22 December 2008

Why winter is stupid

• My hair gets so staticky, I'm certain I resemble the teacher from The Magic School Bus. Miss Frizzle, I presume?

• I have to either a) wake up early or, 2) decide to be late to the office in order to scrape the ice off my car windows. Lack of covered parking is really what sucks in this situation, but I'm blaming it on winter anyway. (Oh and, P.S., I usually choose the latter of these options. Shhh, don't tell.)

• Something about me is I don't pay attention to weather forecasts. So the only time I'm exposed to the current temperature situation is when I pass the UMB time/temp sign on I-35 on the way to work. It's not even the coldest month of our Midwest winter, and bank sign tells me it's 5 freaking degrees. If that's not stupid, I don't know what is. (Oh, wind chill, that's what.)

• Doing anything at any store is a nightmare.

• Snow gives people reason to park 20 feet apart, therefore creating approximately five spots in a 25-spot lot. Idiots.

• Fuzzy Crocs. As if Crocs aren't bad enough, you think putting some fuzz in there is going to keep your feet warm outside? I mean, really?

• Showering is painful. When my toes are freezing, even after I cover them with thick socks and park my feet in front of the space heater, stepping into the shower with said freezing toesies is just wrong.

• When I have to go somewhere that requires packing, an extra bag is required. For shoes. Because winter shoes take up more space. Suck.

• I have to look at ugly lawn decorations. I'm all for the Christmas lights (within reason), but the 10-foot inflatable snow man with spinning snow ball in hand is just awful. Get a clue. And you know what, I can even deal with one. A single lawn decoration is your prerogative. But when you get twenty of them out there, it becomes our problem, too.

• I won't even start on the driving situation.

• No tan. Enough said.

11 December 2008

Definitions by Molly

Home Sick - 4 dictionary results

[hohm sik]
Noun, adjective, whatever the heck you want it to be.

1. Nap time.
2. Opportunity to finish more work than in the office. Unless Elf comes on TV when you break for lunch, of course. Then you become about as productive as a Cotton Headed Ninny Muggins.
3. An excuse to feel ok about eating the Campbell's Chicken Gumbo condensed soup you've loved since you were a kid. So much that you eat it 2-3 times a week as an adult. Grown up shmown up.
4. An excuse to stay in your pajamas all day. (Unlike when you do the same on one or both weekend days. Not ok.)

09 December 2008

Filler

Tire shopping and shoe shopping. Seemingly unrelated, but here's why they're exactly alike:

• You need tread so you don't fall on your face/in a ditch.

• They have to fit just right or there will be repercussions.

• Sometimes, they cost $400. Or more.

• They always go on sale right after you buy them.

07 December 2008

Ah, adulthood

Let me begin this entry with an unrelated note: "Gotta Potty" was my 69th post. Hahahahahaha, 69. Ok, back to being 24.

Every once in a while, I have a moment that makes me feel very much like an adult. Most of them suck. Paying bills, going to work every day, hangovers. But some of them make me a little happy, inside and out. Exhibit A: Christmas lights on the house.

J and I put up our tree last weekend. I got way antsy after Thanksgiving. But we had to delay the outdoor festive twinklers until we had a game plan. (Not sure why houses in 1927 weren't built with outdoor electric outlets. Sheesh.) After much deliberation, a few "friendly" discussions about multi-color vs. white lights, we came to an agreement. Colored LED lights on the ginormous Blue Spruce. White lights on the bushes/porch/roof.

So we took a trek to Wal-Mart. Bought the goods and waited anxiously for our plan-free Saturday to arrive. We bundled up, got started on the stringing ... four trips to Wal-Mart and approximately $100 later, J's house looks pretty adorable for a first run. The even more adult-y part of it is despite the fact that the Blue Spruce isn't even close to covered, we're totally ok with dedicating $50-$100 more next year just to make it sparkle for the month of December from here on out.

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(If you're asking yourself "But where are the roof lights?" ... hold your freakin' horses. We are currently without ladder, so the roof will be lined with lights this week. Just calm down.)

P.S. I finished all my gift wrapping, too. I win.

03 December 2008

Gotta potty

Channeling the every day from a Larry David masterpiece ... here we go again.

I'm driving home. I have to pee. Really, really bad. I call J to let him know I'm on the way over, so I present you with distraction number one. Distraction numero dos comes in the form of Hobo Man, dancing around in the streets of downtown KC. Not only am I driving from a direction I'm less familiar with, as it's not a daily route, but I'm concerned with car punching the homeless fellow. (Also a little entertained by his show.) I miss my exit and venture into KCK. I find my way back on route, but my detour did not help the need-to-pee situation.

I get across town, 5-7 minutes from J's house. But I am now driving behind a city bus. A slow city bus. Ok, the pee situation is getting worse. I mean, the kind where if I sneezed, I'd probably pittle a little. 10-15 blocks later, I realize I'm not only driving behind a slow city bus, but the bus is driving behind a slow bicycle rider. (There was a trail running parallel to the street. Thanks, jerkface.) Now, even small bumps I drive over render me helpless.

This is the stuff that bladder infections are made of.

29 October 2008

Don't be that person: Concert Edition

Concerts are great for people watching, if you're into that sort of thing. They're also great for mocking the people you're watching. I've come to the conclusion that no matter what concert I go to, Johnny Acoustic or Richard Rocker, there will always be "those people."

And here ... we ... go:

•The self-proclaimed super fan who must yell every lyric of the song because that means he likes the artist more than you do.

•The tools – most often stereotypical frat guy – who talk during every song. They make it apparent they’ve seen the artist in 37 different cities, but you can tell they aren’t enjoying the current set because it’s from the new album they didn’t even know existed. When the artist says something “funny” or something not in the original lyrics, they laugh hysterically and repeat the line to each other. Yes, we all heard it. Now go bong a beer. (Let me be clear in that I have nothing against cool fraternity guys. Just the ones who are DBs.)

•The obnoxious drunk girls who dress up and wear fancy shoes when there’s a torrential downpour outside. They’re convinced the artist will ask them to come up on stage or meet him backstage. Good luck, you idiots. Hope that pneumonia treats you well.

•The doped up crazy dancer who needs a 10-foot radius for their moves. (This dancing space will be given to them either voluntarily or not for fear of losing an eyeball from any and every sudden movement. I can appreciate someone who’s enjoying the entertainment, but this one skews on the extreme side … during every. Single. Song.)

•The people (or in my most recent concert’s case, the lone chick) who wait in eager anticipation for the one lyric that talks about smoking pot, just so they can wildly scream to let everyone around them know they smoke pot, too! In their minds, this gives them an automatic “in” with the artist. They’re totally friends, now. (I groan especially loud when these people are recorded on live CDs. Case in point: any Dave Matthews Band live album.)

•The people who attempt to make tradition of holding up their fingers when any lyric includes numbers. Ex: 4, 3, 2, 1. I have been to concerts in which this action is tradition for specific songs and it’s fine. But don’t try to start it, buddy. You’re not that cool.

•The guy who goes to concerts alone, closes his eyes during the sets and bobs his head in musical appreciation. Occasionally he’ll break out of his trance to play air drums during a particularly awesome part of the song. I shouldn’t be so judging, but quite frankly, this guy is usually a creepster. There’s nothing wrong with going to a performance alone. Just don’t be so Crispin Glover about it.

•The 7-footer who thinks it’s appropriate to stand front and center. Look, I know you think you have rights just like the rest of us. But “the rest of us” took a vote and decided you lose privileges because of God’s sense of humor to make you a giant. You could see the band from across the street, so practice some manners, please.

•The dude who’s too cool to listen to the music. Not sure why they even bother showing up to the concert, but they’ve got that “this is lame” look on their face. And you can forget about joining in on any of the group activities: clapping, singing along, having fun in general.

•The poor sap who brought his first date to a concert. Theoretically, this was a kickass idea. But treat this venue like going to a movie when you want to get to know someone. Not going to work when you have to yell (whisper) any topic of conversation and said conversation is a total of three sentences. At the end of the night, all you know about her is that she “loves this song!” And we’re all frustrated because when you lean over to chat, you keep blocking the window view we’ve created in order to see the band.

•The artist who has a stuffed, three-headed dog from Harry Potter displayed on a guitar amp. Oh wait, that’s just Ben Folds because he’s awesome like that.

22 October 2008

R.I.P.

I hate to be the bearer of terrible news. Well, sometimes I don't. Most of the time I don't. Anyway.

Zima has been discontinued.

So, rush out to your local liquor stores, stalk up on the "malternative beverage" (and accompanying Jolly Ranchers), pour some for your homies and guzzle the rest with fond memories flowing like the rains of Kansas City. Or put it in your panic room. (For obvious reasons.)


http://www.adweek.com/aw/content_display/news/client/e3ic7f8e4e0a6055a5380ac9b77e000cf02


P.S. Has anyone actually ever sipped on this stuff? I think it just stuck around for our mocking enjoyment. I mean, if you do drink it, I'm sure you have a very good reason. So please don't get your malternative panties in a twist.

21 October 2008

IOU

I have neglected my dear blog. The one I had been getting so good at updating. (Relatively speaking, anyway.) The one I was kind of proud of, even if only a few read it.

But this glimmer will have to suffice until my non-work-writing-brain is back from its vacation. And by "vacation" I mean "forced into submission by my occupational writing."

02 October 2008

Larry David must have a new show ... Part Three

The final installment. (Kind of like the Final Countdown, but not as melodically pleasing to the ears.) Friends, here's my final proof that there must be cameras in my life. Larry David, Candid or otherwise. They're there. And so I begin my rant with ... Sprint.

I have to preface the story with the mere fact that I've employed Sprint as my cellular phone carrier since the age of 16. That's almost nine years, folks. And in that time, I've had no complaints. I say this only because I know it's commonplace to gripe about cell phone companies, namely Sprint.

