“You’re wishing you were in class right now, aren’t you?”

“I’m wishing I had one more pillow behind my back …”

Yeah, this guy doesn’t seem like my type in the least. That ability to respond quickly with asshole-but-smile-worthy remarks? Not attractive. Nope, not at all, I would never go for someone of that variety.


How is it that I’m a sucker for any guy that casually calls me Mol? I find it more adorable than almost all other nicknames, which is somewhat odd considering I associate the name with family not relationships? No idea why I find it endearing. Such being the case, the only straight male in my grad school program (he might need a shorter name) has just been elevated to a new comfort level. Either we’re buds or he’s plotting, remembering when I suggested (at the bar) that he should set a personal goal to sleep with as many females in our grad program as possible (he agreed that it was a good idea, especially after debating which ones were active candidates – again, we had been drinking). Maybe the Mol-usage is part of his plan to achieve that goal –what he had claimed to be doing all semester: setting the groundwork for total manipulation. If so, it’s working. For one/twenty of us, at least.

So begins the month of freedom before second semester. This first weekend, I blatantly ignored my To-Do List and chose a more enjoyable route. A weekend of laziness and drinking, as epitomized on Sunday as I spent the day hungover, napping, eating ice cream (THRICE), and watching three movies (in different locations of course, wouldn’t want to be construed as slothful). Oh, but I forgot how much I enjoy Sundays when I am without Things To Do.

Will start the To-Do List today … or maybe tomorrow. I have some pretty important items on there. Like Christmas shopping and mail. I hate mail. Never open it. Hell, I rarely even fetch it from the mailbox. Which is problematic when bills are sent to the house. My bills are paid online but billing companies refuse to e-deliver, making me very angry at them. I spend the first half of the month being bitter until the bill is overdue and then I HAVE to pay it. Am trying to teach them to just stop mailing me the GD things, but they have yet to catch on. I’ll keep trying though. Like a stubborn child, I can’t ease up this reinforcement of their negative behavior or they’ll think that they can always get away with it.

Another To-Do List item: paint. My entire house. Color suggestions?

Have I mentioned that my appliances hate me? First it was a misbehaving washing machine followed by a dryer (oo, need to add that guy to the list). Now, my dishwasher is broken, has been for a few days, and instead of washing the dishes by hand (what are we, poor? Am SO kidding – we’re just really lazy), we have stacked the dirty dishes on the counter. We might need to buy more plates. Yesterday I made The Sister and me omelets but, as we were out of clean forks, used a hand-mixer beater to scrabble the eggs and spoons to eat the finished product. Classy.

If only I knew someone that I could annoy from the building association to rectify these appliances … Oh wait. I do. The Realtor and I still text and the situation is what it is. The Bestest Friend struggles with that. No matter how much I say, “HE KNOWS WHAT HE’S DOING”, she still can’t grasp the concept and wants to analyze and dissect. The guy’s had (a lot of) therapy and is fully aware of consequences and reasoning behind choices. He gets it, knows why he likes his crazies, is capable of explaining the motivations of his actions to me, and it’s his life to make those choices (even if my blog’s readership would chose differently for him if we were to take a poll). He’s dating someone hot and unchallenging and for a lot of people, that’s all they want –it’s fine and enough. Hell, I never thought I was going to marry the guy, so basically the dynamic that I wanted from him is the same one that he’s getting from someone else. He was never going to be my person that texts “zu zu’s petals” during the television broadcast of my favorite Christmas movie. That person, well, he got a few points for remembering my movie, but the position is still open for worthy candidates.

I also have a lot of drinking to catch up on during this next month. On Saturday, I went out with three guy friends from college and a friend from the restaurant; they got along since she’s hot (and therefore the guys liked her) and they were their normal, crude selves (and therefore she liked them). After frequenting a VFW of all places (to which I always relate to small-town Friday fish-fry’s but apparently, when in a centralized uptown location, they also have karaoke and cheap booze) we were intoxicated enough to finish the evening slow-dancing to Frank Sinatra in Baby Cakes’ candlelit living room (I know – what?). His roommate wanted to show me that he did, indeed, know how to twirl (but not dip). Well, he could twirl when I let him lead, which wasn’t too often; it’s typically my job as I am not used to guys knowing what they are doing (ha, understatement much?).

I hope all this is foreshadow for the next month because then? It has some serious potential.

As of Thursday, after the completion of a shitty three-hour exam, my first semester of grad school has officially ended. My favorite classmates –our little foursome group –celebrated with cocktails (and invited the rest of class because we don’t want to be ‘that’ group). The bar close to campus served Nightly Specials (even at age 25, how can you hate on $1 beers?) and by 9pm, we were all slightly buzzed. And further intoxicated with feelings of liberation. Because it was a Thursday! And we were drinking! Even though we have professional careers in the morning! Hangovers be damned!

My two cocktails must have gone straight through my empty stomach to my head, as it started to bob to the up-tempo beat of the pop music. To which I was immediately caught.

“Uh, Molly, what are you doing?”

