A short discourse on substituting whiskey for dinner

Don’t try this at home. Well, actually, if you must drink whiskey, do it only in the privacy of your own home, because if you do it in public, particularly if said whiskey is in a pint glass with a ridiculously small amount of coke AND there are Jameson shot girls running around AND there are other people buying you shots, bad things will happen. If you do, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

The following will happen:

You will embarrass yourself in front of the supercute guy on whom you have a (rather large) crush because you have lost the ability to just shut. the. fuck. up.

You will introduce yourself to everyone who looks even at all familiar. Twice.

You will lose Matt Gagne somewhere near the middle of the evening and not realize it until the next morning when you send him a text message asking, “WTF happened?” He doesn’t know, either, and will respond that he “woke up on the floor.”

You will wake up, in the backseat of your car, with no shoes on, having apparently decided to leave the show and take a nap.

You will not remember anything past the “Are you seeing someone?” part of the conversation with said supercute guy on whom you have a (rather large) crush, but fingers crossed the words, “Why are you dating a child?” never came out.

You will wake up, by some miracle of biology, at 7:30 a.m. and decide to kill your cat because she won’t stop meowing and that makes you want to throw up.

Some unanswered questions:

Who paid the tab? I have no idea.
Will supercute crush guy talk to me again? I have no idea.
Why did I take off my shoes and put them in the trunk of the car before I took a nap? I have no idea.
When did I leave? I have no idea.
How did I manage to come home with $20 more than I left with? I have no idea.
Who sent me the text message, “You have a nice ass”? I have no idea. I mean, true, but still, I have no idea.

Lesson learned: Unless you’re in a room full of people you have no qualms about acting like as ass in front of, lay off the Jack. 

To all the men (in their mid- to late-thirties) I’ve loved before:

Get your shit together.

You know, I know plenty of women who have had traumatic or semi-tragic, life-changing events land them in places that they never thought they’d be. I know more than a few women who wound up alone, sans partner, with nothing but a good bottle of vodka and a few close friends to get them through. And while their circumstances are varied (divorce, death, bad break-ups, etc.), they have one thing in common:

Progress.

Yes, my little middle-aged darlings, progress. It’s important. You should make some.

Now, I’m not saying that everyone has to have all his shit together or know exactly where life is taking him, but … please, please, PLEASE, do not call me, out of the blue, at 1:30 in the afternoon, drunk on a boat with your loser-ass friends, and expect me to be (a) happy to hear from you, (b) at all interested in “catching up” or “hanging out,” or (c) impressed that you’ve managed to stay exactly the same person you were when we went out.

We broke up for a reason and seeing as I’m totally awesome, I’m guessing it was you.

What is it about dudes? I mean, they put off coupling until the last. possible. moment., as if staying single forever will somehow keep them young and free from responsibility. Then, they choose terrible women, wind up miserable, break up or get divorced and … stagnate. You either wind up with someone who (a) wants to be a child again, (b) never stopped being a child, or (c) wants to date a child.

There seems to be a certain helplessness and a lack of agency that men feel in these situations. They certainly are not nearly as resilient as women.

In the meantime, no, it wasn’t all that great when we went out and no, I’m not interested in “giving it another shot” because I, unlike you, actually want my life to go somewhere.

Ugh.

Reading you by reading your writing

So, as we all well know, you can tell a lot about a person from the way he or she writes. It’s much more revealing than, say, how one dresses, or the music one listens to, or even the things one says. It’s in writing that we really open ourselves up, without even realizing it. Most of us formalize ourselves a bit; but we also stretch ourselves to say the right thing, with the right words, instead of relying on common phrases or sayings. (I am happy to report that I do actually say “one” this much in real life.) You can really get a sense for someone’s wit, charm and feelings through writing.

We’ve already been over my penchant for crushes and, of course, I have a new one. What’s driving it, at this point, is his writing. There are certain keywords that always draw me in, certain references that make me giddy and get me all tingly. Mark Morford is an excellent example of someone whose writing makes me…tremble…and I have to make sure I’m by myself when I read his column because — I’m not kidding — I usually wind up needing some serious alone time. 