Moving on. A few weeks ago, I was sitting on my couch ... computer beside me, endless episodes of Project Runway and Shear Genius gracing my television with their presence. J was at his house, doing what he always does when I'm not there. Being productive. Anywho, in my peripheral vision, I notice an instant message blinking. It's the J man. So it's about 8 p.m. and I realize it's the first I have heard from him since we got off the phone at 5:30 post-workday. Not typical but I was wrapped up in Bravo TV goodness so it slipped my mind. J asks me why my phone's off. Phone is also sitting next to me. I look at it ... no missed calls. Phone is on. So I relay my phone status information and thus the madness begins.

I try to call Jason and an automated message tells me "Your account cannot be validated. Please contact customer service." My immediate thought is that Mama Jane forgot to pay the bill. Problem is, Mama Jane does not check her email regularly and I have no land line to call her ... so J is assigned that job. We find out that Mom has paid the bill. Well shoot.

I call customer service. This single phone call is a whole new rant in and of itself, but I will spare you. (You're welcome.) Basically, it took about five minutes to explain to the woman that I am the daughter of the account holder. Our phones are on the same account, but both under my mom's name. Tricky concept, I know, but she finally figured it out. (Actually, she probably didn't.) When I tell her what the problem is, she asks for the answer to my security question so she could continue on. Ruh roh. I wasn't for certain but I tried to answer the question. "Tried" being the operative word. I had to hang up, and have J call mom again for the answer.

I call customer service again. I have the answers in order to "open sesame" so we proceed. Until the woman asks me for the other phone number she can reach me at so she can reprogram my phone. Yeah ... no land line. Welp. That sucks.

The next day at work, I spend about an hour on the phone with the first customer service rep. She tries several things (or really tries one thing over and over again), to no avail. On the last attempt, she informed me that there is a nationwide outage and it could take two hours to fix itself. (Really? Because I'm pretty sure the mini-survey I took of KC Sprint users proved this statement false. Whatevs.) I also take this time to let the woman know that I would like a refund on my account. She says they aren't issuing any at this time. (Great.) I try my phone four hours later, just to give some padding time, it doesn't work.

I call again - I believe we're on customer service phone call number four - and the guy tries the same thing on my phone as the lady did earlier that day. He's the lucky one to tell me that now it's going to be up to four hours for my phone to start working.

Five hours later, I try again. Nope-a-roo. Customer service phone call number five occurs. (At this point, I'm at home. Frustrated that my personal time is being eaten up by cell phone drama. At least get me out of work... rude.) This rep does the same "reprogramming" with my phone that I've done at least fifty times earlier in the day. And I inform her that it's not going to work, because it hasn't thus far. She still tells me to do it. And what do you know ... it doesn't work! So she tells me she's putting me on hold to talk to an "Advanced Tech Representative." While being on hold for what ended up being 37 minutes, J's cell phone is losing its battery juice. Who can blame the poor fellow. So I have to go out to J's car because that's where the charger resides.

This is me holding. (Because LOL Cats make every story better.)

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Finally, Mr. Advanced gets on the call. I repeat my issue for the gazillionth time, and he repeats the troubleshooting steps for the gazillionth time. Only this time, the ending instruction is different. I ask him, "Aren't I supposed to press the pound button at the end?" He says, "No, press 'OK.'" I do this and my phone is trying to save the numbers I've just punched in as a phone number. I tell him this and he's like, "Oh ... what did you say earlier? Pound?" ... "Yep" ... "Yeah, try pound then." Ok, really? Did I just tell Advanced Tech Geek how to do his job? Yeah. I did.

After numerous attempts, he is unable to help me. He tells me he can do some sort of hard "wipe" (I'll show you wipe...), but I will lose all my information. Nope. Not an option. So he tells me that I'll have to go into a Sprint store to get a new phone. (Let it be noted that during Customer phone call number four I asked if I should do this and was told, "No, that won't help at this point.") I then ask him about a refund to my account and he said he would have to call back tomorrow with the refund his manager tells him he's allowed to give me. (Fast forward ... he never called. I never got a refund.)

The next day, I leave work a little early to get to the Sprint store. I get there, the manager is very friendly and helpful ... tools around with my phone a bit and he tells me he's going to get me a new phone. He's gone for a while. Oh guess what! They don't have my phone in stock at the store. Luckily, the employee feels very badly about it. (Apparently I love transferring my misery to others.) He makes a phone call to a store to have them hold a phone for me and even writes out directions for me to get there.

I make may way to the other store... about 15 minutes away. A little peeved since the direction I'm headed is going to cause me to get stuck in Friday traffic on the way home. Gross. I'm feeling a little relieved, however, because I think to myself this messy situation will soon be resolved. The pessimist in me says the only way it could get worse is if I were to be pulled over because my plates "aren't in the system." Wah wah.

I get to the store, walk in and am shortly after informed that "all the Sprint store systems are down. Nothing can be done until they are back up and we're not sure when that will be." I mean REALLY?! Really.

Blah blah blah, the rest is history. I get my phone later that night after drowning my sorrows in boneless buffalo wings. And now ... my saga is complete. (Until the next one comes around, anyway.)

23 September 2008

Larry David must have a new show ... Part Two

The second part of my Seinfeld tale is a bit of a stretch in that it might not actually be a Seinfeld script bit. It was more made up of moments that made me whip my head around searching for the elusive candid cameras that weren't actually there. But humor me with my theme here, ok?

The DMV. That's the foundation of this story. I know, I know ... everyone has a general hatred for this God forsaken place. But given the experiences I've been forced to endure, I think I've earned a little venting session.

Let's do a little time travel back to February. (Cue Huey Lewis and The News, please.) I made a choice. A choice I know now to be a gargantuan mistake. I made the decision to switch my license plates from Kansas to Missouri. It was a tragic day emotionally, but as I work and live in the latter state, and have no immediate plans to hop back over the state line, I knew it was inevitable. Anyway, I made the appropriate trips to make the transition and grudgingly said "howdy" to the Sunflower State and "oh hey there" to the Show Me State.

Now we move to April. I've discovered that my tags (year stickers) have been stolen off my plates from my work parking lot. Suck. Taking the afternoon off to get things resolved, however, I learned this would be no easy feat. I strolled into the license bureau located inside a PetSmart in North KC. (Normal.) I handed over the necessary paperwork, and after feverish typing (yet lackadaisical in overall nature you'd expect from a license bureau employee), I was told that I was "not in the system." That's funny, you gave me the license plates two months ago. So let's hear who screwed up.

They informed me that the appropriate paperwork was not completed and I could not be put "in the system" until it was. (Again, not my fault. Someone at the DMV dropped the ball. Surprise, I know.) The large-and-in-charge - and insanely rude - woman told me that things would need to be surrendered, faxed, mailed and submitted between Kansas and Missouri. I left, annoyed, but unable to do anything more. A couple days had passed and I had not heard from the DMV as I expected to. J was carting me around and we were leaving for Western Kansas (jealous?) that weekend. I needed my plates to be in the system. I decided to make some calls myself, have some paperwork faxed to me, and I went into the DMV to hand it over in person. Big Lady went on to treat me like an idiot because she did not inform me of the entire process, and I learned that I was more under the mercy of this government office than I previously thought.

After much frustration, and nearly two weeks of being unable to drive my car, things finally got cleared up, and I got my new tags.

Now we fast-forward to the present day. Or two weeks ago, anyway. Close enough. (Sorry ... long story is not yet over.) I'm on my way to work on the interstate when I approach two police cars going five under the speed limit. Annoyed, along with several other cars, we pass them going the speed limit. Not a single mile over. I get in front of them and shortly after, I look in my rear view mirror to see the police cars speed up and put their lights on. I'm getting pulled over.

I had an internal freak out because I know I wasn't speeding ... really hoping this isn't a random cavity search. Not because I'm guilty, of course. Because that would be totally awk. Anyway, I roll down my window, and the scary he-she cop tells me the reason they pulled me over was because ... brace yourself ... my plates aren't in the system. Are you flipping serious?

I proceed to tell her the situation from February/April, tell her I have the paperwork. She proceeds to tell me I have to get into her car. Really?! So she has to call in all my information and finally tells me that I need to go to the DMV because someone didn't finish the paperwork.

Yep.

(Still don't know if I'm "in the system.")

19 September 2008

Larry David must have a new show ... Part One

Because I think I'm on it. I've had too many Seinfeld moments in the last month for this scenario not to be an option. So I'm going to rehash my experiences in a three-part series. (Who knows, maybe more. New moments every day, right?) Story one.

This tale begins at a little place called Carmax. This is a place where the beer flows like wine. Where beautiful women instinctively flock like the salmon of Capistrano. (What's that? I'm talking about Aspen, you say? My bad.)

Anyway, Carmax. Home of "no haggle pricing." Side note: Every time I tell this story to a guy, he's inherently appalled to learn that I purchased a vehicle at Carmax. So I've learned that guys don't like Carmax. Girls do. It's science.

So I go to get my oil changed at the Max - not to be mistaken with TJ Maxx. Pretty sure they don't service cars there. I drop Rhonda (my car) off at the appointment time and they proceed to tell me that it will be a 45-minute wait. I tell them I would rather they just call me when it's done, as J and I have a hot date to go get his oil changed as well. They agree to this. I leave.

Meanwhile, we go to get J's oil changed at the Ford QuickLane ... so we have to wait. It ends up being about an hour and a half to two hours. (Don't worry. Magazines kept me company. I learned that Mike Myers is, in fact, a jackass.) I never got a call from Carmax. Odd.

We go back to pick up my car and I saunter to the service desk. Greeted by a friendly mechanic, I say, "Hi ... I dropped my car off a couple hours ago for an oil change and I still haven't received a phone call so I Just wanted to see if it's ready?" The guy says, "Oh yeah, it's done. Let me just get your paperwork together and make a phone call since I wasn't the one who checked you in and such."

I wait, letting my eyes wander while he makes his phone call. Suddenly, I hear my cell phone ringing. This is bizarre because no one calls me. Ever. I retrieve the phone from my bottomless pit of a purse to see a 913 number. Carmax is on the Kansas side of Kansas City, so I put it together and ask the mechanic, "Is this you?" He replies, "Yeah, you don't have to answer it." Um... thanks?

