mollyelizabeth

Some of my work people went out for sushi and live music last night; I brought The Sister, who originally planned to be my driver and shop between drop-off and pick-up, but she instead came inside for a few drinks. Turned out to be a good move. While talking to one of my bosses, she expressed concern about our budget situation and the security of my position.

He answered, “Last week I fired ten people. Of the remaining 600, honey, your sister is one of the last ones I would want to let go.”

So I guess I am safe for now. Thank the Lord.

I saw my first Burlesque show at a seedy bar in Northeast Minneapolis, less than half a mile from the house I may purchase. It made me like the house that much more.

Discovered something worse than his hand-holding: a sneak attack from behind, with his hands on my shoulders while he leaned down to whisper in my ear, “Need another drink?” Seemed indistinctly too coupley and much more difficult to avoid.

Bought new mints flavored as Iced Tea with Lemon. The cashier was so intrigued that I offered her one (as well as the woman behind me in line). Our mutual conclusion: could be worse.

It snowed this weekend. I need to move.

New favorite thing to hate: baby showers. I love babies but an afternoon of collective awwing while eating sugary cake made me puke a little.

Also, still dress-less for my Greece wedding as well as my friend’s sister’s wedding the weekend that I return. Any suggestions?

My company’s budget is going through somewhat of a financial crisis and will potentially need to cut millions of dollars in salary. And even though my position is in jeopardy for a few reasons and my stomach is twisted into knots, all that my head can process is that now I know how reality-television contestants feel when they have their pre-elimination interview and say, “I very well could be going home tonight.”

During my crazy phase, I called The Kid only at night. I would valiantly think and think while lying in bed, trying desperately to come up with an excuse to call. If he answered, which was a rarity, I knew he was sleeping alone, and I would have my answer. Self-inflicted torture. But I was crazy and lonely and scared and, fuck, hurting so damn much.

He’s the one that calls at night now. I don’t answer. Sometimes, I am legitimately busy; other times, I deliberately screen. When I return the call during daylight hours, it is unavoidably awkward. Pre-approved topics of conversation include: work, family, some of his school, some of our friends, and the weather. That’s it. Anything potentially circling the radius of unsafe topics must be evaded at all costs. For instance. He will not ask about weekend activities for fear I will say “I spent the weekend having sex with my boyfriend.” Instead, he will say “Did you have a good weekend?” And I will answer, “Yes.” End topic. Next. And then we run out of things to say since there are all of five subjects. His logic is that I should filter my agenda and tell him harmless topics on my own. Which I don’t do. Partially because I am stubborn and partially because the conversation gets old without any active listening or follow-up questions. Polite small talk with a stranger … except for those few times where the conversation has been really good and it makes me miss him. And that’s almost worse. On the whole, it’s frustrating and I honestly don’t know why he wants to continue the farce of talking,

I also don’t understand the point of this excessive filtering. He had a girlfriend, he didn’t want to be with me, and my dating situation should be the last thing that bothers him. Our situation … I am really over it. It happened. It’s done. I’ve reached acceptance. Yes, he didn’t want to be with me, and yes, it hurt. Hurt a lot. He wanted to be with her and great; sorry it didn’t work out, but it happened. She was his choice and a big part of his life; it sucked that I wasn’t his choice, and it sucked that he played me, but that’s life and I’ve moved on. And yes, sometimes, I still take my immature jabs at him, but not because I am trying to hurt him, mostly because I am trying to get a reaction. Mostly because …the oddest thing … he pretends that she doesn’t exist.

It’s … peculiar.

He’s done it since the beginning; he’ll hang up on me if I imply her existence. The more he does this, the more I want to make him acknowledge her. Yes, it’s awkward but shouldn’t it be better to embrace the awkwardness? I am still not healthy enough to hear details about their lives together but she still happened.

Yesterday, he mentioned her. Her as literally that’s what we both call her. Her car was stolen and stripped for parts, and he thought it would amuse me. And it did, but what was more amusing is that he mentioned her to me. He even answered a few questions about her. He said that no, they are not on speaking terms, he learned the information from his roommate and yes, when she does start dating someone new it’s going to be very difficult for him.

And then he exploded into his “I don’t know why you keep bringing her up” rant.

It’s more than slightly fucked up. With his tense reaction, it’s obvious there’s still a lot of emotion there. He’s still hurting. A lot. Possibly because she dumped him. Or maybe she’s too painful a topic to discuss (not that I want to discuss her, but it’s weird that any implication is too much). Or maybe he keeps her quiet out of habit. He hid me from her and her from me. During their relationship, I was a secret because if she knew we were talking –much less sending marriage proposals and apologies for fucking things up– she would be done. And maybe I am jealous that he is still so obviously hurting from her when he barely mourned me. But then shouldn’t he ok with talking about my life? He’s over me, has been for a while, why are things so awkward? Why does he call at night? I just don’t get it.

