Sputterpub's Blog

I can use the shower as an illustration. The only daughter of one of our college friends is engaged to be married. Isabella is 33. Her mother Joan is a sweet woman. True she sometimes drives me nuts with all her do-gooding (she is forever volunteering somewhere, baking or collecting for the poor, doing the necessary for her church). Thinking about it now, Joan is about as far from Molly as possible, in terms of social behavior.

But we three were close when we were young. Joan was my randomly-assigned frosh roommate (Molly and I were not allowed to live together, owing to a summer camping adventure and our parents’ stubborn ideas that we were each a bad influence on the other). We hung out together that year and then managed to share a three-person co-op suite for the ensuing college years. We stayed pretty close after Joan moved back to LA, where she found a church member to marry and they produced Isabella.

Then a distance arose between Molly and Joan. I knew how hurt Joan was when Molly failed to send a baby gift. And I knew Molly meant no harm with her omission; that’s just the way she is. I guess I should have stepped in and made Molly do the right thing. But back then I still thought her asocial behavior was a decision instead of a disability. It’s funny to realize now how little I understood my bff when we were 21 and thought we knew it all.

Joan and I stayed tight. That’s partly because I have cousins in LA, and I visit there. In fact my cousin Barbara has become one of Joan’s closest friends. But it’s mostly because we hung onto one another. I can tell that Joan is often frustrated with my dippiness, but she accommodates me. Her smarminess mostly puts me off, so I can’t take it if she visits for more than a couple of days, but we go back so long I’d never think of letting us dissipate.

So Joan and I talk on the phone twice a week. We visit one another at least twice a year. She and Barbara and I usually take a summer trip together to a destination spa.

Now Isabella is engaged, and Barbara and I are hosting the shower.

Molly can’t relate. That’s not really so – she understands the concept of a bridal shower – but to her it’s for the practical purpose of setting up a household for a young couple. She says she’d get it if Isabella and Hugh weren’t in their 30s, living together, making good money, and already in possession of all the towels and dishes and appliances they want.

She also says she’d understand if we were throwing a co-ed party to celebrate the engagement or something. But we’re doing it our way. (Or maybe we’re doing it Barbara’s way; she’s there and knows how they arrange these things now in LA). We’re having women only, in a hotel, on a Saturday night. We’re not going to play any shower games, and it’s up to Isabella if she opens gifts at the event or takes them with her still wrapped.

What we’re focused on now are the colors (we need to use purple and green, to go with the bride’s wedding palette and the groom’s color blindness), and the guest gifts. We’re pretty excited about presenting each attendee with her own little potted succulent plant.

Now Molly keeps riding me about what she calls the “cactus plan.” She states that shower attendees don’t get party prizes. She claims even wedding guests don’t receive more than a net bag of Jordan almonds. She laughs that a plant known for surviving in arid areas is NOT a happy symbol of a young fertile union.

I’ll admit that Molly’s statements make sense. But they’re beside the point. And that’s what she doesn’t get.

We’re not inviting her. I realize now that I should have had her back, back when Isabella was born. I knew Joan; I just should have sent a baby gift in Molly’s name. I missed that opportunity, but I can protect her from accepting or declining an invitation to this party.

Who knows what she’d do if we let her help anyway? I’m chuckling right now as I remember us prepping for our big junior high dance. The theme was Tropical Paradise (we even had paper mache volcanoes that spewed dry-ice “steam.”) One of the refreshments we chose to serve was fresh pineapple, and Molly and had the task of cubing the fruit for the occasion. She was alone at it (I was apportioning the maraschino cherries among some of the other treats), when she slipped with the paring knife and cut her finger.

She didn’t know I saw the incident. I still can’t believe how she reacted. Her first act was to put the cut finger in her mouth to remove the initial blood. Next she paused for a minute, pressing the small wound together. Then she resumed work. The light was dim but I when I passed behind her I could see that she had tinged some of the pineapple cubes a pale pink.

It was bizarre. I didn’t say anything. I noticed that neither of us ate any pineapple at the dance. Years later and on several occasions, Molly has told me the pineapple story, like it’s part anecdote and part confession. I like to make a skeptical face while I say I believe her. That irks her, I know. But what the heck; we go way back.

Molly has told me that she never really believes that other people feel the way she does. She says she’s single now for the simple reason that she can tolerate loneliness better than boredom. She doesn’t seem to understand why most of her fellows make the other choice. She observes that she has friends who nightly sleep with an enemy; yet they consider themselves lucky because they are not alone. She shakes her head about that.

