Blogging Molly

1991 Magic

2011-08-17T18:22:00.002-06:00

After three years in his house, J is almost fully unpacked from boxes. The last boxes live in his office, the contents of which have patiently waited for a bookshelf to live on. (Or in many cases, a trash can/recycle bin/thrift shop.)

Little did I know that my boyfriend is a pseudo-hoarder. Items found include a Subway Club Card that has actual stamps (lickable ones), a card with a $20 bill from high school graduation and a Bo Jackson figurine. That's merely just a smattering.

One gem, however, is a collection of poems penned by each member of his fourth grade class. The theme was magic. And this was 4th grade J's contribution:

Let me tell you about

my favorite Magic powers.

Fast: run at the speed of light.

Mind: smarter than anyone.

Strength: to lift 8,000,500 pounds with no problem.

All of these you cannot do

but one special power that is in me and you

and that power is FRIENDSHIP!!!

Now that. Is art. (I mean ... and that is ART!!!)

Smooches, J.

Go green

2011-04-18T10:45:00.007-06:00

So there's a recipe I've been hanging onto for a few years that I got from Domino magazine's website. (RIP Domino. I still miss you after all these years.) I always tear out meal ideas from magazines and such, but most of the time never end up making them. I refused to assign this salad recipe to the same fate! I've been dying to try it.

That's just it, though. A salad recipe sans major protein just doesn't make its way into our typical meal plans. J's also not a big "just salad" eater and I thought the recipe was too delicious looking to just have it on the side. (Plus, I'm not a big fan of salad leftovers. Putting it on the side would definitely have assured excess saladage.)

The one time I finally went to the store to get the stuff to make it for myself, they were out of arugula! (I just can't substitute for those delicious, peppery greens.) And I also couldn't find champagne vinegar for the dressing, so it just wasn't in the cards that day.

I finally had the perfect opportunity to make it for my brother's birthday in April. I even added my own little spin after having an amazing salad at The Mixx with quinoa in it. And wow, this salad was great! And super easy (I'm disappointed in myself for waiting so long to make it.) Do yourself a favor and try it.

The stuff to make it

3 pink grapefruit

4 tbsp olive oil

1 tbsp champagne vinegar

salt and pepp

3 large handfuls arugula (I just used a whole plastic box of it)

2 ripe avocados, cut into chunks

1/2 red onion, thinly sliced

1 cup-ish prepared quinoa (I boiled mine in chicken broth) ... optional, but delicious.

How to make it

Slice off the tops and bottoms of grapefruit and cut off skin. Section fruit and remove membranes (ew?), working over a bowl to catch the juice. (Seriously though, removing the membranes is importance as that's where grapefruit gets its bitterness! Thanks for that lesson, Mom.) To bowl, add oil, vinegar, salt and pepp to taste; whisk to combine.

Toss arugula with half of the dressing (and quinoa if you decide you want it in there.) The recipe says to arrange arugula on plates, top with grapefruit, 'cado and red onion and then to spoon on remaining dressing. But I pretty much lazed it up and put it all in the salad bowl and mixed. Not as pretty, I'm sure, as the instructed way to do it, but I'll be the first to admit that my plating skills are never rated very high.

What's your favorite salad recipe?

Guac it up

2011-04-11T12:51:00.003-06:00

I typically don't use dinner hosting sessions as an opportunity to try recipes I've never made before. After all, if it sucks, my stellar reputation as an entertainer is in jeopardy. But when I had a Mexican fiesta to host pals, I knew I had to take my Aunt's guacamole recipe for a spin. Not only does she have fantastic culinary taste, but I feel like guacamole is pretty hard to mess up, right?

My "adventure" paid off because it was absolutely delicious. The recipe makes a giant batch, so I thought we were going to have leftovers. This wouldn't have been a bad thing from a taste standpoint. But guac doesn't always maintain it's awesomeness the best. Regardless, I didn't have to worry about it because the six of us definitely polished it off. Impressive. This concoction has the perfect amount of kick to it, but I think I'll use spicy Rotel to dial it up a bit more next time. (There will be many more "next times" with this recipe!)

The stuffs to make it

4 very ripe avocados

1 small, well-drained can Rotel

1 tsp. lime juice

1 tsp. cayenne

1 tsp. cumin (I used a tad more, but not much)

8 oz. softened cream cheese (the softened part is important, just to make things easy)

Salt and pepper to taste

1/4 cup diced onion

How to make it

Mix the stuff up, dummy. Serve with tortilla chips. Easy peasy, guacomeasy. Huh?

Killer party

2011-03-28T11:30:00.009-06:00

J and I get together at least once a month with two of my dearest childhood friends and their husbands. We rotate houses or activities and host dinner and/or game nights. We seem to inherently mix it up without discussing it, and somehow during our scheduling for February, the idea of a murder mystery party came up. I took no issue with showcasing my glee at this prospect, as the goob in me has always wanted to try one but I've never had the opportunity. Since the get-together was scheduled for two days after my birthday, I pulled brat duty and insisted on the murder mystery party. That was that.

As most of our plans center around food, we snagged a murder mystery kit that did the same. Our scenario was based on a family-owned Italian restaurant in NYC. The owner, in which all of us were related to by blood, marriage or business, was murdered and we had to devise whodunnit. Basically, you read through a script and are fed clues to accuse each other, so it's best to have people who aren't afraid to ad lib, while staying true to the facts, or embellish (read: make a fool of themselves.) Fuddy duds need not apply.

(Caleb in full character in the background of this picture. Someone was clearly accusing him of something ridiculous.)

Kayla and her hubs have extensive experience in murder mystery parties and did a great job of orchestrating the scenes and assigning characters. (My boyfriend J, for example, was my brother in the script. Awkwardly fun.) Michelle and her hubs did a great job of hosting the soiree, complete with chicken lasagna with vodka sauce and cheddar garlic biscuits. J and I did a great job of showing up with booze. (Ok, salad too.)

Kayla and Caleb also had a great spin on the events that made for hilarity to wrap up the evening. Instead of going around the table sharing our suspicions on whodunnit, they brought a video camera and one by one, we went to a separate room, Real World Confessional Style, to reveal our theories. We then watched them and the real killer, Michelle's real-life husband and my character's fiancee, revealed himself.

We didn't take a ton of pictures, as we were busy accusing each other of murder and revealing each others' dark secrets, but we had a lot of fun. (Note: I was supposed to be in mourning, as my father was the murder victim, wearing a short black leather skirt and gaudy gold jewelry. But I did my thrift store shopping before we chose the kit, and I made the executive decision to dress my character 20s/30s-esque. Oops.)

My ridiculous "vivacious" pose, Michelle's general cutery and Kayla in mourning for her husband's murder.

Back to our real-life cuteness.

And my brother, I mean boyfriend, being adorable.

I would definitely recommend a murder mystery party if you're looking to do something different with a group of fun friends. (As opposed to lame friends?)

Have you ever participated in your own live action Clue?

Will Shovel for Soup

2011-03-23T11:14:00.004-06:00

Kansas City's blizzard of 2011 aka Snowmageddon aka SnOMG aka Snowpocalypse aka Snowtorious B.I.G. gave me the unwanted opportunity to do something I've never done before ... shovel the sidewalk. J's back was hurting from shoveling on blizzard day one, so I decided to have a go. Mostly because I felt awful for the mailman, not because we were going anywhere. I didn't do a very good job, but I did a job, darnit.

Pretty clear, though not completely straight. Apparently I was SUI ... shoveling under influence.

Hahahaha, my attempt at clearing a path for the mailman from the neighbor's yard. Not good.

To reward my meh-worthy efforts, I made some delicious soup. Recipe courtesy of Epicurious (passed on by my stepmom), this Wild Rice and Sausage Soup is definitely making its way on a recipe card. It was delish! (I halved the recipe and had 2 or 3 bowls of leftovers. The full would be great to freeze or for company ... or I guess for a family. Cooking for 2 is hard!)

The stuffs to make it

12.5 cups (whoa) of chicken broth, low-salt if you don't want to get puffy

1 1/4 cups (girls gone) wild rice

6 1/4 cups frozen corn kernals, thawed

2 tbs veggie oil

10 oz fully cooked smoked sausage, cubed

3 carrots, peeled and diced

2 medium onions, chopped

1 1/2 cups half and half

Chopped fresh chives or parsley (I used chives)

Make the stuffs into soup

Bring 5 cups broth to simmer in heavy medium saucepan over medium heat. Add wild rice and simmer until all liquid evaporates and rice is almost tender, stirring occasionally, about 40 minutes. (Note: J did the grocery shopping for this recipe and came back with Rice a Roni wild rice. Don't make this mistake, as a) it's not enough rice 2) it adds some major salt that I didn't account for when seasoning. Oops. I also "skipped" this step and used a rice cooker. Holla!)

Meanwhile, blend 3 3/4 cup corn and 1 1/2 cups chicken broth in processor 'til thick, a smooth puree forms. Heat veggie oil in heavy large Dutch oven (ha) over medium-high heat. Add sausage and saute until browning starts, about 5 minutes. Add carrots and onions and stir 3 minutes. Add remaining 6 cups chicken broth and bring soup to simmer. Reduce heat to low and simmer soup 15 minutes.

Add cooked rice, corn puree and remaining 2 1/2 cups corn kernels to soup. Cook until wild rice is very tender, about 15 minutes more. Mix in half and half. Thin soup with more broth if you wanna. Season soup with salt and pepper.

Garnish with chives/parsley. (This really adds something nice!)

What's your favorite soup recipe? (Please share ... I do love me some soup.)

