Mine is from George Burns: “I would rather be a failure at something I love than a success at something I hate.”
I find it inspiring when looking for direction. Success is a subjective measurement, and I often forget that.
July 1, 2009
June 25, 2009
And then there were two.
There used to be four. Now we will only have two.
The first moved to style the hair of celebrities; she comes home often, telling tales of the eccentric people, like those at her Santa Monica gym, stair-stepping in oversized sunglasses and pink UGGs. The second is moving in a week for retail merchandising; her new life will involve a two-hour commute in L.A. traffic and business trips to China and India. The third is content in the Minnesota ‘burbs with her man, raising a puppy and working as a dental hygienist. And the fourth – me? I am restless, always restless.
The four of us, we started in the same place, all friends from high school, and yet despite our diverging life paths, our group dynamic still works. They aren’t the friends that sugar-coat their lives, insisting that they are happy and everything is wonderful. They are the friends that bitch about their problems and tell amusing stories about their latest sexual partner. I adore them. Especially on nights like last night where the wine bottles to people ratio is skewed toward the wine side.
The second is making her move this next Tuesday morning. The third is joining her for the trek cross-country. I have also been invited. Even though taking three days of PTO and missing one five-hour summer-school class to drive TWENTY-EIGHT hours is a bad idea, I still debate. I like being one of four.
June 19, 2009
Vacation details are pretty difficult through which to navigate. You give too much, the audience loses interest. You don’t give enough, they think your trip was totally lame. I usually just stick with the whole It was amazing! when I respond to friends, but I’ve been back for three weeks now and while all (miniscule) interest has most likely all but waned, I still thought I should post SOMETHING. Something about the place, not just the guy of whom everyone still asks if I’m dating.
Top five favorite things about my trip:
1. Surfing. I won the superstar award in my class – the next day I didn’t stand up at all so I must have peaked that first day. We took lessons with three guys from Israel. I stood up my second time and rode all the way to shore. I have no idea how I did that. By the end, The Firefighter and I got cocky and when one was riding and the other was walking back from shore, we’d put out our hands for the other to five. The cockiness lasted a day, as we then went to a beach with real waves and got both our asses kicked.
2. Monkeys. Hi Monkey! Four different varieties. Never got tired of them. We were forever on a mission for monkeys. When we’d only see birds (exotic, beautiful birds!) at a park, we’d leave the park bitter. We were better than birds.
3. The Firefighter. Yeah, he makes the top-five list. Don’t really want to elaborate on too many details – some you’ve heard, some are eye-rollers, some would make you vomit they are that barfy – so let’s leave it at he makes the top-five list.
4. Hammocks. I had time to hammock. Vacation Molly is a pretty chill chick, who has time to hammock. She also enjoys playing cribbage and drinking in the afternoon. I like her. Sharing a hammock is pretty enjoyable, too – especially when The Firefighter would share half his ipod with me. He’d listen to the classical station when driving but when relaxing on the hammock: hard rap. Yes, that makes sense.
5. Night hikes in the parks. Sloth? Yes. Tarantulas? Two. Scary noises in the dark? Of course. I like walking at night.
Honorable mention: Waterfalls. Because I like standing next to them and have the mist drench me.
June 16, 2009
My period, that lovely guy, comes typically in five-week cycles each alternating month. To keep things interesting. Which just means that on the five-week months, I have a whole extra seven days to feel like the bloated version of the marshmallow man from Ghostbusters.
Last night, I was destroying the kitchen in search of just little morsel that might soothe my internal hormonal beast. The rampage apparently turned cacophonous, as The Sister came down to check on me (and refill her glass from our Monday night wine).
“Dude, you ok?
“Yes. No. Do you want some chocolate? TOO bad. It is all gone. Every single, Halloween-aged piece. Gone.”
“I just went grocery shopping – why don’t you eat some hummus? Or I made some chicken for dinner?”
She was offering HEALTHY SNACKS and actual MEALS? Does she not know anything about bingeing? “That is not helpful. If you were a good sister, you wouldn’t secretly judge that I just ate an entire box of Poptarts, instead you would tell me where you hid the GD Oreos.”
“Um, yeah, so … on the plus side, if you don’t get your period, at least your fear of breaking the newborn baby won’t come into fruition. That thing has gotta be at least 12 pounds by now.”
