mollyelizabeth

“Brother, am I allowed to go to hungover breakfast without a bra?”

“Molly, goddammit, put on a bra and stop talking to me about these things.”

“Dude, I’m wearing a hoodie, it’s not like anyone can tell and it’s not like they need support. I don’t understand the problem.”

“Seriously. Stop being lazy and stop talking to me about this.”

“I’m not lazy. Maybe I’m just a hippie.”

“No, you’re not a hippie; you’re just really lazy.”

“If I’m not a hippie, how do you explain that I shave my legs only about once a month?”

“BECAUSE YOU’RE LAZY.”

“Whatever, Brother. Fine. I will wear a bra to breakfast. But a strapless one – I don’t want to take my arms out the sleeves.”

“… and another thing you’re doing wrong: you need to change your email font. It’s too fancy.”

“But mine’s Times New Roman … ”

“Yes, it just has too much … personality.”

We haven’t kissed. We’ve shared a bed twice now, but we’ve yet to kiss. He’s kissed me, my spine at least, but that was more of an early-morning, sleep-weakened, fifteen-minutes-to-kill-before-the-snooze-blows-up-again thing. And I think he wanted to remind me that, unlike my noodles, his intentions were non-platonic.

I haven’t initiated anything because I am not sure I like him. That I like like him. I realize that with all our incessant flirtation dancing, I should have made this decision, but I am not rational. I want him around to make me laugh, but I don’t know if I want to turn into one of his girls.

His girls are crazy. Take last night, for example.

While we were playing Scrabble, one of his exes (aka 22 year-old Glitter) called continuously. Literally nonstop. When he would check his phone every 20 to 30 minutes, he would have 35 missed calls. All from her. And then, his long-term-relationship ex (who, by the way, is a six-foot-tall model/dancer, thank God there’s no reason to have insecurities about that one) texted a “how r u?”, which was surprising since I guess they don’t talk?, he wrote back, “I’m good. I thought I told you to leave me alone” and ignored her follow-up calls. Then, his upstairs neighbor (Lady #3, if you’re keeping track) called to tell him that Glitter had been calling her and that maybe Glitter was waiting outside for The Realtor to get home. The Realtor apologized, saying he was sorry and couldn’t control the actions of a crazy person but hey, guess what, [the long-term-relationship ex] called and isn’t that weird since they aren’t in contact anymore? The neighbor, he later explained, is one of his buddies and knows all about the drama, but they haven’t dated since the pregnancy scare of last winter. Oh good. Heaven forbid there would be someone without a relationship history.

He’s open about all of this, showing me texts and answering my who’s-calling-now questions. And despite his frustration, he refused to let it disrupt our game, putting his phone on the floor and answering only the call of the neighbor and only when it was part of my thirty-minute deliberation period (I love Scrabble, but it takes me forever to commit to a word). And I know that if he would have wanted to be there, with one of his crazies, he would have been, but he was with me.

Well, partially with me. He didn’t stay the whole night. Which was somewhat expected since I don’t have furniture. Two weeks in my house and I am bedless. Wine glasses? Sure! Red or white? Bookcase? I have three! Pots and pans? Of course! They’re beautifully arranged in my cabinets where they will stay since I am too busy to actually cook anything. But a couch or bed or tv … those are still technically at the store. Even without furniture, he fell asleep next to me and left sometime in the night to return to his world.

His world, the one where girls stake-out his house and require a place to stay or a ride home since they don’t have their own car and the buses have stopped running … that world is not my world. For a friend, I can be amused at that world, but to become integrated into that – not sure this one would be worth it.

Slept over at his house last night. Oops.

For very few friends will I break out the crazy. The Bestest Friend is lucky that I love her as much as I do.

The Bestest Friend has been dating the same guy for the past nine months; they’ve been having on-again-off-again trouble for the past five. This past weekend, she asked for my help, and in accordance with The Bestest Friend Obligation Handbook, I helped with her stalking mission. The process is more complicated than I first assumed.

Steps for becoming a spy:

1. Learn passwords (both email and voicemail).
2. Check email.
3. Discover an email confirmation for [hotel booking website] for upcoming weekend.
4. Check voicemail.
5. When message plays from Questionable Skank, write down phone number; have Excessively Crazy Friend (note: this was not my role) call repeatedly and then hang up.
6. Have a male voice call hotel, requesting that a key be left at the front desk for [Bestest Friend] who will have the [hotel booking website] printout as confirmation.
7. Around midnight, pick up hotel key and enter room.
8. Upon discovery of the baggage for one male and one female, unpack bags to determine contents. Note the pants-size of the female as well as the inclusion of complete make-up set and phone charger.
9. Steal bags.
10. Chain smoke on hotel patio.
11. Do drive-bys of favorite bars, looking for familiar cars in parking lots.
12. Return to the hotel for more chain smoking on patio.
13. When cold, decide to wait in the room.
14. When still cold, what the hell, wait in the bed.
15. Debate ordering room service. And leave it untouched.
16. Do not accidentally fall asleep.
17. When male and female suspects enter room at 5am, make introductions.
18. Do not leave partner alone in room with Questionable Skank. Especially if leaving permanently.
19. Answer phone calls and/or texts from partner trying to escape awkwardness.