Nailed It

2011-03-22T10:39:00.007-06:00

Confession: I've been a nail biter my whole life. (Not at all a secret to those who know me.) In the past few years, I've had whopping month-long spurts of sans-nervous nibbling, but something always sets me back to start from the beginning. (Because once I start biting, there's absolutely no stopping me. Ugh, it's even more gross when I see it in writing...) Boredom is typically the demise of my "lengthy" nails. But somehow I got super OCD about them, too. So if one snags and I don't have a file handy, it's, "Ta ta talons!"

So with my stubby nails, I can honestly say that I have never painted my nails. (I might have when I was a kiddo, but it wouldn't surprise me to find out that I didn't paint them even then.) Anytime I've tried in my adult life, I've either felt like a kid playing dress up, or a hot tranny mess. (I don't do well with girly things. As a recovering tomboy, ruffles, pink and general primping beyond good hygiene still feels odd.) But since the emergence of the short nail trend, I've acquired a new obsession: nail polish.

I finally realized that most nail polishes look just fine on my short nails. Ok, maybe not when they're gnawed down to the cuticle, but when they're "normal", polish looks good! So the floodgates opened, and I went nuts. J made fun of how many bottles of polish I purchased in such little time. But luckily this new love was also fueled by a fabulous promotion by a fabulous company: Zoya.

Zoya ran a promotion, giving three free bottles of polish if they hit a certain Facebook fan milestone by a certain date. Word spread quickly and they reached their numbers and then some. So I got six bottles (J bought me some, too) and just had to pay for shipping. Not only was this a great chance to try new colors, but a new company, too. (Zoya, I have to add, has great customer service and runs awesome promotions quite frequently. I've also been really happy with the quality of the polish and when you go to the site, you'll see that selection is not lacking. At all. Thanks for tipping me off, Allison!)

So my something new sometime in January was that I not only painted my nails, but I painted my nails pink. (A hue that does not touch me often.)

(Sorry, all the pictures I took are really bad. They don't show the color well. It's Zoya Kate, though, and I do love it!)

I've been dabbling in pretty much every color ... gray, navy, sparkles, red. I feel like a new woman!

What's your favorite polish brand/color?

Nautical Knows

2011-03-21T10:50:00.008-06:00

Lessons learned on a cruise vacation:

You are capable of packing the "just right" amount of clothes.
As fab as they may be, wearing large sunglasses gives you a funny tan.
You still hate bananas, even if they're fresh off the vine.
Do research on all of your stops otherwise you'll never escape all that tourist crap.
Ocean waves ruin cameras. Oops.
Your obsession with fresh passion fruit begins in St. Lucia and ends never.
You will need to go back to St. Maarten. Stat.
Hearing UB40 20+ times a day will have the opposite effect you think it would: you will love them even more than you already do.
Don't worry ... you'll still get a tan if you wear sunscreen (and reapply it many times throughout the day).
On a related note, heat rash probably resembles some sort of STD even if it is on your hands. (Which makes it even more suspicious.) Put the sunscreen everywhere, dummy.
Canadians do not wash their hands after using the restroom. This nation could have saved themselves some embarrassment by being more conspicuous. But ALL of them were toting maple leafs so I am not jumping to conclusions here, people.
If you're going to go on a booze cruise, don't do it on the last day of the vacation. Remember that 4-hour flight followed by a 2-hour flight you have tomorrow? Yeah.
It's probably not cool to ask that guy with dreadlocks if he's "irie."
Buzzed is better than drunk.
It will never get better than watching March Madness on a giant screen and poolside. With a mojito in hand.
It is possible to crave healthy food. After a week of grease, all you'll want is some freaking lettuce.
You are blessed.

A Lotta 'Ladas

2011-03-11T10:23:00.005-06:00

Hey there howdy. Here's another food-related "try new stuff" endeavor. We're entering January's backlog, so slowly but surely I'm catching up to myself!

I'd never made enchiladas from scratch. Probably mostly because I don't love enchiladas that much. But I think the sauce is growing on me — not literally, that would be messy. But J wanted something Mexican and I wanted to cook, so I gave it a whirl.

"From scratch" ... let's talk about that. I didn't make the sauce, something I might try someday. I didn't make the tortillas, something I'm 97% sure I'll never do. But I did find a great Tyler Florence enchilada recipe to try. This is something new in and of itself, as T Flor is generally outside of my realm of cooking comfort. I'm a begintermediate cook. Skills past an amateur but definitely no expert. I'm also a tad impatient. (Understatement.) So as much as I love being in the kitchen, cooking for more than 60-90 minutes definitely sends me into grumpy pants mode.

Anyway, here's the recipe. It was super flavorful and tasty. We froze half of the filling to make another batch later. The leftovers (from the initial batch) were just ok but I think that could be fixed by not completely covering the tortillas in the enchilada sauce ... maybe just one side? I'm just not big on soggy bread/tortillas.

The stuff to make it:

3 tbs. veggie oil

1.5 pounds boneless skinless chicken breast

Salt and pepp

2 tsp cumin

2 tsp garlic powder

1 tsp Mexican Spice Blend (Google the recipe if you prefer. I couldn't find it at my store and didn't want to make a trip to a specialty store. Nor did I want to buy all the stuff to make it. So I just used fajita or taco seasoning. Recipe was not ruined.)

1 small red onion chopped

2 cloves garlic minced

1 cup frozen corn, thawed (I believe I omitted this. For no good reason...)

5 canned whole green chiles, seeded and chopped (I used pre-chopped chiles because I'm smart like that. Or lazy.)

4 canned chipotle chiles, seeded and minced (I kept some, not all, of the seeds to add some heat.)

1, 28 oz. can stewed tomatoes

1/2 tsp all-purpose flour

16 corn tortillas

1.5 cups canned enchilada sauce (though reviewers of the recipe will have you sent to the stakes for using canned. Snobs.)

1 cup shredded cheddar and jack cheeses (believe we just used Mexican blend cheese)

Garnish: chopped cilantro leave (obviously left out ... I'm 'lergic) chopped scallions, sour cream, chopped tomatoes. (We only used the sour cream.)

How to make it:
1.) Coat large saute pan with oil. Season chicken with salt and pepp. Brown chicken over medium heat, 7 minutes each side or until no longer pink. (Just say no to salmonella!) Sprinkle chick (the food, not that girl over there) with cumin, garlic powder and Mexican spices before turning. Place chicken on a plate/platter and let cool.

2.) Saute onion and garlic in same saute pan (no need to rinse it out). Add corn and both kinds of chiles. Stir to combine and add tomatoes. Saute 1 minute.3.) Shred chicken breasts with hand or fork. Add chicken to pan and mix it well with veggies. Dust the mixture with flour to help it set
4.) Microwave tortillas for 30 seconds. Coat the bottom of 2, 13x9 pans (if you're making the whole recipe) with ladle of enchilada sauce. Using a large shallow bowl, dip each tortilla in enchilada sauce to lightly coat. Spoon 1/4 cup chicken mixture in each tortilla. Fold over filling and place in pan, seam side down. Top with remaining enchilada sauce and cheese. (We also added some shredded cheese to the inside of the enchiladas. What can I say, we're cheesy like that.)

5.) Bake for 15 minutes at 350 or until cheese melts. Garnish to your heart's desire. Optional: serve with Spanish rice and beans. Required: serve with Corona. See?

OG AG

2011-03-10T14:43:00.002-06:00

I like to tell people I'm part of the original class of the American Girl generation. OG AG, if you will. The company started in 1986, two years after I cried my first cry. But there were inevitably some start-up years, so by the time I was of fancy doll age, American Girl had taken off.

I've told you of my nostalgic memories/obsession with this company and its products. So it should come as no surprise that when I finally got to step foot in an American Girl store for the first time last December, I was a lotta bit excited. And since that flagship trip was at the age of 26, I had to suppress said excitement to inner monologue (and by "monologue" I mean "freaking out squealing") in order to appear the mature woman I've become.

You see, my niece was to receive her very own American Girl doll for Christmas. So naturally, I insisted on fueling what's sure to be a doll trunk full of clothing and accessories. The fad with this era of AG'ers is to get the dolls made that look like you instead of flocking to a pre-selected character, complete with story books, era clothing and accessories. To each her own. (I think we all know what I'd pick, though.)

I was blown away with the selection, and prices, of all things American Girl. I mean, I understand that wearing headgear is a traumatizing period in life, (actually I don't, because I never had it. And actually, do they even do that anymore?) But asking mom and pops to drop $40 so your doll can be humiliated with you? Wow. I shouldn't be so judgmental. There were some awesome accessories, too. But there's something about the classic three — Molly, Kirsten and Samantha — that just begs to be restored and supported.

I hope if I have a daughter that a) American Girl is still around, 2) She'll have the sense to choose a character instead of a doll that looks like her. Said sense may or may not be egged on by her mom, just saying.

Therein lies something new I did. In December. (Whoops.)

The Right Wreath

2011-01-25T12:21:00.004-06:00

For reasons unexplainable, I was obsessed with wreaths this holiday season. It's a weird fascination to have, considering there are only so many places to put them before becoming the Clark Griswold of circle-shaped "greenery."

I ended up making two wreaths for Christmas. (Lie ... I made three including the Card Wreath.) One for the boyfriend's house and one for my sad little Scrooge apartment. (Almost all of my decor is displayed at his house. It just looks better there. But my place needed a little love, too!) The wreath at J's house took more internet scouring than it did crafting. I just purchased a grape-vine/twig wreath and found some battery-powered C9 light bulbs online since his 80+ year old house was not built with outdoor outlets to equip Christmas lights. (Those lazy Roaring 20-ites.) The result is kind of funky and random but I like the melding of country crafter with retro lighting. I might be using this wreath to re-adorn it with seasonal flair to make it a year-round door greeter.

