The Real Housewives Guide: How to Be the Absolute Worst

There are some things I would just rather not admit. Like that I have the bad habit of yawning without covering my mouth even though I preach about the supreme importance of good manners. Or that I’ve probably seen every episode of MTV’s Catfish. Or that I could do without Anna Kendrick. Or that I eat in bed. But I mean I pretty much eat only in bed. Like, almost nowhere else in my home do I eat. But anyway, nothing pains me more than to admit to another person for the first time that I am an avid watcher of The Real Housewives franchise. Though I keep some small amount of dignity for myself knowing that I only watch on demand rather than tune in each week, and have dropped down from multiple cities to just two (New York City & Beverly Hills), it’s still a difficult lump to swallow and an even more unfortunate truth to speak. In fact, when just this past week I casually dropped a Real Housewives reference into a conversation with a co-worker, she paused, looked hard at me and said, “You watch The Real Housewives? They’re so glamorous and you seem so… dark.” She wasn’t wrong. At first glance, I suppose I don’t exactly appear to fit the Housewives fan mold. (Then again, is there even such a thing?) Still, I’ve learned many a valuable lesson from these women, in terms of what not to do, how not to behave, how not to exist within the bounds of what we like to call human reality. And as I’m now deep in the trenches of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills season six, please allow me to share with you five vital truths I’ve learned from watching all of our favorite and/or least favorite TV wives. Take it as a How To: Be the Absolute Worst.

I. The Art of Admission. Somehow, in Real Housewives land, saying you did something to get a rise out of someone is real enough. All is forgotten the moment you admit you did something fucked up with the sole intention of letting plain old nastiness ensue. Once you admit it, you don’t have to reap the consequences of your original action or own up to the fact that you’re actually just a really shitty person. Recently, new RHOBH Housewife Kathryn told some Housewife that she told some other Housewife something unkind that Housewife had said about the other Housewife just to see how the Housewife who said it would react. I mean, that’s really the best way I can explain it. Just re-read it until it makes sense. (Really, it will never make sense.) But guess what?! It was like witchcraft or some shit. Admitting that she did what she did out of pure malice was her Get out of Jail Free card because almost instantly, all Housewives in dinner party attendance shut the fuck up as if they had never heard someone else come clean about doing something shitty for shitty reasons alone. There was no apology. There was no lesson leading to personal growth. The dinner party ended and all moved on. Abracadabra, baby!

II. Unfortunate Truths. Telling the truth doesn’t matter if you’re an asshole about it. Once upon a time, I was a fan of now defunct Housewife, Brandi Glanville. Not a popular opinion, I know, but I had to appreciate her unique way of “keeping it real.” She said everything — all of the things — she wanted, and the other wifeys did not want to let that shit fly. After accusing one wife of drug addiction, exposing the sham of a marriage of another wife, throwing a drink in yet another wife’s face for reasons unclear to just about everyone including Brandi herself, and threatening to harm and/or kill the majority of the wives among other offenses, this jig was up. Eventually, even I grew tired of my girl B, because it was clear to me that she was an absolute psychopath and it was no longer fun for any of us to watch or be a part of. The good lord Andy Cohen agreed and kicked her off of the show to what I can only imagine must have been Beverly Hills parades even more grand than Vanderpump’s much-promoted Gay Pride. Brandi G, you are gone but not forgotten. The truths you spoke stay with me still, even in spite of your absolute and indisputable insanity.

