Best Friends Forever and Bobby Sherman

From the age of about four until I was in sixth grade, I considered Debbie Potts my best friend. The fact that we didn't attend the same school, live in the same neighborhood, and were two years apart in age probably contributed to the long-term success of our friendship. It also contributed to the time and distance that has now placed us, as adults, into the mere acquaintance category. I wasn't very socially adept as a young child, either that or the kids I attended grammar school with were all horrible people (something I don't really believe is true), but Debbie and I always got along splendidly. I have pictures of us dressed up in our warm jackets making mud pies in my driveway, and a wonderful picture in my own mind of us in our swimsuits playing in a little plastic pool that held less than two feet of water on my front lawn. Debbie always had long blond hair and was small and slender. I always felt like a behemoth next to her, with my short dark hair (cut the way Gram like it, not the way I wanted it) and my perpetually overweight child self.

We spent the majority of our visits at her house. Her parents lived on property owned by her grandparents. Her grandmother, Gladys, did my grandmother's hair. Gladys had a beauty parlor, complete with huge mirrors, cool hairdresser chairs that went up and down, and giant dryers you sat under with a head full of curlers, housed right next door to her carport. I learned to cut hair, mine and later my friends' and family's, sitting on a seat under an unused dryer watching the ladies get their hair done. Sometimes when Debbie was visiting her Grandma, we would hang out in Gladys' house and watch TV or scour some uncle's room for girlie magazines.

Mostly, though, we either hung out in the dough boy swimming pool behind Gladys' house, or went horseback riding on the property. I loved riding horses with Debbie. I loved riding horses in general. I wasn't a horsey girl–I wasn't madly in love with and obsessed like so many girls I knew (including Debbie). I didn't have miniature horses all over my bedroom, or posters of horses running, mane flying, plastered on my walls. I didn't seem to obsess about most things that girls my age did. I had very few hobbies, I didn't collect certain kinds of dolls, I didn't draw, dance or sing in a choir or like the mainstream heart throb bubblegum rockers that the other girls my age seemed to love (the Jacksons, the Osmonds and most especially Donny Osmond).

There was one singer I did love, truly madly deeply and passionately. Bobby Sherman. Almost no one heard of him, it seemed to me, but I thought he was just the best thing. Ever. He had hair similar to Donny Osmond's–longer on the sides with bangs that swept across his forehead, always threatening to fall across one brown eye. He had a square jaw, and a great big smile (a slight case of buck teeth), and dimples on his cheek and one on his chin. I loved, loved, loved his chin dimple. I remember wearing button up shirts that I made sure had the top three buttons left unbuttoned, just like Bobby Sherman, and a choker, just like Bobby Sherman (something like the one he wore on the poster on my closet door), and my hair parted exactly the same way.

The second to last time that I saw Debbie, she was working in Tuttle Drug as a cashier. She was taking classes so she would get work as a typist or secretary or something like that (I remember thinking that she was aiming way too low) and she was so excited to remember how I used to wear my hear–just like Bobby Sherman.

The last time I saw Debbie was from a distance in downtown Petaluma. She was walking with a man pushing a stroller. After that I often thought of Debbie and wondered how she was. If she was still in town, how many kids she had. I tried looking her up on classmates.com, but had no luck.

A few weeks ago, I attended a meeting at Petaluma High School. The school is in the process of renewing their accreditation and I was asked to come as an "involved" parent. Several people I knew came through the doors of the library, my friend Lynn included, who sat next to me. Equally as many people that I didn't know came in. I spent some time hanging out with the former mayor and his wife Bonnie. In walks a woman with blond hair hanging simply down to her shoulders, small and slender with a very familiar (and much older than the last time I saw her) face. I knew that it had to be Debbie. She was on the other side of the room with her husband, and I couldn't quite make out her name tag. What I wanted to do was to jump up, run (or crawl over seats) across the room and say something witty like, "Debbie, is that you?" What I did do was stay quiet as the meeting began and keep an eye on her in case we locked eyes in a moment of recognition. It didn't happen.