The wreath for my apartment was a tad more involving, but still super simple. I purchased a small wire wreath base, a box of white lights with white wiring and two white feather boas. Wrapped the lights around the wreath base and then did the same with the boas. And here we have a sassy, glowing wreath!

The picture really does it no justice. But I absolutely love this final product. It's one of those things that makes me smile whenever I walk past it.

And yes, I have a window hanging on my dining room wall. Guess what: right next to it is a door, complete with gaudy garland leftover from trimming the tree. I'm sure you think it's silly that I didn't hang the wreath on the door, but there are pictures hanging on it. Duh!

And just for good measure ... since this will be the last holiday project post 'til next Christmas rolls around ... here's another little fun little tidbit.

I did these on either side of the front porch stairs at J's house. Just cut off some sprigs of his giant blue spruce, got some coordinating balls (ha), red velvet ribbon and voila! Festive flower pots.

What's your favorite piece of holiday decor?

Centerfold

2011-01-23T18:48:00.004-06:00

I'm so very behind on my blogging, I know. I thought I'd catch up by doing a few a week 'til my "new things" were current. I thought wrong. Then I thought I'd just ignore it and blog like it was normal to talk about my holiday endeavors 'til February, but I realize I've finally reached the threshold. So I apologize that the next several blogs will not be timely or relevant. But maybe your holiday hangover has subsided, and you'll be inspired to try something new when the next yuletide season approaches.

Last year, my holiday centerpiece on the dining room table was just a glass bowl filled with glass ball ornaments. Festive but kinda plain. I still keep it around but J actually asked if I was going to do something new... when he even comes close to forming an opinion about these kind of things, I oblige faster than a fat kid who hears "would you like to see the dessert menu?"

So once again, Martha Stewart came to the rescue with these Christmas trees made out of magazines. I love that they're homemade AND sustainable. It's not that I go around hugging trees every day. But I try to do the little things that can maybe make a difference. So I tried my hand, and 45 minutes later, this is what we had.

(If you must know, this is an old issue of Golf Digest. I wish I had a dirty magazine of some kind just so I could giggle to myself when people marveled at my craftiness.)

Unfortunately, that's as far as I got. I prefer odd numbers when it comes to decorating but because there aren't a ton of size variations when it comes to magazines (especially ones I have in my house), I knew I'd only make two of these suckers. And I didn't even make it that far, let alone getting around to spray painting them gold and dusting them with glitter. So this will be on the docket for next Christmas. Guess you'll have to wait 11 months to see the final product!

If you want to try this out, I definitely recommend checking out the video that's on the how-to article. Very helpful! When I finish my trees off, I'll be using one of those tiny cookie recipe books — the folding might prove difficult, but at least I'll have my size variation darnit!

Did you take on any holiday projects this year?

Occupational Therapy

2011-01-03T16:38:00.024-06:00

I by no means earned a hiatus from blogging over my holiday break. (Oh "holiday break" heaven forbid if I ever enter an industry that doesn't have one or that my own ever strays away from the pattern.) But I took blogabbatical (see what I did there? blog ... sabbatical ... no?) so deal with it. It mostly happened because I inadvertently kept a "hands off computer" mantra for the week's duration, save the two days leading up to my imminent return to the work life. Of course, I still caught up on ever-important tweets, Facebook-age and sports updates on my handy dandy iPhone, but should I ever post a new blog from that smarty pants mobile device, it'll consist of a picture or two and maybe a sentence. (Guessing you'd prefer that?)

So picking up where I left off ... here's something I did that's new. I started a new job at the end of November. Probably not news to Blogging Molly clientele, but it deserves a spot in this little e-diary I'll one day peruse with wonderment. (Of my idiocy.)

Sure I've gotten a new gig before. Once I switched from Tad's Tropical Sno to Juice Stop. From a price point, Juice Stop is a step up. But I gotta say, making Hawaiian Ice sno cones requires quite a bit of skill. And you must possess certain skills ... like cold-tolerant hands. (Ok that's about the only skill required.)

But this job switch was my first since I ventured into adulthood. It was time for a change ... a little occupational therapy, if you will. Making change always has the potential to be a bit scary, albeit exciting, but bidding adieu to your first job out of college has got to be exponentially more stressful. I'm proud of myself for taking a leap when things were comfortable. It wasn't an easy decision, but I'm stoked for a new scene and opportunities.

So here's Molly's New Job 101: totally basic and mostly boring.

On my first day, this little guy was my buddy while I filled out stacks of paperwork:

Among many new experiences, this is the first time I've worked in a building that requires elevators to get around. I kind of (always) forget where I am. Related, my desk is on the 9th floor. Here's the view:

On my first day, my spacious-to-me office was sad and bare.

I still haven't really had time to decorate, but it quickly got a small dose of personality with a little mess added in.

(Notice the blinds ... sadly, these end up pulled down most days because the sun gets way bright. It makes me a bit sad and I'm too lazy to put them up once those people leave.)

All in all, I'm really loving the new job. I think I'll really come to appreciate the location (right off the Plaza) even more than I already do when the weather is more pleasant - walking to grab lunch or shop over lunch could be the death of my paychecks, but by golly, I'll have fun doing it. I am anxious to escape the "new kid" stage but until then, I'm plenty busy writing about beauty products, textbooks and clothing. Oh, and there's an espresso machine at our disposal. So I get one of these bad boys (skinny hazelnut latte) to hang out with every morning:

What are your favorite (or not-so-favorite) things about starting a new job?

Wreath of kin

2010-12-12T16:21:00.016-06:00

The year's last two months are when my mailbox is its fattest. And this extra padding is equal parts "YOU CAN'T MISS THIS SALE!!!!!!!!!!!!" announcements/catalogues and holiday greetings from friends and family. For the former, I take no issue with scanning for any sizable coupons and pitching them in the garbage. For the latter, I feel guilty when the cards and letters just sit in a towering stack on my coffee table. I feel like the best I can do in that situation is shuffle which smiles get to land on top for the next few days. And heaven forbid if any of my loved ones are claustrophobic. What if those holiday cards have voodoo doll-like tendencies?!

So this year, I used my newness mission to remedy the guilty pile situation. I now have a "wreath" to display all my favorite pretty faces!

This project was easy-peazy-Brett-Favre's-sleazy. Just get an embroidery ring, some clothespins, wood glue and ribbon. I picked up the biggest embroidery ring, because I'm clearly the most popular woman in the universe. Ridiculous lies aside, you just glue the clothespins around the perimeter, alternating which way the clasp faces. Let it dry for a while, cover the obnoxious metal with a ribbon and you're set to show off your loved ones in crafty fashion.

In the past, the only circle of cards I witnessed involved chugging cheap beer (in college, obvi.) This circle of cards is not only better for my liver, but a tad on the classier side, too. So if I'm not your mailing list, you should probably think about sending me a picture of your family. Don't you want a coveted spot on a clothespin in my boyfriend's kitchen? Sure you do.

How do you display your cards?

Credit to Martha Stewart for the idea!

Funky Acrophobia

2010-11-28T12:47:00.021-06:00

J and I vacationed in Chicago a few weeks ago. I experienced several new things while there, despite having visited the Windy City multiple times before. But the most notable newness was my trip 103 stories into the sky at Willis Tower. (Formerly known as Sears Tower. Barf on that name change.)

Whether you stick your nose up at touristy activities, or embrace them as rites of passage, you must put Willis Tower on your "to do" list. Because not only are the traditional views spectacular, but there's also a new feature on the west side of the building in the form of plexiglass boxes that jut out from the side of the building. When you venture into one of these boxes, you're standing 103 stories up, looking down at your Chicago playroom ... the cars and buildings teensy weensy. And my oh my, was it terrifyingly awesome.

My fear of heights is bizarre. I love roller coasters. But put me in a multi-level mall, make me walk on the inside near those barriers that look down into the middle and you'll send my heart racing. Flying? It's fine. (Save for takeoff and landing. Gou to the let.) Standing on the edge of the rafters behind stage of my high school's auditorium ... forgetaboutit. (Clearly a traumatizing experience, almost 9 years later.) I can't really explain my phobia's inconsistencies.

Anywho ... when we finally made our way to plexiglass peril, J tugged on my arm for the imminent photo shoot, forgetting I'd need to ease into it. Our first pictures feature a nervous smile on my face, fists clenched in utter terror. (What you can't see is the massive amounts of sweat those palms were home to.) Gradually, I got more adventurous and took my heels off the carpet, allowing my soles to bear witness to all of Wacker Drive's tinyness.

I even let J leave my side and visit the box across from me.

But when he requested that I crouch down, the butterflies returned. Powered through...

Ultimately, I'm so glad I experienced this tourist attraction and would recommend it to anyone - visitors and Chicagoans alike. We went at sunset which made for some lovely views and photos.

Got any favorite tourist traps?

Pseudo Successful

2010-11-23T13:41:00.008-06:00

Even as someone who loves food, there aren't countless foods I could eat every single day. But one of the few I could scarf daily? Soup. Cream of, gumbo'd, bisque'd or just plain homestyle, I love it like it's my own baby. (Or my stuffed dog, Ubu.)

So when I found The Pioneer Woman's recipe for cauliflower soup, I was eager to try.

Ingredients

1 stick butter, divided

1/2 of an onion, finely diced (I used white. I always use white.)

1 whole carrot, finely diced

1 stalk celery, finely diced

1 whole (or up to 2) cauliflower heads, roughly chopped (You thought I was gonna say finely diced, huh? Do yourself a favor and don't think! Oh, and I used just one.)