The worst part is that he talked his way out of it. He was only dropping her off! The hotel room was for a friend! She was supposed to go home with her three friends from the party! The Bestest Friend has forgiven him and they are taking a long weekend together. They even laugh about it now, with him saying how he can see how it could be misinterpreted. And, according to The Bestest Friend Obligation Handbook, I have one opportunity to express my doubts/concerns and then let her live her life. Because that is exactly what I would want her to do for me, what I expected her to do for me if I had gotten back together with The Kid. But I still worry that in ten years, she will still be the girl in his hotel room, waiting for him to walk in with another woman.

He called me a tease. A tease and a man-eater. I tried to argue that I am a flirt (good character defense, no?) but not a tease, as no action takes place and action is the quintessential difference between tease and flirt. He said that I do more than flirt, leading the guy down a dangerous, winding path until finally the guy thinks, hey, she might really be into me and I might actually have a shot with this chick … and that’s when, according to him, I eat them. Eat them whole. Which is why I go for the spineless noodles – they’re easier to eat, less of a fight. He gave a few reasons as to my motivation and justifications, a few of which were true (such as: was hurt by an ex and afraid of being hurt again). Regardless, he told me I tease boys and then eat them, the poor bastards.

He, of course, is the exception. He, apparently, is so “incredibly amazing” that I cannot help myself. My typical boy-rules are inapplicable as I am electrically attracted to him. Electrically. A word he subsequently would then throw into texts at random, an arbitrary: “electric.”, usually followed with his customary hahaha or smiley face.

A few days ago, randomly, he said that he had contacted the power company and he had been mistaken about the electricity and he was officially giving up on me. When I was disappointed and conveyed as such, his reaction was slightly exasperated, “Too bad about the power company?? You’re the one that tipped me off about the power outage!”

Although I tried to pry into his head about the why’s and what-brought-this-on’s, he didn’t have an answer (I think he’s just used to getting what he wants immediately?), until he ended the conversation with, “Well, then, my giving up on you could either be a preemptive measure or a manipulative tactic … or neither.”

I had thought to end it there to wait and see it play out, but yesterday, after all of your heated comments about how I am not allowed to accept any invitations to sleep in his bed, I wrote to him (yes, we deal mainly in text format), “’I’m giving up’ … such a bullshit thing to say, you martyr. As if you’ve done any effort besides, hey come make out.”

And received this response, “You’re right. I’ll be more traditional in my approach if I decide to ‘un’ give up. ;-)”

Electric.

Oh the game. He is so loving this.

Oh, Internet, I like this one.

Which really, really scares me.

But I like him. An almost kinda lot.

And yet given the choice between taking it somewhere and accepting his offers to make-out/sleep in his bed/maybe being happy or freaking out/avoiding/flirting through the safety of text-messages, I take the latter option each time.

I just can’t go through that pain again.

As of Tuesday (TWO WEEKS LONGER THAN NECESSARY), I am officially a homeowner. It’s beautiful. You would love it. My girls came over to help celebrate, drink wine, organize the clutter, and discuss the many options of where! To put! The plates! Slightly buzzed, I texted The Realtor (and I know everyone is rooting against him at this point BUT I DON’T MAKE THE RIGHT CHOICES) and we had our little flirtation exchange, which was then discussed the following day.

Him: “Hey drunky, you suck … my phone died around midnight-ish and I got your last text this morning. I totally would’ve come over to ‘hang out’. Haha. You hungover?”

Me: “Yes.”

Him: “I figured … as a sober guy, I need the green light from the sober version of the drunk chick …” [Later that day] “Are you embarrassed that you textually molested me last night …?”

Me: “Um, yeah, no. I don’t think you’ve fully comprehended how I work. You would have gotten no where. Are you embarrassed that you’ve ignored a drunk hot blonde twice now?”

Him: “That’s why I’m not trying too hard. It’s because you’re weird and you think too much. I can help you with that though.”

Me: “You don’t know me well enough to know that.”

Him: “Nope, no embarrassment here. I do know you well enough to know that. I am very intuitive … and smart … and good looking … and funny …” [thirty seconds later] “… and charming …”

Me: “A.) No you don’t. And B) Not as much as you think you are.”

Him: “I know your game. You have a huge and enormous crush on me. It’s ok. I also know that those don’t come often for you and don’t last very long.”

Me: “Haha. Try I’ve dated your type before and no amount of charm can compensate for the negatives. But it’s ok that you’re totally in love with me. I have that affect on most dudes.”

Him: “My type? Enlighten me please? So at least I can hide it the next time I fall hopelessly in love with a ‘good girl’ …”

Me: “That’s not me – that good girl label.”

Him: “Hahaha … right … so, can I be enlightened about ‘my type’? I reeeally want to know.”

He was not enlightened. Mostly because I didn’t want him to deconstruct all the reasons I have constructed. The Sister wonders if I’ve met my match; I wonder if I should stop playing with fire.