May 28, 2009
The couple thing started before we were even together. On the first day of our trip, I called The Firefighter from MSP (Minneapolis/St Paul Airport) to tell him, “If we’re going to keep track of how many times we’re mistaken as a couple, the count is already at two – as people from check-in and airport security just asked about my ‘boyfriend in Seattle’. And you’re not even with me yet.”
He laughed at that. “Ah, MollyE, why fight it.”
So we let people assume what they wanted, without trying to convince them otherwise. Actually, with our behavior, we only reinforced those erroneous assumptions.
Putting the whole hooking-up thing aside, we acted COUPLEY. We HELD HANDS. I would lie on his stomach when we would read in bed. He’d plant small kisses on my neck when walking behind me. I mindlessly scratched his back when waiting on a bench for a tour to start. My knee grew accustomed to having his hand on it. We FROLICKED in the ocean at night. BARF, right?
What’s worse than being COUPLEY: being a HAPPY couple. We ENJOYED each other.
Puke.
What.
The Eff.
And we’ve always been close, with little to no adherence to personal space, so our behavior felt natural. Just odd when I would step back and overthink it. Sharing midnight tiramisu = acceptable friends activity. Having his hands on my waist at the bar = COUPLEY. Which sent off the bells in my head: WARNING! NOT A FRIENDS ACTIVITY. I rarely allow myself to indulge in the couple stuff, probably because the majority of my guy friends are kept securely in the arms-length friends category. He’s the exception, apparently.
It was good.
I only see him twice a year, if that. So it was what it was for the time that it was. The end.
**Stories (and pics, too!) to follow – but I wanted to cover the boy-stuff first. Because that’s what’s been on my mind.
May 26, 2009
Is there a condition that transfers all good associations of a trip onto a person? The Florence Nightingale syndrome of travelers. There has to be. Transference is a bitch like that.
Needless to say, I am back and Costa Rica with The Firefighter went well. Amazingly well.
May 12, 2009
How do I, at age 26, still feel uncomfortable buying condoms? I am having protected, premarital sex – what a dirty, dirty whore. I never felt weird picking up birth control prescriptions –was freaking chipper about it –so I must associate condoms differently (and yes, I realize that The Pill is a safer choice, but with my medical history, its best for nature to run its own hormonal course). In college, I always made The Kid buy them. Which he did, until he thought it would be good for me to extend outside my comfort zone. I think his eloquent words were something to the extent of, “Dude, get over it.” I still didn’t buy at the store though; the Internet is an amazing marketplace: 100 for $20? Yes, please, and extra points for the bargain shopper. Alas, these days, buying in bulk would be laughable.
Any summer reading suggestions? Appears I have a slight case of reader’s block, where nothing looks particularly appealing. On my trip, the reading will be minimal, as The Firefighter isn’t a reader (nor a speller, apparently, as he advised against bringing travel Scrabble; I predict a lot of card games), but I will need something for the plane, at the least.
I leave for Costa Rica TOMORROW. Packing has proven difficult, as I am trying to pretend that I am pro-nature and low maintenance (as my mother likes to quote from Billy Crystal, I am the worst kind of maintenance: I am high maintenance but I think I am low maintenance. No, Mother, I REALLY AM LOW MAINTENANCE.) Ho Hum, and now I shall prove her point and talk about shoes. Do you think I need rainboots? What if I have really cute rainboots, how ‘bout then? I mean, we’ll be tramping around a rainforest where there is MUD, shouldn’t I bring waterproof footwear instead of ruining my white Sauconys? I’ll bring those, too, but not for the muddy trails. And even one pair of heels is unnecessary, right? Flip flops are all-encompassing.
Also, my wardrobe should be more browns-based and less blacks-based. I do not have enough color for Central America. I do, however, have exactly the perfect amount of color for Paris (read that: none). Will probably experience the same unbefitting feeling as last year in Greece, where only the widows wear black. On the positive, I read that the jungle animals tend to shy away from dramatic color (indicates poisonous), so maybe the black thing will work for me. Either way, I rarely plan on leaving my comfy pants. How awesome is a vacation of comfy pants (answer: very).
Final question: The Firefighter will have a birthday while we’re in Costa Rica. I should buy him something … something fun and slightly relevant … I have no idea what that should be. Thought his favorite booze sold in MN but then I’d have to check my bag and that’s a hassle, blah blah. Ideas?