2 tablespoons fresh or dried parsley, chopped

2 quarts low-sodium chicken broth or stock

6 tablespoons all-purpose flour

2 cups whole milk

1 cup half and half

2-4 teaspoons salt, to taste

1 cup sour cream, room temperature

Directions

1. In large pot or dutch oven (do I even need to tell you that I chuckled at this?) melt 4 tablespoons of butter. Add the onion and cook for a few minutes, or until it starts to turn brown.

2. Add carrots and celery, cook a couple more minutes. Add cauliflower and parsley, stir to combine. Or you could try picking up the pot and shimmying really fast. Please set up your video camera before step one if you choose to go this route. kthx.

3. Cover and cook over very low heat for 15 minutes. After 15 minutes, pour in chicken stock or broth, bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer (down nah!)

4. In a medium saucepan, melt 4 tablespoons butter. Mix the flour with the milk and whisk to combine. (Make sure you whisk reeeeeeeal good. And who needs proper grammar?) Add flour/milk mixture slowly to the butter, whisking constantly. Remove from heat, stir in 1 cup half and half.

5. Add the flour/milk/half and half mixture to simmering soup. Allow to simmer for 15-20 minutes. Check seasoning and add more salt or pepper if you need.

6. Just before serving, place the sour cream in a serving bowl or soup tureen. Add 2-3 ladles of hot soup into the tureen and stir to combine with the sour cream. Pour in remaining soup and stir.

This had all the potential of being delicious. Because The Pioneer Woman only makes delicious things. But mine left something to be desired. I don't think my roux/white sauce got thick enough. I tried adding more flour, but the butter just wasn't havin' it. Jerk. Additionally, I had to add a ton of salt to each bowl I had (which was many, because this recipe made enough soup to feed the state of Missouri. Ok ... maybe more like Delaware.) And finally, I'd definitely serve it with bread or something filling of some sort. I'm a girl who loves her meat (do with that what you must), so I was always hungry shortly after eating this.

Regardless, I'd try this recipe again! But I'd also love to find a recipe that's more creamy/pureed cauliflower.

Ahwell. First week of November? Consider yourself new'd.

So what's your favorite soup?

The Fest of October

2010-11-23T13:05:00.007-06:00

Another cooking adventure to fulfill my weekly newness. But this time I strayed from the diabetic-inducing treats and opted to try a new dinner meal.

A coworker told me he and his wife make a lot of recipes from the Whole Foods website. While I don't do a ton of shopping there (because honestly, who can afford it?) I do enjoy the experience and philosophy quite a bit. I directed my browser to the site and found a recipe for One-Pot Oktoberfest. As it was the last week of the October, I most obviously had to try it out.

The results were tasty, even if the presentation does look about as appetizing as a bowl of your cat's hacked up hairballs. (You're welcome for that visual.)

Ingredients

1 tablespoon butter

1, 12 oz package cooked bratwurst, cut into 2-inch chunks (The original recipe calls for a Whole Foods brand, The Original Brat Hans Original Bratwurst. That's a lot of original. Point is, I didn't use it.)

1 1/4 cups low-sodium chicken broth, divided

2 teaspoons dried dill, divided

1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper (You know, because it's really easy to measure out pepper as you're grinding it. Eyeball it, dummy.)

1 yellow onion, chopped (Make sure it's fairly small, otherwise don't use the whole thing. Use your judgment and don't blame me if your breath stinks for years after eating it.)

1 pound fresh button mushrooms, quartered

3 tablespoons light sour cream

3 tablespoons German mustard (I just used spicy.)

1, 32 oz. jar sauerkraut, rinsed and drained (I drained it really well but didn't rinse. Gasp!)

Directions

1. Melt butter in large pot over medium-high heat. Add sausage and cook 'til browned, about 5 minuten. (German for "minutes." Thought it was only apprope.)

2. Add 1/4 cup broth, 1 teaspoon dill, pepper and onion ... cook until onions are softened and golden, 6-8 minuten. (Deal with it.)

3. Reduce heat to medium, add mushrooms and cook until they've released their juices, about 5 minuten more. (Ok, so when you're quartering the pound of mushrooms, it's going to seem like a whole lotta fungi. It is. But they reduce significantly in size during the cooking process. I didn't quite use the whole pound and it was ok, but would have been fine with all of them! I was just worried it was going to be fungaliciouis and that would have not made J a fun-guy. Bahahaha.)

4. In a small bowl, whisk together remaining 1 cup broth, sour cream and mustard. Add this mixture to the pot, along with the sauerkraut ... bring it all to a boil, baby. (But don't boil a baby. Yikes!)

5. Reduce heat to medium and simmer until "fragrant and thickened" about 10 minuten - yep, I'm still at it - more. (I'm pretty sure sauerkraut is fragrant even before you open the can. Peeeeee Yeeeeew. I love it, though.)

6. Sprinkle with remaining dill and serve.

Warning: this recipe makes a lot.

The first time we ate it, I served it with mashed potatoes. For the leftovers later in the week, I boiled up some egg noods. While both were good, the mashers were much tastier. And since the recipe isn't all that bad nutritionally-speaking, I think it's ok to add some carbs/starch in there. Just my humble, chunky opinion.

(Whole Foods cites the following nutritional info for this six-serving recipe. "Per serving (about 13oz/367g-wt.): 240 calories (150 from fat), 17g total fat, 7g saturated fat, 45mg cholesterol, sodium difficult to determine due to rinsing of sauerkraut, 11g total carbohydrates (6g fiber, 8g sugar), 10g protein")

Ben Folds Causes Ditzery

2010-11-22T17:01:00.012-06:00

It's no mystery that I love food. I love eating it, gourmet and junk-varieties alike. (And everything in between. Except bananas. Sick.) I love talking about it. I love thinking about it, unless I'm starving.

So it's no surprise that my first several "let's try new things" challenges were food related.

Another StumbleUpon discovery, my next adventure was caramel walnut brownies.

Ingredients

1 package (ha, I said package) chocolate cake mix

1 cup chopped nuts (Optional, but oh-so-delicious. I used walnuts.)

1 cup evaporated milk (I think this is one of those mini cans that are just friggin' cute)

1 stick or 1/2 cup butter or margarine, melted

35 (10 oz package) caramels, unwrapped ... time-consuming, but whatevs

2 cups (12 oz package) semi-sweet chocolate morsels

Directions

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Just do it.

2. Combine cake mix and nuts in a large bowl. Stir in 2/3 cup evaporated milk and butter. (The batter will be thick. Not to be confused with Alan Thicke.) Spread half of the batter into ungreased 9x13 baking pan and bake for 15 minutes.

3. Heat caramels and remaining evaporated milk in a small saucepan over low heat, stirring constantly, until caramels are melted. Sprinkle chocolate morsels over brownie and then drizzle the caramel mixture over.

4. Drop remaining batter by heaping teaspoon over mixture ... no method to this, just plop it randomly.

5. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes or until center is set.

6. Cool in pan on wire rack.

Ok so these managed to be ooey, gooey deliciousness, and I even mucked the recipe up like whoa. My first mistake came when I was jamming out to some Ben Folds, and I accidentally put too much condensed milk in the batter, which made for less leftover for the caramel. Second came right after, also during the Ben Folds karaoke session, when I forgot to put the butter in all-together. (What I'm trying to say here is that Ben Folds is at fault for my ditzery. Yeah, made up word.) Since the batter is split in half, I did remember my butter sins, cut the amount in half and added it to the remaining batter. Because there wasn't as much butter as the recipe called for, I called them half-cal brownies. Which is a bit deceiving but half true so I'm going with it. They were still really tasty, but I can only imagine how much yum would commence with all the calories in their rightful place.

Let's file this new experience as completed on the week of October 18th.

We're here to pump(kin) ... you up.

2010-11-22T16:06:00.012-06:00

I was once addicted to StumbleUpon. When I got a new computer, I forgot to reinstall it, thus my addiction was abandoned cold turkey. Then I got an iPhone, found the StumbleUpon app and my boredom buster was once again established.

Through SU, I found a Paula Deen-modified recipe that sounded yummy. Since I purchased multiple cans of pumpkin from the Pumpkin Chocolate Chip Loaf recipe I made the previous week, and I needed to fulfill my vow of trying something new for the week right on time for Betsy Bop Bop's birthday, I tried my hand at pumpkin bars with cream cheese frosting.

First thing's first ... I've already redubbed this pumpkin cake. Bars imply a certain thinness, right? Well these were the fattest bars I've ever seen. So yeah, this is cake.

Now I'm not one to brag about my cooking. (No really, I pretty much always find something wrong with it.) But these were f'awesome. So awesome that I'm bringing them to J's Thanksgiving celebration.

Here's a picture of my version:

And here's my varied-only-by-commentary recipe, in case you're too lazy to click on a link. Or you just want to act like I made it up. Das cool, das cool.

Pumpkin Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting

Cake ingredients:

4 eggs

1 2/3 cups sugar

1 cup canola oil

1, 15 oz. can pumpkin (Is it just me, or does this stuff smell like baby vomit? Of course it makes for delicious treats, but before it's delicious it's gross-smelling.)

2 cups all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

2 teaspoons ground cinnamon (because cinnamon sticks would be silly!)

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon baking soda

Frosting ingredients:

1, 8 oz. package cream cheese (aka Cow Fudge), softened

1 stick or 1/2 cup butter, softened

3-4 cups powdered sugar (I used 4)

1-2 teaspoons vanilla extract (I used 2)

(The varying powdered sugar and vanilla amounts depends on your preference of both quantity and sweetness. I thought the frosting was way too sweet for my taste, but it ended up being the perfect balance to the pumpkin cake. My version had quite a thick coating of frosting, so if you prefer a thinner layer or dollops, I'd use less powdered sugar/vanilla.)