III. Brand AmbASSador. It’s okay to be a hypocrite if you are also a millionaire. RHONY’s Bethenny Frankel has opinions. Did you know that she has opinions? She does. She has opinions. Opinions about how people live their lives, who they date, how they run their businesses, what they say to other people, what they say about other people… the list goes on. But somehow, Bethenny does not want to hear opinions. She has neither the time nor the attention span for it. She is busy, goddammit! Ya know, running her brand???? How fucking rude are you? And if you tell her how to run her brand?! Forget about it! It’s on. Even though she’s openly critiqued other Housewives business ventures both behind their backs and straight to their faces. Within her own NYC crew last season, she absolutely shat on poor, defenseless Kristen Taekman’s nail color line, Pop of Color, as well as Sonja Morgan’s so-called “international fashion lifestyle brand,” Sonja Morgan New York. But that wasn’t enough for her. During the RHONY off-season, she took her talents to Beverly Hills for a visit. While there, she dared to disgrace the almighty Erika Jayne a.k.a. Erika Girardi a.k.a. ThePrettyMess after she shared a very intimate piece of pop performance art on her iPhone during dinner. Now granted, one of Erika Jayne’s songs includes the now-infamous catchphrase, “Pat the puss,” but how dare you, Bethenny Frankel?! She has eight #1 disco hits, you ingrate!

IV. Who Needs Dignity? Not Lisa Rinna. Lisa Rinna has big, fake lips — she said so! Lisa Rinna’s had the same hairstyle for decades — she said so! Lisa Rinna is wacky — she said so! Lisa Rinna will do anything for a buck — she said so. There’s just about nothing Lisa Rinna won’t cop to and it’s the main reason she’s almost impossible not to love. But it’s also the reason I think of Valerie Cherish pretty much every time she’s on screen. Equally ridiculous, Rinna knows she’s not as classy, intelligent, or sophisticated as some of the other Housewives (not that that’s saying much). Want her to endorse adult diapers? She’ll do it, and to the tune of an apparent $2 million. Want her to say or do something silly? Yeah, she’ll do it, but that shit’s for free. She’s just that kinda gal! She told you… she’s wacky! Rinna’s admitted time and time again that if it gets her money or keeps her relevant, she’s game, and as reasonable people, we can’t hate on that. In fact, maybe we should be taking a few pages from her book. Keep doin’ you, Lisa Rinna. You really are a dream come true.

V. Sane Ain’t the Way. If you’re sane or reasonable, you’re doing it wrong. Poor Eileen Davidson. I first met her as the seductive villainess, Kristen DiMera, on Days of our Lives when I was a child. I admired her both for her moxie and her off-the-charts insanity. When she showed up on the BH streets last season, I thought we were in for it. Unfortunately for all of us, Davidson was nothing like her fictitious counterpart. She was actually — get this — sane. I didn’t let that get to me, though. I was sure that, like many sane new Housewives additions before her, she would be sucked into the drama and that would be the end of that. The old Eileen would be gone forever. But it never happened. Back for her second season, she somehow seems almost more sane, level-headed and real. Too bad for Eileen, she’s not the kind of real these ladies are looking for. They don’t want to have adult conversations, Eileen! They don’t want to confront one another in a level-headed manner and tell the truth, Eileen! They don’t want to take good hard looks at themselves in the mirror, EILEEN! They want to pretend and ignore and divert and argue! That’s the goddamn Real Housewives way! I’ll always be rooting for you, Big E, but if you don’t want to get stomped all over, you’re going to need to change yourself completely for the sake of reality television, just like everybody else.

VI. Queen of the Housewives. Lisa Vanderpump is untouchable. She is unbreakable. She is indestructible. Lisa Vanderpump is the best Real Housewife of all time and she knows it. Consider this your bonus truth. If by some stroke of dreamlike luck, you ever encounter Pumpy, do not dare try to cross her. And if you ever reach the epic rock bottom of becoming a Real Housewife yourself, do not attempt to turn the others against her or slander her good name or reputation. Do not make the fatal error of underestimating her greatness. One by one, you will be defeated. Made into a social outcasts by her hand alone. Banished from the franchise, OR WORSE, denied service at SUR! It’s just the way it is. There has never before been and will never be a greater Housewife than she. And so it is done.

