Second chances

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately about the way that we decide which people get to stay in our lives and which people have to go. Is there a formula for figuring it out? Is there some sort of, “Hurt me once, shame on you; hurt me twice, I’ll kick your ass and never speak to you again,” motto that we could all use to empower us to make these decisions?

 

This isn’t so much about losing touch, or moving on, or waking up one day and realizing that you don’t really talk to your best friends from high school anymore, despite the fact that they spent every free waking moment with you in your mom’s basement, or at the all-night diner, or sitting in the firehouse, sneaking beers and daring one another to slide down the pole, which no one has done in fifty years and has “traumatic head injury” written all over it.

 

What I’m talking about is someone actively involved in your life, who does something that would justify expulsion from your life. The guy you’re dating breaks up with you, or cheats on you; your friend lies to you and creates an elaborate story to cover bad behavior; you find out that someone you thought really liked you has been spreading rumors about you; a friend borrows money and never makes any attempt to pay it back.

 

Some people are just destructive forces and it’s easy to see we should get rid of them. But what about the people who otherwise make us happy and are good to have around?

 

Everyone makes mistakes; everyone screws up and says stupid things or gets scared and behaves badly. We all have moments when we don’t live up to our own ideal. And so, should we say, “Well, hell, could’ve happened to any of us,” and move on? Do you let the other person off the hook? “No, you don’t have to explain yourself. I lied once to someone, too.”

 

I think the key to the second chance is as follows:

 

Did you seriously hurt me?

Am I suffering from wounded pride, or did you really do something that’s going to require psychiatry and a lot of Jack Daniels to fix? ‘Cause if I can get a decent country song out of it, it’s probably not that bad and we can work it out.

 

What was your motivation?

Sometimes we hurt others inadvertently, or we see no choice but to do something that’s going to hurt a little now, but be better in the long run. If you were just being a dick because you didn’t care, or you have no sense of the consequences your actions should include, then, seriously, go jump off a cliff.

 

Can I honestly forgive you and move on?

Am I going to feel the need to make snarky comments every fifteen seconds, or will I really be able to forgive you and move forward? This largely depends on number 4…

 

Are you going to make a serious effort to make amends?

Will you take a second chance as getting away with something, or will you realize that this is an opportunity to be the person you should?

 

Do you have access to chocolate in unlimited quantities?

Anyone who does is a keeper, no matter how badly I got screwed.

 

I’ve never found “amount of time invested” to be a good qualifier. Years shmears, I say. Also, be careful not to fall into the, “Well, it’s going to be easier to hang out with our group of friends if we make up” excuse. So what? Who cares? Our friends don’t have to take sides and I don’t have to talk to you at the next party.

 

At any rate, there are people I have in my life to whom I’ve given second chances. And, more often than not, these friends are the ones who are the most motivated to have a good friendship, to be better and to take care of what we have. Sometimes a false start or a fight or a rift can reveal to you the real depths of your feelings.

 

Some people get it right from the start, but to be honest, I can only think of two people, in the entire realm of Molly’s Friendships, who have ever gotten it right the first time around.

 

So, you know, that first song wasn’t great. But let’s check out the B-side.

Star-crossed

So, The Lastest is no more. Which is okay (if by “okay,” one means that it totally sucks and I have no idea why we can’t just work this out), but also more than a little disappointing.

Here’s the strange part, the part that makes me say, “Hello? Clearly, we are meant for one another, because, really, do you know ANYONE else who would do this?”

We ended things on Sunday. On Monday, I sat down and wrote him a letter. It was a hand-written letter, on lovely blue paper and it said all of the nice things that I never got a chance to say to him. “Aha,” I thought, “he’ll never see this coming.” Because, really, you can never think ill of someone who takes the time to write you a letter.

Imagine my surprise today when I received a letter from him. I assumed at first that it was in response to my own. But, when I opened it, it was dated Monday, the same as mine.

We both sat down and wrote letters on Monday.

Now, I might not know all that much about love and relationships and what makes a good couple, but when you’re a letter-writer and you find another letter-writer, you eff-ing hold onto that shit.

Letter writing is special and in the age of digital, total, constant communication, most people don’t take the time to sit down and write two full pages and explain themselves without emoticons or HTML tags. It means that you’re taking the time to think about something, to put your thoughts into words and to put those words on paper. You can’t backspace or delete or edit it later. It’s in the mail, it’s gone. You spoke your piece.

Now, I am not normally someone who doesn’t know what to do. Even when I say, “I don’t know what to do!” it’s really more conversational or else I just want someone to validate me by telling me to go ahead and do whatever it was I was going to do anyway. In this case, though, I have no idea what to do.

