… Seriously?

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

Good one, Mol.


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.

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.

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.


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.

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.”


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.”


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.

Our card game categories used to involve vital topics like brands of pot or sex positions. The category on Saturday: Supreme Court Justices. What’s worse is that everyone was all, oo, good category! and then proceeded to give commentary when a Judge was named, Oh that bastard is such a constitutionalist! My little friends, they always surprise me.

“And on Saturday, you can be my beer pong partner!”

“… but I suck at beer pong.”

“Then we all win!”