A friend in need is a friend indeed -- at least until she leaves the room.

as a woman i've been spoonfed sugary sweet stories of bosom buddies lasting from the cradle to the grave and beyond as often as i've been sucked into spending my five minutes waiting in line at the grocery store snickering to myself over the latest hollywood starlet debacle to make the cover of the tabloids. (which in and of itself kind of makes my entire point.) so let's just get to it:

what happened to girls sticking together? why is it that women glean such deep and evil pleasure from witnessing the stumbling of a pretty young thing?

the only answer i can reach is to blame the biological drive of competition. a competition so cold and calculating, so animalistic, that it's astounding romans didn't pit two women at their dating prime against each other over a studly man or a silk, designer-inspired toga with results even the lions couldn't match. though most women have more in common with a gila monster than a prowling, pouncing lioness: rather than blatently ripping our prey's jugular, we subtly inject our poison and stick by our target's side -- enjoying the long, painful time it takes for it to die.

it's a vicious cycle from which my circle of friends is not exempt. we've stuck together through bad boyfriends, brutal pms, drunken binges and penny pinching. all through our college years when we were still on level ground the illusion of a thelma and louise-like connection was strong. united in our distaste for girly girls and our love for cheap booze, as well as our oodles of free time to waste, we blazed a trail through every social scene we stepped into as a unit: daring, dramatic, and determined.

that's when things started to happen. a couple of us wound up with souvenirs of our poor dating judgements in the form of bright, bouncy babies. at least one of us failed out of school over a boy. someone lost their baby fat, and somebody gained their freshman fifteen. a few of us got responsible and found nine to five jobs. some of us stubbornly refused to change our lifestyle, and as of yet still haven't.

it was at this point, the point where maybe we needed each other most to hold hands through the terrors of moving far from home, of deciding to commit long term to a career or a man, of becoming more woman than girl -- this is the point where the illusion evaporated and the claws came out. don't get me wrong -- everyone is still there for the bad, lending a shoulder and comforting word (or buying the beer, whichever is most appropriate). it's during the good -- college graduations, promotion celebrations, kids' birthdays, great date evaluations -- that everyone disappears.

none of my girl friendships has ever been entirely free of the brand of cattiness that begs to know from a mutual friend who looks better in the dress we both own, who the cute guy across the bar was checking out, who discovered which new hangout first. however, the difference between then and now is that then we were all only searching for affirmation that we were somebody special. now, ten years later and at an age where we should be fully aware of not only our own specialness but the importance of the specialness of others, we seem to be in the midst of a never-ending quest for justification of the wisdom of our own choices in life at the expense of all else.

are we really this bitter already? or is there still such pressure placed on post-feminist era women to have it all that we tear ourselves and others apart in the persuit for perfection?

i can't answer that. it's like trying to discover why it is that every woman with a head full of beautiful, naturally curly hair works herself into tears at least once struggling to get it straight and sleek, and every woman with straight hair at one point or another spends three hours in the bathroom scorching it with a curling iron. it is human nature to want what we don't, or can't, have (more on this later). but why do we have to be such bitches about it?

it's one thing to giggle over the terrible exploits of the indomitable miss lohan, who unfortunately is subjected to such treatment merely by the stature she's been able to achieve so early in life (as well as being one hell of a fascinating target). some of us giggle because we've been there, albeit on a smaller scale, and some of us giggle because she is younger and prettier and richer than we'll ever hope to be. the fact remains that despite her reality as a human being (and i do pity her for that), her distance from reality separates her into a caraciture supposedly immune to all the snickering and scolding occuring in a grocery store in pennsylvania that odds are she will never, ever set a monolo-clad foot into. she's an accurate analogy, and a grand starting point, for the discussion on what exactly is wrong with us.

everyday laywomen doing this to each other -- turning our own insecurities and regrets inside out to paste on someone we look at through a veil of green envy -- does nothing to further our goal of equalizing the gender divide, nor to help our species move forward into a civilization that's actually capable of being civil. corporations have long known that keeping the employees dissatisfied with each other reduces the chances of their taking action on what dissatisfies them about the corporation; in essence, this is what women are doing to themselves.

as long as we allow ourselves to be distracted by hating on what we percieve as our more successful counterparts, we will be stuck on a repeat that will watch us stagnate, or even worse, backslide (which is a real threat these days). child-bearing and fashion differences aside, nobody wants to see that happen.