Directions:

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease a 9x13 baking dish.

2. Mix eggs, sugar, oil and pumpkin with mixer until light and fluffy. Kind of like a puppy.

3. Pour flour, baking powder, cinnamon, salt and baking soda into another bowl and mix.

4. Pour flower mixture into pumpkin mixture and force them to be buddies until (Kids) incorporated and smooth.

5. Pour the batter into the baking dish and level out the batter.

6. Bake for 30 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean. (I think I ended up baking mine for a total of almost 40 minutes, checking every few minutes after the 30 minute mark. 30 minutes just wasn't enough ... it was Jello jiggly! At least Bill Cosby would have been proud.)

7. Remove from oven and allow to fully cool before removing from dish or frosting.

8. Frost the cake, duh.

Oh, well, I guess you gotta make the frosting first. Duh-tails. (Do I really need to tell you that you should make this while the cake is baking or cooling? I guess I just did.)

1. Combine cream cheese and butter in a bowl ... mix 'til smooth as a criminal.

2. Add sugar slowly until you reach your desired consistency.

3. Stir in vanilla.

4. Commence sugar high.

Filing this new experience completed on the week of October 11th.

Ode to Loaf

2010-11-17T21:53:00.008-06:00

I'm going to channel my inner Jedi here. It has not been nine months since I've blogged. {insert sweeping hand motion here.}

Oh hey guys! I know you feel like I'm probably inundating your RSS feed (ha!) with blog updates, but you just can't stop my prose inspiration. Aight?!

In all for seriousness, I have to thank someone else for my return to my own blog. And that someone is Loaf.

Say what? Ok here's the dealio. As much as I've enjoyed blogging in the past, I've also dreaded it. I felt a lot of pressure to be interesting or funny. (Because honestly, who wants to read about my stupid swimming workout ... which has stemmed my latest excuse/habit of eating like a college student ... chips/dip and Ramen noodles.) And as a writer, I've felt a lot of pressure to be perfectemont. (My own Home Alone-inspired version of the French translation of "perfect.")

So in lieu of uncovering the solution to all these insecurities, I ignored it ... joining the ranks of New Year resolution failures.

But I decided this behavior unacceptable. I sit at home alone most weekday nights, and when my trashy DVRd shows have completed their depletion of my IQ, I either go to bed earlier than most retirees, or I drink way too much wine. (Judge if you must.)

I hunkered down for hours ... ok several minutes ... and realized I needed a theme to my blog. Not anything binding, because sometimes themes can be limiting. But structure is a good thing. (Just ask any boobs you know.) So even if I experience a total lack of motivation, I have a thematic pillow to fall back on. And when I'm feeling lazy, I have a challenge to move toward each week.

Thus, my long-winded excuse for laziness comes to a close. And my explanation of Loaf thanking is explained. When autumn rolled around, pumpkin season did, too. So I made pumpkin chocolate chip loaf for my coworkers, regardless of the ickiness of the word "loaf." (Thanks to Allison for pointing me toward the recipe!)

People enjoyed it so much that I decided I had discovered my theme! Every week, I'm going to try something new. Yep, that's it ... general enough to not be limiting, structured enough to make me do it.

I'm a little backlogged on my "new stuff" updates ... I started six weeks ago ... so the next several posts won't exactly be real-time. But I hope to keep things timely, sharing them with you in the same week that I do them.

So here goes ... think I can do this?

Rupeelicious

2010-02-10T09:21:00.002-06:00

J often wakes up in the morning with a song in his head. And by "often" I mean "always." And naturally, he hums, sings or whistles said song. This a.m. was no exception, but this time I couldn't decipher his early-morning crooning. So I asked him what he was singing.

"The theme from Night Court."

Oh. Right. My response:

"I thought it was the theme from Zelda."

So I proceeded to belt out the entire video game ballad, with visions of rupees and 8-bit animation dancing in my head. After finishing my final note, J assessed.

"Nope. I wasn't singing that. That's way random."

Oh yeah, because the theme from Night Court isn't random. The things I deal with, I tell ya...

Mulligan

2010-02-08T09:43:00.004-06:00

Only the second month of my e-writing mission, and I've failed. I didn't blog last week. As I packed up my purse for the grocery store yesterday I even exclaimed out loud, "I must blog today!"

I didn't.

No excuses. (I mean, I did work about 60 hours and was traveling half of the week/weekend.) But yeah, no excuses.

I'll blog twice this week, ok? I can't promise that I'll only take one mulligan throughout the year, but it will be less than five. Deal? Good.

So anywho ... the Super Bowl. Who was I cheering for? Neither the boys from the French Quarter nor the young male horses. My excitement was focused on the Harry Potter Theme Park advertisement I knew was imminent. Last night I didn't care about touchdowns or onside kicks (though that was pretty flipping awesome) ... I cared about the sneak peek into the most awesome theme park in the whole wide world.

For the real, I just can't wait to go wingardium leviosa on everyone - because you know when I go (and I will go) I'll be purchasing my very own wand from Olivanders. I do feel for J because he's obviously going to have accompany me, but maybe I'll just wander around Hogwarts by my lonesome while he does something more interesting to him ... like watching paint dry. I wouldn't mind.

I'm going to guzzle a butterbeer, see what Grawp is up to ... maybe catch a game of quidditch. Don't know if I'll have time...

Wrong (stomach) turn

2010-01-29T13:31:00.004-06:00

Let me tell you about how a wrong turn transformed into a stomach turn (times 50.)

Headed to lunch, we were all set to cruise to Long John Silvers for J. (Undecided location for me. I don't do LJS.) Upon exiting the parking lot, pure instinct took over - J turned right instead of left. (Enter: wrong turn.) In lieu of correcting our directional mistake, we went somewhere in the River Market. The stomach-turning culprit? Winslow's BBQ.

I initially intended to type out the entire "bad restaurant experience" ... but it was getting long and boring to type. To read? Worse.

Long and boring story turned short and boring story ... the people behind us in line, sitting in a booth next to us while waiting for lunch, got our food. J was sure of it and went to retrieve the food after they shortly realized it wasn't theirs upon examining the ticket. I asked J if they had touched the food at all ... he was certain they hadn't.

Chew chew chew, nom nom nom. Second half of sandwich, J says, "Is that gum?!" while pointing to his food tray. I say, "That's not yours?!" Yeah. The people who initially got our order had put their chewed gum on the tray and still let J take it! (Enter: stomach turn.)

Appetite? Gone. J got refunded for his meal, but I certainly stopped eating mine even though the gum wasn't resting its sticky laurels on my tray. The food was awful to begin with.

Ew, my tum tum is still unsettled.

Potty Mouth

2010-01-22T10:26:00.004-06:00

Cussing typically isn't in my vocabulary's repertoire. But lately, I've had a few choice words for certain situations. And I've realized that once you open the floodgates of profanity, it's hard to shut them off. So it's taken concerted efforts to clean out my mouth with a proverbial bar of soap. Blech.

This morning offered me validation of these efforts.

I had just poured my awake juice ... aka coffee. Freshly ground beaners, delicious half and half, a whole lot of yum. I took a sip and sauntered to the bathroom to finish prepping my head for work. As I brought the flat iron across my body to reach the frizzies on the right side of my dome, the cord decides to give my coffee mug a nudge. And a nudge was all it needed to go tumbling into the sink. And there goes my motivation, right down the drain. My piping hot motivation ... gone.

It all happened so quickly. And here was how the audible response went, "FFFFFFFFFFFFFF.... Fart!!" No censoring, folks. I actually said, "fart" instead of the other f-word.

The best part? The boyfriend yelled in from the bedroom, with closed door, "I'm proud of you for saying 'fart'."

Judging January

2010-01-15T15:08:00.013-06:00

January, this is why you suck:

You force me to remove my Christmas decorations from all the nooks and crannies of my home. And I will always resent you for it.
You are cold. So cold that even when I'm donning 90% of my cold-weather wardrobe (long undies, flannel jammies, socks, slippers, sweatshirt, robe and blanket) I still get the shivery shakes.
Your snow is the sloppy seconds of weather. December's snow was pretty. Yours is not.
You insist that I reap the credit card damage I sowed in December. Rude.

January, this is why you're kind of ok:

You're only one month away from V-Day and B-Day.
You have things like hoarfrost. And that's just funny to say.
You're usually the inspiration of killer clearance sales at several of my favorite retail locations. This is the kind of sloppy seconds of which I can approve.
Well ... that's about it, really.

Uggly

2010-01-06T10:18:00.010-06:00

I'm typically against the idea of spending $150+ on boots whose sole purpose (heh ... sole ... get it?) is to schlep in the snow and sludge. So last winter I opted for Target snow boots, instead. After just one chilling season, they were about as warming in the snow as a pair of flip flops, so my position on the matter shifted. I wasn't convinced but certainly open to arguments. (As if someone was going to give me a lecture on the benefits of a pair of boots.) The decision was made for me when I tore into a candy-cane wrapped Christmas gift and Uggs were there to greet me. (If my new Uggs had a voice, I imagine they'd sound like Barry White, FYI.)

I love them. I really, really love them. My feet are so warm. Warmer than a desert fox's toenails - see what I did there, OutKast? Every time I take a step, it's like I'm traipsing on a soft, cuddly puppy. That sounded wrong... just a second, I have to go block PETA on my email account.

But one issue I've noticed in the last three weeks - I've worn them every day, yes ... have you seen Kansas City lately? - is that my socks tend to gradually shimmy down my leg, ankle, then foot so it can hang out all bunched up with my toes. I appreciate the social gesture, but it's quite uncomfortable.

