable. Yep, gangland baby!
Nicole’s the person I always go to when I have something uncomfortable to confess. No matter how embarrassing or disgusting my confession is, she always has one of her own to make mine seem silly. She makes me feel sane when I know I’m not, and I’ve always been scared to death to lose the refuge she provides me. What’s she look like you ask? Well, bless her heart, but Nicole’s always a mess. You can usually find a stain on her clothes, and her curly hair is constantly disheveled. She’s also my only black friend. I wanted more, but she didn’t come as set. She’s late to everything and always has to borrow a buck from one of the three of us because she can’t remember where she put her purse. She’s a total disaster, but at the end of the day, her husband and child are the most perfectly loved and cared for people in the world. She’s got an amazing giggle and an enviable happy-go-lucky attitude. Throughout our friendship, Nicole’s sarcasm and my sensitivity, have caused a lot of drama. Out of the four of us, we’re the ones who have the most theatrical arguments and the most heartfelt reconciliations.
Courtney, Courtney, Courtney. She’s the problem solver of the group. She’s the rational one who’s always tried to talk the rest of us out of doing completely stupid things. But unfortunately for her, it’s always been three against one, so she spent the earlier years of our friendship in deep doo-doo with her parents. Courtney was voted most likely to succeed and best looking in high school. It’s a good thing for her she was my best friend back then or else I would’ve made her life miserable by slashing her tires or TP’ing her house. She was valedictorian of our high school class, her college undergraduate class, and her medical school. Yes, Courtney’s a doctor too, but not the laid back kind like Nicole. Court’s a friggin’ workaholic maniac who’s all about prestige. For a thirty-one year old, she’s got the longest job title in the world, something like:
Assistant Professor of Medicine
Assistant Residency Director
Primary Care Internal Medicine Residency Program
University of California, San Francisco School of Medicine
I don’t know what the hell any of that means, but she’s really f*cking smart. If I ever get arrested, Courtney’s the girl I’ll use my one free phone call from jail on, because she’s completely reliable and entirely non-judgmental. She’s everyone’s friend, and I’ve never heard anyone say an unkind word about her. You can believe that if I did, I would’ve punched the person in the face. Courtney’s flaw (although she wouldn’t see it that way) is that she has an unhealthy need to help the world. Since high school she’s let her beauty fade more than I would’ve liked it, but stuff like that isn’t as important to her as it is to me. Work is what’s important to Courtney, and so it shocked the hell out of me that she married very young, at twenty-one. Perhaps she knew she wouldn’t have time to do it later. I mean, it wouldn’t surprise me if she had the ability to see into the future. She’s just that smart. Somewhere in the last few years she even found the time to pop out a kid. Looking back, I wonder if she thinks marriage and a kid were good choices. I’ll never ask her because I know she doesn’t have the time to second guess her life, and I don’t want to do anything to stress her out. She has enough of that. I’ll never get tired of telling Courtney to take care of herself because she’s my touchstone, and I love her so much.
Then there’s me, Chrissy. It’s not hard to figure out that I’m the emotional core of the group. But I’m not just the type of girl who sees a stray animal and bursts into tears. I’m so much more than that. For most of the last eighteen years, I haven’t let a month go by without talking to my friends, and I’ve even gone so far as to micro-manage the friendships they have with each other by making sure they call each other on birthdays and what not. Sometime during college, I got tired of being the mommy of our friendships, and I went on strike to see if they would call to check on me, but I only lasted three days before I picked up the phone. I was too afraid to get let down. I’ve always needed our friendship to be a success, and I have, at times, even created the false impression that we were closer than we really were. What’s even more f*cked up is that when, for a brief period, we weren’t close at all, it was my fault.
I’m a lot stronger and smarter than I look and these qualities come in handy in all sorts of dealings. I can do thirty boy pushups in a row and kick anyone’s ass at poker, and I’ve been known to hustle unsuspecting guys out of their hard-earned money by betting them I couldn’t do either of those things. People can be so stereotypical, and I relish the humiliated look on their faces the moment they realize they got outsmarted by someone they thought was weak and dumb. There’s nothing better. I get a lot of compliments on my appearance from men and never any from women, so the only thing I derive from that is that I’m pretty. I’m overly generous, but at the same time horrifically mean spirited. I’m the girl who’ll pick up something you just dropped, run to give it back to you, and then talk shit about your hair and clothes once you’re out of ear-shot.
When I was sixteen, I made a life list that looked like this:
1) Graduate college in 4 years with a business major and marketing minor. My parents will be so happy.
2) Get a job in the fashion industry where I can travel and boss people around. I love the GAP!
3) Save money and buy first house with Kurt by 23. Don’t move in with him until we’re married though! Tee hee.
4) Marry Kurt when I’m 25. I want to get married on the beach!
5) Move into a big giant house by the time I’m 27. I want to live in Danville one day!!!!!!!!
6) Have first baby when I’m 28. I want a boy first and a girl second.
7) I want my kids to be two years apart so they can be best friends forever!
And being the control freak that I am, I stuck to the list. Even as a grown ass woman I chased after stuff written in purple ink, on college rule binder paper, and folded into a fancy little triangle. It never occurred to me that all of my satisfaction came from crossing things off the list, not what I was accomplishing! Sticking to the damn list explains why my life was so empty once I had everything I thought I ever wanted and it also explains the total mental breakdown that led me to a therapist’s office three years ago. One of my best friends has been stopped by cancer, something totally out of her control, but I was my own disease.
My last appointment with my therapist is set for a week after I return from Mexico. Sure I’ll struggle with life after therapy, but who doesn’t? There’s not one thirty- something-year-old woman out there who doesn’t struggle with men, marriage, wrinkles, cellulite, and money. It’s time to grieve the loss of my best friend and the greatest love (and sex) of my life on my own.