And there you have it, another fifteen minutes of life you’ll never get back. But at least now, you have some insight into the wonderland that is The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. I never promised it would be easy. Never really promised it’d be worth it, either. Quite frankly, it isn’t. Like, not even a little bit. Bottom line is, by the time you know you’re hooked, it’ll be too late. And soon enough, you’ll be posting your own blogs about this mindless trash, wondering where it all went wrong. Now go ponder what your Housewives tagline will be. Make it sassy, fierce, and be sure it makes absolutely no sense. Now, twirl!

Perpetuators of Madness

Things for American twenty-somethings are looking grim, folks. When I look at myself and my friends, when I read news articles about so-called “millennials,” when I turn on the the television or pop open Netflix, there’s one glaring truth I can never avoid: My generation sucks. We’re constantly chastised for wanting it all but being too lazy, carefree (read: careless), entitled and fun-loving to work to get it. So we sit at jobs we hate, or in relationships that don’t add up, or with friends we resent because it’s way fucking easier than buckling down and making the situation better. We’re told this is who we are and we begrudge the generalization but, more often than not, it’s accurate. As I type this, I’m avoiding doing more important things that could get me another step closer to where I want to be. But I don’t dispute that there are people my age absolutely hustling, fighting to simply achieve. Some people astonish me with their drive and passion, the way they so clearly see how short this life will be and how much opportunity we have to make it something great. But the rest of us? At best, the most we can manage is something I warmly refer to as “the side hustle.” We live stale daily lives but do whatever we can to make time for our hobbies and passions, hoping one day we’ll turn them into something tangible. Still, that’s easily lost in the shuffle of everyday life and soon forgotten when the weather is warm and margaritas are five dollars until 7pm. Then, all is lost.

It’s bad enough so many of us balk at the notion of becoming self-starters, talk the talk but would rather lie in bed and switch from Instagram to Twitter back to Instagram again, seek and find so many others of our kind to commiserate with over a Lagunitas IPA or three, but we are only aided by the people and programs around us who perpetuate the madness we’ve become such experts at. That’s why, when I turn on the television to see a 25-year old Hannah Horvath being a generally terrible human being who can’t get her shit together, or an alternate-reality Aziz Ansari whose troublingly unlucky in love, or the thirty-somethings in the newer Netflix original series who actually appear to have their shit even less together than I do in my late twenties, or even Carrie and the gang, who are pushing forty and though they have real jobs and real apartments and real money with which to pay for really nice things, cannot lock down love or even some semblance of a totally grownup life, I get why we don’t get our fucking shit together. Because it’s okay to not have your shit together — TV says so! That is, until it’s too late and we’ve become the fictional characters we’ve relied upon for far too long. But for now, let’s take a quick look at a couple of them, in hopes of recognizing what they’re doing to us and vowing to not be a subject to their shitty examples of lives for another day of ours.

 GIRLS. When I exited college and it became very clear to me that I would not immediately (or maybe ever) have a proper career in journalism, I thought it an opportunity to seek out Lena Dunham’s Hannah as a compatriot in my struggle. That was, of course, until I decided she was a disaster of a sociopath who maybe didn’t deserve love or success… like, ever. And fucking surprise! All of her friends were almost equally as terrible. As I sat in my twin bed at my parents home, I thought, “It’s not just me!,” and I watched the rest of that season from that very bed, feeling somehow better about myself. And as their lives went off in troubling tangents, I felt more and more that mine wasn’t so awful; that we were all in the same boat. Time went on and none of their lives really improved much, so why was I pushing for progress? The thing is, though, these people were not real and I shouldn’t have used them to console my worse-for-wear adult standing. In five seasons, they’d be gone, likely living as happily ever after as you can in Brooklyn because we all want to hope for the best… even for you, Hannah Horvath.