I am considering visiting my local apothecary, but we all know how that would turn out.

My mom is cooler than your mom

Me: I just don’t understand. We had this long talk and I couldn’t have been more understanding. We were on the same page.

 

Mom: Molly, you might have been on the same page, but it seems to me that you were reading different books.

 

Me: Well, whatever. The book he’s reading sucks.

 

Mom: I think you just have better reading comprehension.

Day of days

St Patrick’s certainly is the Day of Days and this year was no exception. Amber had a kick-ass beer and breakfast and made some of the best corned beef and cabbage I’ve ever had. I wish every day was St Paddy’s, just so it would be acceptable for me to eat corned beef fat more than once a year. I mean, one could it eat it every day – but that would take a little justifying. I am also a fan of any day that involves Car Bombs before noon.

 

The only “problem” came when we couldn’t separate the two large, plastic cups Amber got specifically for Car Bombs. “Amber, what would you do to get the cups unstuck?” I asked.

 

“Throw them on the ground.”

 

So, I did. The first time, they just bounced right back at me. The second time, the top of the inside glass (made of heavy-duty plastic!) broke and shattered and nailed me in the shin. But, they were still stuck together. Fie on you, stuck-together plastic mugs! We didn’t need you anyway, I prefer doing my Car Bombs out of a Styrofoam cup.

 

After leaving headquarters, we all rolled into Old Town (literally – yea, taxis!) and headed to Pat Troy’s. We got there early, so the line to get in was short and after some good advice from two friendly lesbians (the ladies love me), Amber and I found that the beer line was nonexistent. We scored our first two beers in about ten seconds and returned to the outside bar for the next two rounds, only to find that everyone was (foolishly) ignoring it. Ha, silly inside patrons! I laugh at your inability to get beer in under a minute.

 

There was so much green and hats and beads and hugs and beer and some dude with really big balls that Tiffany couldn’t keep out of her face. I know there are some good pictures on the way.

 

Richard and Elisa showed up, followed by Heather. We had a couple of drinks and then left for Bistro Europa. It is amazing how yummy cheese fries and chicken fingers can be after a few beers. Not so yummy – the smoke. I definitely started to feel sick. We headed back to Heather’s sister’s place to play with the dogs and then I went home. It was a lovely; I was in bed around midnight and woke up – no hangover! – at 9:30.

 

Amber and I now have a St. Patrick’s date forever, because she makes wonderful corned beef and cabbage. Listen up, kids, she would make a great wife. Any woman who cooks like that and keeps you in Car Bombs is too good to pass up. If you would like a chance to be the future Mr. Amber McManus, I am now accepting applications on Amber’s behalf.

 

Happy St. Patrick’s Day – see you next year.

WWE? Get the F out!

I went to WWE Monday Night RAW last night at the Verizon Center and, oh boy, was that awesome.

 

You may already know of my deep, abiding love of NASCAR. (Go, Mark Martin!) I went to my first NASCAR race in Atlanta with Greg and Carrie, who introduced me to stock car racing. To this day, I am hard-pressed to think of anything better than grabbing a sub from Publix and a few Bud Lights, setting up on the couch, watching the race, taking a little nap, watching the end of the race and then firing up the grill for dinner. When I think about my time in Atlanta, Greg and Carrie are absolutely central to it. When I think about my time with Greg and Carrie, it’s hard not to think about NASCAR.

 

The day of my first race was beautiful. The weather was perfect. We packed up the truck with all sorts of beer and good and essentials and headed over to the Atlanta Motor Speedway. We hung out in the parking lot, ate bread and cheese and poured multiple bottles of Bud Light into impossibly large cups and had a great time. When it came time for the start of the race, little ‘ol nineteen-year-old me walked up to the gate with my huge mug of beer in one hand and my ticket in the other. The ticket-taker didn’t ask for ID, or turn me away. He just smiled, said, “Have a good day, ma’am,” and I was on my way.

 

The race was so much fun. Running from our seats to the parking lot to get more beer and back in again was thrilling. The noise, the crowd, the excitement … it was unlike any other sporting event I’d ever been to. It was theater. I loved it.

 

There’s little better to do with a summer afternoon than while it away in a ballpark. Baseball is a fantastic sport and I have spent some memorable times in Yankee and Shea stadiums. I seriously considered investing in Nationals season tickets this year. So, I’m not down on baseball, but … people leave before the end of the game. If you hit the seventh inning and your team is winning by four runs, it’s difficult to convince yourself that something so spectacular might happen that you shouldn’t leave in order to beat the crowd out of the parking lot.

 

No one – and I mean no one, short of someone suffering a serious medical emergency – leaves a race early.