My boss, thrice removed, often calls me into his office for strategy sessions, where we discuss our current dating situations and give advice/insight into the opposite gender’s head. During my weekend debriefing where I what-the-fuck-dude questioned The Realtor’s intentions, he gave me his usual uncompassionate, bullshit-free breakdown:

“Ninety-percent chance that he already had someone over. No other possible reason. Even if it wasn’t a booty call, say you just needed a ride or something, when a friend needs something, particularly at 3am, a friend is gonna respond … unless he was otherwise occupied. With a lady. Why else wouldn’t he? Especially because he didn’t play the oh-I-slept-through-your-call card. Ninety-percent, he’s playing more than just you.”

“Well, goddamn … that sucks. Maybe now I will pursue my nice guy.”

“Yeah, well, the nice one ain’t getting 3am calls, now is he?”

I’m busy. Too busy to write, but not busy enough to whittle down my boy collection, so here’s a few updates, just to keep y’all in the loop.

The Nice One. Now, here’s a shocker for everyone: once he started to pull away, I became all the more interested. He’s been re-evaluated as pretty great in terms of personality and character, and he makes me laugh. We have great banter. Very Gilmore Girl-esque. He gets my humor and will laugh at my stupid jokes and fire clever comebacks when I am expecting a rebuttal. He also does little things that are adorable like sign emails “xoxo” (what?) or give my back a few scratches when I am feeling frustrated/stressed/tired. The thing is though, as much as he makes me laugh, the amount that he makes me smile is still undetermined. Nor does he make me blush or keep me awake at night. Which is unfortunate, because otherwise, this one would have some serious potential.

The Realtor. Also known as the opposite of The Nice One. Whereas The Nice One is somewhat obtainable and accessible, The Realtor screens my calls one minute and makes innuendos the next. Inconsistent and irritating. It’s all a game and I am too tired and too busy for games. For example, when he asked him about my Friday night, I told him that I napped from 7p to 1am, waking up just in time to receive drunk phone calls from friends for two hours, he said, “I was awake then too! Who was drunk dialing you? Booty calls? Your dudes? I should have had you come over, ha ha.” The next night, I was awake, DDing in his neighborhood at 3am, and since that was our little comment from the previous evening, I thought I would call and make some suggestive remarks (with which I had absolutely no intention of following through). He screened. As he always does. He rarely answers texts either. It’s tiring. But. He makes me smile. And nervous – in a totally good, totally addictive way. And that’s some crack that I just ain’t ready to quit – even knowing how unhealthy it is.

Oh, and I saw his apartment – I stopped there at his insistence under the guise of signing real-estate papers. I’m pretty sure the papers could have waited a few days (it was a renewal form for my garage rental, for God’s sake), but he was adamant and I was somewhat in the neighborhood – and curious. No grand tour was given, but we sat in his relatively clutter-free living room with his crappy couch and expensive tv, bitching about the Republican National Convention and flirting slightly. When it’s just us, in a comfortable environment like that, without the walls of unanswered communication, I almost want to ask, “Why aren’t we dating again?” But then I remember that I don’t actually want to hear the answer.

The Firefighter. I’m over my overanalyzing bullshit. We’re back to being buds. Well, at least I have decided that we are, but we haven’t talked so he could be thinking something completely different, but who really cares because I prefer to live in my own world anyway. His opinions are irrelevant. I do wonder about the future though. I hope that the next time I see him, we’re completely normal. If we’re both single, I wouldn’t be against something happening; if one of us is taken, I hope we can still share a couch, same as we’ve done since high school, complete with platonic cuddling. I just don’t want weirdness, and I am pretty sure there won’t be, because I think I will be done festering by then. (PS lovely how I started this paragraph saying that I was done with this analysis and then proceeded to analyze. Did you expect differently from me?)

The Kid. Oh, you didn’t think I would leave him out, did you? We talk (too often) but I am not obsessive about the talking – not like I used to be. I do wonder what it will be like if/when we ever meet again. In many ways, I feel like I was shown how a magician performs his tricks. Now, the show isn’t magic but all a charade … even though the tricks haven’t changed. No magic is actually taking place right before my eyes. It’s all trickery. I just can’t ignore the man behind the curtain. In other ways, it’s been over a year and I still miss him and we’ve both wondered to the other, “Why aren’t I over you yet?” Neither of us have an answer.

And those are the current four. Or, as my Baby Cakes calls them, my arsenal. He tries to give me advice pertaining to all of them, saying that I need to either hook up with them or break all ties, but he seems to forget the lucky number three option: string them along. With number three, I can maintain my comfort zone and not get hurt. It took me a long time to get to this stable ground, and even after all this time, I am not sure I’m ready to jump off another cliff, hoping that I either won’t fall or that my parachute will open in time to save me. But I’m creeping close to the edge, all the while maintaining my stable footwork and staying safe. And maybe I’ll stumble or maybe I will be pushed or maybe I will continue to observe the view. I guess we’ll have to wait and see.