 

LOVE. Netflix’s newest binge series lets us follow one 30-something guy who has lost almost everything chase after one 30-something complete fuck-up until he inevitably lands her because that’s what happens, apparently. All the complete nonsense in between, it turns out, is par for course? Is this what I have to look forward to? Just about the only desirable situation either of these alleged grown-ups finds themselves in is that they know Birdie, the leading lady’s roommate, who is the absolute saving grace of their shams of lives. But even knowing this, I watched along as each of the main characters slowly but surely loses their shit and thought to myself, “Well, if they don’t have it together at this point, maybe I’m okay,” like some kind of completely delusional loser! At this point, I was contemplating writing this piece so I was obviously aware that what I was watching was not real and I should not use these people as the bar to which I hold myself, but still, I gave in. I still took comfort in the story of a young woman so far off her rocker it was hard to believe she was still living a somewhat functional life. And as I sat there, binge-watching with my friend, holding Budweiser tallboys in our hands and shouting, “Oh my god, that’s so you!,” at one another as we so closely related to every other scene, the madness continued.

These are just two of the latest and greatest depictions of what can only be described as “loser adults.” Sex and the City, Master of None, Friends, Happyish, New Girl, and even a favorite of mine, Happy Endings, all featured imperfect adult specimens who, though relatable, have had the ability to confuse school buses full of students of life into thinking that having it all isn’t for the lot of us. Carrie Bradshaw had a pretty cool job and a buttload of expensive shoes, but it took her six freaking seasons to figure love out and put on her big girl pants when it came to navigating both her personal and professional life. She was 37 by then. When Aziz’s Dev Shah discovers that what he’s spent his entire adult life seeking may not be all that, he makes a rash decision in hopes of finding what he needs somewhere else. But you can’t help but look on skeptically, as if everyone — even those involved — is waiting for the other shoe to drop. Chandler Bing was roughly 35 when he took a job as an unpaid intern after years of working a generic office job that gave him absolutely no fulfillment. Thom Payne, in the short-lived dark comedy Happyish, spent his younger years securing a well-paying job at a cool company, a hot wife, a cute (yet unbearably annoying) kid, and a house in the Catskills to get stoned at, but he was very truly old and miserable in spite of all of that. Nick Miller is the saddest among a loft of of sad sacks in New Girl — broke, confused, directionless — and those are some of his better qualities. And Dave in Happy Endings was left at the altar, hates his menial role at a nondescript job, and appears to have very little to live for but, dammit he tries, I guess…in a way. And he somehow comes off looking like a prince compared to his wayward, clueless, ape-like buddy, Max. Obviously, the list of these anti-role-models goes on (Togetherness, Scrubs, It’s Always Sunny…). Knowing all of this, maybe we continue to watch on with extreme caution and self-awareness, or maybe it’s time we get off of our complacent young professional asses and do whatever we can to rise up like phoenixes and remember that the hustle is in all of us, even if we are a little bit fucked up.  

You’re Not the Only Cool Girl

In light of last weekend’s events (i.e. the Super Bowl), I really got to thinking about what it means to be a girl in this world. (Cue No Doubt and female rage now.) On a narrow, astonishingly ignorant spectrum, girls can fall into one of two categories: a classic lady or guy’s girl. Our male friends place us into these categories when they decide which of us is right to invite to a baseball game when they get last-minute tickets from work, and we do it to ourselves when we revolve our worlds around making sure both sexes see us as agreeable and adaptive. I am no less guilty of this than any other girl. I’ve built my entire style around androgyny and have said on more than 131 occasions that I relate better to men than to women. But that doesn’t mean that I’m unaware of my own hypocrisy, because I also like hanging out with my girlfriends. I enjoy the conversations we have and when I’m at a wine tasting with them, just like when I’m watching wrestling with the guys, I feel like we relate on a very real and honest level. This isn’t always the case, but I couldn’t say that it happens any less than it does in my encounters with the opposite sex. There are far too many of us who so delusionally believe that our male friends should cherish us for our chill attitudes and affinity for typically masculine activities when the truth is, the only ones we’re fooling are ourselves. So as a tribute to all of those gals trying so hard to make everyone believe they’re one of the guys, I give you: You’re Not the Only Cool Girl.