 

Last night was the first time since my first NASCAR race that I experienced sports theater. I used to watch wrestling on TV, ’cause all my dude friends watched wrestling on TV. I do an excellent Stone Cold impression. (Also, I do a really good Natalie Merchant. Who knew?) This was the first live match I went to and it was so fun that I want to pee in my pants. Matt almost did pee in his pants on the metro. He’s lucky I stopped hitting him when I did. Of course, I would have gotten peed on, too, but that story would so be worth it.

 

We took the Metro from Vienna with some of Matt’s coworkers and then met Joe and Matty at Clyde’s. After a couple of beers, we headed over to the match. It was excellent – the music, the lights, the fire. Oh, the fire. And Randy Orton. Oh, my yes, all that Randy Orton. (I don’t care, Chad, I love him.) There was so much man all in one place. It’s hard not to be moved by that much man all at once. I may have shed a tear.

 

And there was a steel cage match! How lucky am I, my first live WWE event and there’s a steel cage?! And then there was The Rock and Donald Trump showed up and oh dear lord, Bobby Lashley is so pretty. I drank beer and ate arena food and asked Matt dumb, dumb questions and yelled and whooped it up and asked people if they could, in fact, smell what The Rock is cooking and does it smell as good as my tomato sawesome?

 

I loved it. I loved, loved, loved it and I want to go back.

 

Next time, I want to be close enough that Randy Orton can sweat on me.

It’s not like you HAVE to read my blog

You should just want to read my blog.

Or, rather, one should just want to read my blog. Should one desire to keep up with my razor-sharp wit, one would need to keep oneself apprised of any new comedic developments or fresh naming conventions.

Of course, one could ignore all this and find other ways to endear oneself, but that’s quite a bit more time-consuming.

Just a thought; as usual, one is free to pursue whichever path one finds most conducive to reaching one’s wished-for end.

What to expect when you take me on a date

Look, I know all of the normal things a date should entail. But, if you’ve ever met me, you know that normal is not my specialty and a normal date is so close to being outside the realm of possibility that when I actually have one, I go home and perform ritual sacrifices and other acts of thanks to the Date Gods.

I’ve spent a lot of time over the years trying to figure out if it’s me or the men I attract. And I’ve come to the conclusion that it is, indeed, me. My life involves quite a bit of comic frustration (which makes it very difficult to have a peaceful lunch with me, as Matt can tell you) and The Universe has clearly decided that I must have a constant source of material. Hence, my dating life.

Who can forget that fateful night Dale Earnhardt died? Not me. My date (friend-of-a-friend blind date) left me at the restaurant to go home and console his crying roommate. He drove us there. He didn’t leave any money for the check. He was five inches shorter than he told me he was.

There was the time I got stuck at Asylum, drinking Bloody Marys until I thought I would die of horseradish poisoning. I couldn’t get up to leave, because the dude I was with kept trying to hug me and he was … less than huggable. In fact, he was sort of icky and I couldn’t stop focusing on his hands because they were so small and it made me think about children who eat pancakes and don’t wash their hands and then they smell like syrup and they come over and ask, “Can I play with your hair?” and they tear your hair out while trying to twist it into a braid and get it all sticky with syrup and then put their hands in your face and they smell sickly-sweet and are faintly caked with brown crust and fuzz and whatever the dog was chewing on a few minutes ago. Blech.

And then there was the twitchy British journalist who wanted to tell me about all of the other women he’d dated and slept with and while I’m sure you have a lot of good stories, I’m really not interested in thinking about you twitchy and British and naked, thanks.

 

But, I realize that this had more to do with the guys themselves than with me. My interaction with them made it funny, but twitchy British guy is twitchy and British whether or not I’m sitting across the table trying not to cry into my (imperial) pint of Guinness.

However, on occasion, I manage to do all of the crazy-making on my own. Welcome, my friends, to last Friday night.

I had a date in Silver Spring with The Latest, a wonderful guy who appears to be sane, smart, funny and emotionally available. In other words, an Urban Legend Brought to Life. This was not our first date, so I could rest somewhat assured that it was going to be a good evening. Unless, of course, he picked that night to reveal to me that he’s been collecting belly button lint (his own and others’) for the last 30 years and had taken the time to shape it into a remarkably lifelike bust of Elizabeth Taylor.

We were set to meet at 4:30 pm outside the AFI Silver Theater. I left my office in Reston at 3:30, only to discover that everyone else in Reston had also decided to head home at that exact moment. It took me two hours to drive the 25 miles from Reston to Silver Spring. I talked to The Latest and we decided on a plan of action that involved him getting a drink at a nearby bar while he waited for me. (I like my dates good and sauced.)

