mollyelizabeth

July 4, 1996 – August 28, 2008.

After the wedding on Saturday, the four of us (myself, another bridesmaid, her boyfriend, and The Firefighter) were sitting in our hotel room playing a drinking game. Since the evening was creeping toward 4am, we played an easy one: ‘The OR game’. The rules are simple: each person asks an ‘a OR b’ question to a teammate, the teammate answers without any modifiers, takes a pull, and passes the bottle to the next person. (I realize there’s not much skill involved in the game, but we had been drinking for eleven hours at this point, cut us some slack)

We played a few rounds and my co-bridesmaid’s (extremely inebriated) boyfriend was still unable to comprehend the point of the game. He struggled each turn, unable to come up with anything without our coaching, as the bottle of liquor continued to pass and questions were asked.

Liquor or beer.
Slow or fast.
Home or away.
Pink or purple.

A few more rounds go by and he’s still having a difficult time selecting two options in which to ask, but we’ve stopped coaching, preferring instead to bypass him in the circle.

Mom or Dad.
Miller or Bud.
Top or bottom.
Sunshine or rain.

Suddenly, with a proud sense of achievement, he shouts “HEY! I GOT A GOOD ONE!”

We all wait in anticipation to hear his heavily thought-out options and he says, “MOLLY! HAVE YOU EVER FUCKED A BLACK GUY?”

The Firefighter and I cannot keep our shit together at this point, and needing some validation, he starts arguing with his girlfriend, “WHAT’S YOUR PROBLEM? IT’S A LEGITIMATE QUESTION.” He then left the room in an angry uproar and was found by the hotel staff, eight minutes later, passed out on a chair.

So … you can be too drunk for the OR game. Good to know.

“[Realtor], you’re sick too? Must be all that making out that we do.”

“I, uh, um … nevermind.”

“No? You’re not going to touch that one?”

“Not for another week. I have to be professional for another week, until you close on your house, and then you better watch out.”

Last week, the banter made me smile, though slightly unnerved with his not-too-subtle advances into my protected comfort-zone. Today, as I write it, I don’t know if I am feeling it; I might be done with my crush.

All those uncomplicated feelings? Just got complicated.

And not necessarily because anything, feelings-wise, has changed but more because I live in a constant mind-fuck. And now I’m really worried that I ruined everything.

The Firefighter and I are oddly … aware of each other. Love is present, unequivocally, but stemming more from an awareness than desire. Not that we don’t make innuendos and suggestive remarks – we do constantly – but the love is more of a mutual no-excuses-needed understanding.

Hm, I would call bullshit on this explanation if I was the audience, not author. It’s hard to explain — we just get each other. And it makes me happy when he is in town.

My absolute favorite part of our reunions is the initial meeting: I wrap my arms around his neck, and he will lift me up –he’s tall, 6′4″ maybe?, which leaves about a foot of airspace between my feet and the ground — and spin in a circle. I always laugh and he takes a few minutes to let go. He does this regardless of location –my family’s kitchen, a friend’s basement, or in last night’s case, the crowded bar’s outdoor patio while his dad, uncle, and brother-in-law looked on. But he knows it makes me laugh and he does it each time.

At his request, after my Wine Bar shift, I stopped at the bar where he was playing games with his (intoxicated) family and was immediately welcomed, teased and taunted into their clique. When his father or uncle would make remarks that I dirtily construed as euphemisms, he would pinch my waist, knowing exactly where my mind was.

At the end of the night, he told his family that, at 1am, we were going back to my place to “talk” which they said sounded like fun and hoped we had a good time. He said this without asking my permission, which was unneeded, because I had already assumed that he would come home with me – it’s kind of our MO and again, that awareness. Just like I didn’t hesitate or ask to sleep on top of him.

My place, just to be clear, right now is actually my parents’ house, which is a Catholic household – at least where my mom is concerned, which means that boys are not allowed in bedrooms, even at age 25. Guys can, however, “accidentally” fall asleep while watching a movie on the couch, which is the loophole we’ve always used.

The couch was small but luckily neither of us has personal-space issues (at least concerning the present company). For the five-minute movie-watching duration, I closed my eyes and he quoted the memorable lines into my ear. When he turned it off, I switched positions, without any verbal communication, because he’s a back-sleeper.

We discussed our current love lives with my leg draped over his, his arms around me, and my face breathing into his neck. When I asked what he thought I should do with my future, he answered, “Marry The Kid. You still love him.” This conclusion came after a deliberate exclusion of anything Kid-related and a deliberate up-selling of current prospects. This is one example when his ability to read me is annoying.

And again, I can’t really explain that. Just like I can’t explain how I didn’t get jealous when he received a late-night dirty text from his current lady friend. The thought of him with someone else? Oddly, no jealousy or territorial problems. And it’s not because I am not attracted to him — I got goosebumps when he grazed his nose under my ear.

As I am rereading this, I am trying to picture how an audience would construe these insightful details into our dynamic. If I was an outsider, I would call bullshit. Maybe it is. I get him, he gets me, we both want each other to be happy, and it’s either really fucking healthy or really fucked up – and even as the author, I can’t decide which.

“… Well, you’re a busy guy.”

“I’ll need something to do. I dropped all the girls. Too stressful.”

