Feim, Faima, Foam, FOME: From the Germanic to the Germane

A minor hobby of mine happens to be the study of the highly volatile inner workings of emotional tides, relationship currents and societal storm fronts. My studies are entirely casual, often corollary, and never without an obnoxious generalization derived from statistically irrelevant instances of observation.

That said:

To some, progress is the 3G network: A wide area cellular telephone network with the capacity to support video telephony and high-speed internet access that drastically overshadows the traditional IEEE 802.11 streaming-data-supporting networks of yesteryear. (thank you wikipedia.) But to me, progress is more easily marked in fumbling and faux-pas and the avoidance thereof. How many people did our parents date before settling down to roost? How many awkward encounters have they had to brave over the years as they dated within their social networks and, consequently, were forced to become un-acquainted with certain sects of 'friends' as their ex toll rose?

I may be unique in this respect, but I'm pretty sure there are only 1 or 2 names my siblings and I were predetermined to NOT be named whereas my own children, and I'm sure all the children of my peers, will have whole sections of the baby-naming book struck off-limits before the afterbirth ever hits the floor. For instance, for my kids, most of the K's are shot as are a hefty portion of the Jewish varietals. And at this development, I index-finger-point and shout, "We will prove progress! Progress, dammit!"

Social dynamics have changed! People no longer collide with force and stick forever in an ionic bond of commitment and complacency; they collide and dissociate and collide and dissociate - which may very well be due to the changing nature of the environment surrounding us. More energy to destroy the electron shell-sharing, more people to bounce off of, more chat rooms to explore, more travel, more psychedelic drug activity, more contraceptives, more internet pornography...

But in the course of a very animated and confusing discussion with two energetic conspirators, it became quite apparent that these new circumstances have led to a conundrum. How do we, under the stealthy cover of exaggerated whispering in the visible presence of aforementioned awkward encounters, relay to our bar-mates that we must relocate? (Immediately.)

After all, if you've dated enough, and your social playground is small enough, and your social network is big enough, and your high-energy collisions, whether sexual or not, often throw heat and light and sound and tears, then you probably often find yourself shouting to your bar-mates, with your hand up both to block the lip-readers and to alert the insecurities in all of us, that, yes, "She's friends with my Ex. Let's go."

Fear not, social instigators, as Sarah, Christine (aforementioned conspirators) and I finally resolved, you've merely stumbled on the frothy remnants of a torrid relationship. You've encountered the latte-layer that keeps the hate hot and yet obnoxiously, surreptitiously hidden. You've been to the party that washes your clothes while you're wearing them. You're in the summer of your lives, at the beach, and kinda grossed out by what's washing ashore from the storms at sea: you've encountered today's FOME (Friends Of My Enemy) or, more likely, FOMEX (Friends Of My EX), and that, my lovelies, the expansion of the lexicon to neutralize an urgent, emergent social development, is progress, progress, progress. Third generation network be damned, I'm holding out for trisomy marriages and just ONE word to describe a male slut, whore or hussy. PROGRESS!