My phone stops ringing and shortly after, the dude starts leaving a voicemail for me. "Hi Molly, this is Josh from Carmax letting you know your car is ready to be picked up ... and you're standing right in front of me. Have a great day. Bye!" And he proceeds to take me to the cashier like nothing happened.

I think to myself, "Seriously ... did that just happen?"

15 September 2008

Trust issues

This list is obviously a never ending one, but here are some off the top of my frizzy-haired head. Never trust:


Guys who slick their hair back.

Vehicles that employ curtains in the windows. (You know the big vans I'm talking about, people.) Especially if the curtains are "drawn." Ew.

People who dislike dogs.

Spell or grammar check.

Expiration dates - I mean, they're more like suggestions.

A girl who won't wear t-shirts.

A popped collar.

Mascots. The chances of a creeper being underneath that character's smiling face are higher than Mariah Carey's jorts.

12 September 2008

Stalker

Someone's following me ... and it's really starting to freak me out. Maybe you, my handful of readers, can help me cope.

This realization came to me a little over a month ago, at Nebraska Furniture Mart. I was there twice in a week, and the dude was there, too. Seemingly coincidental, right? Until a visit to CVS for a smattering of random items (charcoal, beer, shampoo), and there he was again. Coincident no more.

And not only is it creeping me out, but it's really upsetting me. Why? Because my stalker is Michael McDonald and his 1983 hit "Yah Mo Be There." Help.

09 September 2008

Things I need to come to terms with, part one

My hair will never look as good as when my stylist does it.

The Kansas City Royals ... are not good.

Red lights will always, always piss me off.

Kansas City drivers will always drive 10 mph in the "rain", even if it's barely sprinkling ... or if the street is wet from a sprinkler.

I have road rage. (See above.)

Sometimes shopping is the answer.

Other times, shopping makes you feel really guilty. But you keep the stuff anyway.

I will always forget something at home when going out of town.

I'm allergic to dogs.

I will always pet said dogs and feel miserable afterward. (Worth it, thanks.)

I will always spill milk everywhere on the first pour from the carton/jug. (Yep, we get the glass jugs now. I feel fancy.)

The custodians at the office will never, ever put the toilet paper roll on correctly (over, not under) so I just need to stop expecting they will.

I have a crush on Heidi Klum.

08 September 2008

Huh?

Let me tell you about something I don't understand. Vera Wang Mattresses.

Ok, here's the deal. I can understand the desire/need/whatever to acquire designer names for the jeans on your booty (guilty), the shoes on your tootsies, the bag on your arm or even the unmentionables on your ... unmentionables. I get that. But a mattress? I mean really?

You cover your mattress with sheets, right? And the people who don't cover their mattresses with sheets ... well ... no offense, but those people probably aren't going to be purchasing a Vera Wang mattress anytime soon.

The only thing that comes close to the ridiculousness of having a designer name mattress is having designer named undies, only because if you aren't - for lack of better terms - "getting any", what's the point if no one's seeing them? But even those who don't plan on letting anyone see them in their skivvies will most likely give you the argument that wearing them just makes them feel better. Fine. But if anyone tries to offer that argument while bragging to me about their Vera Wang mattress, I'm calling their bluff because that's just b.s.

29 August 2008

Wake up call

I stayed at J's house last night and therefore took a shower there this morning. Actually, the latter part isn't what we call "a given" because I'll shoot it straight ... I don't shower every morning. Judge me if you must, but I stand behind my decision. So I opened the shower curtain in my early-morning daze, and was greeted by two of these:

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One the size of a tennis ball, the other a little larger than a golf ball. I didn't even scream. My jaw just dropped and I'm pretty sure a yelp was attempted but nothing came out. I wake J up, with sincere apologies for ruining his slumber, but there is no way on this living earth I am going near these inebriatingly frightening things. I contemplated trying to take care of them on my own for about .2 seconds, but I had no idea how to even go about it because by the looks of them, I'm fairly certain they can teleport themselves into my ears or another comparable creepy place.

J shuffles into the bathroom and takes a look at the monster insects saying, "Oh, those are just cricket things." I say, "Nope. They're the devil's spawn." Then he proceeds, "Oh, there's about 50 of these down in my cellar. I wonder how they got up here." What the F?! That's supposed to make me feel better? Just great. Now they're going to come eat me in my sleep.

EDIT: Apparently they are called cave crickets. They are "harmless" but they also eat their own legs when they can't find food. Devil. Spawn.

26 August 2008

Loud and proud

I don't care what the proverbial people say. Graphic t-shirts are not "so yesterday." Let's be honest, some of them are hilarious. And who doesn't like to laugh? They're also a good way to make fun of people without them knowing, which is always a good time. Case in point:

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This shirt embodies a phenomenon I just don't understand. We all know people who incessantly claim to have listened to bands before they got "big." Or refuse to "like" a band that has songs playing on the radio. (And they'll have a pocket of excuses for why that music is on their iPod.) Those friends who think they love a famous person more because they knew about them first. Yeah, I get the inherent need for some people to show they didn't just jump on the bandwagon. And I'm certainly not claiming to be guilt-free of these one-upping actions. Just last night I was watching The Newsies and without even realizing, thought to myself, "Man ... I loved Christian Bale before most people knew about him." Dumb.

So the moral of the blog is ... mock the people you know who do this. It's good for them. And fun for you.

18 August 2008

Bad decisions ...

I just tried making a regular, two-pieces-of-bread-sandwich into an open faced sandwich. There's a reason the restaurant put a piece of bread on top of all the fixings and my clothes have now become the brunt of the lesson. Oops?

So much for being an innovator who eats less carbs. That lasted about thirty seconds.

No you may not help me

If you thought going to Nebraska Furniture Mart on a weekend was bad (and it is) try going there on a Friday afternoon. We ventured there on a whim of unexpected motivation around 2:30 p.m. last Friday. Well ... you know how a party with a ratio of too many guys to too few females is called a sausage fest? Well this is the salesperson to customer version of that.

Initially we were stopped to be asked "Are you doing ok?" when we were testing out a couch or chair. Understandable. (No thanks, my butt can tell if I like this couch or not. You won't convince me otherwise.)

But soon, we couldn't round a furniture-filled corner without being asked "Can I help you find anything?" or any variation of the phrase. Not sure how many times we replied with a "No, just browsing, thanks." But you know when you write, type or say a word too many times, it begins sounding completely foreign? Yeah, that's what happened to our response phrase.

J regretted not setting an over/under on the number of times we were bombarded by the clearly-on-commission-employees. I regretted not punching half of them in the face.

Anywho, we found a couch we really liked ... hated the pillows. Like clockwork, we had another insincere offer for help, but we actually obliged this time. Asked him about the pillows and ended the conversation there. The guy gave us his card and said "Ask for me if you decide you want the couch. I'd really appreciate it." He walks off and mutters, "This is how we make a living, you know." I thought it odd, but shrugged it off. Shrugged it off, that is, until we passed the same guy 10 minutes later and when we told him we were just browsing he says "Yeah, that's what they always say" while rolling his eyes. Um. Rude!

We go back to the NFM on Sunday to purchase a chair. The place was crawling with all walks of life ... great for people watching, bad for furniture buying. We, however, found the perfect chair. Colors, pattern, size and price. I sit on it, staking claim so Betty Sue and her five screaming kids with grubby hands don't test it out and ruin it. (It's the last one, floor model sale ... don't judge me for judging others.) We couldn't find someone to sell it to us to save our lives. Finally we track someone down, buy the thing and make a beeline out of there.

Too bad we still have a living and dining room to fill. Are there any other furniture stores in KC?

12 August 2008

The disappearing guilt

I have decided to return the jeans.

(Ok, it's not because of the guilt. It's because they were semi-fugly.)

08 August 2008

Gross.

What's "gross" you may ask? The fact that it's 4:54 and I'm awake. (Been up for 20 minutes.) Seriously. Disgusting.

I hate early flights. Especially when I'm not on them. I just have to transport the dudes that get to go somewhere. Lame.

07 August 2008

Frick!

I've got an addiction that I desperately need to kick. It could be worse ... alcohol, cigarettes ... but it could be lots better, too - more productive - scrapbooking, running. (I try to run twice a week, but let's be honest. I am in no way addicted to it.)

I just bought another pair of designer jeans. Holy Lord, what is my problem?! I just moved and while unpacking my clothes I said to myself "This, you idiot Molly, is why you don't need to continue to purchase jeans. No excuses." But when I get an email alert about a designer name I've been pining over for close to five years, and the price is finally not stupid expensive, I have zero self-control. Honestly ... it's getting ridiculous.

So I implore you to tell me what to do. My bank account could really use the suggestions.

06 August 2008

Wishful thinking

Hello. Not-so-blogging Molly here. I just want to update you on a decision I've made. A very important decision. I've finally determined what my "one wish" is. You know ... the wish you get from the One Wish Genie? Yeah, that one. Listen, I'm putting all "peace for mankind" and "end homelessness" aside. Those are far too noble for moi. Can we just assume that I'm not the jerk who chooses to ignore the worldly woes for her own selfish "issues"? I say we just adopt a theoretical situation that all countries are at peace and everyone gets along. Like frosting on a Ritz cracker ... strangly harmonious. (Don't believe me? Just try it. I defy you to do so and not think it's amazing.)

So let's get to it. My one wish is to feel well-rested. Every night. No matter the circumstances. Just pondering the potential improvements makes me want to begin a 9 p.m. bedtime regimen ... starting tonight. (Yeah, right.)

I'd save money, only guzzling coffee when I crave it instead of virtually demanding an IV of the caffeinated stuff like now.

I'd be bright and bushy tailed, whatever that means, even if I stayed up a little late to make cupcakes or do completely unnecessary crafts. (It's been known to happen.)

It would make drinking two glasses of wine a lot easier. Not that I'd make a habit of it. But some nights, you just need two glasses of wine. If you don't know where I'm coming from, I want your job.