Everyone acts like they don’t want the best cookie on the plate, but Molly doesn’t believe them. She says “Don’t we all want the best cookie? Wouldn’t it be better if we were open about it?”

She detests being manipulated or managed. She is super-sensitive when it happens and she escapes as soon as she can. She loves all the special effects at Disneyland, but after a few hours there all she can see are the cordons and posters of subtle crowd control, and she’s repelled. No other visitors seem to mind. She’s put off by ritual and traditional observances – again because of the manipulation – yet she sees her fellows derive comfort from these occasions. The heavy-handed nature of new age seminars like EST and Landmark make Molly form anagrams from their polysyllabic buzzwords and tally the take from their lectures and run like a twelve year-old from their missionary efforts, yet these programs, and ads, and human interest stories, and Hallmark cards, are successful, popular, potent.

Molly describes herself as weird. She is a bit of a freak. Obviously she dwells on the spectrum, but she’s so high-functioning no one has made her get help. No one even offered, when she was growing up. Nowadays, with all the zero tolerance policies, I’m sure she would be forced into counseling. I’ve gotten benefits from therapy, and I recommend it to her when I can. But probably it would be about as effective as it was for her son. Not at all.

For some of us, rules just don’t work. Some don’t respond normally to authority. They’re not many, but they’re uncontrollable. Sometimes they avoid calling attention to themselves by following whatever the rules are, but that’s just a way to lay low and not be conspicuous. To Molly, it’s tiring being conspicuous.

She’s told me that she often wonders what it would be like to just slide a blade into someone. Or step out that window and let her body fall the twenty stories. And then she gets a panicky sense of the feeling that would follow immediately: that terrible moment when you realize you can’t take it back and you didn’t dream it.

When her babies were tiny and helpless Molly says she’d frequently notice an impulse to hold the infant by a foot and smash its head against a wall.

Of course she didn’t do it. She winced even thinking about it. She says the wince felt goofy but a little thrilling. And then she couldn’t resist thinking it again.

But following any of these black impulses? Not in a million years. Molly wants to like herself. That’s the biggest cookie on her plate.

I saw a geneticist on TV recently, who ran a lot of DNA sequences to see if he could isolate the gene that makes a psychopath. And he found the marker most decidedly in his own strand. And then of course he had to wonder.

His answer was “it’s complicated.” It’s not just the genes. There needs to be a trigger if you’re going to build a monster. The predisposition is required but also a large application of child abuse. That geneticist is known in his family for his temper and poor impulse control. But he got so much love and support as a kid that his evil never flared.

Is my bff like a serial murderer who never got triggered? Or like a CEO or a military leader?

I think not. That’s too extreme. But she resembles what I’ve heard about Albert Einstein, Alan Turing, or maybe someone described as an idiot savant. Brilliant, different, uncontrollable, and possibly unfit for normal human interaction.

Molly used to worry about her son. He was a behavior problem from the age of three. They were referred to child psychologists when he was in pre-school, and she has written reports predicting that he’d never make it through 12th grade.

He had a pretty bad temper. He lashed out readily, sometimes with whatever was in his hand. He got kicked out of after-school “carpentry” in first grade because he bopped a classmate over the head with a 2 x 4. He put his fist through his bedroom wall when he was eight. The cycle of behavior was hideously repetitive: enrollment; a note from the teacher; a conference that concluded with a behavior “contract;” suspension; expulsion.

The quality that disturbed Molly most was his lack of remorse. No matter how she went at him – in his face yelling, the go-to-your-room silent treatment, reasoning, making him compose sentences – no matter how they conversed about the issue, he’d maintain that the only problem was that he had gotten caught.

Really. It was beyond exasperating. He appeared to love Molly in spite of her rants; he’d look her in the eyes and, when he wasn’t saying whatever came to his mind to get her placated and out of his face, he’d consider and give what seemed to be his sincere response. She’d drill him with questions about his behavior. He never would tell her “what he was thinking of” before he offended. He always responded when she asked him if he understood the misdemeanor, that the problem was he got found out and punished.

She was stymied. There was no remorse she could use. She started to wonder if the shrinks were right about his future. Molly recalled the rages in which her ex-husband would sometimes revel, and she blamed him.

Molly and Alex saw psychologists. Some were selected by school and three she found herself. As a group she reported that they were smarmy and ineffectual.

