How To Make A Hundred Besties

Moms are friend-picky; Boston, and other chilly cities

Hubby and I went to a coffee house this past weekend. (Yes, I indulged in decaf.) Sweet Notes was crowded. It was a Saturday and wasn’t supposed to rain until the afternoon. (It’s Washington state. When there’s a sun break—actual weather person term-- you run outside.) We sat by the door and watched the families coming and going. Opposite us was a flowered wall and a swing hung from the rafters— an ideal backdrop for a child photographer.

Every little girl who sauntered in with her parents was drawn to that swing like it was cotton candy. Where’s a professional photographer when you need one? The parents always looked too tired to have their kid pose on the swing, sit still, smile and tap their phone. Instead, they stood on line, placed their order and grabbed a table or left with their paper cups.

“Look at those cute little girls eyeing each other,” I said to hubby. The two girls had long curly hair and cherubic faces. One was on the swing and a newly arrived muffin (that’s what I called my kids when they were little) was leaning against the flowered wall, waiting to abscond the swing the second the girl vacated. Swing girl was taking her sweet time, pulling flowers out of the wall and placing one in her hair.

I wanted them to talk to each other, become besties for the five minutes they had together. Kids have no fear, they haven’t been burned by a friend, no societal do’s and don’ts telling them that it’s just plain weird to start talking to a stranger at a coffee house. While mom probably said, “Don’t talk to strangers,” she meant those of the adult brand.

I remembered when my daughter was 5 years old and we ran an errand to the market. As we waited our turn at the deli counter, I noticed another mom and her young daughter already on line.

Our little girls were eyeing each other, swinging their wastes from excess energy. Finally, the other muffin said, “I’m Madison, I’m five.” Then my muffin said, “I’m Samantha, I’m five.” The mom looked at me and said, “I’m Jane, I’m forty.” “Me too,” I said. We chuckled together and that was it. The deli man called her number.

We had just moved to Connecticut and I was eager to make friends. (So was Samantha.) I wanted to ask the mom out, meet me for a donut, (nowadays the morning grub would be free of gluten, dairy, soy, corn and processed sugar) but I was afraid. I had early experiences with people who don’t need people (Barbra Streisand should sing that version) and cliques, and how tough they were to pry open. High School girls were like the Coke can when the tab broke off. I stopped drinking soda. Before I could dare to continue a friendly conversation and ease into a potential friendship Jane was asking for a pound of Prosciutto. Our daughters were chatting and giggling until it was time for them to go and it was my turn to point at food through the glass case that needed a good Windex swipe from all the fingerprints. (Oh, and hubby wanted a half pound “extra lean” Pastrami.)

Good friends are tough to come by. Couples even more so. Finding a couple with whom both spouses connect is like locating your car in an airport parking lot when you forget the section. It seems like guys have no problem. They join a game of basketball in the park and bam, instant friends. Women can be picky, tough cookies.

Wherever we moved to I tried.

When we lived in Massachusetts there was a gal in my neighborhood book club I attempted to woo. I emailed her, “Let’s get a coffee.” No reply. During one book meeting Meg complained about the bunnies eating her tomatoes. I happened to go the market the next day and bought her a few Heirloom tomatoes, put them in a basket and left them on her front porch with a note. She later thanked me for the tomatoes but that didn’t get me on her friend tree. Boston had “townies.” If you weren’t a townie you didn’t earn a spot in a clique. Even though we lived in the Boston area for 12 years we still weren’t considered townies. Born and bred in Southie? You’re in. Sox season tickets? Fuggetaboutit. (Season tickets are like generational heirlooms in Boston.) Families are tight too. Meg’s sister and her family lived across the street and she was also in the book club. The sisters had three other siblings in the area. When you’ve got that many siblings, you’re blessed with instant friends.

Of course there was one possibility that I didn’t want to admit. Maybe she just didn’t like me. I wish I knew why like getting notes on one of my stories.

“I didn’t believe that character would leave tomatoes on a doorstep. The bunnies could get them. Not smart… Why would she do that? Is she stalking her?”

One person’s stalking is another’s kindness. I gave up on Meg.

I learned quickly to target the gals who were transplants like us. They were outsiders, non-townies, folks like me who were open to new friendships.

My daughter, in her teenage years, continued to be an inspiration. She was friends with everyone. She learned a few necessary words in Chinese so she could greet the exchange students at her High School. She even learned American sign language so she was able to communicate with a hearing impaired kid she always saw at the T stop. One day we were driving through Brookline and the High School had just ended for the day. As teenagers swarmed the sidewalks Samantha said, “I can’t believe I don’t know all these people.” (Because if she did, they would all be her friends.)

I befriended another neighbor who was from Montreal. (Forget New England, she was from another country, but an interloper like me.) She too had a tough time connecting with Meg. I felt better. It wasn’t just me.

What’s funny is every place had an excuse for its closed-off people. When we moved to Seattle we heard about the “Seattle Freeze.” We soon discovered it was a real thing. Not only were people cold, (generally speaking) but there was a passive aggressiveness that made me miss the blunt force vocabulary of Boston. Waving off a question or not responding at all, I wondered if Meg spent time in Seattle.

Here's how a question might be answered in different areas.

Do you have tomatoes?

Boston— (read with accent) I got no f—cking tomatoes. The truck was supposed to arrive last night but the Sox won and the traffic delayed every f—cking produce truck from here to Methuen.

Seattle—        A) I grow my own.

                        B) No (But thinking, “Maybe call before you come in?”)

New York— Same as Boston but insert Yankees instead of Sox.

Silicon Valley— No public grocery stores. “Our chef brings in tomatoes for us.”

It doesn’t help that I talk to myself while at the grocery store.

“Dang, that artichoke is expensive. That’s like the diamond ring of artichokes.” I don’t get commiseration. I get people scrutinizing me then heading over to the fruit.

It was easier to come by friends when the kids were little. Soccer games were great. It was okay to talk to yourself when grumbling.

“That kid pushed her.”

A fellow mom would agree and chime in, “Where’s her mom?”

Instant friends.

Back to Sweet Notes

The little girl hopped off the swing. The muffin who was waiting was long gone. Her parent’s had ordered to-go.

Hubby said, “We need some friends.”

“Yeah.”

“Hobbies would help.”

 “You can join a hiking group. Maybe there’s a book group in our area for me. No Meg.”

“Who?”

“Nothing.”

1.     Do you have lifelong friends?

2.     Have you been in the same city for over 20, 30 or 40 years?

3.     Did you ever meet someone who didn’t want to be your friend?