After agreeing to share a hotel bed with me–because we’d probably end up sharing one regardless –after the wedding reception, he stipulated that it was my job to ensure that our friends (who are also staying in our hotel room) understand that they are banned from having sex while we’re in the room. Not because the noises and general awkwardness but because he would feel pressured to then seduce me and turn his performance into a competition with them. And he wants to protect my virtue. When I laughed at his bluff, he called mine, “Ah, MollyE, I guess we’ll see what happens.”

I might not see him too often, but every time, I remember how much I adore him – and have since high school. He makes me laugh so easily. I wonder if it’s more the novelty of him than the actual person. If I saw him regularly, I wonder if I would appreciate him as much. I hope I would. But then, if that were true and it was more than novelty, I probably would make more of an effort to integrate him into my life on a regular basis.

Thanks to a god-only-knows-how-it-happened bank-financing miracle, my house is potentially closing in two weeks.

Two weeks. Labor Day weekend, come on over, you can help unpack some boxes and drink some of our beer. We probably won’t have furniture, but you can lie on the floor. And don’t knock the floor — The Sister and I spent an hour yesterday lying on the floor. Our lives are so pathetic that we went to visit my house, take some measurements, and lie on the floor.

It was my floor though. And therefore, somehow, oddly satisfying. Maybe I won’t fill my house ever and instead leave it empty for floor-lying goodness. Possibly could work, my perpetual make-believe fort.

The Realtor, interestingly enough, was the one who started the floor-lying. In my room. After I told him to figure out how far out my bed would go. He didn’t get up after that –stayed exactly where I was planning to put my bed. Because he was tired.

When The Sister finished exploring her new room, she came into my room to talk with The Realtor – which was slightly unnerving, most especially because they starting talking about my love life, of all things, after The Realtor asked if I had gone out with that loser guy yet. The Sister has many opinions about my love life, or lack thereof, specifically that I need to date many people that I don’t care about so I can treat them badly and avoid hurting myself. The Realtor acknowledged the merit of her opinion but was of mixed views, voting that I either needed a good guy, because he’d be safe, or an asshole, like him, because they’re more fun and would balance me out.

Sister: “But first, Molly needs to stop talking to her stupid ex-boyfriend!”
Realtor: “Oh yeah? And why is he so stupid?”
Me: “He just sucks and we’re not talking about this right now and [Realtor], like you should talk, you still talk to your exes.” With that, I avoided further scrutiny and walked out of the room under the guise of measuring the loft. With my trusty 12-inch plastic ruler.
Sister: “Oh really?”
Realtor: “Yeah, I’m currently stringing along three, but the thing is, I don’t like any of them.” Muted discussion, then: “Hey, Molly, wanna go out on a date with me?” His tone was slightly mocking, clearly remembering our earlier conversation.
Me: Exasperated “Freaking-a, [Realtor].” What was I supposed to do with that?
Sister: “The last thing Molly needs is a guy who is stringing along three other girls!”
Realtor: “Yeah, but none of them matter. Anyway, I gotta get back. Can you guys lock up?”

He and I will hang out when I have my house, I’m sure, but for now, I have two weeks. Two weeks to pack, to clean, to buy furniture, to buy plates, to plan a house-warming party. This coming week, I have one of my all-time favorite guys in town; this coming weekend, I have a wedding and rehearsal dinner; and then, THEN, I will move into my beautiful new house. And at that point, seriously, you’re all welcome to help with the boxes and unpacking and beer-drinking.

“He thinks you’re really great, you know.”

My (ancient) phone, usually programmed to its T9 setting, has an “Add to Text Dictionary” setting, which is (somewhat) auto-generated. Today was the first time I looked through the records to see what I have programmed in the past year and a half. My added words:

Assmunch
Basilica
Bday
Carafe
Dammit
Dumbass
Driunk
Drunkedness
Effing
Facebook
Freaking
Fuck
Fucked
Fucking
Hahahaha
Havent
Hungover
Im
Ive
Lemme
Pissed
Whatcha
Yay

I seemed to have captured all the necessities, though the result is not necessarily the best reflection of me. Apparently, although my vernacular has matured verbally, the same cannot be said for my textual presence.

In the quest for answers, a casual conversation must first be established:

“Grad school, two jobs, a new mortgage payment, do you think I’m crazy?”

“No, I think it just means you need to get a boyfriend so you can have sex.”

Q1: Will he have a reaction to other dudes?

“Oh, hey, speaking of which, the nice guy I told you about asked me out.”

“The lame one? Did you say no?”

“Of course not, I would never turn anyone down who had the balls to ask.”

“No one? Well, that’s good to know. I mean, in case it’s been a while since my friends have been out, I can tell them I know a girl who’s a sure thing. Or if I’m ever in a slump –which OBViously rarely happens –I can give you a call … But just so you know, I have sex on the first date.”

(He found this statement hilarious)

“Yes, thank you, I am a great last resort. And you’re missing my closing [August 29th]? So there’s going to be strangers sitting across the table? Are you sure you don’t want to change your flight?”

“I was actually thinking about it – a whole week alone with my parents is going to be tough, usually I bring a girlfriend for entertainment, but this time, I don’t have one.”

Q2: Does that mean the girlfriend is not in the picture at all?

“Why don’t you bring Glitter?”

“Oh, believe me, Glitter really wants to come.”

Q3: Will I see him after we don’t have this house as an excuse?”

“Well, since you’re skipping town for my closing, maybe I’ll see you when I get back – you will be right in my new neighborhood.”

“Oh, I’m going to be hanging out there – it’s a pretty sweet place, after all.”