Alex made it through high school and college and into functioning employed adulthood. Molly says it was the girls of late middle school who provided the cure. Alex was consistently attracted to smart high-achievers, and he joined them in homework and study, and he then reaped the benefits of engagement in his work and satisfaction with the results, and that kept him at it.

But he’s still got a missing part (his term). He didn’t cry when his grandfather died, or when they put down the old dog, and he’d been close to both of them. He seems to always wonder if he loves his girlfriend enough. Molly fears that he lacks empathy and tenderness.

Lately I’m wondering too. And I’m beginning to think Alex didn’t inherit his impulsiveness, anger, and distance from his pathetic nonentity of a dad. I’m starting to turn the scope on Molly.

She was a challenging kid and a disruptive student. Recollecting, I think both parents were awed and her mother was frightened. Not that Molly was violent (except when angry, and then she threw items at walls and not at people). But she was moody and her mother didn’t understand her passions. She constantly accused Molly of lacking common sense. “You may be smart,” Molly’s mom would say, “but you’re stupid when it comes to getting along with people and understanding everyday things.”

I wonder now: was “lack of common sense” the greatest generation’s phrase for “has trouble understanding normal social interactions”? Is Molly’s dislike of surprises really about her needing time to arrange her reaction into an acceptable expression? Just where is my best friend, on the spectrum?

Seriously, I dislike my best friend’s husband. Yes, another four months have passed, and we’ve been through the shower, the rehearsal dinner, and the actual ceremony. A week ago Jane became Mrs. Jerry, and I still don’t get it. I think I get him, but I can’t figure out the why of them.

But what do I know? Lately I’m a straight woman with a crush on a woman.

Mel is Jerry’s older sister. I had no idea. I didn’t meet her till the shower, and I was put off by her then. She’s a big girl with a big personality. The woman just oozes self-confidence. At first she seemed to be a blowhard like her brother, but on further acquaintance one discovers a humility and sweetness in her that is astounding. Looking back on it, I think her personality was just too large for the private room we rented for the shower.

Melanie is gay. I now know from Jerry that she used to go with men, but she was always attracted to guys who were smaller and shyer than she is. When she realized her true orientation, she sublimed from maladjusted straight woman to drag king. There’s no middle ground for Mel.

She’s a big person, tall and substantial. As I learned at the wedding, she’s a fine man.

She and Jerry have always been close. He asked her to be his best person for the wedding, and Mel did herself proud with tux and attitude.

But that was our third exposure to one another. As I said, the first was the shower, and there I thought she was too loud and as full of affectation as her brother.

She came to the rehearsal dinner in a sleeveless black cocktail dress. That showed off an impressive amount of ink. I’m not normally into tattoos or piercings but she wore her sleeves, her chest, her back with style. She made a circuit of the room, charming everyone she talked to, including me.

Mel has a way of looking at you like you’re the only person around. Her face is open and attentive, her eyes are bright, her posture is confident, relaxed, reassuring. I enjoyed talking with her. Afterwards I kept replaying our conversation. I’ve never done that before, about a female.

I wondered if I’d just met a person as willful and powerful as myself.

The tux covered her ink on the wedding day. But nothing hid her charisma. The peak experience was after dinner, after toasting, when she walked to the stage and took the mic. She murmured to the band and then launched into her own cover of “You Can Leave Your Hat On.”

I’ll admit it: I felt seduced. I knew it was a woman singing, and she was singing straight to me, and I felt a melting receptiveness that I hadn’t experienced … ever.

The feeling hasn’t left me. It’s led me to new thoughts and strange impressions. I’m still straight. I still despise Jerry. But I’m really looking forward to the dinner Mel and I arranged. Tomorrow night.

Put another way, I loathe my best friend’s fiancé. It’s been three and a half months since I started this rant; Jane and Jerry are now engaged. They announced their plans to me over a fancy dinner last weekend. I suppressed my dismay. I hid the hate. I even acted humble and honored to be asked to stand up with Janie.

We went to the best of our favorite restaurants. Jane and I are known there and we were offered one of the hard-to-get booths, but we had to decline because of Jerry’s belly. He can’t fit into a booth. And I’m okay with accommodating anyone with special needs, even if the needs are their own fault, but I didn’t like how we faked it. Jane acted like there was nothing wrong with asking for a table, like the preference was natural and not required. It’s one thing if she wants to look beyond his obesity and another step toward murkiness when she pretends he isn’t overlarge or acts like she wants him this way.