“I’m happy! And I love this song!” (It’s not like I was singing along – even though I totally wanted to …)

“Um, no. You need to stop that. Now.”

My classmate then had to remind me that we were in an UNDERGRAD bar and had to play it COOL, to blend with the 19 year-olds, who are used to getting drunk every night – much less a THURSDAY which is practically the weekend –none of whom feel like dancing as early as NINE. We had already lost major cool points from the early hour –proper undergrads were still at home pre-partying and applying extra mascara –and therefore needed to act EXTRA BLASÉ. Being excited about getting drunk on a Thursday is just not done.

After another hour or so, the undergrads flooded the bar with their fake IDs, and we could barely have a conversation – the music was so LOUD! –so we found a bar downtown, staying out until TWELVE THIRTY. After midnight ON A SCHOOL NIGHT. Well, not school, but you know. Still pretty badass.

You know what’s even more productive on a Friday night than writing a 30-page paper that’s due in three days? Dissecting a half-gallon of Turtle Brownie Fudge ice cream in search of all the brownie pieces. Mission accomplished. The turtle fudge portion is back in the freezer if anyone’s interested …

My grad-school group was working on a final project that required consumer interviews. We cheated, bypassed the interviews and skipped straight to the insightful interview conclusions. When formulating our research results, we were in need of subject quotations, and for those we typically IMed various friends, whoever was online. After a few responses, one of my group members questioned to whom I was talking.

“Molly, are you dating that guy? Are you in love with him?”

I was surprised that she asked, but assured her that no, I definitely was not, as I am very single and in no way am I dating my interview subject. I then learned that my entire group is single and what’s even better (worse), all four of us have had five+-year relationships, and all of those relationships (one being a marriage) have ended from the other partner cheating. After sharing and bonding over mutual bitterness, we returned back to the project and fake interviews. Once again, I was interrupted.

“Molly, if you’re not dating that guy, why do you smile each time you read his response?”

I hadn’t realized that I was doing that. But he always makes me smile – one of his most annoying characteristics. Today, he has spent three hours emailing his account about being attacked by a monster last night. A monster of a slightly bluish hue attacked – unprovoked – after a cookie was stolen; luckily he slit his throat to end the death battle. I like his unassuming humor – it’s typically clever and very dry.

“Seriously, we’re not dating – I’m talking to my ex.”

And then I saw a mixture of amusement and pity reflected in all their faces.

“And you’re still in love with him.”

Deaf to my denials and guffawed, Oh whatever’s, they then reassigned me from interview duty to background research. To keep me away from him.

I hate that these people who barely know me can read me. I have been proud of myself lately, thinking that I really had turned a new corner/leaf/bad clichéd phrase. I honestly thought that I was doing well.

J.Crew recently had their swimsuits on clearance; when I tried on their tops, my lack of boob was embarrassingly evident. NONE. Molly no-boob is what the salesgirl kept calling me. True story. She was even pointing and laughing – I cried a little bit. Typically, I wear bras somewhat padded in nature (I don’t want to nip-out at the office) and over time, I have almost convinced myself that some of that padding actually belongs to my boob. Because I want it to be true and voila! the mirror validates my wishful thinking.

As weird as that metaphor is, I thought that because I keep telling myself that I am over it that must translate to mean that I am. I want it to be true – I want to be over it. I even play the it’s not me, it’s him card – – HE is the one that is still hanging on; HE is the one that still calls the break-up the biggest mistake of his life. It’s always only him. I look in the mirror and see the semblance of a bust; therefore, boobs must be under there somewhere.

To convince myself that I am healthy, I have even established unspoken rules. I legitimately try to never initiate contact; another one is that I genuinely try not to flirt with him. We talk, but as friends, and when his conversation veers toward the flirty/sexual nature, I stop it. Blatantly stop it (“No, you don’t get to know what I am wearing right now. What did you have for lunch today?”). These boundary rules were originally established out of necessity to retain my sanity, especially since I don’t have enough willpower to sever all contact, and now I almost use them as validation that he is the one that can’t let go.

I lie to myself, perhaps, a little too often.

It took one IM conversation for three almost-strangers to call me out on my lack of progress. Everyone else has been so positive and helpful in my avoidance. My friends don’t ask if we’re still talking and I don’t tell them. They let me live in my world of denial and oblivion. I am happy there. And now my little grad-school group want to bring me back to reality. Which IS NOT AS FUN. I guess this negates any possibility of inviting them on a beach vacation – they’d totally call me out on wearing the wrong size bra (“A B? Are you KIDDING? There’s NO WAY you’re a B!”) and re-instigate the nickname of Molly no-boob. And there’s no way I want to live through that mockery again.

With my busy schedule, sleep and exercise are typically the two factors that are compromised. This week, I took three half-day workdays, leaving me some extra time in my schedule. Time that I should have dedicated to three final school-related projects, but instead, I used it to spend quality time with my bed and treadmill. Glorious. I forget how much sleep and exercise are my cleansing outlet. It’s exactly what I’ve been needing lately – I only hope I got enough of it to last me until the end of the semester. Because the next three weeks ain’t gonna be pretty.

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