Plan B: Once the meeting was over and we were all invited back to the multi-use room for food, I decided to approach her. I carefully planned my strategy. I would gently touch her arm, when she turned to me I would say, "Could I bother you for a moment? Are you Debbie Potts?" If she was I would then tackle the explanation of who I am. I didn't get the question out of my mouth, she knew me. We had a nice stranger to stranger hug, and spent about 5 minutes catching up on each other's lives. I was clearly much more enthusiastic about seeing her. Don't get me wrong, she wasn't unhappy to see me. She seemed genuinely pleased. She was just so…I don't know…grown up. She was very glad to see that, "you're doing well." She didn't ask about my grandparents, which is very unusual in my experience of running into people I haven't seen in awhile. Maybe she already knew that they were gone. I asked about her grandmother and got a brief update, as well as about her parents. It was very clear to me that we had nothing in common save a few childhood memory scraps, none of which we talked about. Life now was simply more interesting, the lack of school and neighborhood memories that had cemented our friendship those long years ago now created a chasm between us. Other than children around the same age, we had nothing in common. She and her husband didn't even go out to the movies together! I just couldn't relate.

Since sixth grade when Debbie and I mutually decided that we had grown out of "best friend forever"-ness, I didn't have another best friend until high school. Counting Debbie, I have been close to four people that rated that label. Two of them are still in my life. But I still like Bobby Sherman better than Donny Osmond.

Connecting the Dots & Taking Control

Ever have a duh! moment, when you connect dots you knew were there, you knew were related, and that had even occur ed to you were part of a pattern, but that you simply chose not to accept as the reality? I had one of those moments this weekend. It led to a panic/anxiety attack, but an attack with a twist. My body was doing what my body does when anxiety/panic attacks: difficulty catching my breath, which led to hyperventilation, shaking, crying, difficulty forming words. But my mind was working, my thoughts were cohesive, clear. I understood what was happening to me the entire time.

Ever since the bio-mother called I have been chewing and chewing on the problem of what to do about her, about her calls, about just how I wanted to end things with her. I considered writing a letter to "break up" with her once and for all, to explain why I haven't returned the last three calls and why we can't have a relationship. I considered having Joe call her posing as a stranger and telling her that "Ginger" doesn't live at this number. I also considered doing nothing, ignoring the call and keeping an eye on call ID. And during all this, I tried to justify in my mind why it was okay to not have a relationship with my mother. My birth mother. The woman who left me with my grandparents. The woman who has messed with my mind and emotions my entire life. And I didn't get the worst of it–Grandma, Grandpa and Sonny did.

The obstacle I kept putting in front of myself to thwart any definitive decision was compassion. Not forgiveness, not empathy (well not a lot anyway), but the need to understand why she is the way she is. This need got in the way of taking care of myself and by extension my family. I continually found myself making excuses for her behavior and undermining my own resolve.

Then I connected the dots, put aside compassion and took a long hard look at a visceral memory, an innate knowing about her abusive behavior that took place years and years ago. The compassion is gone, the forgiveness indefinitely forestalled, the empathy has gone by the wayside. And the panic attack is over. What is left is the residual depression that is a natural by-product of any contact I have with her. It probably won't last past tomorrow.

So what will I do? Probably have Joe call, as himself, and tell her not to call me anymore. It may work or may not. The one thing about my mother is that she is tenacious. The one parental skill that she possesses is the ability to keep coming back, to keep asserting her presence into my life. She did the same thing to her own parents. Even when they asked to her leave and not come back, she came back, called, visited. She once sent the police to my door after telling them that she hadn't heard from me in awhile and was concerned. Never mind that I had written and asked her to make contact by mail only. Never mind that we had purposely un-listed our home phone so that she couldn't call. She just kept at it, no pattern, no regularity, no consistency. So she may continue her inconsistencies. It doesn't matter anymore. I'm done.