Dear Self-Defined “Cool Girl,”

You are not cool because you watch sports. Sports are for everyone. And I know saying, “Sports are for everyone,” is like saying, “Racism doesn’t exist,” because even though it’s true in some cases, many people still believe the sports world is a man’s world (just like, fucking obviously, racism exists). But the bottom line is, any girl can enjoy a sporting event just as much as any guy can. I’ve watched teams I’ve never seen before play in games I’ve never liked and still gotten so into it I’m cheering, sweating, grunting, and feeling that nervous feeling in my stomach because it’s just too close to call. And even though in high school, I rocked bitches, pushing basketballs into their faces after they’d made the extremely poor decision to come in my lane, I was still a blonde chick who wore band tees and makeup. So just because you throw on a backwards cap and a form-fitted jersey and speak in sports lingo does not make you one of the guys and it doesn’t make you cooler than any other girl. It just makes you, like, a fun person in general. Big congrats on being fun.

You are not cool because you like beer. Beer is great. Beer is like bread. There are so many variations of it and every last one is so goddamn delicious you can sometimes hardly imagine your life without it at this point. These days, drinking craft beer and visiting beer festivals and breweries is almost as common an activity as seeing a film. So darlings, do me a favor and get off of your high horses and come back down to earth so you can hear me better. Okay, now that you’re down safely, I’ll go on… Just because you can talk beer with the best of them, flip cups like a champ, and drink your male friends under the table doesn’t mean you should go around town acting like your body houses both reproductive organs. Beer is for the masses and it’s no badge of mannish honor that you happen to enjoy it too. (Please note: The same applies to whiskey. Brown liquor does not a man make.)

You are not cool because you “don’t do drama.” You know who doesn’t “do drama?” Sane people who surround themselves with other sane people who have better things to talk about than each other. Being one sex versus the other does not make you any more or less dramatic. I mean, have you ever had a boyfriend with a head cold? Give those motherfuckers a Daytime Emmy because that dramz is worthy of applause and an acceptance speech that goes long past when the music starts playing. And still, even knowing this, we brag to our male friends about our unique ability to not involve ourselves in cattiness and eye-roll-worthy conversation, despite the unlikely fact of an XX chromosome. I won’t argue that gossip and pointless banter seem to often be most prevalent amongst women, but I would argue that there are plenty a man on earth who bitch to their boys about their roommate’s girlfriend regularly inhabiting their living space rent-free, or who just can’t turn a blind eye to and not gossip about that guy at work who talks really loudly on the phone from 9-to-fucking-5. It’s happening, babe. You just might not be there to witness it. Oh, drama. None of us are immune.

So I guess the takeaway here is ::NEWS FLASH:: No girl appears any cooler in the eyes of any beholder — male or female — by playing herself off as nothing more than one of the guys. And more than that, none of us fall into one category or the other. This is 2016, after all. We can be all things. For instance, today I’m wearing a piece of costume jewelry and tonight I’m going to bowl and drink a ton of beer. Isn’t this world an awesome, understanding, emotionally-freeing place?

Not So Meet-Cute

   
 Girls suck, right? Last week, I was catching up with a friend of the male gender when he told me a story about a girl who he had believed was, for all intents and purposes, flirting with him. I had him give me the rundown and it went as follows: Boy is at work, selling cars. Girl wants to buy a car. Boy goes out of his way to assist another salesman so Girl has all of the info she needs before making a purchase. Totally unprovoked, Girl says, “Boy, you’re really nice.” Girl leaves and later emails Boy apologizing for buying the car elsewhere for reasons that make sense. Girl thanks Boy again for all of his help… winky-face emoji included. Girl then texts Boy suggesting they hang out some time. Boy proposes coffee when she’s in town. Girl doesn’t respond for over 24 hours… and with a tepid reaction, at best.