When someone can spin words like that, when he can, in essence, make love to language and take an empty page and fill it with words and a structure, well that’s creation. And the ferver of creation, the excitement that goes with it, well that’s the same energy that goes into love-making and really great sex. It’s the creation out of seemingly disparate parts, or separate events, of something wholly erotic and unique. (I really cannot be left alone in a library.)

And while I do now and always will have a crush on Mark Morford, he’s not the one whose blog I keep checking, hoping for an update, whose entire archive I’ve read, in wonderment at his intelligence and humor and the way that he’s at once light-hearted and serious.

Of course, this is him as he exists on paper (or e-paper, as it were). I have no idea if he carries that into the everyday, but I have a strong suspicion that he does.

And so, there you go, you’ve learned something about me. I’m a sucker for writers. Not poets, though the occasional ode is nice. My interest is not in reading about myself. I want to read you.

Contest: Find Molly a man

Okay, here’s the deal: I’m holding a contest for you, my friends. Your challege? Find me a man.

PURPOSE: I’m single. I’ve been this way for quite some time now, despite a couple of promising detours. I’ve tried online dating and wandering-the-bookstore dating and random-dude-in-bar-who’ll-never-call-me-again dating and I-really-shouldn’t-go-out-with-you-but-I’m-lonely dating. None of those has worked. Now, I’m going to try something new: friend-of-a-friend dating.

I stayed away from the friend-of-a-friend option for quite some time because I didn’t want to feel obligated to make a relationship work because my friends are invested in it. But, you know what, I’m over it. I don’t care if I disappoint you. Take that, overly-expectational friends!

Now, I’m open to (and prefer) taking things slowly and having fun and I don’t need a ring tomorrow, but … I know that I want to get married and have kids and I’d like to do that sooner rather than later (especially the married part) and the last thing I need is some 37-year-old who thinks he’ll have plenty of time for all that when he “slows down.” What do you mean, “slow down?” You mean when you can’t walk fast anymore because you’re so old? Also, I am not in need of late-twenty-somethings who still act like they’re 22. Yes, we’re young, but college was long ago enough that you shouldn’t be living in a house with ten dudes and a chicken anymore.

RULES: As this is a contest, there are certain rules. They are outlined below. For clarification or additional information, please contact me.

1. The person you find for me to date (hereinafter referred to as “MY MAN”) must be a biological male. (I am not opposed to post-op transgendered men, but all equipment must be in working order.)

2. MY MAN must be alive, with the reasonable expectation that he will stay so for some time. This is not a get-rich-quick scheme, I’m looking for a life partner. It is preferred that he be between the ages of 25 and 35, with the range of 26-30 being ideal.

3. If you propose a candidate for MY MAN, he must be single*. It is preferred that the candidate has never been married.

4. MY MAN must be geographically viable. That is to say, he must live close enough that it will not impose undue hardship to see one another at least once a week. (This includes the greater DC metro area, Northern VA and MD. Travel times between our respective homes should not exceed one (1) hour and fifteen (15) minutes.)

5. Any candidate proposed as MY MAN must be aware of the value of a good pie. Any disregard for said pie will result in immediate disqualification for a position as MY MAN.

6. I am a young homeowner. While it is not necessary that MY MAN own his own home, he must not live with his parents (or any relatives other than siblings or cousins who are reasonably close in age) and his credit must not be jacked up to the point that we wouldn’t be able to buy a bigger place together.

7. I expect that MY MAN will be able to hold my attention. While we needn’t share all the same interests, neither am I prepared to deal with someone whose answer to, “What was the last book you read?” is, “What’s a book?” MY MAN should have a good understanding of literature and current events. A good test is to see if your candidate can complete a crossword puzzle (New York Times, Wednesday-Sunday).

8. MY MAN needs to be willing to dance. Not all the time and not club style, but, when there is the right music and atmosphere (Frank Sinatra in a dark lounge, for example), he should be up for a few turns around the dance floor. (I should not have to ask him, either.)

9. MY MAN must have a good sense of humor. I prefer dry, sarcastic, witty and warm humor. MY MAN will understand why “Guy walks into a bar. Ouch,” is a great joke. He will not pick on others for no reason and he will not make an ass of himself in such a way that it engenders embarrassment rather than amusement.