So yes, the basis of this "one wish" is for Molly ... uh huh, selfish. But if you really think about it, this is for the greater good for those around me as well. I mean, the "stink eye" would make fewer appearances. Motivation and productivity would see massive improvement. And let's face it, I'm a pretty fun person when I get enough sleep. So the world would just be an all-around merrier place. Who doesn't want that? No one. That's who.

15 July 2008

Open wide

Ah, the gamut of emotions associated with the dentist. Here's the range I experienced yesterday, in somewhat chronological order:

Calm. Some people think of their dentist appointment as a pending hour of torture. You'd think I'd share the same sentiments, as mentions of a dentist appointment send memories of me puking in the trash can every single visit, without fail until the age of 14, after fluoride treatment. But instead, that just makes me laugh.

Panic. But just minor moments of it. Riding up the elevator, suddenly brushing twice a day and daily flossing seems like bad hygiene. I just know my doctor is going to tell me I'll have to leave with dentures because the health my teeth are in.

Disgust. Thanks to the nails-on-a-chalkboard sound my dental hygienist procures from scraping my teeth with the tool that looks like Captain Hook mini-me's hand. Seriously, this sound gave me goosebumps on several occasions throughout my cleaning.

Discomfort. No, not from any pain. Just the awkwardness that spans the entire tooth cleaning when attempting not to make eye contact under any circumstances with the lady who's scraping plaque off my (mother of) pearly whites.

Near hysteria. When the hygienist forgets to give me the spit sucker often enough ... 95% sure I will choke on my own saliva and die in a poorly decorated dentist office. I had so much to live for!

Desperate. In my attempts to keep my lips off my teeth when she's polishing them with what feels like chalk.

Pain. Of the burning variety. In my eye. Said chalky polish substance somehow made its way into my ocular area. When asked if I'm ok, or if I need a gauze to get it out, "No.. ish fine. It will fwush out shoon." (Still trying to keep my lips chalk-free.)

Embarrassment. When I think the burp I've been holding in for the last 28 minutes is going to squeak its way out of an air passage. Even that dental mask can't save you from an Italian Sub with onions from Planet Sub. Good luck, lady. (Luckily, the powers that be allowed me to hold it in 'til I reached the sidewalk outside.)

More pain. It doesn't matter how often I floss. (Every night, thank you.) When a professional flosses my teeth for me, it always hurts.

Triumph. When I'm told I'm obviously a good brusher and that I can go out in the world without the need for face-numbing novacaine. A cavity-free visit, my friends.

07 July 2008

Green

Jealousy. It's an emotion commonly described as "ugly." While I've always known this classification superficially, I never truly realized the depth of its awfulness. And I certainly didn't do anything to try to subside the emotions. But now I know how unsightly it is. I mean, I'd even go as far to say the J word is as ugly as a hairless Chinese Crested dog ... and those things are beyond ugly.

Jealousy has always been a trait I've known. It's one of many flaws my personality plays home to ... but this is the one that keeps coming back to haunt me. I've come to terms that I'm never going to be perfect, trying to tone down my self-criticism and the desire to strive for such an unattainable, and let's be honest undesirable, status. Cliche as it may be, it's those quirks and flaws that make us who we are. They are what teach us, hopefully, the lessons awaiting throughout our life course.

But every so often, albeit less frequently nowadays, jealousy sneaks up on me. And even when I recognize its attempts to take over any progress I've made, I still witness it's hideous nature seeping in, even if it's ever-so-slightly. And it's a scary feeling.

Whenever I'm presented with a potentially jealous-ridden situation, it starts off small. I tell myself I'm not bothered. I tell myself not to let it take over this time. But somewhere along the way, my brain shuts out any self-control. Any common sense. And my competitive side takes over. Growing up, and somewhat to this day, something latched onto my personality that told me I have to be the best at everything. It's ok when it comes to a little friendly competition. (Except for that time I punched a girl in the face on the soccer field. Different story entirely.) But when it comes to simply being that I have to be better, it takes its toll. Nevermind that I firmly believe that pretty, skinny, stylish and the like are all relative. The moment I'm threatened, whatever the minuscule reason, I revert to old ways. It has caused me to do things I'm not proud of. Things I can now luckily resist. But it doesn't make the pit in my stomach go away. And I can't decide what's worse.

27 June 2008

Making a list. Checking it more than twice.

It's safe to say that crossing things off a "to do" list is one of the best feelings ever. Whether it's a list for the day, or things to accomplish on a more long-term timeline, checking off things as "completed" - even the smallest things - gives me warm fuzzies. Most of my "get this stuff done" lists make their way to post-it notes in my quaint little cube. They sit waiting in my peripheral vision. Sometimes taunting. Sometimes nagging. Sometimes just there to subtly remind me. And oftentimes, they sit there for a while. Which makes the reward all the better when my Big Ultra Round Stic Grip (that sounds dirty) makes its way through the words.

With my age and vast maturity (ha), lists have made their way in my brain and in my brain alone. I used to be the type of person that had to write things down otherwise there was no hope of recalling the "needs to be done/bought/called." Granted, I find myself forgetting small things more frequently these days (mainly grocery store items.) But my "to do" lists don't even have to be tangible things anymore. Achieving goals now give me much more reward than they used to. Take, for example, a hiking adventure in Colorado recently to reach the top of this mountain:

Photobucket

I hadn't eaten much that morning. I'm a nerd with asthma. The thin air effected me early in the excursion. But in my head, I told myself I wouldn't stop. I'd make it to the top. (When it comes to physical exertion anymore, I'm basically a wimp. Relatively, anyway. I don't push myself like I used to.) I got dizzy at times and really questioned if I'd stick to my word. But I did. I made it to the top. See?

Photobucket

So what I'm saying is that I've come to appreciate accomplishments a lot more lately. Whether it's finally doing the laundry that's piled up, overflowing the brim, or climbing to the top of a mountain and to get married where there are flutes playing and trombones and flowers and garlands of fresh herbs. And dancing 'til the sun rose. And then our children will form a family band. And we will tour the countryside and you won't be invited.

(Movie quote. Thumbs up to the person that calls it.)

06 June 2008

02 June 2008

Shake, rattle and roll

I've recently acquired some new furniture. And I didn't even have to purchase it with my own hard-earned monies. The management of my apartment community was graceful enough to gift it to me. It really rounds out my place, since there are new pieces in the living room AND bedroom. (I'm a lucky gal.)

The new additions include a "massage chair" in futon form and one of those vibrating beds I thought only existed in sleazy motels in movies and cartoons. So what stemmed the atypical generosity? It seems they had a genius revelation in that industrial-sized air conditioners should sit atop one lucky apartment on the roof in my building. As you might have figured, I am the fortunate tenant.

So for anywhere from 20-40 minute increments, with no more than 10 minute breaks in between, my futon turns into a massage chair or if it's bedtime, my mattress turns into a belly shaker. Auditory ambiance is created through rattling frames on walls, track lighting and stove top burners. In addition, the more indirect rooms to receive such treatment contain an incessant, low "hum" ... if you can really call it that. You know those whistles with such high pitches only dogs can hear them? This sound is on the opposite end of pitch range, but I imagine what my ears experience is similar to that of those poor canines.

You can imagine the excitement I had to silence when I got to stay up until 4:30 a.m. last night to listen to the dulcet tones of air conditioner bliss. I had to stifle such excitement because I wouldn't want to wake anyone at that hour of the night/morning. I imagine I'm the only one who aches for opportunities to be kept up for such unique experiences.

P.S. I'm moving.

30 May 2008

Bucket, please

I'm not exactly sure what birthed my queasy stomach. It wasn't my mom, that's for sure. She's the type that would ask a doctor if she could be in the operating room to observe her daughter's knee surgery.

I don't think my dad transferred the trait. No justification for that assumption, but it just doesn't seem to fit him.

And I haven't had this uneasy tummy as long as I can remember. I didn't freak out when I skinned a knee ... which I did countless times. From what I recall, I didn't squeal with disgust at the sight of blood.

But now, even talking about it makes me feel faint. In fact, I have to take breaks as I type because of bouts of "the willies" and general dizziness. To you, dear readers, this may seem like a seamless flow of prose genius ... ha ... but I need you to know that's not the case.

Anyway. Generally speaking, the following ick factors make me lightheaded, shudder with fear and overall displeased: needles, blood, conversations about needles or blood. Sometimes people's fears, especially with needles and such, improve with age. Turns out my case is the opposite. It's only gotten worse. Besides the inevitable fainting spell while having blood drawn for tests (yeah, a tiny vial's worth has the ability to knock me unconscious, so you can forget about asking me to donate BAGS of blood), apparently I'm adding to the list of what makes me grossed out. For one, raw meat ... not for moral reasons, I've just grown to incrementally dislike it more and more each day. (Exception ... sushi.)

But my newest discovery is the most random of all. One of my favorite shows is Three Sheets. (You should probably most definitely check it out here. Tell Zane I sent you.) In short, the host Zane Lamprey visits countries to learn about locals' drinking customs and favorite beverages. And when he visits some countries to partake in alcoholic beverages, their traditions get downright gnarly. Several episodes have featured the mostly involuntary consumption of liquor that has been infused with dead snakes or other critters ... lizards, seahorses, etc. While viewing these occurrences in previous seasons, it was gross, but nothing induced vomiting. But last night, while watching his episode in Saigon, they visited a shop that had endless jars of alcohol filled with dead animals. It doesn't help that I was eating brisket while watching, but I seriously could not watch without gagging.

Then there was the time Zane tried to cure a hangover by eating soup that contained coagulated cow blood. Makes me dry heave as I type.

So the next time you try to buy me a shot laced with dead serpent, blood and pieces of raw meat, served by way of syringe, I'll punch you in the nose.

22 May 2008

The latest announcement

"Attention VML, the Ford Canada bus is now leaving. The Ford Canada bus is now leaving."

Um. Ok? ...

21 May 2008

Another thing that doesn't suck ...

Is a great friend. Thanks to the fellow who brought me cupcakes to help me "keep a chin up." And not just any cupcakes. Baby Cakes. One carrot cake, one strawberry and one chocolate with buttercream icing. The strawberry is sitting in my tummy right now, wondering how it was devoured so quickly.