Why do we do this? There are very few reasonable explanations for going out of your way to express interest in a guy only to then turn and run. After thinking about it, there are only a few scenarios that could make sense here. 1. She felt nothing but sorry for him and wanted to make him feel good. He took it the wrong way. 2. She liked him and thought he might like her, but didn’t think he’d act on it. 3. Bitch is playing games.

Once I determined I wouldn’t be able to figure out Girl’s intentions, I started to think about all of the shady shit females pull. Not that we’re the only ones playing mind games, but we’re the only gender I have an exclusive inside scoop on. So on the off-chance that a heterosexual male is searching this blog for pointers, I will now be offering to you some trade tricks in this one-time-only feature. Below are the 5 types of girls you’ll flirt with but will ultimately fail to nail.

1. The Praise Babe. This is the truly terrible girl who flirts with you to make herself feel better even though she has no interest. She doesn’t want much from you, except the inherited knowledge that you think she’s some variation of hot/interesting/cool, and even if you have all of the right qualities — maybe even if you’re the kindest, smartest, best-looking guy in the room — she will inevitably ghost you. She’ll give you her number and when you text her she will feel a rush of excitement, knowing that she passed the test. But she won’t ever respond because without your knowing it, you already gave her everything she wanted.

2. The Charitable Chick. This is the really nice girl who feels bad not being really nice to you and thus you think she’s flirting with you even though she’s not. She considers herself the Mother Teresa of flirting. There you both are in [insert place here]. Maybe without totally meaning to, she finds herself engaged in a conversation with you. “You’re so sweet!,” she thinks and probably says out loud, and you think you have this thing in the bag. Even the least secure of the Mister Nice Guys will hold out hope that he has a chance with this girl. Hey may even take the initiative and suggest they go out some time. She won’t go out with you, buddy. She’ll feel bad about it — really, really bad — but she’ll never go out with you.

3. The Mooch Hooch. This is the girl who only has personal gain in mind. She’s not interested in you; she just wants drinks/sex/food/money and if you can’t provide her with one or more of those, she’ll be gone. She might even have the audacity to accept these things from you without the insinuated reciprocal promise of at least a short conversation. She does not care about you at all. Even if there’s a small possibility inside her cold, dead heart that she could one day love you, she won’t be able to see that because she’s focused only on what she can suck out of you before she disappears into the night. This may possibly be the worst kind of flirt.

4. The Too Good To Be True.  This is the girl who’s actually flirting with you but you blow her off because you think she’s not. It’s with this girl that things begin to get tricky and there that the tables suddenly turn. It’s not that she’s a bad flirt; it’s just that you’ve been dealing with so many of the girls above that you think there’s no way she’s actually hitting on you. Your guard is up and even though she has all of the characteristics you’re looking for and even though it would seem as though she’s thinking the same about you, you abort mission. This is not her fault. It’s not your fault. But it is fact. Because of all the missed hits, you’ll likely forego taking a swing at this one altogether. My apologies to you both.

5. Your Bad. This is the girl who gives you no indication that she’s interested but you continue to pursue her all night anyway. Alas, this one’s your bad, dudes. I can attest to this as I’ve been a party to it many times before. She pays attention to you for a few minutes and you’re off and running. Soon, you’re offering to buy her drinks (which she declines), asking about her plans for the coming week (which she withholds except for the note that she’s “sooo busy”), and paying her compliments tirelessly (which she doesn’t appear to be at all flattered by). She all but rolls her eyes when you ask for her number and she dials it into your phone so begrudgingly you think you think she may have some sort of finger fatigue syndrome. (“Is that a thing? It must be a thing,”  you think.) In those few moments it takes her to hand over the digits, you’re both spared. You’re spared of the serious boner-killer that is getting turned down in person. She’s spared from having to be a total bitch as she blows you off sternly because you haven’t gotten it up to this point. When you text her and she doesn’t respond, you only have yourself to blame this time.

