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.


Was on the phone for two hours today with an IT guy to fix my computer – he spoke fluent dork and my little heart was all aflutter. Have no idea why my mom laughs when I say I plan on marrying someone handy around the house. IT COULD HAPPEN.

First, let’s get this out of the way: no, The Realtor did not make an appearance (shocker). Moving on.

The house-warming party did indeed warm the house. We had enough beer, enough snacks, and the worlds collided without too much friction. Once or twice my select group of eccentric family members tried to answer the door or approach extra-sensitive friends when I was preoccupied and I would need to throw my mom a look of intervention; she would laugh and hurry after them – of course hesitating first as if unsure what I was communicating via eye-contact – because she is sometimes EVIL. She also decided that my Baby Cakes looked adorable and proceeded to instruct my friends to tell me that they also thought he looked adorable. I don’t think she fully comprehends the magnitude of the best-friends-with-The-Kid thing nor the lack-of-sexual-spark thing. My Work Husband had the opposite reaction, experiencing full-on hater-mode toward Baby Cakes and pleading with me to end the “poor bastard’s torment.” The party had relatively low drama, just a lot of drinking, eating, laughing, happiness, etc (blah blah blah).

I wish I had A Great Event that happened but no, it was somewhat boring on that front. I shared my bed with The Bestest Friend’s sister if that’s any indication of my evening’s prospects. Course, my breakfast eggs were cooked by a cute male the following morning; the fact that that male was my brother? Well, it’s almost better that way. He amuses me. And I can tell him, “shut up, I’m hungover” without offense.

“You know those pants with the five-inch-thick elastic waistband? The ones that let your stomach expand? Have you seen those? You know which ones I’m talking about? I think I need to get a few pairs.”

“Um, Sister, you mean pregnancy pants?”

“I think you mean drinking pants. They would be perfect for the bar. And stop making that face because that’s probably what you’re getting for Christmas … so be excited.”

“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?”


“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.”

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