The Medium is the Message

It was like old home week this weekend. A very special birthday of a very special girl brought a lovely couple (birthday girl in tow) from the South and a charming girl from the East. Like always, it was delightful to see these wonderful people.

I have to say that even after about 20 years of friendship, Reem - the charmer from the East - teaches me things every time I see her. This weekend's lesson: beautiful people can say anything with far fewer consequences.*

At a loud bar in the Pearl we danced, played and joked. We made friends and I shocked these new friends with the mere fact that I am fun (aka kinda shameless) whilst being completely sober. Needing a slight break from the revelry and noise, I stepped outside to find Bex and get some fresh air. After a few moments we were joined outside by Reem and a man who immediately drew to mind George Eliot's villainous** "frog-faced Joshua Rigg." I will never fully understand why Reem was spending any time with this guy in the first place.  But I am getting ahead of myself.

This angry, spiteful fellow was introduced to me as an ex-Mormon, and I to him as an active-Mormon. (Immediately he hated me, maybe for this fact alone.) His job is helping homeless teenagers in some capacity, and when Reem told him that she helped out with the finances for a charity with a similar aim, he announced that he doesn't deal with that bs*** and that working on the front lines is really where it is at. I reminded him that it is because people like Reem dealing with that bs that keep these institutions financially viable he can have a job. AND, I said, the more money organizations can spend on marketing and publicity, the more people can be involved and truly effect change.

Reem then told this guy that he was prideful. He protested, and demanded evidence to justify such an accusation. After a few seconds of trying to pinpoint exactly what it was about Captain Prideful, Reem said, "Molly help me out here." I added that it was his demeanor that made him seem prideful. He objected to this. He wanted proof. He got super angry, and turned to me, completely forgetting it was Reem who called him on his mass amounts of pride in the first place, and said, "Suppose I was to call you a 'bitch.' I would need some proof to back it up." At this point he put a cigarette the wrong way in to his mouth. I said, "My behavior is your evidence, just like yours is to us. And you're about to light the wrong end of that cigarette." At which point Reem and I took our leave, found our friends and left for a different bar.

Since then I have been pondering why Captain Drunk and Prideful was yelling at me and not Reem. I wasn't being any more sassy than Reem was. I wasn't the one who initially called him out. But I'm also not the one who is gorgeous. I'm not the one he chatted up and bought a drink for. I'm the cock-block sober friend who remembers all of the details of the evening, including the fact that he was frog-faced and a ginormous douche b, who didn't have even the slightest chance with Reem--but I bet he'll remember it differently, when he writes his weekend recap blogpost.

* Using the scientific method, we took this hypothesis, used a control group (me) to compensate for variables and unequivocally proved this theory to be true.

**Can he really be called 'villainous' just because he dashed the expectations of charming ne'er-do-well Fred Vincy? I say yes- mostly because when boring people beat out charming people it is a bummer.

***One guess as to whether he used the expletive or the euphemism.

Chronique d'un été 2013

Pretty much can't get enough of these tunes this summer:

Live every week like it's Shark Week.

The other day I got a voicemail from a guy one of my friends has recently started seeing (whom I have never met) asking me for help with an activity for church. It took me a few days to call him back and when I called him back tonight, we had a super awkward ... entertaining conversation.

Things went awry straight off.  During the initial pleasantries, when I asked how he was doing, he answered "It's Shark Week, so..." So....what?? Unfortunately I don't feel I have enough information to infer anything from the fact that it is Shark Week. Then he brought up this dance, and how much he liked to dance, and I responded, "Are you asking me out?" Friends, he. was. not. When he brought up that we had met at the YSA conference a couple weeks ago, I admitted to having no idea who he was. He told me of when we "met"- not an actual introduction or conversation happened. No wonder I had/have no idea who he is. He then brought up my friend with whom he is spending some time, I went on to praise her and suggested that he 'lock that down.' He laughed an uncomfortable laugh. I knew it was time to cut and run. I told him I would help him with the activity for church. He then instructed me to put his number in my phone - as though I will need it in the future. I hung up and wondered if it was actually Shark Week and what that might mean to me and my life. What adventures are in store for this week of weeks? I have no idea, but I am all pins and needles--not unlike the underwater cameramen inside the metal cages in the chummy water filming the swarming sharks for the Discovery Channel. Maybe it is this kind of excitement of the unknown that this man was talking about when he said, "it's Shark Week, so...." I think I have missed the boat (pun intended) on Shark Week up until now.  But not anymore! No sir. I'm going to do just what Tracy Jordan told me to from now on.