But seriously. To my cupcake yielding friend, thank you. Even though I told you not to bring them to me (I know you too well, huh?) ... you did. And my tummy is grateful.

And they say comfort can't come in the form of food. Liars.

P.S. I neglected to mention that Bop also got me a cupcake yesterday. I didn't forget, however, so I had to give her props. Thanks for making me chunky, guys. No seriously ... I love it.

Negative Nancy vs. Positive Patty

Things kinda suck right now, I'll be honest. But you know what doesn't suck? A good date.

Something about me is that I'm not good at hiding my emotions. So when things get downright crappy at work, it takes its toll at home as well. But last night the boyfriend and I attempted to get away from said crappiness. (You'd think being in the Bahamas on a cruise for a week last week would trump it. You'd think wrong.)

Initially we planned on either going to a movie, or renting one and baking cookies or brownies. As incessant crying hampers my appetite - no small feat, may I add ... making me cry OR making me not want to eat - I opted out of the baking option. Theater it is. While we had originally planned on finding something to eat at home, I had developed a craving for Buffalo Wild Wings ... no idea where it came from. But since things suck right now, I get my way. (Hi, I'm a brat. Nice to meet you.)

It was seriously de-freaking-licious. We don't have a BWW close to us, so it doesn't come up on our dinner-option radar often. But sometimes we think of it on Thursdays because of 50 cent boneless wings. I don't think I'll ever go back on a Thursday ... while it's still awesome, I've now found the non-boneless promo nights are amazing. Four spicy garlic, four medium ... all dipped in bleu cheese goodness ... for half an hour, my worries were sent soaring.

Looks like I'll have to eat Buffalo Wild Wings for at least a week. My life is so hard.

19 May 2008

Back to reality

Remember this pathetic attempt at poetry, but an honest depiction nonetheless? I wasn't looking for someone to make the decision for me. But that's what happened. So there's that.

Can someone bring me a cupcake, please?

07 May 2008

Obligatory driving rant

I delayed the inevitable for quite some time. Every time I wanted to blog, but had no topic, I contemplated the "driving pet peeves" theme. But I refrained, knowing that they've become utterly cliche. I mean, everyone has their driving hot spots. What makes mine so different? Well, nothing really. But in the last week I've seen far too many drivers - if you can really call them that - doing completely idiotic things while driving. Since when did driving become the battle of multi-tasking? Who can do the most things while driving ... Dumbest. Notion. Ever.

So I'm cruising across I-70 west to visit my awesome mom. I've made my way for about 20 minutes without any major aggressions. (I'll admit, I've got a minor case of road rage. But not the kind that's unwarranted ... mine is totally legit.) I'm in the left lane, make my way closer to an older Honda. I notice it swerving quite a bit, but I credit it to the wind. I've got my cruise control set to approximately 77. Without a second's notice, the other Honda immediately steps on the gas and goes from what I'm guessing was 73, to 80. "Uh. Ok?" I think to myself. I move to the right lane.

Shortly after, I approach the same Honda. Back down to the lower 70's mph, swerving to their heart's content. I make my way to pass the car, glance over for a quick survey of the situation and I uncover the culprit: test messaging. Ok. I've been known to be a text messaging bandit, so it's not like I'm a crotchety old woman nay saying the technological phenomenon. But this lady is just staring at the phone, clearly a texting novice, not even looking up at the road ahead of her unless the big hunk of metal she's driving veers off course. Nevertheless, I shake my head and go on my merry way. I've got a mom to see.

Another five or so minutes pass, the Honda's back. She's cruising over 80, ready to pass me. But she suddenly slows. I then pass her and not only see the reason for the abrupt speed change (phone call) but I also see that she has a child in her back seat. Ok ladies and gents ... I try to keep the internet lingo to a minimum, but WTF! It really ticked me off that this idiot was putting other drivers' lives in danger, but it absolutely makes me sick to my stomach that she would put a child's life in jeopardy so she could freaking send a text message.

Her speed fluctuation caused several continued encounters, and I was to the point of calling Highway Patrol to report her reckless driving if it happened one more time. It didn't.

I'm not at all claiming to be a perfect driver. I've done stupid things in the past, and I have my moments now. But I sure know where to draw the line. I vote for this lady to be locked in a dark room with "The Macarena" on loop over loudspeakers.

05 May 2008

Searching for inspiration

As if it weren't sufficiently apparent, I've been in a little slump as of late. The severity has its ebbs and flows, but one thing's for certain ... I'm in need some inspiration. And the worst part about this need is that nothing seems to show itself when you're actually looking for it. So I'm trying to trick inspiration into thinking that I'm not looking for it, and when he least expects it - that's right, I gave Inspiration a gender ... and proper noun status - I'll pounce.

I've had recent bouts with Inspiration, but it's tough to convince him to stay. Take, for instance, last night. An impromptu visit to some friends' house found them watching the movie "Stranger Than Fiction." I loved this movie when I first saw it in the theaters. But I'm not so great at re-viewing movies unless they're directed by John Hughes or produced by Happy Madison Productions. (Yeah, I said it.) So watching the movie for a second time not only allowed me to enjoy additional subtle quips I missed the first time, but it also showed beginnings of a breath of fresh creative air. I half hoped the movie was first a book, so I could turn the breath into a longer-sustaining inspiration, but to no avail. I think I'll just have to memorize the script. Or get my hands on the screenplay.

Since Inspiration plays hard to get, I thought I'd try to get my mind off him. I've taken up crossword puzzles and Scrabble, neither of which I'm very good at. Which is minorly depressing since I'm a writer. I'm attempting to boost my skills. I even had a 92-pointer during a game of Scrabble ... an effort I'm quite certain will never be repeated on my end. But I turn back to see if Inspiration has come back for me, and I'm still left with a blank slate.

Sure, I read books. I love to read ... my nightstand will attest, thanks to the four pieces of fiction resting on its top. But it's hard for me to know how to extract anything of inspirational value from the books I make my way through.

I love interior design. The same friends' who provided a screening of "Stranger Than Fiction" are also redecorating their house. I find it difficult to keep my suggestions to myself. Not only is it most likely irritating, but I've got to keep some of these genius ideas for my own home ... even if it is 10 years down the road. But lately, excitement is an emotion I've experienced sporadically, so I have to seize it. I'm painting their bookshelves tonight.

So what else do I do? Nothing seems to attract the elusive Inspiration. But I'm not ready to consider the Creative Convent quite yet ...

30 April 2008

Lost.

Don't know right from left.
Don't know up from down.
Only know I'm lost.

Don't know where I am.
Don't know where I'm going.
Only know where I've been.

Don't know how to focus.
Don't know when to fight.
Only know I want to let go.

Don't know if I'm good enough.
Don't know if I'm too good.
Only know there's not enough left.

Don't want to push.
Don't want to stop.
Only know how to coast.

Don't get the wrong impression.
Don't think too much into it.
Just know I'll be ok.

22 April 2008

Sold ... to number 34

I really wasn't worried about the day. I thought the tears were gone. All dried up. No more to shed. But five minutes before arriving at the location, my gut began to panic. And it told me to be prepared for some not-so-joyful emotions.

We got to fair grounds in WaKeeney, KS and made our way to the event's location through the dirt-turned-mud parking lot. Opened the door and my eyes were greeted with something unexpected ... seemingly endless tables covered with seemingly endless stuff. From old garden tools to bed linens, furniture and dishes to knick knacks. Virtually everything from 132 8th Street was there.

A wave of disbelief took over ... surely they won't sell each item, one by one? While shuffling across the dusty, concrete floor, I perused the tables. Much of it was unfamiliar - a good thing. But then I saw it. The first item that tugged at my heart and simultaneously at my tears. The letters that hung on the basement wall. The ones that represented Grammy, Papa and all their children.

With some difficulty, I remained composed, a state that didn't last long. While chatting with mom and aunt, cousin approached. "I'm taking the box of old pictures. I'll pay $500, but no one will be bidding on those today." A slight crack in his voice. I nearly lose it. Tears well up. A couple break the surface.

I move away to appear occupied. To let the moment pass. But I picked the wrong spot to achieve this. Mindlessly sorting through stacks and stack of piano books, I come across "The Rose." That was his favorite. How could this be here?

Another difficult moment passed, only to be joined by more. The morning flew by ... National Geographics and Pig Sty gone. The afternoon progressed ... kitchen utensils, old school desks and nativity scene vanished. At the conclusion of the day, everything that filled my Grammy and Papa's home ... the house my mom grew up in, a second home to me ... was sold and taken away.

But I can take solace in the fact that those antique collectors will never get their hands on countless games of school in the attic, ghost in the graveyard, sandbox dates, battles of Trivial Pursuit or UNO. They'll never display trips to the drug store for vanilla cream Cokes, games of house on the train tracks or the elusive white patent belt and shoes from the white elephant Christmas parties. It's good to be a Galloway.

18 April 2008

Peeping Tommy

Last night I went shopping for swimsuits. If I haven't mentioned it before, I'm going to the beach for four days in less than a month's time. Never you mind that I have a slew ... nay, a plethora ... of bathing suits stashed in a plastic bin underneath my Sealy. I want a new one and I want to take three different ones to the beach. I don't care if you say that's unreasonable, I made the decision long ago and there's nothing you can do about it.

I did gain some sensibility in the fact that I would only allow myself to spend $30 or less. (Swimsuits can get expensive, people, so this is no easy task.) After browsing through Target's selection with no success, and moving my search to Old Navy, only to find they charge $20-$25 for the top and bottom piece each, I tip-toed over to Marshalls in the rain. I know, I know ... slightly chaotic and emerging devil-status ... but they sell bikini pieces together. And they're cheap.

