You Can Pick Your Friends, and You Can Pick Your Nose... no, no, you can't, because that is nasty. Who came up with that saying anyway?

When I was a much smaller me, I made friends the way every other vertically-challenged pre-adult did; via proximity. I daresay this is how the adults do it as well (or so I've heard from many successful grown-up imposters, which are the only kind with which one ought truck.) When we were kids, however, proximity was defined not by job, college class of interest, gym or other external hobby, you know, things that would imbue a sense of camaraderie from the get-go, but by where you sat in class. If you attended a school like mine, that meant how tall you were or where you came in the alphabet. To this very day, there resides in me an abiding need to 'marry-up' in the alphabet; anything south of S destines you for the cupcakes with disappointing sprinkle counts and frosting-to-cake ratios, last to be released for recess and first to file back in, etc.

Suggestions to switch it up with a different alphabet did not improve matters, either.

Most annoyingly, sitting in the back corner of the room meant every test and assignment grade was  made public knowledge as they were passed through Anderson all the way back to the T's. And even as a fairly regular A-student, this proved embarrassing on those random days where a B- marred the ol' rep, which, off-topic though this may be, was one of those reputations that everyone thinks you strive for, and are very quick to ding if they can, even if you didn't want to be known for this random aspect in the first place. Of course, if you defended yourself as such, saying, "I never said I was smart/best at volleyball/wealthy/whatever the rep may be," then the children would just chock it up to you being embarrassed at being caught out on top of being pretentious enough to think yourself any better than anyone else at anything, ever.

I imagine psychologists have all manner of charts, graphs, studies and theories to explain this out. I personally maintain children have all the same aspects and inclinations towards being rotten people as adults do. They're just condensed down into a size that frustrates, as it is small enough to toss down a well, but is also smug in the knowledge that to do so is looked down upon in most societal mores.

Hence the need to rent gear and plan trips to make it look accidental.

Of course, if one used only nearby candidates to fill out the friendship roster with no other form of application or interview, one could be burned. I once watched a fellow student repeatedly squirt Elmer's glue into his desk's pencil tray, let it dry, peel it out, and eat it, pencil shavings, eraser turds, used Kleenex (!!!) and all. Nearness or not, you've got to have standards. Herein lies the second integral part of friend-making: verification by common interest. Now, as a child, my litmus test involved a desire to eat candy and watch Animaniacs and Freakazoid, which, might I add, were surprisingly reliable in weeding out the yuckier of my contemporaries. However, in the adult world, this wears grownup clothes and goes by names like sports and recreation,  being fans of the same arts or music, book clubs and writer's groups, various religious affiliations, singles', couples' or parents' groups, etc. Arrested development notwithstanding, and admitting that your mileage may vary, but I'm betting there are worse standards out there than Red Vines and the knowledge of all the nations of the world, circa 1993.

For example, there are tattoos.

If you're reading this and haven't seen a picture of the amateur-mind behind this blog, allow me to disclose that, around 23, I started decorating, and now have a fair few pieces on my ribs and arms. This does not make me cool, unique, a rebel against society, a convict, or a hardcore anything, except perhaps an enthusiast-of-colored-drawings. I draw the designs, take them to people who can improve upon them (i.e., are experienced enough that they don't still need to draw the sun on their pictures to figure out where the shading goes) and pay money to have people draw on me. And then I look at them and like them a bunch, and that's exactly where my interest in them stops. This picture chosen specifically for how very thug lyfe I represent myself, and how very seriously I take being the human version of the wall you drew on when you were 5 and had access to crayons outside of supervision.

 Gaze upon my street credentials, Beezelbub demands- wait are those animal cookies 

what the gently caress

The problem with the above paragraph is that it, like everything else you're likely to read here, is entirely, like, my opinion, man. This obliviousness is a fine thing for a blog. It is not, however, a fine way to approach something that can be controversial, offensive to delicate senses, or at the very least, inspiring to onlookers as to what sort of person you might be. Not to say one should live in fear of other peoples' opinions, but take this as just a gentle reminder that you shouldn't really be surprised if people look at something that is for all intents and purposes a personal decision, and decide they need to hold forth loudly and publicly on it. (See also: health, lack of children, hobbies, etc.) You may fail to notice your tattoos, piercings, or multicolored mohawk after having them for some time, but you can't really be shocked when they do not, or if they are dickbags about it.

This is a cute version of what I looked like after I googled "dickbag" with the safe search off. 

Not pictured: vomit.

Adult-sized people, after all, are held by consensus to have all the necessary aspects and inclinations towards being rotten, and carry the downside of not fitting down most standard wells. Double whammy.