My bad Freddie Scott

I am embarrassed, ashamed and quite humbled to say that I had no idea that Biz had sampled from a song in one of my all-time faves. But now I know, and I'm so glad I do because the original is a great, great song.




Thanks Biz. Thanks Freddie.

Was that supposed to be charming?

The website I update periodically as part of my calling wasn't letting me access the calendars yesterday, so I asked the bishopric member who saved said website last year for us for a little help. I felt slightly like a stalker just hanging around as he was chatting with some guys for a minute or two. As soon as he finished up with them, instead of being able to pounce and have all of my questions addressed and allow the YSA masses notified of upcoming events, I was instead chatted up by one of the guys this bishopric member was talking to. Feeling more than slightly disappointed at the prospect of having my task hindered, I still reached out to meet his hand in friendship.

"Hi, I'm Barry."*
"I'm Molly."
"That's an unfortunate name."

At that point I took my hand back. I did not try to conceal any emotion, although given how cluelessly this man had dressed and styled himself,** I should have probably been a bit more patient. I wasn't angry, just very, very confused. This is what you're going with? You turn to leave, look at me, come back to introduce yourself and then immediately insult me? F A S C I N A T I N G.

Probably because of my eyebrows-to-the-hairline expression of pure gobsmackedness, he immediately backpedaled, "I mean because of the whole 'Molly Mormon' thing. That must have sucked."
"It isn't true for me, so it doesn't really bother me."***

[Awkward silence.]

I started to walk away, and he started to follow, so I said, "I have to go talk to Brother Do Not Answer.**** Nice to meet you.*****"

Suffice it to say I immediately word alerted some friends to announce that I had met the man of my dreams.  I can't help but thinking if the website had been letting me do what I wanted to do, I probably would have missed my chance. Kismet!



*Apparently when I speak poorly of people at church I change their names. (And by speak poorly of I mean reporting exactly what happened as objectively as possible).

**Homeboy was wearing a huge burgundy dress shirt, circa 1992 and had a hipster curled at the sides mustache. We all know how much I love both of those things.

***I heard the phrase Molly Mormon for the first time at the age of 17 from a 40+ year old woman who was trying to be funny by making fun of my name. How much of a brat I was I probably deserved being made fun of then and much more, but how was she to know that on our first meeting?

****Not his real name either, but how he is listed in my phone.

*****I lied in a church.

Molly the hipster

There are a lot of words out there that I would use to describe me -- hipster is not one of them. Sure, you talk to hipsters and they say, "I hate that word." or "I am so not a hipster!" But seriously folks, I am not a hipster.

Why do I bring this up? A few weeks ago, a new team showed up at trivia and sat right next to us. Other than some trivia-related pleasantries, I didn't say much these guys. Come to find out the next day that one member of this team was my friend Shara's co-worker. She relayed to me that I was described as the blonde hipster.* The fact that I was lumped into that particular designation led to a mild existential crisis. Hipster? ME?!?

In order to remedy this head on, I made a chart to determine if I was in fact a hipster.

 

As expected, the similarities are far out numbered by the dissimilarities. (And really genocide was just a good-faith add. Everyone hates genocide, right?)

So after chart told me that I was more non-hipster than hipster, and with the help of Shara, it was decided that the key indicator to this person that I was a hipster was my glasses. Which I have to say is fair.

 

 But as a true hipster would point out, I've had thick rimmed glasses since 2000. So really hipsters are copying me. #originalhipster


*If this man knew anything about hipsters, he would know that hipsters aren't blonde--that's an oxymoron in and of itself. Also, he would know I am not one. Unlike my cousin Jill.

showstealer pro trial version

trial version has expired - click here to purchase full version - HILARIOUS.

Officially just finished season 4. I won't give any spoilers (I will however say I totally knew something in episode 3 that was revealed in episode 12.) but I will say that I agree with Tobias and I think that having matching luggage is romantic.

Speaking of luggage. I have to confess that after I saw that I had the same suitcase as Carrie Bradshaw I felt kind of like a Carson Daly-sized tool. Not that I liked it any less, but there were certain pangs of guilt associated with my love for a while.

Guilty pleasure no more. Now that I know that the Fünke's each have one, I feel like I am just fine.

Now, go finish season 4 and let me know when you're done so we can talk about it.