So, there you have it, gents! Unfortunately, dating is not all it’s cracked up to be in a Woody Allen film. There are no Annie Halls within these walls and there is certainly no Magic in the Moonlight. Better luck tomorrow, Irrational Man. (I guess I really ran with that Woody Allen thing.)

Free Fear

The best things in life are free.. Nothing comes for free.. Which is it again? I’ll tell you something I know for sure: nothing is free (well, nothing worth wanting to obtain, anyway) in New York City. So on the off chance that someone offers up something without a price tag, I naturally become suspicious. And awkward. And fidgety. Until I run in the other direction and never look back. This free things phobia, as I’ve come to consider it, spans all the way up from a free t-shirt, over and around to a free drink from a guy at a bar, and then straight down to something as simple as a free sample from Planet Smoothie. There are no limits and no exceptions. Free stuff fucking freaks me out.

Not only that, I feel weird when people in my company accept free things. I snarl at them from afar as my girlfriends chat up a gentleman each Friday night, downing drinks and shots that the guy’s hard work has afforded him, as they know full-well they will ignore their mid-week text about the potential date they had discussed. Or on the occasion that I stoop to such dark levels as to enter a food court and my sister swoops around to Panda Express not once but twice to sample their sesame chicken because she was just “hungry for a snack,” forget it. This is what I would describe as a life-altering moment.

Even growing up, I felt genuinely terrible asking my parents for things. Sure, I wanted candy or dolls or a new bike. But unless there was an occasion for which I believed it was my inherent right to receive one of those things — my birthday, Christmas, an exceptional report card — the guilt I felt taking and enjoying them was almost unbearable.

Now if I had a psychiatrist (I’ve thought about it), my hope would be that they would tell me that this is a good thing. This antithesis of self-entitlement that’s somehow been ingrained in me. But I have to imagine that if they spent some more time they’d discover that it’s trickled down and over into other aspects of my life: working at a job that pays me less money than I’m worth, not speaking up when I feel I’ve been wronged, and so on and so forth.

I can’t say that I’m hopeful this will change. I never want to be the girl with her hand out. I want to be the independent woman Beyoncé told us all about. The one who gets it on her own! The one who doesn’t even hear the word free. Okay really, I just want to be Beyoncé for a slew of other bigger, more tantalizing reasons.

Moral of the story is, I don’t know if it’s something in my particular DNA that’s made me this way or it’s that I’ve somehow learned this psychotic behavior, but either way, I’m pretty sure it’s here to stay. I will never be Beyoncé but none of you ever will be either and this comforts me. And I suppose isn’t my worst trait or my weirdest, at that, but I needed to put it out there. Do you have a problem accepting things for free? Did you once and can now share a method with me of how to get over it? Or do you just have a weird thing about you completely unrelated to free stuff that you want to share with me so I can feel a little better about myself? Whatever it is, do tell. I love you, Beyoncé!

LOL Best Frendz!

There is no concept I detest more than that of the best friend. Perhaps it’s not the actual concept that gets to me, but instead the misinterpretation of the concept. I can’t say that I’ve ever had a proper best friend. I’ve had many close friends for whom I feel certifiable love, but never one to call my favorite. When I was much younger and under the impression that such a thing was necessary for survival, I had one. One. We started being friends at a very early age and we remained friends until a much later age, through separate schools, long distances, sickness, etc. She took my shit and I thanked her for being a better person than I knew how to be at the time. We’re still friends to this day, I should add. But what is this epidemic (and I do consider it an epidemic) where young women call more than one friend their best friend?

By definition, the word best means excelling all others; better than all others in quality or value. (Thanks, Merriam-Webster). So I’m very sorry, ladies, but Carly, Christine and Natalie can’t all be your best friend. (Hint: It’s probably Christine. She seems so low-maintenance and always listens to your problems without judgment.)