So I tapped my resident Uggs expert, Bop Bop. (It's not like she has stock in the company. At least I don't think she does. She's just the only person I know who wears them on a semi-regular basis.) I prefaced my inquiry with "this is probably dumb" and asked away ... does she have the same issue? With her answer, my fuzzy boot world was rocked to its core: "MOLLY! You're not supposed to wear socks with Uggs!"

After quick internet research ... and by "research" I mean "google search, clicking on the first two links listed" ... her answer was confirmed.

I have minor concerns about stink and true warmth, but you better believe I'm going to try it out. Starting now. It's like I'm going foot commando...

I Want a Golden Ticket

2010-01-04T09:27:00.004-06:00

There are tons of things I don't understand ... Snuggies, Team Jacob, the re-emergence - let alone the emergence - of harem pants and the appeal of Jagermeister, to name a few. But what I also can't comprehend is why on Earth Bed Bath & Beyond doesn't just mark down their entire flippin' store by 20%.

Seriously, visit any home and I all-but-guarantee you'll find at least one, if not multiple, BB&B 20% off coupon. If I'm going to get a special coupon, I want to feel like Charlie freakin' Bucket. But instead, I get a BB&B coupon and hear Charlie Brown teacher commentary ... wah, wah.

Ok, I'm not really complaining. I just don't get it.

Blame Twitter

2009-12-16T11:09:00.003-06:00

Microblogging killed the blogging star. That's how that song goes, right? And it totally fits what's happened here at Blogging Molly. Except for the fact that I'm not a star. Details, schmetails.

I'm here to state my intentions. I vow, starting January 1, 2010, to blog at least once a week for an entire year. See, I'm writing this down for all (read: two of you) so I'm more inclined to hold true to my typed word. I've made empty promises in the past ... but those are so last decade.

So I have approximately 15 more days to ignore the crap out of you ... (like the padding I gave myself?) But then it's on like Long Duck Dong.

Twit you

2009-08-19T11:52:00.010-06:00

Hold the presses. Whoa, whoa, whoa. [Insert other "wait just a minute" phrase here.] I've done yet another thing this year that I never thought I would do. The first thing was renewing a lease. Did you know I've lived in 10 different houses/apartments in the last 7 years? Now you do. I'm proud of this NBDB. (That's Never Been Done Before, folks. Gosh, I really hate acronyms.) I'm sure my moving crew, i.e. friends and family, is relieved, too.

The other ... well, it's not that I'm not proud of it. It's just something I never thought I'd do. But more and more, I saw the appeal. So what I'm saying is ... I'm now a twit.

twitter.com/themollyjane

Don't judge me. (Or do. I guess I can't stop you.)

A good friend has been attempting to convince me to start tweeting. I vehemently declined. Several months later, I finally decided to cave, but all the usernames I would have assumed under were already in use. Or just taken - if you're going to take a rad name like BiggieMolls, you need the mini blogs to back it up, sister. Gah. So I took this as an interweb-cosmos sign.

But for some reason, yesterday I felt the need to enter the world of tweets. Molly Jane was taken, so naturally I put "the" in front of it because you and I both know I am the ultimate MJ. Well, other than the late MJ. And then there's that one guy who used to play for the Bulls. I digress.

I haven't decided my game plan for the tweeting, yet. I mean, I'm a regular FB status updater, so I don't want to repeat everything on the Twitters. And I don't have a smart phone, so updates won't be in real-time. (Which is too bad for you guys because my life is awesome.) But I do think I'm going to use this venue as more of a "what I'm up to" in addition to using it as a space to share my scarily random thoughts.

So here I go. Holy social networking, Batman. We'll see how long this lasts.

That extra oomph

2009-08-06T14:03:00.004-06:00

What is it about that seemingly-irrelevant nudge we give ourselves to get something done? Like when I'm playing Mario Kart and I tilt my entire controller, or more like the entire upper-half of my body, in order to complete that sharp turn. Or when I stick my tongue out trying to get something from a shelf that's got a height advantage on me.

I don't have any light to shed on the situation. It just sprung into my head when I was using a public restroom at a Topeka grocery store. What makes me think that resting my toosh on the seat's front-half only and placing just my tippy toes on the floor are going to make the experience less germ-filled?

But enlighten me ... what's your extra oomph?

Too far?

2009-08-04T20:25:00.004-06:00

Sometimes, that's where I take things.

This evening I enjoyed the bi-monthly ... sometimes more ... company of some of my family members at dinner. While taking a gander at the extensive menu, I hollered across the table to my Dad to tell him that the Reuben Panini was pretty darn tasty. My stepmom interjected, with a very confused tone I might add, "A reuben-tini?" And thus my imagination flourished.

Ah yes. The reuben-tini. For those of us who don't get enough salt from a dirty martini, the reuben-tini employs the flawless combination of corned beef and sauerkraut - pureed to perfection. Sauerkraut is sprinkled on top, for aesthetic- and texture-purposes, of course. The beverage is finished with a Thousand Island dressing-rimmed glass.

And that, my friends, is taking things "too far." Feel free to vomit now.

Solved

2009-07-22T17:25:00.007-06:00

I came home from work today and found myself humming the theme song to a cartoon I watched as a kid ... The Littl' Bits. I'm not sure what spawned it. I haven't thought about the show in years because I don't even think it was one of my favorites. Funny how things work.

But I youtube'd it, anyway. Just to confirm that it was indeed a late 80s/early 90s cartoon theme song I was humming, and not just something I made up. (I've been known to do that.) After my assessment was confirmed, I obviously revisited the other shows I frequently watched ... like David the Gnome. That guy was awesome. And Swift was a fox. (No, seriously ... he was a fox. Like the animal. I wasn't confessing a crush there.)

But all this reminiscing made me kinda sad. Because since high school, probably, I've been on the hunt to remember the name of my very favorite Nickelodeon cartoon. It involved koalas, or some similar marsupial, that teleported with makeup compact-looking devices - and used said devices as communication mediums, as well. I always borrowed my mom's powder compact to pretend I was one of them. But no matter how many times I've had the conversation - several hundred - and with whom I speak to, we can never seem to recall the name.

Well, my friends. I've found it. And as pathetic as it is, a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. As sad as it may be, I feel a sense of accomplishment. As pitiful as it probably seems, I feel more whole. Oh Noozles ... you complete me.

Milk was a bad choice

2009-06-17T14:00:00.003-06:00

I didn't drink milk today. But I will tell you what was a bad choice ... wearing jeans. I thought for sure it would be the worst decision I made today since it's 91 degrees outside - feels like 105 - with a humidity level of 2000%.

Wrong.

Today's worst decision was getting sushi from HyVee. I wanted something light since I ate my weight in chips, espinaca dip and burritos last night. And all-in-all, grocery store sushi should be avoided. But I figured you couldn't really go wrong with a California roll.

Wrong again.

Sushi = 1, Molly = Head in a toilet (Ok, not really, but I feel like it should be.)

Obsessed

2009-06-16T10:29:00.005-06:00

I've realized I pride myself in not being obsessed with much. Like being obsessed is a tell-tale sign of immaturity. But I'm often described as a passionate person. And then I wonder if passion and obsession that far off from each other? I don't think so. So I'm passionate about things I do, but not passionate or obsessed about much in general. Ruh roh.

Sure, I'm obsessed with food. And what's that gotten me? A lot of fat kid jokes, that's what. And I more-than-love puppies. (All dogs are puppies, thanks.) But I'm allergic. So there's that. I do a lot of crossword puzzles ... not good at them, still ... but am I going to have endless conversation material about them? Not likely. I've always loved to read, and it's become more commonplace in the last couple of years. But I typically don't read anything of high intellectual value, and most of the time stick to the mainstream. So that's just boring, really. I'm getting into gardening, but I'm not that good at it. I've started to run, not because I like it, but because that a-hole adult metabolism is catching up to me.

And then there's this blogging thing. I've started to feel the pressure to be funny. And when I consequently try too hard, it's an obvious setup for failure. So I try to take a timeout and let it come naturally. Then I don't blog for months. Then the pressure returns. Insert vicious cycle here. I feel like a blog needs some sort of consistency - be it theme of content, frequency of posts or all-around sucktitude. And Blogging Molly is just hanging out in the interwebs space all wimbly nimbly.

So I think it's time for a reevaluation. Nothing drastic. Just a mentality switch. I've always resented people who take themselves too seriously. And I just realized I run the risk of turning into that if I don't start obsessing over things again. I need to start getting excited about things again. (I need to find a hobby. A good one.)

Sometimes, you set yourself up for disappointment so you're pleasantly surprised. I do it all the time, and I'm just now realizing how damaging it's been. In the realm of love and friendship, I've always been of the belief that being brokenhearted is what makes you able to love again. And makes it that much more precious. So why not take that sentiment to life in general? Being disappointed makes the fun stuff more enjoyable. It's not easy to be excited about things. It can be emotionally and mentally taxing. But why do I need to be so emotionally and mentally well-rested? So I can tell my grandkids that my life was "very relaxing"? Lame City, Population = Me.

So what I'm saying is ... come disappoint me, world. I'm ready for it.

Airplane

2009-06-08T20:12:00.005-06:00

The other day, I was swapping funny/awkward/cute airplane stories with two of my dearest friends. Like when Michelle had a loud, drunk stranger-woman proceed to rub her shoulders mid-flight. Or when Haley thought it was the cutest thing ever when kids kept yelling, "Look! The city's getting smaller and smaller and smaller!" I claimed to have nothing to add to the conversation. I wasn't holding back, it just seems to be a common trend that I'm memory punched during fun conversations such as these.

So I just remembered a good one. Good enough to write down.