At 5:38, I saw the theater and pulled into the first available parking lot. There was a small lot marked off with cones and then a larger lot that had no gates, chains, or other indications of any kind that it was a private lot. I got out of my car, made sure my skirt wasn’t caught in my tights (you have no idea how many times a day this happens to me) and headed toward the bar. All of a sudden, a little man in a valet coat came out of nowhere, handed me half a valet ticket and said, “I need your keys.”

“Okay,” I replied. “How late are you open?”

“We’ll be here all night,” he said.

I handed him my keys and set off to the bar and was immediately distracted by (a) Guinness, (b) being warm and (c) The Latest, at whom I cannot look for more than ten seconds at a time for fear that I’ll start giggling like a thirteen-year-old checking out the Jonathan Taylor Thomas centerfold in the new issue of Tiger Beat.

We had a couple of drinks and headed to the movie, which was Double Indemnity. This is, without doubt, my favoritest movie. It’s so sexy and sharp and dark and well-acted and funny and awesome. After the movie (which may or may not have included making out), we went to dinner. It wasn’t the best Thai food ever and by the time we had finished, we were both ready for a drink somewhere else. We headed back to the bar again and set ourselves up in a booth. I was just through my third round of Guinness and fourth round of being coy when I suddenly remembered, “My keys!”

We walked back over to the lot. There was my little car, locked up tight, no keys in sight. The valet booth was closed and locked and dark and there was no one around. It was past 1 am and I was, shall we say, screwed. Not one to sit idly by when there are keys to be found, I did what any sane, logical person would do: I broke into the locked valet booth to check for my keys. There was a little window, which I pushed in and up and then I reached over and unlocked the door. (At this time, I would like to thank my mother for working full-time. Meghan and I forgot our collective house keys so many times it would be easier to recall the days we did have keys. More often than not, we’d get home from school and wind up hiking each other through the bathroom window, or taking a garden spade to the dining room screen. Who knew that training would come in handy?)

I turned on the light and started looking around the booth, checking hooks and drawers and envelopes. The Latest stood by, annoyingly calm, asking only, “What are you doing?” To which I responded, “Looking for my keys.” I didn’t find my keys, but I did find a list of employees and their contact numbers. So, I started calling people. When I got to Daniel’s entry, I dialed and his daughter answered. I explained the situation and she gave me her father’s cell phone number. I called it and explained to him that I needed my keys. “They’re not in the booth,” I said. “How do you know that?” he asked. So, of course, I told him, “The booth was open.” Daniel told me he’d be there in five minutes.

When he showed up, I showed him my ticket. “That’s not ours,” he said. What? “That’s the ticket for the restaurant valet.”

“The restaurant” was Ray’s Classics and it was closed. My keys were sitting on the maitre d stand, totally visible and less than ten feet away. The only obstacle between me and my keys was a plate glass window. Now, I’m not above throwing a chair through a storefront every once in a while, but I thought that maybe The Latest would get the wrong idea and think that I’m a full-time felon instead of just a weekend breaker-and-enterer. The number for the management company was on the side of the building, so I called it. No answer, but there was an emergency phone number listed. I called that. Another cell phone.

The man who answered explained to me that he wouldn’t be able to help me get my keys until 8 am. Great.

 

“Where do you want me to take you?” asked my increasingly-less-amused date. “I can take you home if you want.”

Well, he could take me home, but I’d sit outside my home, because my house keys were on the same stranded ring as my car key. At this point, I wanted to lay down on the sidewalk and throw a temper tantrum. I’m talking grade-A, old school, That’s-mine-don’t-touch-it-she’s-breathing-on-me tantrum. Crying and snotty nose and bruised fists and stubbed toes and all. But, I didn’t. I remained entirely graceful and charming. Because, as you well know, if there’s anyone in the world who’s good at asking for help, it’s me. I love asking for help and getting help and feeling helpless. It’s awesome.

I called Chris Moore, who was drunk and with his girlfriend. I called Gonyea, who was drunk and with his not-girlfriend. I started blanking, even though there are a million people I should have called. I was thinking, “Who lives close, is awake at 1:30 am on Saturday and will think this is funny?”

I wound up throwing myself on the mercy of my date. Thankfully, he took me to his house and allowed me to sleep on the couch. I wanted to curl up in the corner by the door, but we’ll save breaking-down-and-assuming-the-fetal-position-while-rocking-and-singing-to-oneself for our fifth date. (The dudes love that one. It’s my signature move.)

The next morning, he drove me to the parking lot. I called the building manager, who let me in and took me over to the restaurant. The manager was there and gave me my keys. I raced home and got there just in time for Meghan to call and say, “My train just got in. Come pick me up.”

The best part? I didn’t have to pay for parking.