But okay really, aside from the fact that claiming to have more than one best friend is utter nonsense, if only literally speaking, I’ve never fancied the idea of a best friend to begin with. I’ll admit: It always seemed nice. Monica and Rachel. Carrie and Miranda. Kelly Kapowski and Lisa Turtle (sorry, Jessie). But I could never get myself to do it. I could never focus more intently on one specific friend over another; I needed to spread the love. And I have. I have several close friend with whom I share my deepest secrets and my relationship with each of them is unique from the others, but also, equal. Because of this, I’ve managed to keep friendships going for over a decade a piece and we really, truly love and support one another because guess what? We each have our own lives with our other close friends with whom we share other parts of ourselves that maybe we haven’t shared with each other. It’s a beautiful thing,

Meanwhile, I’ve watched the best friend sagas play out all around me. For my sane friends who have stuck to calling one person their best, they bicker and argue and gossip about and want to ring the neck of that person. Yes, they love each other through and through (and I do believe that wholeheartedly), but their relationship is chaotic, neurotic, and sometimes even spurious.They’ll remain friends for a lifetime repeating the same cycle and, I guess more power to them, but I can’t imagine maintaing a relationship like that. This is what I would call Best Friend A.

Then there is Best Friend B. This is the other type of best friending I’ve witnessed, where one person hops from best friend to best friend each year and that year is wonderful and right and wow are they great friends and then suddenly, they aren’t anymore. Either they’re sick of one another or there was some bigger, real reason for their friendship breakup, but they go their separate ways and choose a new best friend. And on and on it goes, until one day, Best Friend B is left to plan a wedding with no bridesmaids because she’s lost touch with every one of her one-time best friends.

So, it left me thinking, because everything always leaves me thinking, why are our friendships made out to be this way to begin with? Why are so many girls/women a party to these roller-coaster or moment–in-time friendships? I’ve come up with a couple conclusions.

First, we’re told at a very early age that it’s a normal thing to have a best friend. Or at least, it’s implied, whether it’s the book club book at school that comes with friendship bracelets for two, or the Saturday morning cartoon that tells the tales and adventures of two pals, we’re not able to withdraw ourselves from this reality. And that’s great, really. The idea that we can have a bunch of friends but then still have that one friend who is our person to go to no matter what is a great idea and a great feeling. But is it preparing us for the future, i.e. romantic relationships and marriage, or is it setting us up for failure?

Secondly, as we grow up and get a more grounded sense of reality, we’re still witnessing garbage female friendships. This is perhaps my most major problem with the media, television, film, etc. in regards to this specific topic. Why are we depicting these disgusting friendships between young girls and sometimes older women based in vapidity? The girls who all like the same color and are popular, so they’re friends, but they hate each other and talk about one another when the other one has left the room. Or conversely, the girls who are “uncool” and cast aside who take solace in each other’s shared misfortune. The women who so severely judge the choices their friends make when they are in absolutely no position to understand how or why they did what they did. This is not the way female friendships are or should be, but this is what we’re seeing and in turn this is what we’re creating. And until we’re not seeing this type of thing anymore, even if it’s only meant to be for entertainment value, we’re going to continue to live by example.

Now, that isn’t to say each of us doesn’t have our own brain, our own morals and ways of deciphering from our surroundings and what else we know to be true about the world that this is not what a friendship has to be. But young women — no, young people are impressionable, and not everyone can rise above all of the time. I feel like through my arguments, I’ve turned us into helpless victims somehow, and I haven’t meant to do that. But it is what it is: we are not all in so sound a place that we can remain unimpressionable. It’s an inconvenient truth.

So does any of this sound a signal for anyone? Are you guilty of these friendship crimes, or do you know someone else who is? Do you think this mess is bred in us or that it’s learned behavior? What can we do to break the cycle and promote the healthy reality of female friendships? Will you be my friend?!? Speak up!