I was on my way to LA for work. My flight stopped through Phoenix. Phoenix to LA is a ridiculously short flight, but I opted for a glass of wine anyway. (Because not using your free Southwest drink tickets should be punishable.) At this point in life, my taste buds had yet to find a suitable white wine, so red wine was the obvious choice. Lah dee dah, I'm drinkin' my wine. Sittin' next to some dude wearing Uggs. (Odd.) Then, without notice - as if she'd warn me of the coming event - a flight attendant rushes by me, bumps my elbow with noticeable-yet-unintentional force, spilling my red wine all over one of the few pairs of nice, lighter-colored jeans I owned. Well poo.

Uggs Boy sees it happen, luckily enough, so I had someone to vouch that I wasn't drunk and clumsy. He was equally in awe as I was that the flight attendant didn't feel a thing to elicit even a pause for question. I awkwardly attempt to sop up the mess on my jeans with my Barbie-sized cocktail napkin, to little avail.

Another flight attendant saunters past, and Uggs Boy gains her attention on my behalf to inform her of the situation. Flight attendant numero dos clearly felt bad and said she'd return quickly with some towels. But when she came back, she had more than towels to greet me with. She bent down closer to me, as to avoid making a scene. Her commentary went a little something like this, "Now ... I know this might be a little awkward, but trust me. It works." And she hands me a sanitary napkin.

I'm just glad I didn't get a nose bleed.

Dreamweaver

2009-06-08T19:42:00.005-06:00

In the purist sense of the word, a personal blog should be about anything and everything on the author's mind. (Author is such a loose term in this sense. Ha. I said loose.) I don't know what has come over me lately, though. In the past, my sporadic entries were mostly attributed to a busy schedule ... or lazy disposition. But in the past two months, I can't for the life of me think of anything inspiring or worthy of anyone's attention. Even mine. So if I were to blog in just stream of consciousness form, just for the sake of publishing something, I think I'd lose the few readers I have. I digress.

What I'm trying to say is that I've been thinking about you. Maybe too much and that's why anything of value escapes me. But I'm going to catch it, darnit. If I have to purchase a butterfly net, fishing pole or any other item that does proverbial catching, I'll do it. Even if it's a dream catcher ... and I think those things are ick-tastic on a taste level.

For now, I will tell you that I was thinking on my way to work. (That's rare in and of itself, thanks.) There's one job that I absolutely could not tolerate having. I could never be a tattoo artist. Not just for a lack of talent and immense phobia of needles. But because the responsibility it garners. I all-but-guarantee - nay, I guarantee - that I would be the dummy who misspelled, even though my spelling is typically impeccable, or made a seemingly-innocent illustration one that cultivates many blushing cheeks. (Not the butt kind.)

Yep, that's it.

Guilty pleasure?

2009-05-14T10:06:00.006-06:00

Fact: I am unashamed to admit that I'm a fan of America's Next Top Model. This fandom is multi-faceted. I like it because it's kind of amazing to see seemingly normal gals turn into drop-dead gorgeous models - awkward faces/personalities/fashion sense and all. I like it because Tyra Banks is several doses of crazy. I like it because Nigel Barker is several doses of attractive. (His accent, at least.) I like it because the makeover episode is inspirational and entertaining. (I will never understand girls who have mental conniptions over their hair.)

Quite some time ago, a coworker and I found an online application to audition for the show. You see, next cycle (that's Tyra-talk for "season") will be made up of short models only. 5'7" and under ... Lisa Leslie's need not apply. So, clearly we "joked" about modeling it up. (Some more jokingly than others.) And let me tell you, this application is a thing of greatness. Let's just talk about some of the better questions, and the producers' obvious mental commentary while writing them.

"14a If you are married or in a relationship, how would you rate your relationship on a scale of 1-10? Please explain ... 14b If you are married or in a relationship, how will your partner feel about the potential two-month separation?"

Your significant other should be the jealous type. Please proceed to tell us tales of thrice-hourly calls during your workday and the multitude of shrines made in your honor. Welcome to ANTM.

"24 Regardless of your marital status, describe your ideal romantic partner."

You know, so we can be sure to cast them as your male model counterparts for a photo shoot. Let the cheating commence.

"49 Do you have a temper? How often do you lose your temper? What provokes you?"

We will be sure to cast the embodiment of every single one of your pet peeves. Don't say we didn't warn you.

"52 When was the last time you hit, punched, kicked or threw something in anger? Please provide details."

This is either precautionary or ratings gold, depending on the severity your answer.

"63 What types of people would you choose to have living with you in the house? ... 64 What types of people would you NOT choose to live with you in the house?"

Tip: If you want to save your sanity, answer the opposite of what you feel.

"67 Who is your favorite supermodel? ... your least favorite? Explain."

Let us answer this for you. Part 1: Tyra Banks. Part 2: everyone else.

"72 How did you hear about the show?"

Do not say The Soup. Tyra may or may not be in the middle of negotiating a contract to have Joel McHale killed.

They're back

2009-05-04T11:18:00.003-06:00

Saturday morning I decided to be productive while my Awake Juice was brewing. I picked up a piece of tupperware in the sink to rinse it out before putting it in the dishwasher and what was underneath? Why, a dead cave cricket, of course. (See this blog post for visual reinforcement of the situation's creep-factor.)

After a few air punches and five minutes of the willies, I proceeded to flush the devil spawn down the drain and let the garbage disposal run all day. Ok, 30 seconds.

Not cool.

Petition

2009-04-15T15:53:00.005-06:00

Dear Hershey's,

I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but your Reese's Peanut Butter Egg product is an absolute thing of greatness. Plain and simple, the ratio of peanut butter to chocolate is highly superior to the original peanut butter cup making for a near-perfect and certainly euphoric candy experience.

I also must tell you that your follow-up attempts to ride on the coat tails of PB egg bliss are commendable. Some of the imitations are better than others but all are close enough to lead up to the joyful PB egg season, culminating in pure awesomeness. (I'm on my second bag, thanks.)

But what are we to do when egg season has passed? This oversight has me especially disgruntled this year because I very regrettably let it slip my mind to race to the nearest convenience store in search of Easter candy discounts. As it is now the third day after Easter, and with past experience of course, I am fully aware of the likelihood - slim - that I will score anymore PB eggs. After all, I'm not the only one who loves them. (There are multiple pages on Facebook dedicated to their honor. All the proof you need, obvi.)

Peanut-Butter-Cup-turned-holiday-shapes season starts in October. Then we have all of November to enjoy our pumpkins. December brings us trees. February hearts and then finally eggs. But from April to October, we are forced to either ration our supplies - unlikely - or suffer through the cravings. Not fair.

So I'm proposing you at least do us the justice of creating another PB cup shape. A star on the Fourth of July would make the most sense, but I don't care what you do, honestly. Just do it, Hershey's. Make it happen. A flag on Flag Day? Sure why not. It may just be a rectangle, but as long as the PB/chocolate ratio's spot on, I won't complain. A maple leaf on Canada Day? Sign me up. For all I care, you can have a carrot-shaped PB cup for National Eat Your Vegetables Day in June. I just need a fix, and I need it now.

Sincerely,
Molly

P.S. Your attention to this matter will likely result in an ease-up of the fierce grudge I've held against you for ridding the Jolly Rancher assorted mix bags of lemon-flavored goodness. Think about it. (Now.)

Show your character

2009-04-11T11:08:00.005-06:00

Yesterday I volunteered to "sell" papers on a busy street corner from 6:15-9 a.m. for Greater KC Day. Greater KC Day is put on by Royals Charities, with proceeds going to the KC Rotary Youth. It's a good cause, so it makes it worth it to wake up at 5:30 a.m. - an hour I didn't know existed. The first year I volunteered ruined any other years for me, I think, because it was absolutely gorgeous weather. This year, and last, was plagued with cold, rain and wind. But rain or shine, you're bound to learn about all the behaviors of people trying to avoid giving you any monies. These ill-patterned individuals were the most common of everyone I saw in the 2 1/2 hour span. (KC, you make me so proud.)

The Lane Changer: Oh, because changing lanes is really going to help. You're one lane over so you think I can't see you? Look, my posse has all corners covered, so even if you get away without handing over your change, you're sure as heck not getting away without guilt.

The Vision Averter: Similar to the lane changer, this driver will stay in the lane they were originally driving in, but when they pull up to stop, they make sure they're in a position where the bar on their windshield blocks the line of vision between the person trying to ask for money and them. Excuse me, are you three years old? Because I remember when I was three years old ... playing hide and seek, the best strategy was "if I can't see them, they can't see me."

The Center Consoler: This is amazing ... all of a sudden, when they pull up to stop, their center console becomes fascinating.

The I'm Really Busy: The cell phone is the most common. You know, because when you're talking on the phone, it's obviously impossible to roll down your window and hand me some change. Others use their coffee mugs. But I don't think it would matter if it was a four-week old can of Volt - they will drink it just to avoid contact with someone volunteering their time for a good cause.

The Laugher or Shaker: Yes, there were several people who either shook their head in seemingly disgust at me, or who just laughed at me because I'm an idiot for standing outside in the current weather conditions. Well you know what? I'm judging you for doing that. I feel fairly confident in saying I am a better person than you are. Deal with it.

The Straight One: No, I'm not referring to sexual orientation. This one will look straight ahead, and only straight ahead, no matter what. I think next year I will approach their car, two inches from their window, just to test their commitment to looking straight on. If you stay strong, I will give you major props. If I win, you give me all the cash in your wallet. And remember, I have boobs and I know how to use them. (Ok, I probably won't use them. But I'll still probably win.)

The Shifty One: These ones try to look straight ahead, but it's easy to see their eyes shift to you, wondering if you're still standing there asking for money. Yep. Still here...