Anyway, we took a table. We ordered appetizers and champagne. I’ll say this for Jerry: he isn’t afraid to try weird foods. He requested the pig’s feet and he dove into the blood sausage. Jane picked at the plates. I stuck to the hummus platter. We listened to Jerry’s latest ideas for a computer game. He isn’t a programmer but he thinks he can invent games that others will code. As usual his idea was unsubtle. Jerry likes slapstick and pratfalls and superheroes and two-dimensional villains. He has blustering energy but no finesse.

I thought I was speaking fondly to him when I commented that no one would accuse him of wit. I sure didn’t mean to be offensive, and I smiled sincerely when I said it. But Jane leaped in. “Are you saying that Jerry isn’t witty?”

I was flummoxed. Chagrined even. I stammered a little. “Well, yes I guess I am,” I admitted. “But we all know there’s more to life than wit.”

“What: do you think wit has to be subtle or something?” Jane sneered that one at me. This from a woman who appreciates Oscar Wilde!

Me: “Yes, I’m saying that too. I can’t imagine unsubtle wit…”

We got past the moment. We moved on to entrees with wine and dessert with green tea. But I kept looking at Jerry and Jane. I detected no sex spark. I saw companionship but I think they’re each too young to settle for that. And then Jerry started telling me, in all seriousness as far as I could perceive, about a secret city under Tokyo, manned by captured Chinese slaves. I nearly lost it.

Jane said nothing. She used her phone to capture pictures of what was left of our creme brulee and flourless chocolate cake.

I had a moment with her before we left. We visited the bathroom together (very together – it’s a single room). I couldn’t resist asking “So what’s with the secret underground city?”

“Hey,” she said. “Don’t ask me. I choose my battles.”

I can’t stand my best friend’s boyfriend. Please don’t look at me that way: I’ve heard all the Psych One ideas. Believe me when I tell you I am not jealous. No way do I want that slob. And I’m not lusting for my bff either. It would be convenient if I were gay – that would satisfy my Lesbian friends’ aspirations for me and certainly my dance card would never be empty – but orientation is not a choice. I may be a gay woman trapped in a straight body, but if so, I haven’t come up with an escape idea.

No, I don’t like Jerry and I never have. And it isn’t even the sort of interesting dislike that might spark into something else sometime. It’s way too boring for that.

Jerry and Jane met a year ago. He’s the second cousin of a friend of her brother’s, and the introduction occurred at their parents’ house. Everyone gathers there at holiday time and Jane’s brother brought some guy from his place, and that guy brought his visiting cousin. Jane’s brother lives in a big shared house near campus and it seems like there are always extra guys around.

I would have been there for the initial meeting except that my parents took a place in Hawaii and hauled all of us over there. Picture me: full-grown and climbing a short hill to 30, traveling with my parents and sibs. I couldn’t turn the trip down. It was an unusual plan for my parents to hatch, and they treated it as some sort of emotional pilgrimage.

By the time I returned, Jane and Jerry were a couple. I never had an opportunity to make the sort of disparaging comments that might have turned her interest away from him. She came over for dinner and announced that she’d met her future husband (!). She introduced us the following day and a week later he moved into her place.

Jerry is not good looking. He is overweight but his fat is not covering lovely (or even big) bones. As it is, he is so doughy that his face fat compresses his features and his fingers look swollen. He has big arms but they start at pillowy shoulders and they end in wrists as creased as a baby’s, so if they’re strong they are hiding that quality. He tucks a big black T-shirt into tight cuffed jeans and he looks like a lollipop. Even if he lost a hundred pounds he’d still have small close-set eyes, a bulbous nose and a boring mouth.

But I’m not small-minded. I can get past the physical specifics. My contempt for Jerry has structure and depth.

The guy’s an undereducated moron. He decided when he was about 14 that no one could teach him anything, and then he dedicated his future to proving that’s true. I have never met such a combination of ignorance and arrogance.

He believes in conspiracy theories. He tends to blurt out stupidities and then try to cover them, if he’s challenged, by acting like he didn’t mean his words – he was just provoking his interlocutor, or “testing the Internet,” depending upon his venue at the time. He mumbles predictions daily, usually about such momentous subjects as fashion trends or burgeoning revolts against “the man,” and he is almost always completely incorrect. But Jerry only remembers the statements he’s made that turned out to be true (“why, I predicted that studs would come back a year before they showed up on the runways!”), and even a broken clock is right twice a day.