mollyelizabeth

27

mollyelizabeth — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 23:51:12 +0000

Well, today’s my birthday. I am now officially late-twenties. I expected late-twenties to look differently … but not necessarily better.

In the spirit of a new year/age, I’m going to try this writing thing again. I’ve missed you guys.

Even my technology is telling me that my love life sucks

mollyelizabeth — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 18:48:23 +0000

One of my phone’s apps is horoscope.com where I can read my horoscope or draw tarot cards. Today, I drew the Love Death card. Oh, Silly Tarot, you’re so redundant.

I deem this: picture week.

mollyelizabeth — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 22:33:44 +0000

A present from my ‘Olly cousin: ‘Bam in magnet form. He lives on my fridge, and sometimes, like when changing his outfit, I take the opportunity to talk to him about his presidency. Constructive stuff, of course. Like how he needs to stop spending so much money. I think he appreciates the advice.

Last Week’s Conference = Not Minnesota

mollyelizabeth — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 18:08:01 +0000

In Case of Emergency

mollyelizabeth — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 20:06:55 +0000

Upon discovery, I emailed my mom to share the good news:

[Bestest Friend] is my emergency contact at work. So … if I drop dead or something, expect to receive the news from her.

I didn’t remember listing my Bestest Friend as my emergency contact until I checked my company profile today, saw her name and remembered how, when I was filling out the form over two years ago, we were emailing back and forth and I said, “I’m going to list you as my emergency contact!” and she was all, “Ooo, yes! Do it!”

I find it awesome; my mom asked if she could perhaps advocate for another choice.

Migraine

mollyelizabeth — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 17:10:44 +0000

As I sat crouched over the toilet, vomiting repeatedly, I worried not about my head pain, the partial blindness, or the numbness on my left side, but rather: dammit, if I knew this was going to happen, I would’ve had brownies for breakfast.

Where I use Italics to explain where words cannot

mollyelizabeth — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 05:24:00 +0000

Had a discussion with a friend. This was a few weeks ago. I’ve tried writing about it, even have a few drafts waiting, unfinished, in a desktop folder, but none of them are right. The discussion did not go well, at least on my side. She may have had a different take on it, or perhaps not, since I didn’t bend to her will or come out seeing her as the innocent victim, as she had predetermined her role whereas I was the evil one, the one who done her wrong. She was outright mean and passively manipulative; I didn’t like that side of her as a person, and I don’t like thinking about it, much less writing it. I’m just kinda done and it/she doesn’t really deserve more time and attention than that.

Maybe someday I’ll finish one of the drafts because the things she would say … oh, Internet, I wish you were there, standing behind her, so I could have had a rational someone over her shoulder – and maybe slightly to the left so as to not be obvious – at whom to roll-my-eyes throughout the twists she took my words. Ok, I lied just then, I really didn’t want someone for eye-rolls, I wanted someone to watch in amazement and say, preferably with grandiose arm waving, ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME WITH THIS BULLSHIT.

NaBloPoMo 2009

mollyelizabeth — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 15:52:42 +0000

… Seriously?

Hahahah ah ah ha ha ha ha h ah ah ah aha.

Good one, Mol.

Maybe I’ll Behave This Time

mollyelizabeth — Fri, 23 Oct 2009 20:04:03 +0000

Based on the few times I’ve met her, she’s a great person, truly, I really like her, but I am almost completely positive that she hates me – justifiably so, I would hate her if positions were reversed – considering that each time I’ve met her, we’ve been drinking and after a few cocktails, I completely forget to pay attention to the group as a whole and instead just blatantly flirt with her boyfriend.

Work Boyfriend should know better than to bring her home for long weekends; I make an ass out of myself EVERY TIME.

Have yet to mention our Titanic-themed wedding where two-thirds of the guests will be corralled outside in January temperatures. Thought I’d save it for email three or four.

mollyelizabeth — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 21:57:59 +0000

Finally emailed Mr. Brown. He responded, quickly, and added a facebook-friend invite, which I appreciate in a guy because then I can be the creeper undercover-like –acting so stealthy I should be wearing a trench-coat and monocle.

Besides being a REPUBLICAN and signing his FIRST AND LAST NAME to an email REPLY and giving me a TOLL-FREE PHONE NUMBER that is not the same as the cell his grandmother gave me, he seems … and I want to be careful with this because I don’t actually believe this to be true, but you know, first impressions … relatively NORMAL.

I KNOW, right? When does that HAPPEN?

He has a CAREER that he LIKES, participates in EXTRACURRICULAR activities and is social with his FAMILY and FRIENDS. And, Internet, the weirdest part: he’s actually CUTE.

Unfortunately the whole living-in-Chicago thing puts a damper on identifying exactly how he is not normal (besides evidence listed above), but for now, I have a penpal and that’s kinda fun.