so instead of staring angrily at the slender back of the five-foot-ten, hundred and fifteen pound blonde standing in front of us with her hunky husband as we wait to buy our cat food and single-serving frozen lasagna, let's be nice. smile. say hello. buy her a candy bar, one with lots of calories.

because it isn't any easier for her than it is for you. in a world of decreasing reproductive rights where women still only make seventy-five cents on the dollar and pot-smokers recieve longer jail sentences than rapists, us girls have to stick together.

this birthday may suck, but at least i'm not in beirut.

it's only mid-morning and the sucktasticness of the twenty-fifth birthday in a life of carefully listed and yet not entirely satisfying accomplishments -- in addition to being a day terribly unsuited for tanning -- is settling down comfortably on my pale and freckled shoulders like the heavy black hood of a cloak of despair. in a house quiet and empty, here in a room of many windows through which wafts a humid and stinky breeze (most likely from the price-gauging gas station just beyond the trees), and an expansive view of the gray clouds rolling behind the squished carcass of a rather large moth splatted on the glass of the patio door, i have no recourse but to eat an entire package of cinnimon rolls while lamenting my failures and missed opportunities.

i don't know what it is about birthdays that stimulates an immediate and radical dissection of a life's choices, as well as a burning desire for a miracle mapquest to fully outline the driving directions from "here" to "there".

somehow standing one year away from an entry level career in a profession that was yesterday listed among the top five most prestigious jobs in the public eye and having several non-career related publication credits to boast about loudly on street corners after alcohol-laced binges pales when seated next to the spectre of self-expected potential.

the questions linger. was i right to walk away from something i could have really succeeded in because it made me feel pretty shitty about myself? did i really need to be so loud when publicly handing the what-for to the borderline-attractive guy who attempted to compliment me by admiring my skirt with an accompanying touch that came dangerously close to my no-no? does screening my calls make me a bad friend? am i awful because i eat meat, and like it? would it have been so wrong to fuck my best friend because he isn't happy with his boy-pleasin', empty-cat-food-can-personality doormat of a girlfriend, or did my belief in sisterhood cause me to squander a chance at some real fun, as well a something in common with angelina? is recycling even worth the effort?

these things we'll never know. attempting to make any sense of them is as useless and brain-scrambling as trying to swallow the black comedy that is our national government. maybe i should eat some more rolls instead.

however, what i do know is how easily the near and dear can obscure a larger view of the far and important. good thing articles like this one exist as perspective-forming over-coffee reading.

the chinese place down the street may have earned itself an exit from my speed dial.

on average i eat take-out (though not always chinese) at least five meals per week. most of the time these five meals are derived from three purchases -- though i try to avoid fast food at all costs, i do at times have to break down due to lack of time or funds and bite the proverbial weinie. so i can say that at least one of those four meals is a greasy hamburger of which i eat half before feeling physically ill enough that i dismember it to retrieve the wilted lettuce and pale hothouse tomato, then toss the rest back into a bag that assures me it is made of "20 percent recycled materials" -- though i have never fully ascertained if this factoid pertains to the bag or the burger.

anyway, the other two purchases are generally a gigantic and delightfully cheap steak salad from a bar close enough to walk to or something from my favorite chinese takeout restaurant. both of these meals will feed me twice or even three times, appealing to my MO of minimizing my expenditures while maximizing my benefits. two meals for under ten dollars cannot be argued with.

and this is where the chinese place, which boasts that it is "new york style", comes in. as of yet i have never been to a chinese restaurant in new york, so i'm not clear exactly on what this descriptor involves. is it "new york style" because it is an exhibition kitchen? because nobody smiles? because the floors are always slightly dirty, the door is always open, and none of the chairs at the three tiny dine-in tables match?

or is it the dreaded tip jar?

i don't mind tipping as a practice. when food is delivered to me, whether to my door or at a table, i will happily tip above and beyond the recommended twenty percent when service is up to par. christ, i've even double tipped waitresses at diners where i've lingered over pie and coffee longer than the usual hour mealtime, factoring in how much she might have gotten from another patron had my ass not been hogging that brown and torn vinyl booth. i was raised by nice people to believe that this is nice behaviour.