10. Candidates for MY MAN should be in a mindset of wanting to meet “the right girl.” He should be willing to build a serious relationship and should not be killing time by dating around.

11. MY MAN must appreciate me and be demonstrative (physically, emotionally and verbally) of that appreciation. I don’t have time for guys who “really, really like you but don’t know how to tell you.” Uh, how about, “You know, Molly, I really, really like you.” Gee, thanks. You’re neat, too.

12. MY MAN must be willing to (a) meet my friends and (b) introduce me to his friends. My people are important to me and they will become important to MY MAN, too. (NB: “My people” includes my friends, family and assorted random acquaintances.)

*Single shall be defined as: not having attachments of an emotional, financial or physical nature to other men or women; not currently “figuring things out” with his ex or preparing for his/her return. Further, MY MAN should not be pining for said ex, who is a callous bitch and not worth his time.

PRIZES: Of course, whoever finds MY MAN will receive some fantastic prizes. These include:

1. A lovely dinner, on me, to show my appreciation.

2. VIP seating at both the wedding ceremony and reception, due to your inclusion in the wedding party.

3. The possibility of being the namesake of our first child. (This largely depends on the gender of the child and my feelings about your name.)

4. My unending gratitude and devotion.

6. MY MAN’s unending gratitude and devotion.

7. A pecan pie (or another pie of your choosing if you’re allergic to nuts), baked by me, delivered to you.

FINE PRINT: Please note that I am totally serious about this. Especially the parts about pie. Pie is to be treated with the utmost reverence. I’m not getting any younger, people, and I’m tired of meeting the wrong guys. I’m sure at least one of you has a nice male friend who says, “I’d really like to meet a nice girl.” Guess what? I’m a nice girl. 

Weekend update

I spent Easter weekend at my mom’s house in Upstate New York. (Waaaaay upstate. The North Country. One stoplight in the county.) Those of you who have been lucky enough to meet my mom and my stepdad, Loc, know that they’re awesome. For those of you who haven’t met them, I can only describe them as the coolest people on the planet. They’re happy and fun and just great friends and parents.

 

I flew up on Thursday night and my mother picked me up in Albany. We headed to my grandmother’s house and spent some time with her and her parakeet, Peter, to whom my grandmother is devoted. Then we got on the road for the hour-and-a-half ride back up into the mountains. I got to see all the work mom and Loc have done on the house since Christmas. The place looks fantastic. You’re all invited. Really, it’s just a gorgeous house and my mother is so good at making it comfortable and welcoming. I can’t wait to take my kids (the ones I’m going to have when the man with whom I’m going to have them decides to get off his lazy ass and come find me) there in the summer and watch them canoe and hike and play in the lake (while Mommy has her martini).

 

Mom and I opened a bottle of wine and we talked until after midnight. I got the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a long time.

 

On Friday, mom made pancakes and sausage and it was awesome. We spent the day chilling out and playing with the dog, Hudson, an adorable miniature Australian Shepherd who didn’t get the memo that he’s supposed to be a miniature and so is seven months old and 46 pounds. We made guacamole and drank Coronas and Loc grilled up ribs for dinner.

 

After dinner, we went down the street (17 miles or so down the street … it’s really backwoods up there) to J & J’s, a local, uh, watering hole. (Almost literally.) The place is nice enough – pool table, good bar, big dance floor and seating area, but the people are … well, they’re mountain people. They tend not to have all of their teeth and they wear flannel no matter the weather and while there’s nothing wrong with that and there are some great mountain people, these particular mountain people are trashy and scary and not really all that friendly. We didn’t stay long.

 

On Saturday, mom took me shopping for my birthday present (black Durango boots … so hot) and then Loc made chicken marsala for dinner. We opened a couple of bottles of wine and had a really nice time.

 

We went to my Aunt Lizzy’s for Easter Sunday and I got to see everyone (which is good, because I was sick at Christmas and couldn’t go). Meghan and I drove back (Grandma’s selling me her car) to Meg’s place in Brooklyn. We hit up Hank’s which was fantastic and then I drove back to DC on Monday morning.

 

The weekend was great and it made me realize just how much I miss being close to my family. I also know that the house in North River is really special and that having it as a place for our family to gather is worth the sacrifice.