Either way, it’s odd. But then, given our fucked-up history and drama-filled break-up, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by odd. He surprises me but only because I used to know him so well and right now, I really have no idea what is going on in that head of his. Like if Dali made puzzles. I would have no idea as to the motivation behind which pieces belonged where. The clocks are supposed to melt? And the church belongs on the elephant’s back? What the hell is going on? I AM SO CONFUSED.

There’s … this guy. When I see him, I convince myself that I am not interested. And I really believe it. He’s not my type. There’s something missing. My friends tell me that he’s attractive and I’m all, “Really? I don’t see it.” And I really don’t. I’m only attracted to his personality (and maybe his muscles). He can flirt. Flirt well. So well that it makes me forget that I am not interested.

“What do you mean what do I mean? I’ll watch a movie while you fall asleep and drool on me. We’ll hang.”

“I know you’ll find this surprising, but I am not interested to find out just how you hang.”

“Ah, Molly E, of course you’re interested.”

Unfortunately, I have to remember, that when drunk, my wit can’t keep up with his and I end up looking like an idiot.

“Uhh.”

If Wisconsin and Minnesota were related, Wisconsin would be the crazy aunt. The one who drinks dark beer with her oatmeal and wears a vintage lampshade as a hat. Welcoming and endearing but nonetheless eccentric. I guess it’s kind of difficult to explain.

This past weekend I drove to Wisconsin for a Beer and Cheese Fest. A whole festival of beer and cheese! Could there be a better combination? No. That pretty much sums up happiness right there, especially for these ‘sconnie folk. The Fest –fests are something Wisconsin does, I think due to a large German population, and most towns have a fest dedicated to a unique something. My friend’s town celebrates Broiler Fest which is an entire day of broiled chicken and kickball –took place in La Crosse, a college town two and a half hours southeast of The Cities, which is what they call the Minneapolis/St. Paul metropolitan area (aka where I live.)

But beer! And cheese! Of all the different fest possibilities, beer and cheese is arguably ingenious. Under outdoor tents, the festers carried their 4-oz glass to different vendors, tasting the different beer concoctions: raspberry porters, honey-almond lagers, blonde pale ales, while snacking on Wisconsin’s finest dairy products. All varieties of deliciousness. Supposedly a contest occurs, but the past two years I have gotten too drunk to remember voting.

I went to Beer and Cheese to visit friends from college, particularly my freshman-year roommate who now lives in Chicago. I miss her so much. She is one whose love of life is contagious. Wearing bright yellow knee-high rain boots that she somehow pulled off as fun and stylish, she would say things like, “Mol, when you get married, I hope you’re not planning anything classy because I will crash it. And be slop.” Or, “Don’t eat too many hot dogs –I’m only on my third –because we’re getting Erbs and Gerbs in four hours. Soup AND sandwiches so be prepared.” If you knew her, you would love her, unquestionably, she is that fantastic.

I lasted until bar-time; years after college graduation and I can still master the art of all-day drinking.

And, just as additional examples of Wisconsin eccentricities: someone brought their puppy, a four-month golden lab to the bar; also, our BBQ grill consisted of hot dogs, brats, and a giant summer sausage? And another good one: a friend told me that, in his drunken stupor, he pissed himself last night but after all that IS why he bought his plastic sheets. True. Can’t really argue with that logic. Additionally, this weekend marked the first time I used the line, “Um, you know I can’t sleep with you because you’re my cousin, right?” He went home with … another cousin. Um, ok.

I fucking love Wisconsin.

The drive was nonsexual foreplay.

An achingly familiar and absolutely wonderful build-up before ultimately reaching the final destination.

Giant road-side signs advertising CHEESE. An Amish family wearing black in their wagon. Red barns in mid-collapse. Highway exits and their convenience-store selections. Towns villages with names such as Whitehall and Pigeon Falls, named, presumably, for the town hall painted white and the birds found at the town’s water source. Or my favorite, the infamous village of Eleva, whose name was incepted when a farmer was unable to finish labeling the grain elevator before winter and newcomers assumed the half-finished job declared the town’s name.

Was these that had me sighing in surprise and happiness.

And then, a few hours later, when I finally arrived, I remembered that getting there is totally better than any foreplay.

My friend Sweets is in the bridal party for his sister’s wedding next month; he asked me to be his date. He actually asked really cute, clarifying that “It won’t be one of those lame just friends dates, I fully expect you to put out” and that my duties will include “alcohol gopher, especially during pictures”. I am excited about it –I love weddings; the dressing up, the dancing, the joyous atmosphere– particularly after hearing that a few of our mutual friends will be attending as well.

“It’s going to be just like prom! Only better! Because they will be serving booze!”

“I know. I am trying to convince [mutual friends] to rent a limo … don’t know if that’s possible or if I will have obligations to the bridal party… But regardless, we’ll be drunk.”