You might wonder why I chose to write a whole post about the arbitrary nature in which friends are selected, held or caught-and-released, or wanted to extrapolate on the common interests that can bind friends for life, and which ones glance like a ricochet. You might wonder if this was all just an excuse to use that Wacko Warner meme I've held in reserve for the last two years; I wonder how, even in my social naivete, I ended up dating a guy like J.

To Be Continued...

LiterHate; Book Reviews by Bitches

I read. I read a lot. I have ever since, as a child, my mother read to me, and then became a librarian at our private school and allowed me first crack at donated books for content. (Note that this was the school that banned Wizard of Oz, as there is a WIZARD right there in the title doing Satan's magic look at him all smug, so many of these books ended up as my own.) Hell, I used to be grounded from reading whenever the stacked clutter of my room crossed the line with my mother's tolerance of my filthy dirt-cookie lifestyle, so you know bitches be readin'.

This however qualifies me in no way, shape or form to review books. Fair warning. I will read anything, but chances are that the things I review here are going to be one of the two extremes: OMGYAYZORS I SHIT TEH SUNSHINES or WTF, now that's in my head FOREVER and I will make you pay.

 If you've read any of my other blogs, I bet you know which one we're starting with here.

The Lost Years, by Mary Higgins Clark.

Mary Higgins Clark is reliable, if nothing else, for serving up bland murder mysteries for the Matlock set. I didn't go into this thinking "hard-hitting think piece" so much as "of the Golden Girls, I really wish Dorothy would've been the last one. Love me some Maude." Her books aren't terrible, however, and can help you pass time you'd otherwise spend chewing your nails or pondering self-tanner (don't.) Also, she has a free pass for "All Around the Town," and always will, as it was the first book my mother let me read after her, meaning not a kid's book she bought expressly for me, but a grown-ups book she was letting me read. My first brush with Dissociative Personality Disorder, child-kidnapping AND murder, and all before I hit puberty. Happy birthday to me, indeed!

But this is not "All Around the Town," and there's not so much as a child-groping in sight to liven this one up. Onward, people, to an East Coast collection of towns and a dead dude in a study, discovered by his adult daughter.

I pause here to call attention to this one chick who wanders around the periphery of this book that, frankly, steals the show; I can't even tell you what the protagonist/s name is without checking the back of the book, mind, but when we come down to it, this isn't the story of a dead dude at all; this is the story of Alviraaaaah~, as I discovered along the way, and so will any who read this book. She's a scene-stealin' gal after Linda Tripp's withered little heart, she is!

But she's not the protagonist according to the script; that honor belongs to...

one sec checking book, brb

It's Mariah, which is only an "ah" sound away from being my name, and still I couldn't remember it. What I do remember of "Ah" is that girl can't go three seconds without recounting a memory of her dead dad. Goes to her apartment? That's Dad's chair she sits in. Looks at her eyes in the mirror? Daddy's eyes. And his height! (A collective sigh of relief is breathed as she fails to further describe whether or not she inherited dear ol' Dad's vitiligo.) She also has occasion to look at her hair, and well, that beckons a memory of her dad's comparisons between her raven locks and the song The Highwayman, which is about some rogue having the hots for an innkeeper's daughter, ew. Looks at a picture? It's not of her dad, but reminds her of the awesome pictures he had of him and his girlfriend off gallivanting around Venice. Venice, as it turns out, is where he took his wife, Ah's dear mother, on their honeymoon. I've met girls who won't brook a guy taking them to the same restaurant that they used to frequent with an ex, and that's just dating. This is a honeymoon-destination we're talking here, mister. If only there were other cities in other countries! At the very least, this is a tacky-as-hell vacation for the girlfriend, and we should feel bad for her.

Wait.

How do these pictures come into play? Oh, Ah's mom, who is still very much alive, found them. But wait! Mom has the Alzheimers, so that's okay, right? The "Notebook" approach isn't for everyone. But these aren't amnesia-Alzheimers we're dealing with. While she has her moments, Ah's Mom is also very much aware that her husband is actively replacing the warm spot she used to leave in the bed (ew EW) before she's even done making it.

At this point in the book (second chapter) I'm glad the dude got shot, and as far as I'm concerned, this became about finding a thank-you note Jesus jotted down, period, the end. It's the only one of its kind, and not even to the Wise Men or his disciples or even his mom; apparently, being the Savior of the World doesn't come with any sense of etiquette. So off we go, to poke around figuring out which of Dead Dad's friends conspired to steal Christ's Post-It, and our Sherpa is some girl who can't hook a bra in this story without reminiscing about how her father either bought her the bra or used to snap them or something. Like I said, completely forgettable.