TOMORROW. Maybe we should have booked even one hotel room? NO. We are adventurous! We will not be tied down! I have no anxiety about being a free spirit because THAT’S WHO I AM.
May 8, 2009
Bear Fights are not an easy succession of shots: a car bomb (Guinness, Bailey’s, Jameson) immediately followed by a Jag Bomb (Jägermeister, Red Bull). The heaviness of the first and the sweetness of the second react violently with each other, hence the etymology.
I do not typically partake in Bear Fights. I only did so on Friday because I lost. Lost ten times in a row. My opponent, that tricky bastard, did paper every time. Damn you, Rock-Paper-Scissors. After our shots, decently lit, my opponent and I were walking to the next bar to meet the rest of the group when I heard my name.
“Molly! Molly Elizabeth!”
He was outside a bar, sitting on the patio with friends, smiling a cautious smile. The first and only time I’d ever seen him in a place other than my house, his place, or the real estate office. And here I was, fresh from fightin’ me a bear.
We chatted, as per usual The Realtor was charming – obviously, the guy is in sales for God’s sake – and my friend and I eventually carried on our merry way. Reunited with our group at a bar down the block, the eight of us fought more bears, returning to Baby Cakes’ once the clock struck two.
We played cards until 4am, until everyone (paired off) retired to their respective corners. My floor space quickly became claimed by a heavily-breathing couple. Delightful. Which left me with a random boy and the pull-out couch. No big deal; it was sleeping time. Then his hands started to wander. Clumsily.
It’s not that my couch partner wasn’t attractive – because he was, in his way – but he hadn’t spoken to me throughout the course of the evening. At all. I find that awkward. Is one smile too much to ask before you put your hands on me? Maybe just a hello? I barely knew his name. Also, I have a rule where I don’t have casual hook-ups with guys within The Kid’s circle. It’s a respect thing, not that I owe him that, but with our history, I give him that. A guy has to have some potential if I am going to sacrifice my privacy and become a subject for gossip.
I tried to play the pass out card. It didn’t work. I had previously thought that the genius of the pass-out card is that it ALWAYS WORKS. Apparently not. [Side note: reading texts from The Realtor probably didn’t help my passed-out argument, so I stopped reading them after the first twenty minutes. He was inviting me over, even offered to pay for the cab. Very effortful on his part.] Throughout my FORTY-FIVE MINUTES OF FAKE SLEEP, he repeated the following actions:
1. Pulling my hip so that I was laying on my back (even though I had told him MULTIPLE TIMES that I had 48 NEW stitches in my back)
2. Picking up my limp wrist and dropping it
3. Poking my shoulder
4. Repeating, “Are you serious? Hey. HEY. Are you AWAKE?”
5. Wandering hands
6. Trying to hold hands, lace fingers, and massage(?) my palm
7. Spooning at various angles
Lather, Rinse, Repeat.
While I meticulously maintained my passing out act, sometimes integrating the subtle, “Shh, I’m sleeping.”, he KEPT GOING. Dude, even if you don’t believe my (very convincing!) act, I am still not sending signals of interest. GIVE IT UP.
Near 5am, bless his trying heart, my patience was approaching its end. All I wanted was sleep but those goddamn Red Bulls weren’t making my mission easy. Nor was my couch partner. When he took my hand, I grew hopeful that he was finally going to calm his hands and let me sleep, but instead, with my fingers twined with his as if that meant I was an active participant, he started to poke at my mouth with his finger. His finger. My mouth.
Yes. When I am diligently acting non-responsive, PLEASE CAN I SUCK YOUR FINGER. Nothing I love more than waking up to a surprise finger-sucking with a random. Goody! Was just craving dirty boy-finger! Delicious!
Poke. Poke poke.
When my lips wouldn’t yield to his poking, he attempted to WEDGE it between my teeth. Sure, just cram it in there. A little force never hurt anyone.
Was the last straw. An excuse was given, and I left the apartment. I thought the lie plausible, but The Guy from the Couch repeated it to Baby Cakes, who found it hilariously improbable. Anyone who thinks The Bestest Friend and I wouldn’t go on an emergency stalking mission to catch her boyfriend cheating in the early-morning hours, doesn’t know us at all. Plus, I like using excuses that illustrate my crazy, because, you know, that saves time in the long-run.
