Stella and her friends are headed to The Blue Streak on a Friday? Of course, they are…
“It’s drag night,” I say.
“Yes. And half-price martinis. And no, I haven’t taken any pain pills today. I’m fine, really. It’s just a dull ache. And I’d much rather have an Appletini or two than those horse-pills Dr. Dreamboat prescribed.”
I can’t argue there.
“How do I look?” she asks, turning. She spins really well for someone in her 80s and also in an aircast.
“Gorgeous, as usual.”
“Thanks, dollface. Now, don’t wait up for me. Ida’s son is our designated driver tonight, and he’s an insomniac, so we’ll be home after two, I’m sure. I left a plate of chicken parm in the fridge for you. Are you heading out later? You know you’re always welcome to come with us.”
“I know. And I promise I will, but not tonight. I’m going to change into comfy clothes, devour that chicken parm, and get to work on the favors for Elaine’s engagement party. It’s on Sunday, and I’m way behind.”
“Oh, that’s right. Well, I can help tomorrow afternoon, Love. And how is Elaine feeling?”
“She’s a mess. Poor girl ate five tortilla chips for lunch and couldn’t even keep those down.”
“Poor dear. We should get her some ginger tea. That might help.” She grabs her clutch, and we head out to the living room.
“Good thinking. Have fun tonight, Stella. And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” I joke.
“Oh, Molly, you know how foolish it is to set limits for me.” She laughs, gives me a hug, and settles in to wait for Ida’s son.
It’s two hours later and I’m dressed in my cozy clothes and admiring my handiwork. On the table in front of me sit 36 lavender mugs, each emblazoned with the phrase “Love is brewing” in fancy script. That Cricut was worth every penny.
Now that those are done and stuffed with tiny bags of coffee beans, I’m melting chocolate and chopping toffee for decadent coffee stirrers. Come at me, Pinterest.
It’s easy work, more time-consuming than laborious, so my mind tends to wander. I’m ecstatic for Simon and Elaine. They are two of the best people I know, and I couldn’t be more thrilled that they found their happily-ever-after together. Add in a pregnancy and they are over the moon. We were all a little shocked; they must have been back together all of twenty-four hours before he knocked her up. But it really is good news. Elaine’s biological clock has been banging like a gong, and Simon lives to give E whatever she wants. See? Everybody wins.
That would not be my version of a jackpot. Don’t get me wrong—Elaine is blissed out (when she’s not puking her guts out), and I’m so happy for her. But a husband on deck and a baby on the way? Not for me.
I’m that girl. The one who knew in junior high that I was never going to college for my Mrs. degree and that I certainly wasn’t ever going to be anybody’s mommy.
And yes, countless people have chuckled at my life plan, shaken their heads, and assured me that I’d change my mind.
I haven’t.
I won’t.
And look, it’s not like I hate kids. I don’t. In fact, I rather like them, and it’s not a stretch to say the feeling is mutual.
I also like swimming, but I don’t have a pool. I don’t need that kind of commitment in my life.
I have enough commitments. My family is my first priority. They always have been. And there are a lot of them. My parents divorced when I was really young; I have no memory of them as a couple. And they have each gone on to have several serious relationships. They’ve each gotten married (and divorced) again and again. My mom is on husband number five and my dad is on wife number four, though he was engaged more times than he ever actually tied the knot. And each subsequent relationship has brought children and stepchildren and various other relatives with it.
And with that sheer number of people, there’s always a crisis. Or a celebration. Or a missed call. Or a spontaneous houseguest. My family are needy as hell, but I love them, and I’m happy to help them. And in my past relationships, that’s always caused a problem. Every guy I’ve ever been remotely serious with has complained that I spend more time helping my family than I ever did with them.
For some strange reason, I’m a magnet for men who are absolute messes. Attractive? Check? Built like brick shithouses? Check. Jobless, aimless, and clueless? Check, check, and check. I consider it wise on my part that I’ve not been lovestruck and bamboozled into some fake fairytale. Nope. I’m too savvy for that. I know my limits and I know what I need.
And what I need is regular, raunchy sex.
Too bad I haven’t been getting any lately. It’s been a hell of a dry spell. For months now, the whole scene has been lackluster. I used to revel in the thrill of the chase. Now, I’m chasing boredom by binge watching TV shows on Netflix.
Well, except for the Magic Penis of Christmas. He was an anomaly in more ways than one. That man knew exactly what he was doing; he needed no direction from me. As an added bonus, he gave directions like a pro. I need more of that in my life. More bossy, magical Christmas Penis goodness.
Waking up alone in bed that morning was a strange experience for me. Ok, wait. That sounds weird. I always wake up alone, but on the morning after my night with Marc, I felt lonely. And that was strange.
