S’mores and Other Tasty Tidbits

The first thing she said to me was, ”You know, for a long time I used to think you were a bitch…”  Just to be clear, this is how people frequently greet me at parties, so at first I didn’t make much of it.

– Cybil Stepford

To me, this is a blog opening  with no equal and I now find myself utterly smitten.  Cybil isn’t your ordinary girl.  In fact she’s really more like a guy than a girl, preferring whiskey rather than margaritas, and beer rather than mojitos, which is one of only a dozen things about her that I have come to adore.  What I love about her most, though, is her writing.

In a strange way her writing reminds me of my own, and in an equally strange way I’ve swept myself off my feet.

Cybil is a real-life friend of my friend Fran and he kept prodding me to check out her blog—but like most writers I shun the work of other writers when what precedes the prodding is fawning praise.  That’s because, as a writer, I prefer to be the recipient rather than the observer of it.

So when Fran would say she’s an amazing writer with incredible wit, I would secretly think “Step off.  I’m an amazing writer with incredible wit.”  But what always follows in these situations is the nagging doubt that my writing really isn’t that good, which is why I crave that fawning praise.  I need for someone—anyone—to validate me and tell me that when I put pen to paper, what erupts is brilliant and beautiful and amazing.  Much like that scene from A Christmas Story in which Ralphie is hoisted on the shoulders of his classmates for his victorious A+++++ on his What I Want for Christmas essay, I have this pathetic need to be lauded for my small victory of yet another 1,200 word entry.  Apparently, so does Cybil.

I sent her a friend request on FaceBook after observing one of her many vulgar, entertaining rants, and after consulting with Fran she eventually accepted.  Apparently she has standards, so imagine my surprise when I received the confirmation of our online friendship.  As Groucho Marx was reported to have said “I don’t care to belong to any club that will have me as a member.”  I briefly considered rescinding my friendship to her on that basis but, fortunately, I thought better of it.

After posting my V-day blog entry she sent me a private note:

“Tweet This Post

Cybill’s VD

We agree on stupid Vday.”

I followed the link and immediately fell heels over head in love—with her writing of course.  It happens.  I try so hard to shun the product of other writers, which I was told by an agent is bad form to admit if you are a writer seeking an agent.  I don’t care, though, which is precisely why none of them will ever pick me up.  I don’t care whether my oral or written comments are considered bad form by others.  It’s a vicious circle that begins with my compulsion to shock you followed closely by my regret in so doing.

But to the point, her writing is so beautiful, and the voice and content are so filled with sincere love and hate and torment that I found myself unable to hate it as I typically do with most other writers.  And then she compounded this state of affairs with the following admission:

“I shrivel up and die from criticism. There is no such thing as constructive criticism. So, I need my readers to pretend to be females from the South. (Pretend to like it and if ya don’t? At least be kind enough to say it behind my back.)”

That is exactly the way I feel every time I write something—anything.  I just really need for you to love it, and Cybil’s admission, resonated so strongly with my own outlook, I came to believe we were separated at birth.  We apparently experience the world in a nearly identical way—unless, of course, she’s a lying bitch, and if that contingency presents itself, I’m out.  But I’ll cross that bridge if I come to it.

And now, the weird part.

I began exchanging personal IMs with her on FaceBook, and I was happily floored by my realization that the unabashed honesty in her blog really is an expression of who she is in real life.  As a consequence I became obsessed with wanting  to meet her in person and to get to know her better.  It was just under the legal threshold for stalking.

As a result of my obsession with Cybil and this ravenous craving for an endless supply of witty content from her, I began to harass her and Fran to set up a happy hour with her and her friends.  Each time I mentioned it to either of them, the answer was always the same:

“Sure.  We should do that.”

However, this was very much like the experience I once had with the pretty girl in high school who befriended me.  When I finally mustered the courage to ask her out, words were the only result of my invitation.  She was inevitably busy on the appointed date and so were Cybil and Fran.  This neglect of compliance with my demands to meet her, however, only fed my obsession with seeing her and getting to know her in person.  It was, in a word, embarrassing—or rather it should have been.  I felt no embarrassment whatsoever.

I think that’s what’s wrong with our culture.  Needing to get to know Cybil had everything to do with her unapologetic expression of her worldview and nothing at all to do with bedding her.  There was, therefore, no reason to hide my waxing affection—or so I thought.  And then I crossed some invisible threshold I didn’t understand.  I decided to circumvent the ever-elusive Happy Hour and ask her to lunch, and the invitation was preceded by the following circular argument in my mind.

Obsession: “Happy Hour isn’t going to happen.  Ask her to lunch.”

Common Sense: “You don’t know her, so lunch with her is a date, and you’re both married.”

Obsession: “But we’re both married, so it’s just lunch.”

Common Sense: “You’re the only person on the planet who believes that.  Lunch with a woman you only know from FaceBook is inappropriate because you’re both married.”

Obsession: “Dude, you’re over-thinking this.  Invite her to lunch.”

Mr. Obsession, who was sporting horns, a tail, and a pitchfork won this particular epic battle, in which my mind is so often engaged, and the result was a quite happy turn of events—at least for me.  It went something like this:

“Hi Cybil.  We’ve had a couple of personal exchanges, and I like the person I’m getting to know. I wanted to get together in a group setting such as happy hour to visit with you and your friends in person so I could get to know you better, but that doesn’t seem to be on the visible horizon.

How would you feel about a lunch outing with just you and me?”

“Matter o’ fact: HAPPY HOUR THURSDAY!!
I got an email last night. Will add you and Fran. Otherwise, sure – lunch would be fun sometime. This week sucks, next week I’m out of town, but at some point? Why not?”

Perfect.  Perfect, that is, until I read a subsequent reply to a message in which I mentioned that a particular situation I had just described was awkward.  She seized this opportunity to express a concern that apparently had been weighing heavily on her mind:

“Speaking of awkward.   Please don’t be offended or upset at what I’m about to blurt out. This is just one of those ‘Huh. The more I think about it…’ things where I’ve made myself uncomfortable and I need to clear the air so I can go back to being my usual obnoxious self.

Here goes.

Lunch just us. In theory? Fun. No big deal. We’re married. No funny business gonna happen. Fine.

But then I thought ‘I feel weird. Therefore, it’s weird. Or could be weird. Or my husband might think it’s weird. So, it’s weird.’

I’m sure your intentions are honorable and strictly friendly, but… I HAVE MADE IT WEIRD in my head.

So, I’m not sure about having weird I mean lunch with you.”

In that moment, I realized I had inadvertently overshot the friend zone and landed squarely in the “don’t even go there” zone.

The truth is people judge.  We don’t want to judge and most of us claim we don’t judge.  But the reality is that we are filled with self-delusion and we do, in fact, judge the motivations and actions of others.

Dear fan-base.  Lunch has been cancelled.  I have skipped straight to desert and what’s on the menu is s’mores.  Not the decadently delicious graham cracker, marshmallow-filled, chocolate covered treats from your childhood.  Social mores.  That other tasty treat, which frankly leaves a bad taste in my mouth but—which, I suppose, is ultimately necessary.

Another scotch please.

Guy-o