I walked the streets of uptown –took less than ten minutes –and knocked on a door. He didn’t look surprised to see me.
“Hey,” he said. I was embarrassed that I was there, and defensive.
“Hey. I’ve come over to sleep. That’s it.”
And The Realtor let me sleep.
May 6, 2009
Life has been busy. And not good busy where I feel like I am accomplishing my goals, but busy like I have been frantically treading water to stay afloat without making any progress. If I could stop putting all my energy into keeping my head above water, I might pick a direction, but for the moment, I keep swimming. How is it May? When did that happen? The semester ends soon and work is slowing, so my use of the survival stroke should be minimized this summer. I hope. Or there’s always my back-up plan: a Happy Pills prescription. Or maybe Adderall – that seems like a productive drug.
Another reason I haven’t written is because I haven’t had much to say. How many blog entries can I submit about treading water? “Dear Diary, On Friday night I did laundry and drank wine by myself. I almost baked cookies but instead chose to sleep my full twelve hours. Huzzah.”
Hmm … where did I last leave off? My nonexistent love life, maybe? No surprises here, the same players, which I hope to change with the start of summer and being SOCIAL again.
The Realtor and his chica are officially broken up. He says that he still has a crush on me. I say, wtf?
The Kid … well, we weren’t talking, but now we are again, so that situation is pretty much the same. A few weeks ago, he was being distant. Not answering texts, not returning calls, etc. It was enough of a change that I consciously noticed. I called him out on being sketchy and requested a break from our talking, and two days later, unable to sleep at 2am and stalking on facebook, I saw pictures of him –he wasn’t tagged, but his roommate was –at Law School Prom with a girl, she was pretty, and the caption underneath said, “so cute!”. Immediately upon viewing, I became physically nauseous. I usually have excuses and explanations regarding all things Kid-related, but the involuntary reactions are most difficult to rationalize. Not being ok, wasn’t ok with me. So I put more distance between us. Last spring, when we decided to try this “friends” thing, my stipulation was that I wanted notice when he was going to start dating someone and therefore avoid me. He dismissed my concern at the time, saying he would never do that again, yet WHY WASN’T I SURPRISED. I’m better now. I don’t know if they are together, I don’t want to know – not like last time’s obsessive mission to discover each trivial detail –so I haven’t asked him or his friends. I haven’t even said her name out loud. He can have his life, I have mine.
It always comes down to my choice: to talk or not to talk. And as unhealthy as our dynamic is, I would always rather talk to him than not talk to him. Our inane email conversations mean something to me, and I’ve accepted that it hinders my growth process. And I don’t want to analyze what that says about me.
I’m not visiting him with The Bestest Friend, as she had previously arranged. In lieu, I am going to Costa Rica trip with The Firefighter. Our departure is in one week. ONE WEEK. Details have yet to be arranged. We’re meeting in Denver the night of May 13th, arriving in San Jose at 5am on the 14th and flying back to the states on May 24th. Ten days of jungling. Last night we booked our car rental, sure to become our cozy little home for the trip duration. Other details will have to wait until my finals are complete (Thursday! – can I crack open a beer during the exam?). This will be a lot of time for us together. A lot. Even when we lived in the same state, we didn’t bank this many hours together. It should be good – we’re both pretty adaptable –but who knows, traveling brings out interesting personality facets.
And that’s my life. How’s yours?
April 16, 2009
On one of my favorite websites, when life seems to be in a funk, the economy is shit, natural disasters are domino-ing, etc., the authors bring back two reoccurring characters, reminding readers of our collective purpose. To fug. Now, while I don’t have PELDONS or a collective purpose, I do have some worthless reoccurring characters that accurately illustrate the epitome of my blog’s insipid triviality. Thought this little blurb in particular might spark an old chord. I’ll catch up with new life details later; after such long absence, I thought a warm-up post would best prevent any muscle strain.
Last night ‘round 2am when all others has long-since abandoned various Internet social-networking services, The Realtor and I were talking, something we haven’t done for months –not since he closed on his house and we spent an hour lying on his bed–catching up on life. Even though he’s still with the girl but “on the brink of ending it”, as per usual, he still turned the conversation to what went wrong with us – us as in “us”, as in a joint entity, as apparently our imaginary relationship was deep enough to justify a shared pronoun.