Making Christopher Walken Proud

mollyelizabeth — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 21:57:01 +0000

At bartime on Saturday night I acquired a cowbell. The best part of acquiring a cowbell: you can never have too much cowbell. Even when one friend would say, “Molly, you need to stop with the cowbell.”, another friend would shake his head and mouth to me, “We need more cowbell!” Alas, I was a slave to the masses and gave my people what they wanted to hear: more cowbell. Mind you, a non-aggressive cowbelling, just a slight teasing of movement to produce a soft: ka-kling-klang … ka-klang-kling.

Was probably The Best Night Ever. Cowbells belong in an untouchable sphere of awesomeness where no one can hate them. Any night that includes cowbell is automatically ranked as an Awesome.

The night got less awesome when my friends tried to steal my cowbell. Jealous pricks.

‘Round 4am, I stopped keeping close watch over my night’s take, and just when my guard went down, that’s when I lost my cowbell. We blamed the guy who, that thieving bastard, left at coincidently the exact time the cowbell went missing. Hmm, how CONVENIENT. Recovering from missing cowbell, well, that takes some time. I pouted a bit until one guy friend suggested, “Let’s have a slumber party in [other guy friend who was currently sleeping]’s bed to cheer up.” AMAZING! – the three of us in his bed, primarily because it irritated the living fuck out of the one whose bed we crashed. He’s just so EASY to irritate and gives such a great reaction – how can a person NOT cave to that temptation? And then, while the irritated friend was yelling at us to leave his bed, a miracle happened: we heard a soft ka-kling-klang.

OH MY SWEET BOVINE I DIDN’T LOSE MY COWBELL AFTER ALL.

Having safely recovered my cowbell from being wedged between the bed and wall, crisis averted!, we all decided to retire for the evening, good night, sweet dreams, etc. etc.

I woke up WITHOUT my cowbell. Puzzling, but didn’t think much of it, left my guy friend a note to be on the lookout for it, went home, started my day.

FIVE DAYS later and my cowbell was still MIA. He has a small apartment, he doesn’t have that much stuff, only three of us could be considered as suspects; how can we keep losing this damn cowbell?

Finally, late last night, he texted: “Found a cowbell in my oven. I presume it’s yours.”

The best part is that NOT ONE OF US has ANY recollection as to HOW it came to be in the oven. Not a clue. None of us blacked out, one of the guys was the last to bed, another was the last to be in that room, and both of them have hinted that I was probably the one to hide it there for safekeeping.

Counts as Not Talking

mollyelizabeth — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 22:19:50 +0000

Yesterday was The Kid’s birthday, and I was ready to maintain my self-imposed communication boycott, fueled by self-pity and a determination that I really didn’t matter and it’s just a birthday. Just another day. Courtesy of (potentially unnecessary) pre-day pep-talking, I was READY. Ready to not do ANYTHING. My mind could’ve done Jedi mind tricks I was that prepared and focused (well, first I would have to watch those movies to even know what that entails, but you get it). And it worked; the day happened, and I thought about him, but I wasn’t even TEMPTED to contact. Besides, I had convinced myself that he wouldn’t even NOTICE, much less think of it as some huge punishment to not hear a few words from me.

If he didn’t care, I didn’t care, and I didn’t care so much that my sister and I wished him birthday wishes over our dinner of apple crisp.

“I wish … that the store is sold out of cake. I mean, he doesn’t even LIKE CAKE.”
“I wish … that he is wearing a new outfit and a bus comes barreling down the street and to NOT hit him –but maybe just spray mud all over him.”
“I wish … that when he is tying his shoes, he breaks a shoelace –so he can go buy new ones. New shoelaces are NICE.”

We’re givers. And healthy –well, relatively, much healthier than when she found out her ex was engaged and wrote to him, “Congrats. I hope your wedding is beautiful and your new bride chokes on her wedding cake and dies.”

Progress!

His birthday, I kept distracted, la la la, it doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter to him why should it matter to me, blah blah. Good, right?

At 10:50pm, he texted.

“You have ten minutes.” (He’s on east-coast time).

So he did notice.

After much internal debate and nine minutes, I responded, “Was giving us space. But happy 27.” Quick, easy, totally breezy and noncommittal.

“Give all the space you need, but we don’t blow off birthdays you jerk.” (This is him trying to keep it light.)

“You missed my half. I think you were in NYC. Apparently we do.” (This is me being passive aggressive. Side note: yes, I celebrate my half-birthday on September 10th, and mostly I love it more than my real birthday.)

“Not real birthdays Molly, not real birthdays.” (As if we have established a protocol for this situation.)

“Skip the righteous tone, wouldja.”

“No, I’m a fuck, but I never miss your birthday, that transcends.”

I could’ve picked like four different fights with this convo but instead, I just said, “It’s moot. Happy 27.”

LOOK AT ME, I’M THE BIGGER PERSON. WHERE DID THAT EVEN COME FROM?

He texted again, something off topic about how he spent his day (at a county fair), and I didn’t respond, which means that I didn’t engage in actual conversation and I vote it counts as not talking, and I am still on my way to my 30-day Kid-less chip. Go me.