While discussing the wedding plans with another wedding guest, Baby Cakes, last night at dinner (yes, we had a little dinner date again, it’s what we do), he confessed that he was going to ask me first. He said it with a tone … a tone almost slightly indignant, like he couldn’t believe the circumstances prevented having me as his date.

In high school, I was never the girl to be asked first to prom. I was the friend; the cute girl not the beauty; the one that was asked after the hopeful prospects were taken. I didn’t date my friends in high school, so I didn’t expect a role change just because of a dance. And I was totally fine with that role. Completely comfortable. It’s the role I usually assume even today. And I always went to prom with great dates and had a great time, probably a better time than most because I remember a lot of laughter and zero drama. Not always the case with couples.

But being picked by two guys for a dance? Even at age 25? It’s flattering as all hell. Granted, I am still being picked by friends, not dating prospects, some things never change… but that’s really the least of it. I am so fucking humbled to be picked first.

“First, remember that I only like him a little. Second, his name is Shelby.”

“… Hm.”

“Yeah. So I said to him, ‘Bubba, you’re going to need to change your name’ and I think he was offended.”

“Hm. Maybe you should have just casually started a nickname instead of the blunt thing?”

“Ok, but that’s not the bad part … the third strike … he has red hair.”

“Oh. Shit. Well, you don’t want redheaded little babies. Especially for some guy who’s only ok.”

“THANK YOU FOR UNDERSTANDING EXACTLY. I knew I could count on you for superficial support.”

My boss, his boss, and I are close. They started as wine bar regulars, and therefore my drinking buddies, before progressing to boss and boss’s boss. It’s a nice perk. Nice not only having automatic friends at a new job, but having high-powered friends who find it amusing to plan meetings such as DAOD (Day after out drinking) session (location TBD) from 8am to 10am or late-afternoon business lunches that start with an $85 bottle of wine.

After a recent happy hour with them, I left relatively early to join some of my girls. Later that evening, my boss texted me, “How’s the ice cream and cookie dough?” (Would’ve been odd if they were only my bosses, but as wine bar regulars, they’ve always occasionally texted and I typically find it amusing.)

I responded, “We’re more red wine and Jack kind of girls”

“That sounds like a disgusting combination.”

Back and forth we listed combinations that had to be worse than Jack Daniels and red wine. Tequila and Skittles. Fluffer Nutter and Arbor Mist. Pop Rocks and lambic. Mike’s Hard Lemonade and … anything. With one, I had an exception.

“Vodka and Milk Duds.”

“Dude, that’s also known as my breakfast smoothie.”

He loved it, conceded the battle, and left me to my evening. I thought the conversation was long forgotten, but this morning, a basket containing vanilla vodka and Milk Duds were on my desk. For a little morning wake-up. How freaking fantastic. Now I just need a blender.

I have a really good reason as to why I’ve been sucking with the posting as of late. Ready for it? Because of inertia.

I’m going to play the inertia card. Really? Yes. Inertia! Brilliant!

Let me explain. If I remember my high school physics correctly –actually, we also discussed the concept in 8th grade Earth Science (solar system, etc) – Inertia is, “The resistance or disinclination of a body to act or change, maintaining its state of rest or uniform motion – the tendency of a body at rest to remain at rest or of a body in straight line motion to stay in motion in a straight line – unless acted upon by an external force.”

While my body was in an active state, I was productive; I kept moving. Work, sleep, do it all again. Go, Go, GO. While doing the two job thing, I typically napped on my one night off. I would go home, go straight to my bed, and sleep for three hours. I’ve fallen back into that pattern … except every night is my night off. And I am not tired. Just lazy. I do it anyway. My body, in a constant state of rest, is more apt to stay at rest.

Inertia.

I know, right? My excuses now have a scientific explanation. I am just that cool.

But ok, really not cool (ha, in case anyone out there actually believed me for that half second). This weekend was spent doing loserish things. I didn’t see my friends, I didn’t go to the bar. I showered only once and that was because I didn’t want 6-miles worth of sweat to taint my freshly washed sheets. [FRESHLY WASHED. Just like my bathroom floor which smells beautifully of bleach.] I barely left the house all weekend, instead choosing safe, boring activities such as midnight baking with a glass of wine (… those six dozen cookies will be promptly pawned off to unsuspecting friends later this week).

Although I enjoyed the quiet, I also began to fear that my body in rest will stay in rest. Forever. (Yes, dramatic. Have we met?) So I am going to be the external force against my resting inertia. I’ve gone running the past three days and remembered how much I enjoy that adrenaline surge; I even completed my abs/arms workout that I learned when dating sleeping with that cute boxer. I applied for another serving job. I researched Greece. My bed has become less inviting. My energy is returning and with that, my brain should also regain a little spunk and creativity. My blogging inertia will soon remain in a state of motion.