Him: “Seriously though, you were way too good for me. And then you would’ve cheated on me or made me insecure or break my heart or something.”
Me: “Yes, blame me for some nonexistent problem that never happened.”
Him: “So I had to bounce. Welp. What can I say? I’m pouring my heart out over here. You knew. You knew all about it –“
Me: “No, buddy, you knew and you never stepped up and –”
Him: “-like at first sight. It was like at first sight.”
First sight. He’s always said this with me. With us. Especially after his mom contributed her The One premonition. But for all his talk, he didn’t want me. End of story.
Me: “-because why again? I am too normal? Isn’t that what you told me during our last text conversation when you were trying to convince me that you “could’ve closed the deal” and I said, ‘then why didn’t you?’ and you responded with, ‘because you’re too normal.’ Isn’t that how it went down?”
Him: “You’re just too good. I like to stay protected.”
Me: “And don’t say ‘like at first sight’ – I’m sorry, but I refuse to believe in romantic bullshit like yourself.”
Him: “Why not? You so know it was true. You. So. Know. Electric, remember? And I’m not talking about ‘romantic bullshit’, I’m talking about tangible feelings that can’t be disputed.”
Me: “First sight = romantic bullshit.”
Him: “And …? You felt it, too. That’s all I’m saying. And if you don’t wanna say it was ‘like at first sight’ … we can at least say it was something intense. That’s all. Uncomfortably intense. Everyone saw it.”
I think everyone typically calls that lust.
Me: “Whatever – most of that was just build-up since nothing came to fruition. Everything was repressed and then felt like more than it was. Bam. Explanation.”
Him: “I’m not talking about build-up, I’m talking immediate. Instant. First sight. You may be right about the build-up part of our dynamic – it’s absolutely possible – I’m just saying that the second we began interacting, there was a very, very strong attraction. More than normal. More than I had before experienced. That’s all. And maybe I am being grandiose when I say that I am confident that the same thing happened to you.”
Again, that’s lust, not anything more romantic. And why is this still discussed after all this time?
Me: “Don’t really know man, maybe. That’s all I’ll concede.”
Truthfully, at the time, I had been attracted to him but figured it was mostly due to a high-association to my ex. I am creepy. Regardless, he’s right in that something was there from the start. Maybe it was him. Maybe it wasn’t.
Him: “Really? So you admit it? Wow. I won. I actually just won a debate with the infamous Molly Elizabeth. I won. I won. I WON. And it feels great.”
Me: “Fucking hell, I forget how annoying you are.”
Him: “You love it. I forget how much I love rocking your little boat.”
Me: “You do not rock my little boat.”
Him: “Mmm hmmm. Riiiiight. Hows your love life?”
Oh, you know, I’m still single and alone; even my brother has commented that my single status is incredibly unhealthy, which was just super to hear; life is pretty awesome. Almost as awesome as a pair of PELDONS which by anyone’s standards is pretty difficult to top … Or, ok, maybe I didn’t say that, instead choosing to evade answers regarding my love life, implying that things were good and that I was soon taking a trip with a guy, a trip which will involve both beaches and monkeys.
Please excuse my inability to enunciate, but why the eff is this still like, a thing and not done? Why haven’t we been able to have one conversation that doesn’t regurgitate our imaginary relationship? WE NEVER DATED. WE WERE NOTHING. Fucking hell.
Updates with actual purpose tomorrow. I’ve missed you guys.
March 24, 2009
I have this friend. This friend has the potential opportunity to move for a job. She has a million reasons to stay but two somewhat-convincing ones to leave: career and change. That latter reason, hinting all-too-temptingly at an adventure in a city outside her comfort zone, is her main cause of hesitation, and perhaps her main source of fear. That fear might allow other reasons to trump this opportunity; I don’t think the move will happen. You see, my friend, however whimsical, is still essentially a rational and responsible person. Unfortunately. So she will more than likely stay and finish her last year of school (it’s only one year left!) and live in her house (which she loves – it is cute and clean and new and spacious and hers. Much better than renting a cramped, dirty, too-expensive efficiency on the east coast.), and evaluate her options, later, when her ducks are in a row. But oh, how change tempts her.