So much to my satisfaction, I found three Penguin suits to try. (Love, love, love Penguin clothing.) I made my way to the dressing room, and shortly upon my arrival to dressing room number one, a loud mother and daughter scooted their way into the room next door to me. They were speaking in rapid Spanish, but the daughter was clearly distraught and it started to stress me out. I glanced in the mirror and noticed little boys' feet running to and fro out in the hallway of the women's dressing room, and assumed it was the son/brother waiting for the madness of shopping to be finito. La di da, I'm trying on my second swimsuit. Glance in the mirror again ... only to find the boy's creepy little eyes staring through the crack of the shoddy dressing room doors ... gaping at what he saw. Soon after, but not immediately, he noticed that I had caught him and he ran away.

Ok. As if shopping for a bathing suit isn't mortifying enough, I have a 7 or 8 year old boy ogling my goodies. (My apologies if it's TMI, but no, I had not yet put the bikini top on yet.) This kid was more-than-obviously old enough to know better, but I didn't know what the heck to do. Yell over to his mom, who very likely did not speak English "Tell your son to get his grubby little eyes off my boobies?" No. I didn't do that. Instead I snuck over to the little space that did not show my reflection in the mirror and stayed there until the family exited the dressing room. I finish my deliberations, all while shaking my head in disbelief at what just occurred.

I found my boyfriend to tell him what happened. He was ticked. I continued to feel more and more violated by the second, magnified by the fact that it was because of a pre-pre-pubescent boy. But there was nothing I could do. I had no idea which family owned this little crap head. So I was out of luck. And it's fairly obvious that I'm the subject of a story at a KC area grade school today. All I can hope for is that his mother catches wind of his "adventure" and she has enough sense to award him with some severe spankings. I have a sneaking suspicion I'll sense it if it happens.

16 April 2008

Seymoure Butts

Sometimes the pages that come over my office's intercom are just plain funny. And it helps that you can sense when the receptionist is trying to hold in laughter. (Even better when she can't hold in laughter while butchering a name.) I wish I could remember all of them, but maybe this will turn into a "what I should blog about when I have nothing of value to say" situations?

"Attention VML, International Beer Friday is now beginning."

"Attention VML, the ice cream man is in the parking lot."

"Attention VML, the omelet bar is still open and currently has no line."

"Molly Anderson, please dial 3072. Molly Anderson, 3072." (3072 is my own extension. Odd.)

"Attention VML, Andy and Mike, come to the top of the stairs." (Followed by grade school "Ummmmm!" exclamations.)


Maybe these aren't as funny to you as they are to me. But that just means your sense of humor sucks.

14 April 2008

I'm a loser

Sometimes things are slow at work. Today is one of those days. I'm playing the waiting game, and while I'd typically take this time to do some online shopping, I'm practicing major discipline in not doing so. You see, I paid some bills today and upon looking at my credit card statement, I realized I swindled away some cruise spending money on clothes. But at least I might (probably won't) wear them on said cruise?

Anyway. Seeking ways to cure the boredom bug, exhausting all facebook searches known to mankind, I decided to google myself. It's been a while.

I stumbled on a sad revelation. Yes yes, I know my name is quite common. But yours truly doesn't have an entry until the 8th page. Crap. I used to be on page one not but two years ago. Looks like I have to go do something cool now ...

11 April 2008

Don't go. Stay!

An attempt to pay homage to a great coworker and friend, Dana, whose last day is today. These are just some of the many things I will miss about her:

1.) My lefty neighbor at Ladies Who Lunch
2.) Her random contributions to the day's Hot Topic
3.) Her lovable affinity for jingles
4.) Hearing her literally laugh out loud when we're chatting about inappropriate things on IM
5.) Her freaking toaster that makes my morning Pop Tarts warm with sugary bliss
6.) Her cute socks that peak above her boots
7.) Dana-isms
8.) My faithful, spontaneous lunch-hour shopping buddy
9.) Her "baby toosh" scent
10.) Her constant search to incorporate "My Humps" lyrics into copy
11.) Her reports about her addictions ... to online shopping and chocolate
12.) Her excitement after winning a game of Free Cell
13.) She's the worst shopping enabler I know ... good for my closet, bad for my bank account
14.) Our almost-but-not-quite eerie similar-ness (nis?)
15.) Her genuine offers to help and listen
16.) Her good advice
17.) Her inner band nerd ... we share that trait
18.) Her dog whisperer tendencies


I will miss so much about you, Babier. I know we'll still see each other. We'll still hang out. We'll still spend money together on unneeded shopping binges. Maybe we'll get to drink more wine together since our time spent together will be outside of the office. Because we're friends. But I'll sure miss being able to walk over to your cube and waste 45 minutes talking about nothing ... among other things. Love!

04 April 2008

Equally as funny ...

But in a whole different way. Awful.



This isn't the full version, but this saves you from having to listen to all the JG Wentworth crap. There are many others throughout the commercial who are mad about not having the money that's theirs since they need it now.

Ok no more commercial blogs for at least a month.

03 April 2008

Telephone is a funny game

I try not to blog about work-related things. I can appreciate an advertising blog. In fact, I read several of them. I cannot, however, appreciate someone who tries too hard to talk about amazing advertising efforts when it's really just blank efforts in order to look cool. They're really saying "look at me, I'm blogging about advertising. I love my job. Give me a raise ... by the way, I'm smarter than you because I blog about advertising." Vom.

But I have to talk about a commercial I just saw that made me laugh out loud. LOL, if you will. It was for an Oreo product called an Oreo Cakester. (The fact that it looks delicious is completely beside the point.)



"Bobby got his first chest hair???" Hilarious. That is all.

02 April 2008

My closet welcomes a new friend

Oh Chip & Pepper jeans on eBay ... I saw you yesterday morning, and immediately said "no." My recent shopping binge ended with a pit of guilt, even though my longing for new jeans never fully subsided.

But I couldn't stop thinking about you. I visited your web page several times. I passed on your link to get others' opinions. Your sister, my current pair of Chip & Peppers, are involuntarily making their way out of my jeans rotation. The hole on the knee isn't so bad. The hole in the crotch area that I'm giving about three more wears to develop probably isn't work, or public, appropriate.

So I started justifying why you could come into my life. I decided to "watch" you. Five hours before your auction ended, I received a notification that you were still in my price range. In fact, no one else had bid on you ... it was starting to feel like denim destiny.

I warmed up some leftovers and poured a glass of wine. Things were getting down to the wire. I decided I might try my luck at acquiring you ... but not until the last minute. With two minutes to go, I started wondering what other Chip & Pepper hunter was out there. Watching. Waiting for time to almost expire to pounce. Was she watching Law & Order: SVU, too? Probably. It's kind of awesome.

One minute left. My heart started racing. "Should I really do this?" Bid one cent above starting rate, with 48 seconds to go. But I wasn't logged into my eBay account. I typed feverishly. Confirmed bid. Whew ... that was close. But then I noticed a prompt that said "You are close to getting outbid." No! My suspicions of another suitor were spot on. 8 seconds left. Bid two dollars higher. Disappointment ... the auction was closed. But apparently the eBay gurus lied when they told me someone else was going to reign triumphant. I won! For the starting price, too. Not even one cent more.

Within 60 seconds' time, I spent $65. But as the commercials geniusly say, I "shopped victoriously." I think they targeted this campaign/slogan at eBay'ers who bid against each other. Turns out I was bidding against myself. Whatev. Those new jeans are for my butt and my butt only.

27 March 2008

Smell you later

Something about me is that I have some sort of hypersensitivity to smells. This can be an extremely good thing. Like when my brother is making goat cheese mushroom risotto, for example. My taste buds can already sense the amazingness that is soon to occur. Or when the soap in my office bathroom smells like my favorite candy ... causing me to crave, then go out and buy said candy later that night. (Sour Punch Straws. The bomb.) But more often than not, it's an awful thing.

Like the other day, I walked into my apartment lobby during my lunch hour and it smelled like surplus-sized jugs of Chloroseptic were dumped on the floor and carpet and a wet dog had rolled in it. I couldn't hide the look of disgust on my face.

In other apartment-related smells, a note to the girl who likes to drench herself in perfume in the morning, and therefore leaving the elevator and lobby as some sort of flammable hazard ... I don't care if it's cheap Celine Dion perfume from Walgreens or Eau De Pricey Toilette made from the secretions of a rare marsupial ... don't slather it on. I have my own scent, thanks, and I don't need to smell like yours just by walking through the lobby.

Then there's the time I walked into the Clydesdale stables at the Anheiser-Busch Brewery tour and gagged for a minute, sure I was going to vomit in front of 50+ people. That wouldn't have been embarrassing at all.

I even have a rule set forth in my car and any car I ride in on a regular basis ... no farting while driving. I don't care if you roll the window down, that's just cruel.

Once, when I was at Mr. Goodcents enjoying a delicious deli sub-style sandwich, some pimple-faced employee decided it would be a good idea to mop the floors with bleach infested water. Right next to the table I was sitting at. Now my turkey sandwich with provolone cheese tasted like mop water and I was immediately done eating. (I never bow out early when it comes to meals.) I refuse to return to that establishment to this day.

But here's the worst smell-induced reaction. Located within miles of my office is some sort of tannery factory, or so I'm told. Someone told me that on certain days, they're boiling or tanning the hides of animals for whatever purpose. Whatever the factory actually is, the resulting stench is revolting. On these smelly days, I have to run to and from my car in order to avoid dry heaving. On one fateful day, however, I thought I could handle it. Walked at a normal pace. But soon, I started gagging. Gagging turned into dry heaving. Dry heaving turned into actual vomiting. Yes, I vomited outside of my office building due to a smell in the air. I went upstairs to get a cup of water to wash away the evidence but the damage was done. I was officially dubbed "the girl the threw up because of the elusive nasty smell." And it happened again. It was raining and stinky. I stopped in the middle of the road on the way to the parking lot and puked a little and walked on. Um ... sick.

So yeah, there's all of that. Just don't fart in my car and we'll be friends.

18 March 2008

It's so not the thought that counts

I don't pride myself in much, but one thing I know I'm "gifted" with is my supreme gift-giving skills. (The quotes stand for puns.) I love love love to give gifts. There's nothing quite like the feeling of satisfaction after finally finding the perfect trinket or item for your friends and loved ones.