But I sure as hell remember ol' Alviraaaaah~. Which is clearly how you're supposed to pronounce that name, bee tee dubs. This broad is definitely one of those ladies born in the 60s (but still refers to herself as a "Baby Boomer," neglecting to note that the baby boom happened when all the US troops returned from WWII. In the 40s. Mmmhmm.) Another word I bet she proudly uses in self-descriptives? Wacky. I don't know how I know this, or why, but I'm betting dollars that she has purchased at least 2 pairs of multi-colored reading glasses from the drugstore AND every pair of whimsical socks she can get her claws on, and thinks this niche consumerism makes her unique. "All my friends tell me I'm so wacky and spontaneous!" she remarks to her windchimes. I bet she has dozens.

"What? Sounds like a great gal to me!"

Another thing I'm certain of is her inspiration- this is Jessica Fletcher writ annoying. She barely squeezes out a tear for the dead, a lifelong friend, before she's nagging her hubs (Willy, whose name I remember in connection with it being one of the saddest nicknames for peen EVER) to circle blocks while she stalks people, lies to doormen when the stalkees are, understandably, avoiding this pile of Metamucil and crazy, and oh yes, has a diamond-and-gold sunburst brooch with a microphone in it that she wears constantly.

lolwut

I get that bridge clubs and knitting aren't for everyone, but Jesus-Please-us (only once, as He wasn't one for the manners) lady, THIS IS WHY THERE ARE COPS AND LAWYERS. You know, people with training and knowledge about the law, who could tell you that without a warrant, you really can't use any secret recordings you make of people who are under the impression of privacy.

lolpatriotact

Alviraaaaah wears this gaudy-as-all-get-out Liberace constellation jewelry all the time, and whenever she wants to "be sure not to mishear something" (reasonable) she claws at the brooch like she's having a stroke, and no one notices (nutbag.) Well, no one who would somehow make this microphone brooch (I'm sorry, did Harry Ritchies get merged with Sharper Image somewhere along the way?) less effective, because Ah asks her to wear it to a dinner to catch any asides her father's killer might make about, you know, killing him. Which I must say sounds foolproof from this end!

Places to Admit to Committing Murder:
1. Space, where no one can hear you scream, let alone confess;
2. Your shower, in-between belting out off-key renditions of "You Give Love a Bad Name";
3. In the house where you straight murdered your friend, at a memorial dinner for the departed, given by his own kid.

Hmmmmmmm decisions decisions

But sure enough, Alviraaaaah happens to notice someone acting very suspicious- taking a phone call on their cell, if you can imagine, HOW MYSTERIOUS- and bustles up right next to him, close enough to record the tinny voice on his phone as a message is left. And she does so without him even noticing her lurch forward, clutch her shoulder, and give his jacket some of that onion-breath or old lady perfume smell. And this factors in with the rest of the story, and is even a key to solving who capped Dad, framed Mom, and made off with the Heavenly Hallmark.

Wait. I think we discovered the actual mystery in this book. How Alviraaaaah~ wasn't stabbed to death with a tire iron (well, stabbed/bludgeoned) as she meddled along in actual criminal cases, armed only with roots she can't stop bitching about and her high tech tchotchkes. The theologic thank-you is a McGuffin!

(Well played, Ms. Higgins Clark. Well played.)

For those not into meta-mysteries: Check out All Around the Town. It's a much stronger book, and reliably paced with action and believable interpersonal relationships. That is to say, it's unlike this one, wherein men come staggering in from offstage, pouncing on Ah seconds after her dead father's body starts to cool, like emo-zombies calling out for "looooooooove." You'd think that their intent would be to offer sympathies in this time of loss, and mutual loss at that- all the men in this book are bros with Dead Dude, like BFFS4EVA!!! But, sadly, their shoulder pats and single tears are just a formality, the offer of a tissue for her tears before a dinner date and in one instance, a shiny new car!!! if she'll go steady with them.

I would think there's some Emily Post chart out there that labels out when it's appropriate to try to get her out of their dreams and her black mourning clothes; I've never seen one, but I bet it mandates the poor girl at least have a moment to scrape the dead's blood off the office furniture before she's expected to make out in the backseat of Dad's (ooh, too soon!) car, but these gentlemen vultures don't even have the decency to circle THAT long. The first offer for a date comes THE DAY AFTER THE GUY DIES, EW ew ew! Best of all, we're supposed to root for one of them, who ends up getting the girl, in a twist at which even M. Night Shyamalan would look, roll his eyes and say "Oh REALLY." However, Alviraaaaah~ approves, so must we.

She has some very incriminating recordings of us, as it turns out.

On the Many Different Interpretations of "Strong"