September 2009

I finally responded to her. Since The Firefighter’s Quest for The Holy Grail, she, the object of their desire, has been sending me texts for happy-hours and dinners, taking on the tone of the I miss you! Your house was so fun! We need to hang out more! quality.

Which is complete bullshit.

So I have ignored them. If the tone was different, I might’ve considered a different reaction. Maybe. But, whatever, it’s bullshit, and my bullshit tolerance has been low lately.

When texts weren’t delivering her desired results, she sent an email last week, asking for my schedule to arrange a dinner, saying that she wanted to nail me to a date before hitting up the other two girls.

The other two girls, well, they are on my side. If anything, they are less willing to forgive her than I am, and however cliquey and high-school that may be, I find it touching. During my processing of the little incident, one of the girls had informed me, “Mols, she might control all the guys, but you’re the leader for the girls – you know that, right? You’re the one that ties us together; you’re the only one that all of us would be comfortable hanging out one-on-one.” Well, shit – that’s sweet to say, and no, I never thought about it quite like that. I then immediately started plotting ways to use my power for evil and shun her like a leper (kidding) (mostly).

I’ve been trying to disperse any sources of negative energy (how new-agey does that sound?), and if I were to continue to avoid, I knew the negativity would liger. So my response was short and sweet (she has yet to have the balls to call me, so I follow suit), saying that the next month at least was going to be really busy and I didn’t have any available time. To be clear: I’m not holding a grudge, I’ve just been enlightened as to her person, and I don’t feel the need to associate myself with that negativity, especially when I have other friends, amazing friends, who love me and are truly awesome to me.

My evasive too-busy-to-hang email received a reply (dammit): “Yeah I understand the busy schedule thing. It’s hard to make room for “free time”. I also get if you can’t plan for a girls night anytime in the next month. I would like to see YOU though, sometime. Even if just for lunch one day during the week. I feel like we were a bit disconnected last time I saw you and I didn’t like that. Let me know if you can squeeze me in.”

After careful consideration and in the interest of being up front and honest, I wrote back, with what most would call common sense, “The disconnect was because I was uncomfortable watching you move in on a guy I had slept with. My friends don’t do that. It’ll be fine, we’ll be ok, I just need some time.”

Was probably a bad idea; I’ll let you know if I receive a response.


Four weeks ago he returned from Europe, and he was different. He no longer teased or indulged my penchant for asking questions. He’d snap at me. Although before he had promised pictures and stories and a souvenir bong as big as my head, since his return, he’s yet to show me a single photo or even share the names of his vagabond crew.

Three weeks ago he told me he loved me … and that sounds like a bigger deal than it actually is. The words were sent via text, and it’s just something he does sometimes, a text into the void, without the expectation of a response. I do the same – though not those words. Never those words. The closest I come is an I miss you and even that is rare. The point is that the words are never a big revelation; just a factual statement I accept without deep analysis.

Two weeks ago he asked me to visit. He was at a wedding in Chicago, with our college friends, and wanted to see me. He called me his best friend, said that whenever something good or bad happened, I was the first one he wanted to tell. He said that everyone at the wedding asked about me, told him he screwed up when he let me go (isn’t that a polite way to phrase it?). He said he wanted to see me … but if he had really wanted to see me, he would’ve called me before 1am when drunk.

One week ago we were still off, had yet to return to our normal rhythm. When we’re off, it’s easier for me – it creates distance, which I like. Much easier for me to dislike him, especially when around his two best friends who still give me the “you guys are totally going to get married, I just know it!” drill. We were off for a reason, and I knew what it was. The Bestest Friend warned me against asking.

Three days ago I asked. Well, that’s wrong, I didn’t ask, I told a mutual friend, told him that The Kid is seeing someone in NYC and that she went to Europe with him. My friend just looked at me, his eyes were the same quiet pity that I saw and too well remember from two years ago when I asked about her, and said, “You know I can’t tell you that.” I nodded, indifferently, and then excused myself to call a friend, one of my girls, and promptly broke down. I was, embarrassingly, a hysterical mess. She listened through the pain, the teeth chattering and body quaking and hell, even the vomiting. No tears though; never tears.