But, like any journey to greatness, I recently stumbled on the road to gifting success. Sure the idea was there, it just didn't pan out. And anyone that tells you "it's the thought that counts" is full of crap and they probably haven't received an awesome gift in their lifetime. Sure, saying that is a nice gesture to someone that tried, but I know what you're really thinking in that head of yours.

So what was this setback? While shopping for my buddy Bop (congrats on the mention two days in a row), I decided it would be fun to get her a fish. Why? You see, last year when Bop went on a 10-or-so day vacation to France, her team - including me - decided she needed a nice, bright welcome on her first day back. After much thought, we came to the obvious conclusion that her cubicle, and every single thing inside of it, should be wrapped in aluminum foil. The process and aftermath could - and should - be a blog in and of itself. But I'll just leave you with this and get on with things:

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In the midst of wrapping everything in site in foil, we had the genius idea to make Bop think that we had also wrapped her fish in foil. No betas were harmed during this prank, however, so we actually transferred the fish to a coworker's vacant fish bowl and molded some foil in the shape of a fish and plopped it in her own little bowl. Don't be jealous of the cleverness. (Unfort, I don't have photo documentation of this. Use your imaginations, please.)

I'll admit it was pretty rude of us, but we never got around to returning the fish to its rightful owner. So it was kind of involuntarily adopted. (Sorry, Ben.) Enter the awesomeness of buying Bop a new fish for Christmas.

Not only did I want to buy her a new finned friend, I wanted her new buddy to have a fetch home. (I just said fetch!) So I searched and searched the world wide web for a bowl that would fit Bop's personality. Finally. A match was made.

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I wrapped it. Gave it to her with the addendum that we would soon visit the pet store so she could pick out her very own fish to live in this office within an office. So we finally find the time to use a lunch hour to pick out a fish, and Lionel Fishy is born to Bop. Done deal? Nope.

After taking the new bowl out of the packaging, Bop noticed it was cracked along one side and across the bottom. I called customer service and was told this product was currently out of stock. (I have since learned it's back in stock ... but is it now a moot point?) I wasn't going to give up. I purchased some epoxy in hopes that I could seal the crack. Suffering through a skunk-like stench, I made many attempts to make the bowl leak free and Lionel friendly. But after about the tenth try, I realized my efforts weren't good enough. So Lionel would have to live in his tiny quarters until another solution was reached.

Two months later, on my birthday vacation day off, I receive an email from Bop ... mourning the loss of a friend. Lionel died. I mean really? I have GOT to be the worst gifter ever. One slip and my reputation has been tarnished. I only hope I can regain position as an awesome gifter. Her next birthday is going to be a doozy!

17 March 2008

I also broke things.

In addition to my "what I did this weekend" post below, I forgot to mention that I managed to break two dishes: a porcelain mug and a tall glass. Almost a year and a half of owning my dish/glass sets, nothing broken. Not a one. Yet within two klutzo days, I'm now down to seven coffee mugs and five glasses. The mug doesn't bother me as much. I'm pretty much of the belief that coffee mugs are meant to be random. I like it when no one is the same. But the glass really gets at me. I immediately contemplated running to the nearest Target to replace it, even though I'd have to purchase a whole set of six. But either way, it will probably haunt my dreams. Exaggeration? No, not really.

I slept. I sudoku'd. I conquered.

That's a lie. I didn't conquer anything. In fact, I did the opposite. I succumbed to a beautifully lazy weekend, and I feel no remorse. You see, I took the day off on Friday. My company offers a "free floating vacation day" in celebration of your birthday. But instead of using my birthday vacation near my actual birthday - one month ago today - I used it near my bf's birthday so we could enjoy the time off together. Go ahead and vomit now. Done? Ok. So yeah ... there's never a good time to take vacation. It will always be inconvenient or "way too busy." But you just have to do it.

So I slept in. A lot. I really didn't want to on Sunday because I knew it would lead to a restless sleep in preparation for the work week. But I did. And it did. I couldn't sleep last night. But for some reason I woke up at a decently early time with only a couple snooze infractions. I think it's because I was making pot roast for the first time, and I was anxious to get things started.

I played a lot of Sudoku. See, my friend Bop gave me a new book for my birthday made up of difficult Sudoku puzzles. Um ... they're difficult. But I can't put the book down. I'll set it down after several pages of unsolved number mysteries, but I'm too competitive for my own good. I will not let this grid of numbers beat me!

I ate junk food, for the most part. The only decent meal was Friday evening - one of only two instances we ventured outside of my apartment. The rest was frozen burritos, chips and salsa, cereal and coffee. Typically I'd feel pretty bad about these food decisions but not this weekend. My taste buds welcomed the crap-for-me sustenance.

I saw a movie. It wasn't very good. But I didn't care ... because I got to eat popcorn slathered in movie-theater butter. Scratch that. I think it was equal parts butter and popcorn. Glorious. Plus, I got to see a seeing eye dog at the theater. He was cute. I wondered ... out loud ... if he wanted to come sit with me during the show. My friends thought not.

But now I'm back at work, waiting for my pants to dry from the pools (not puddles) of rain water that take over the parking lot. And I know I have massive amounts of work to do, but I'm still basking in the glory of a beyond lazy weekend. I needed it.

11 March 2008

What's that under your nose?

Do you have poo smeared beneath your nostrils? Like right on your upper lip? Because that's the look you have on your face when you walk around. I sincerely hope the poo-scenario (or an equally stinky substance) is present because if that's your day-to-day look ... you're rude.

I bet you don't remember, but one time I was walking through a doorway one way, you the opposite. Near collision. As any decently-mannered, nay, common-sense-having human being would react, I said, "Oh! I'm sorry ... excuse me." You looked at me, borderline glared at me, and I was immediately gifted with mind-reading powers. In your head you said, "Damn right you're sorry. You're in my way." You actually said nothing, walked ahead ... but those actions spoke some powerful words.

Now, I'm teaching myself patience. Normally in this type of instance I try to dish out what we call "benefit of the doubt." It was a bad day, perhaps. (News flash, though, we all have them.) But I'm revoking said benefit because this type of encounter didn't go solo. It had many friends.

But something pushed me over the proverbial edge. This moment was wrong for so many reasons. So wrong that I began picturing you with a Hitler-style moustache. Yes, you were that bad. Just remember, to gain respect you must first give it. That's all the further I can go.

P.S. I've never formally met you, so you've got some work to do in the "impression" department. Good luck with that.

Sorry ... there's something I have to do

Dear Papa,

This isn't something I'd normally do, but I'm trying new things and I immediately thought of you. First of all, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was young and immature and couldn't muster up the courage to visit you during my last visit before you left us. "Next time," I told myself. But the cliché phrase caught up to me and actually happened ... there wasn't a next time.

I just couldn't bear seeing you the way I saw you months before. No ornery smile, no questions about my love life ... just a blank stare. I hope you didn't see me crying behind the smile I showed you … but I kind of hope you see me crying now.

I miss you, Papa. I miss your forceful - even crushing, some might say - grip around my knee. I miss your fat finger giving me wet willies ... no, I don't miss that. Instead, I miss your fat finger giving my cousins wet willies. I miss the anticipation of who's going to be the next victim of the old "butter knife handoff" gag. Against better judgment, I miss the light scent of scotch on your breath. I miss the pure laughter that would follow one of your inappropriately hilarious comments or stories. I miss the heartfelt tears on your cheeks when a talented Galloway gal would play "The Rose" on the piano. I miss the sloppy "goodbye" kisses, even though I tried my hardest to avoid them as a child. (Hey, I'm just being honest.)

I miss watching you eat your grapefruit in the morning ... which is coincidentally how I knew you were gone. I ate a grapefruit the morning you left us, thinking of you the entire time ... half with worry, half with the joy of memories.

But even though I miss those things, along with so many more, I'll never forget them. I'll always see you grinning at me from your corner chair at 132 8th Street. I'll always see the look on your face when cherry tomato juice miraculously made its way into your ear at Valentino's Restaurant. (Hey, some of us got your ornery nature, too.) I'll always see your magic with people ... the charismatic look on your face in the picture sitting on my desk says it all. I'll always see how you loved us. I'll always see you, Papa. I love you.

Love,
Molly Jane

10 March 2008

The bold and the beautiful

I met you when I was only five years old. My mother tried to introduce me to a neighbor of yours, but you caught my attention and I immediately decided I had to have you. Your style, your flair, your unique personality ... I was entranced. Mom wasn't thrilled, but she told me from the beginning it was my choice and she stayed true to that word.

The rest was history. We were inseparable. School, church, weekends ... you name it. It was you and me together. We danced, we took a bow and we flaunted what people normally wouldn't. And this was no fling. Years passed and you were still faithfully by my side. Through skinned knees-a-plenty and long division, you saw me grow. And that's where the story gets sad.

I was growing older ... still very much in love with you ... and we were forced to part ways. I don't remember the exact day and its events, but I'm certain there were sniffles and tears.

I'm 24 now and here I am still thinking about you. You stood for what I was and what I hope I am still to this day: bold, full of life and tad on the obnoxious side, but in the most endearing way possible (hopefully.) So I want you to know, wherever you are, that I'm thinking of you, and I think of you often. You know how everyone has that handful of childhood stories that consistently are told to friends, coworkers and girlfriends/boyfriends along the way? In my handful, our story is top three ... easily.

So thank you pink-purple-and-green-ruffled-dress-with-bells-under-one-ruffle and-matching-ruffled-undies-socks-and-hair-clip. I picked you on my 5th birthday and you'll forever be an icon of the child I once was and the child that will forever live inside me.

05 March 2008

Life's a beach

I've just done something for the first time in my life. While running my two-to-thrice weekly 2+ miles, I search for something to take my mind off my oxygen-constricted, asthma-ridden lungs. After recently booking a cruise to the Bahamas planned for May, this trip takes up a good chunk of my daydreaming itinerary. So recently I've found myself scheming my beach and buffet-eating time has aided in making my exercise regimen a breeze.