Ode to Amber

Amber and I went out on Saturday night, which we almost never do.

Oh, we go out, but not usually on the weekends. We like to save getting wasted, talking about group sex and heading to the strip club for Sunday nights. (Hi, Chris Dixon.) Hanging out at Flying Fish until we’re ready to go to the Rock It Grill for karaoke, after which we head to IHOP with said karaoke organizer and five people we don’t know is Mondays. (Hi, Slam.) Getting drunk and winding up at a random hotel with two PC grads after one of us ditches the tab to drive the getaway car and the other is stuck in the bathroom happens on Wednesdays. (See my photo album “Rough Night.”) We like routine.

To listen to the stories that the two of us tell, you’d think that we were, well, crazy. And alcoholics. And crazy alcoholics. And very funny. And maybe two of the Universe’s favorite jokesters. Or jokes. It’s hard to tell. We just seem to find ourselves in random, funny situations all the time. And not just when we’re out. We have strange things happen when we head to the grocery store (there is no pizza dough in the entire Commonwealth), or the dentist’s office.

On Saturday night, when I should have been somewhere else entirely (and would have been, save for the most ridiculous set of circumstances the Universe has yet cooked up for me), Amber and I went to Hard Times for dinner. We were supposed to follow this up with a trip to the movies for Blades of Glory. But, you know, we’re us.

So, we went to the Flying Fish for a little while. We both emerged miraculously unscathed and without having had any light fixtures thrown at us or dropped in our laps. But you have to understand the dynamic that happens when we hang out. We’re sitting at the bar and some dude comes up and sets down two phones and a blackberry on the bar. So, you know, Amber asks him why he has 86 phones. It was a fair question. He was huffy and told her that, “This one is for clients in New York and this is for clients here. I have another one for clients in Boston.” Oh, congratulations.

Now, I’m hard-pressed to think of a job that requires that one keep several different phones and have them available in the bar, unless it is that of book-maker or hitman. And I’m pretty sure I wasn’t sitting next to an assassin. Just an ass.

Anyway, we kept sort of looking at him funny, partly because he was a total douchebag and partly because he had 74 phones at the bar. I went to the ladies room and the woman on the other side of Amber said, “You and your friend were giving me dirty looks.”

“Oh, no,” replied Amber. “We were giving that guy dirty looks.”

Chris Dixon had stupidly planned a date for Saturday night, when he should have made himself available to hang out. So, we sent him some text messages, politely asking for him to meet us when he was done. We headed to the Laughing Lizard and met him there.

I set about taking care of business. There was a dude in the bar who had his shirt buttoned all the way to the top (a personal pet peeve of mine), so I did him a solid: I unbuttoned his top two buttons and loosened his tie. I unbuttoned his collar and fixed his shirt so he didn’t look like an ass anymore. I am so generous. I also introduced Amber to a gentleman at the jukebox who clearly needed her assistance and guidance in choosing songs.

On Sunday, Amber and I went to brunch at the Asylum, which was more crowded than I’ve ever seen it. We wound up sitting at the end of the bar to eat, which would have been fine save for the fact that some dude who had walked out only moments before walked back in and sat down. Amber was literally sitting at the end of the bar, with the service bar black mats in front of her. The bartender dropped cantaloupe on my lap, which just meant it was a regular day for me.

Two stools down, there was this tiny guy who would not shut up. I have never heard anyone talk so much and say so little. He was talking about everything, from his fear of flying (no control over the outcome) to NASCAR (thanks for that info, man) to his girlfriend (You mean someone puts up with on a regular basis?) to real estate prices in DC. (Sidenote: I have decided that DC stands not for District of Columbia but for Douchebag Central.)

Amber and I listen to him, smiling bemusedly, until she turns to me and says, “I think I know more about that guy than I do about you.”

Right on

Some of you get so lucky and you don’t even know it.

I listen; I share; I go beyond telling you that you’re being the stupidest thing I ever did see.

You’re making a mistake. A big one. You have no idea what you’re missing out on.

The sad part: 75 of you to whom this is not directed will take it as a sign of my love; 5 of you will try to comfort me; 1 of you will continue to be stupid and miss out on the best thing that ever happened to you.

3 of you will get this.