however, a line is crossed when a tip jar stands gaping and conspicuous near the cash register of a little joint where i've arrived to pick up my general tso's and wanton soup. in addition to my order of $11.50, as well as the ten minute walk through a terrible intersection to pick it up, i am being prompted to place an extra dollar in a jar for the woman who literally turns around to the other counter and packs my tinfoil-encased dinner in a plastic bag only to turn around once again to hand it to me?

if i give the dollar, i feel beaten. but being a regular customer, if i don't give the dollar, what will be said about me after i leave? "there goes that cheap girl and her dinner for tonight and lunch for tomorrow?" "no wonder she's single?" will they surreptitiously slip me a pork egg roll instead of a shrimp roll, knowing that even though i detest even the smell of pork i won't be able to tell the difference when biting into the crisp, egg roll-y goodness? it has become a dilemma.

true, there was the christmas when i arrived to pick up my food and they loaded me up with a quart of egg drop soup (not entirely sure this wasn't out of pity). but there also have been times i have waited fifteen minutes despite calling ahead while a parade of walk-ins get their meals hot and piping, without even a whisper of apology. and they oh-so-often forget the fortune cookies or go skimpy on the duck sauce.

so do they deserve that extra dollar? if i give in out of niceness or fear of pork egg rolls, am i perpetuating the problem? will there soon be tip jars at drive-thrus or movie theaters? will i have to tip the mailman or the garbage man? tip the busboy and cook, the dishwasher and hostess?

at least bartenders can use the idea of putting up with drunkard's shit as a justification of the tipping tradition. however, my chinese food provider is not getting any shit from me, as i've never been to their establishment while intoxicated (that i can recall) and i am always at the height of my good indoor behaviour. there is a certain balance of job hazards and service quality required to push a job title into the realm of tippable employees. new york style chinese takeout place, you just haven't hit that level.

so as of right now, i see no reason to be handing out dollars like religous fliers at a marilyn manson concert.

bandwagons ahoy!

there's something infinately ridiculous about the popularity of reality as entertainment. has our country of spoiled brats, carefully sheltered and protected from terrible monstrosities (like prevention of unwanted pregnancies or sex between consenting adults!) by our Big Brother, become so involved in the self-centered dramas of our own lives that we'd rather watch paris hilton's latest exploits than update ourselves on the conflicts that effect us on deeper levels?

the fact that every major cable station (in my area NBC, CBS, FOX and ABC) has stuffed their prime time programming with various takes on survivor says yes. i've seen people in the grocery store who are more caught up in discussing the pros and cons of each america's next top model into the cell phone glued to their ear than they are about the current state of their stain-covered child who is happily building a fort constructed of campbell's potato soup cans in the middle of the aisle.

however, this could be merely a hopeful beating of the dead horse that is the american dream -- squashed to pieces by a government intent on destroying any and every pathway between the lower and upper classes, pitching us into the past and darkening the lines between the unwashed masses and sparkling elite. if a guy with gray hair and minimal talent can make a ford commercial, maybe you can too! who says there's no hope for the children of low income families at a time when community colleges are disappearing due to lack of federal funding and university education is becoming increasingly unaffordable? there's always chef ramsey and hell's kitchen! forget history and mathematics, work on perfecting that saffron spiced lamb chop with crab meat and artichoke heart stuffing, kids. just try not to drool on the plate while you do it.

so, anyway, i've decided to become one of the many and half-heartedly join the world of internet blogging. sometimes being part of the solution entails first becoming part of the problem.

now i don't want anyone getting the idea that i'm some do-gooder save the whales type. i'm as caught up in the shallow, culture-free day-to-day living as the next girl. i have been known to tell salvation army collectors that i have no change to help battered women while a shiny white cardboard box housing the latest pair of ninety-dollar steve madden sandals sprawls in all its glory on my passanger seat, right there in plain view. i'm quite the proponent of poor choices, which can be justifiable so long as the decision making process is an informed one.

i just like to bitch a lot, preferably with an audience.

the gamut of my disdain runs from the white house to the tip jar on the counter at my local chinese take-out place (more on that later) to the audacity of the last male who balked at an opportunity to take me to dinner.

like a lot of other things, mockery is better in numbers. and what is the spice of life if not mockery?