So what did I do that I've not done before? I packed my suitcase more than 24 hours in advance of a trip. In fact, it was two months and seven days in advance. See, something about me is that I absolutely loathe packing. In its peak, I tried to dissect the root of this hatred. While I realized an undertone of it most likely stemmed from the fact that I packed a bag every other weekend from the age of four on, I think generally it's just one of those things I've always - and will always - dislike for no supported reason.

So it's kind of a big deal that I mentally perused my closet and "threw" clothing, swimsuits and accessories into my turquoise and brown suitcase. Oh ... and I still haven't packed for my trip to St. Louis. I'm leaving tomorrow.

04 March 2008

Top five signs you need a vacation

In no particular order:

1) You seriously contemplate canceling said vacation because things at work might combust upon departure ... not because you're that important, but that's just what seems to happen when anyone leaves.

2) Though drinking alcoholic beverages is kept to a minimum these days, a round of bar golf sounds like the best time a girl could ask for. (Proposition me with this activity at a normal time period, and I'd laugh in your face.)

3) You realize you need a tangible name for your "alter-ego", though it's not so "alter" these days. (I'm not so much the same person these days.)

4) You beg for someone to give you an exuse not to run after work because all you want to do is sit on the couch and watch ANTM, The Soup and other DVR goodness.

5) You're a little disappointed that your annual bout of bronchitis hasn't made a visit and you're secretly hoping you catch the life-altering flu that's going around just to get away from the office.

Honorable mentions:

You blog again immediately after posting a previous entry in order to avoid actual work.

Nothing can down-spiral a valiant effort to grow out your nails like a return from a client you thought was gone forever. One fingernail down, seven to go. (Thumbs don't count.)

You get pimples comparable to the size of your big toe thanks to a little thing we call stress. Ew.

03 March 2008

It could be worse ...

But it sure as heck could be better, too. You see, I'm scared of complacency. Really scared. But it's creeping up on me, and I don't know how to distance myself from it. I don't just want to hide from it ... you know, like when you were a kid, playing hide-and-seek and thinking "well, if I can't see Daddy, there's no way Daddy can see me" - clearly, my forte in childhood games did not come in the form of hiding. But yeah, this complacency thing ... I want to defeat it. Much like H Pot defeated the Hungarian Horntail. (That just happened.)

Complacency hasn't completely taken over. It's more of a temporary, or what I hope to be temporary, bout of desensitization. That's just as daunting, though. Things are impacted that I don't want to be, and I'm afraid of the consequences.

I know, the vagueness is unfair. But I need help. Fast.

19 February 2008

How's this for gooey?

You know what else I loved when I was a kid? Pound Puppies. Those stuffed canines, with the hearts on their butts for authenticity purposes, were awesome. I mean, how can you resist those floppy ears and googly eyes. Most of mine were hand-me-downs from my sister, but I remember I got a BIG pound puppy for my birthday one year. I'm a big timer, what can I say?

Along with the 10 - give or take - little puppies, and one big mama, I had the Pound Puppies official carrying case. I tried to find a picture, but google images search let me down this time. It was red, tan and flimsy. A puppy's dream.

I don't think my little mind wrapped around the premise of Pound Puppies. But the more I think of it, the more I support them. It promotes adopting puppies from the pound ... and that's commendable and just plain cute.

Let me tell you about what I liked as a kid, though, and now grosses me out. No warm fuzzy feelings from this Pound Puppy spawn. Puppy Surprise.

For those of you unfamiliar with this toy, here's a rundown, best told through the Puppy Surprise jingle:

"Surprise! Surprise! Puppy Surprise ... how many puppies are there inside? There could be three. Or four. Or FIVE!"

Yep, when you ask mommy and daddy to buy you Puppy Surprise, they're not just purchasing a stuffed dog. They're purchasing a dog stuffed with puppies. That's right, a pregnant dog. So the novelty is that you buy your prego pup without knowing how many puppies she's going to birth. I mean, there could be three or for or five! So you basically rip open the dogs velcro stomach to see how many new puppies she's bringing to your world.

Any girl - or guy ... hey, I'm not judging - who had this toy knows that no one got five puppies. Don't try to say that you did ... I'd ask for documented proof. Whatever, I'm just glad the puppies weren't drenched in placenta. Talk about traumatizing ...

18 February 2008

If these dolls could talk

Some things are better left in the past. Green silk shirts in school pictures, high school/college drama, the four-year stint of having a boy haircut (yeah, I'm a girl) ... and the like. Some things should, by all means, be discussed as often as possible. Enter childhood toys.

So here's the deal. When I was a kid, we didn't have a lot of toys around the house. I'm not laying a sob story out here ... like we were too poor to have toys. We just didn't have a lot of them. And I was too busy crawling out of my crib and walking out the front door to cross our busy street without my mom noticing ... at least she didn't notice until she heard cars screeching to a halt and she knew immediately that ornery Molly was once again up to her usual shenanigans. So when I was asked what my favorite childhood toys were, the list wasn't long. But it was long enough for that gooey-warm reminiscent feeling, which warranted a blog. Not a good blog, but a new blog nonetheless.

Instead of including my list of five-or-so favorite toys, I'm going to go into great detail to appease my inner-child and talk about my longest lasting toy relationship.
In fact, this one still makes me doe-eyed and fond when speaking of it. American Girl dolls. (To my male readers, nice seeing you again. I'm guessing you'll be exiting here.)

I'm not sure when this collection of dolls was created, but I was probably pretty close to being in the founding era. They were higher-end dolls ... each with a detailed back-story and each belonged to a different historic time. Not only did each have a back-story, but you could purchase collection of books about your American Girl and a slew of clothing/accessories in accordance to each story. (Pish posh on "imagination.")

Back in my day, there were only four dolls to choose from. Samantha - the 1904 rich girl with really nice hair; Kirsten - the 1854 Swedish immigrant new the the U.S., complete with cute blonde hair; Felicity - the 1774 red head who's ahead of her time; and Molly - the 1944, glasses-wearing girl waiting for her father to return home from WWII. (Upon further research, there are something like 15 different dolls now. I'm partial to the Original Four. Yes, they deserve capitalization.)

My older sister reached her age of American Girl-dom and received Samantha for Christmas. So I knew I shouldn't hope for a repeat. So I decided I really wanted Kirsten. The blonde hair enticed me. So a few years later when time finally came when I was old enough to be able to handle the responsibility of owning an American Girl, which doll do I get? Molly. The last one on my list. I mean, I know my name is Molly but come on ... she wears glasses and braided pigtails. Nerd alert! I grew to love my Molly doll, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed when she was looking me in the face instead of Kirsten on that Christmas morning. (So what. I was a brat. Shutup about it.)

Anyway, I can't tell you how many birthdays and Christmas seasons were spent perusing the AG catalogue for additions to my "Wish List." From Molly's dance recital outfit, to her bedroom furniture set and lunch sack for school, it was scratched down. I rarely got something from the actual catalogue, but instead had things sewn by my mom/Grandma (including a matching outfit for me oftentimes) but I was so delighted for new additions that I wasn't ever bummed about the unauthentic stuff. And now that I'm older (hey, I'm 24 now!), I totally appreciate these home-sewn gifts rather than the overpriced catalogue accessories.

So even though the price of these dolls are a little steep, if I ever have children and they happen to be female, it's safe to say their memories will be filled with American Girl goodness. Even if they do want the Molly doll ... If said children happen to be male and they still want an American Girl doll, that's another blog entirely.

(In order to prevent lame blogs as this one for future entries, topic suggestions will be taken and appreciated. And I thank you.)

14 January 2008

I'll take a look at a Sealy, as long as we can cuddle afterward.

I'm taking leaps into the realm of adulthood, instead of tiny steps. I make my coffee at night and set it to brew right before I wake up. I don't vomit from a flouride treatment when visiting my dental hygienist. I'm satsfied after a single beer or glass of wine ... ok, maybe two. And I now spend money on things like a car, kitchen utensils and cloth napkins instead of sorority clothing, makeup and booze.

My latest Wilt Chamberlain-esque step into my newfound adultness was made at the mecca of anything home related in the Kansas City area ... Nebraska Furniture Mart. I walked in, made my way past the in-store coffee shop and Quizno's, climbed the winding stairs to the second level of mass bargain-hunting chaos and entered the world of pillow tops and coil springs. That's right, friends. I bought a mattress set.

So my new purchase was broken up into a two-trip decision. The first time I tested mattresses out, I soon realized the sale I had thought was going on had just ended. Color me disappointed. But since The Mart runs their "Biggest Sale Ever ... never going to happen again" every two weeks, I was in luck. So I returned the following weekend and found the salesman who helped me before. I felt like that was only fair. I'm not sure if they run on commission or just warm fuzzies from a sale, but either way I wanted to help the man out.

Now this was a whole new experience for me. And by "whole new", I mean "pretty damn awkward." Let's think about it. A bed is a pretty personal thing. It's where you sleep and have intimate relations ... with books, people! (You know I don't work the other way. Sickos.) But seriously. Any sort of proper "we've just met and we'll never see each other again after this sale" relationship has jumped over the comfort line the moment you lay your toosh on that first bed. Nay, that bubble is popped the second your salesman asks you what kind of bed you prefer. "Firm or soft?" ... "Excuse me?! Isn't that a little personal?!"

Anyway, so I'm testing out all these mattresses. Laying with my hands awkwardly folded over my pudgy tummy (Taco Bueno is across the shopping center. Shutup.) I have some stranger asking me how a bed feels and I'm thinking "Look buddy, you seem nice but I prefer 6'2" Jason's, not 5'4" bald dudes." (Insert vomits here if you like.) Aren't you even going to take me to dinner first?

But luckily my two-session shopping paid off, and awkwardness was kept to a minimum because it only took me about 15 minutes to drop $700 on something that's going to be covered up with chocolate brown sheets and a crushed velvet duvet.

Well whatever. It was a rewarding experience as a new member of the adult world. Now if I could only wake up at a normal time without an alarm clock and not sleep in until 11 ... oops.