Yesterday I told him goodbye. I said that we can’t talk anymore. That he needs to let me go because I am not healing.

I feel … empty.

The cashier at the grocery store wants to set me up with her grandson. She doesn’t know his actual age (“in his thirties”) and he lives in Chicago (“Mol, it’s only an hour away!” –yes, by PLANE) but also, his last name is Brown. So when I marry Mr. Brown – because who are we kidding, I obviously will – my married name will be Molly Brown, as in the Unsinkable Molly Brown from the Titanic. Upon marriage, I think I will change my entire name to include the entire title: The Unsinkable Molly Brown from the Titanic. It’s catchy.

I didn’t think a last name could get worse than that of The Kid’s (his starts with an M and sounded HORRIBLE with my first name; think Molly Maguire, Molly Malone, Molly Mercer, etc.) but alas, I have found it. And since I can’t imagine a name that could feasibly sound even worse, we’re obviously meant to be.

I have his “computer numbers” (email address – bless her heart, the cashier is in her eighties) and am supposed to make the first move. The Brother thinks I should open with the bit about his last name because guys find it endearing and not at all scary when a girl tells tales about impending marriage and future plans. I think he’s right.

If you don’t read, you totally should. Because it is awesome (even on those days where it makes me feel old). My Google Reader currently has a few saved, and I reread them and giggle – typically at inappropriate times like VIP teleconferences.

(501): he said i was chugging vodka in the parking lot, gave my # to a married man, started a food fight, and passed out at the bar. how could he NOT consider that a good first date???

(602): She made me go with her to get a pregnancy test since she’s missed a few birth control pills. She made me park in the “expectant mothers” spot at CVS and preceded to ask if it would be in the pest control section.

How many more hours until the weekend?

I fell asleep last night eating cheesy popcorn in bed. The best part is that when I woke up at 4am, rolled over, I was delighted by my bed partner. OH hello delicious snackfood, a few handfuls? Don’t mind if I do. This is what my life has turned into.

When he asked me to make out, I don’t think the reaction he wanted from me was a wave to [another guy friend], who was sitting five feet away from us in the cramped living room. Not awkward.

“Hi Baby Cakes!” –even added the powerful one-two combination of chin-lift/eye-roll to the greeting.

“Hello, Molly.” His returning wave reeked with mocking enthusiasm. I love/hate that about him.

The guy has a fairly serious girlfriend, so I knew nothing was going to happen – all the same, my battered ego appreciated that at least someone liked the idea of making out with me.

In my sober state –I had been nominated as driver when they were already in shambles when I arrived at the bar a few hours earlier –I diplomatically asked the make-out dude if he thought that making out might be slightly uncomfortable, what with someone sitting so close to us. He contemplated this profoundly, as if he hadn’t thought that far ahead. He then posed another question.

“Molly, why are you single? You’re so cute; why are you single?”

I hate that question. There is no answer for that question. People who ask that question deserve a swift kick in the shins. Instead, I wryly said, “It’s my personality. It totally sucks.”

My humor was lost on him, but it made the other guy friend, who was slightly-less-drunk and chain smoking in a nearby old-man chair, complete with torn fabric and a broken recliner, give a chuckle and shake his head.

Left without making-out as a viable activity, he put my feet in his lap and tried to crack my toes. Most girls would get guys who, perhaps, would use the situation for a foot massage; I get ones who crack my toes. I win. Only two cracked, much to his annoyance.

The display was sardonically being observed, and I again heard laughter from the vicinity of the old-man chair.

His head eventually found way to my shoulder, in a beer-induced repose, and I started a nonchalant conversation with the other friend, as if I didn’t have someone attached to the underside of my chin. When my napping friend woke, twenty minutes later, alert and startled, he said, “OHMYGOD, I am TOTALLY hitting on you right now. IAMSOSORRY.”

Yes, he was. And it was awkward and unsuccessful and totally inappropriate, given his circumstances, but it was also amusing and harmless – and at least I didn’t have to finish the week like it started –feeling unwanted and pathetic and the fool. It’s a good friend who takes that role for me.

I have learned the secret of life –and its name is three-day-benders-of-pizza-and-beer. You’re welcome.

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