September 2008


“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.

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