The Nice Car: If you're driving a brand new Lexus or BMW, and you don't even give me an "I'm sorry" look, let alone your spare change or dollar, I will judge you, too. I don't even have to explain myself on that one.

The Dry One: This is the a-hole who's nice and dry in the parking garage next to you, in his fancy suit, who asks you if you have a dry paper. I make the effort to dig one out even though I can't feel my fingers - and he walks away without giving a donation. Not even a quarter. Ok this was just one guy last year, and I'm definitely still bitter.

The not-really a Royals fan Royals fan: Look, it's Greater KC Day. One of the Royals' biggest initiatives for charity. And everyone who's a real Royals fan knows about the hundreds of volunteers who litter KC-area street corners to raise money one day a year. So if you're wearing Royals gear and you don't donate or you practice one of the previously listed offenses, you are not a Royals fan. Seriously.

Don't get me wrong, there were some generous and friendly people out there. Ones who gave me $5 and $10 bills, out sympathy more than anything. Or the lady who offered to get me a cup of coffee. But unfortunately, the sketchy people outnumbered the good ones.

But let's be honest, we've all been victim to this shady behavior at least once, whether it's a homeless person or fireman with a boot asking for money. I'd say I'm a fair mix of either the cell phoner or the vision averter. But after three years of witnessing this crappy-but-inevitable human behavior first hand, I've vowed to donate to good causes when I see them. The ones panhandling ... well, that's another blog in itself. I won't go there.

So which one are you?

Restrictions

2009-04-08T14:03:00.005-06:00

I don't travel that much, but almost every day I'm haunted, daunted and annoyed-aunted by the liquid restrictions associated with it. It's really shaped the way we trek across states, countries and continents ... not in a good way.

How many times do I have to go spend a dollar on shampoo that's going to be good for two uses? And you know what? This rule is discriminatory considering half of the products, that must be used to tame the frizzy beast that is my hair, don't come in 3 oz bottles. And forget about transferring them to those 3 oz travel bottles - I end up wasting too much to make it worth it. So basically what I'm saying is that when I travel and don't check a bag, I look like donkey dung.

So I was thinking the other day, how normal is it that when looking at bottles of things, I automatically check the liquid volume measurements with flights in mind? It's not normal at all, is the answer, not only because the aforementioned lack of travel, but the fact that most of the things I check for travel-worthiness are never things I'd take with me.

So I decided to take inventory of items in my office cube to see what would or would not make the cut. Here are the items won't be going with my on my next flight:

Green Tabasco, 5 oz. ... oh, so close! How awesome would it be if I demanded to travel with my green tabasco? Really awesome.

Cooper's Pure Honey bear bottle, 12 oz. ... Samsonite, I was way off!

Sweet Pea Healing Hand Cream, 4 oz. ... This one's ok with me. I'm going to pass a law that bans any perfume scents on planes anyway. Some people really can't comprehend the word "moderation."

Always Save brand cooking spray, 8 oz. ... Yes, it's totally normal that I have this in my food drawer. And yes, I have a food drawer.

Here is what will make the cut:

A plastic New York snow globe, unknown oz. ... I know this isn't labeled, but there's no way this is over 3 oz. of liquid glitter. And who doesn't need to travel with a NY snow globe?

Pallini Limoncello mini bottle, 50 ML ... (that's approximately 1.7 oz, duh.)

Van Gogh Dutch Chocolate Vodka, 50 ML ... (see above, smarties.)

Mozart Chocolate liqueur, .05 L ... I don't the conversion to oz on this one. Not sure why Mozart has to be an a-hole about it. Probably for the same reason that he spelled "liquor" in a dumb, dumb way.

So we could talk about the fact that I have three baby bottles of liquor on my desk - one of which is halfway empty. But I think it'd be cooler talk about the fact that two of the three alcohols are named after famous artists. When did that become a trend and when can we expect it to go away? Thanks.

Well shoot

2009-04-05T09:53:00.003-06:00

So I've been staring at my last blog entry, desperately trying to muster up something to write about. Work is still frying up my brain in a big ol' corporate saucepan, so unless it has to do with Sam's Club, Payless or the Kansas City Art Institute, I've got nothing of worth to offer when it comes to commentary.

I thought about writing about what I've been up to lately. But I didn't think my reader(s?) cared to know about the status of my attempts to grow out my finger nails. (Eight of them are growing strong. Thumbs are nubbins. I can't figure it out.)

Then I thought about writing about what I'm going to do in the near future. But there's only so much I can write about Royals games and the pending opening of MLB season. (I live at Kauffman stadium. No seriously, I've considered re-routing my mail there for the next six-month period.)

I've gone on two mini-trips in the last month, so I could share pictures. But we should probably talk about how 98% of them are of animals. I'm not sure how I figured out that math, but I'm going to assume it's accurate. You should do the same. And I should assume you're not interested in seeing said pictures.

So if anyone has any genius introspection of how I can leap over this mound of freak un-inspiration, holler.

Rather pointless

2009-03-17T14:48:00.004-06:00

It's been a while. I'm really slacking and this time, I'm disappointed in myself. I truly wanted to grace the internet with my prose prowess at least twice a week. And by "prose prowess", I mean "senseless stories." Anywho, February proved to be a reality punch in the face.

First, I was put into a cupcake-induced coma thanks to Cupid's Day and the celebration of the birth of yours truly.

Then, my dear Grandpa had to say goodbye to us. (Debbie Downer moment.) Let's pour one out for Bob A, shall we? He was the hippest of homies.

Circa 2006

After that, my bronchials decided to have their way with me for at least a week and a half. I believe "bronchial tubes" is the correct term, but when am I ever accurate? Especially in a medical sense ... never, that's when.

So here I am. Struggling to concentrate on the copious amounts of copy waiting to be written mostly because I just arrived home from a trip to Dallas - to visit my chico man - and left my headphones in my travel bags. Trying to work without music is like trying to get a 14-year-old girl to recite the Gettysburg Address when Nick Jonas is in the room. Just not going to happen. (I'm really not sure how I knew one of the Jonai's first names ... It must be some sort of science.)

Gooooooooulet

2009-02-25T10:36:00.006-06:00

I've made a recent discovery of an abomination on the catalog phenomenon, if such a thing exists ... does it? I think I just made that up. Nay, I'm positive I did. It's what I do, deal with it. Anyway, two words, my friends: Midnight Velvet.

I'm not sure how to describe this publication. It's a mish-mash of women's clothing - definitely not worthy of a fashion classification - and home decor. Upon further research on their website ... I can't believe they deem this stuff worthy of a website ... I have learned they also offer furniture and "bed and bath." Joy! Let me share some of the gems this waste of paper and postage fees displays.

They call this the Watercolor Pant Set. I've read that watercolor prints are "in" this year. I'm also certain this is not what they meant. I think I saw this actual watercolor painting in our 1989 rental home at Beaver Lake. "1989" and "Beaver Lake" being the operative terms that exemplify why it should not be adapted to a piece of clothing. Also, I'm fairly confident in saying anything involving a "set" in clothing is meant for ages 7 and under. There's also a whole category on the site dedicated to pant sets. Not ok. And let's note that this specific piece of work is dry clean only. In my terms? Trash can filled with kerosene and a lit match only. We could also talk about how this is $130 ... but I digress.

For the love of fashion, who told someone Bedazzling is back? It's not. I assure you. And beg you to stop.

I think the suit section is my favorite. And by "favorite" I mean "makes me gag the most." Mostly because all the suits come with matching handbags and hats. Oh the hats! I mean, I can go for a big, obnoxious hat at the Kentucky Derby. But I think we can all agree that she's not going to the Kentucky Derby. And if nothing else, let's get one thing clear ... not many pieces of clothing should don this hue of purple. Let alone an entire collection of accessories to go with it.

I mean, really?

Holy jackpot, I just discovered the men's section. Look out, J. Your birthday is coming up...

And just for a little taste of Midnight Velvet's versatility...

Oh good! I've been wondering where I can find a glass orb complete with jellyfish design.

The best part about receiving this catalog? The callout sticker on the front telling me, "Be careful! This could be your last issue. Order now!" Is that a threat or a promise? Please let it be a promise.

That just happened

2009-02-13T20:11:00.002-06:00

Me (to J): "I love cuddling with you in the morning. It's my favorite part of the day."

J: "Really?"

Me: "Yup."

J: "Mine's lunch."

My boyfriend loves me.

Valentine

2009-02-13T14:33:00.002-06:00

I'm going to put it out there: I love Valentine's Day. And I'll even go so far to say that I'm anti-people who are anti-Valentine's Day. All this talk about "made up holiday" ... "greeting card holiday" blah blah blah. What the F ever. First of all, don't buy a greeting card if you don't want it to be a greeting card holiday. Smart. And I find it funny that the vast majority of those who are against the proverbial Hallmark Holiday do so in attempt to be non-conformist. But I do believe that the majority is now anti-V-Day ... who's the nonconformist now? Idiots.

Second of all ... made up holiday? I don't care. I see nothing wrong with having a day dedicated to reminding your sweetie, or anyone else close to your heart, know how much you love them. Yes, this should happen every day of the year. But let's be honest ... it doesn't. We get in fights, we get complacent, we take things for granted. So let's take a step back and remember why we love the people we do and show them. There's a special day for your mom (ha), your dad and everyone in between. What about Saint freaking Patrick's Day? Why is it ok to have a holiday dedicated to getting wasted on beer tainted with food coloring, but not ok to have a holiday dedicated to love?

But where would we be without made up holidays anyway? Hippies and eco-enthusiasts alike are given a day for the Earth they love. Federal employees, and the five of us with an obsession of Columbus are given a day to give props. (I wonder if the filmmaker feels bad that he doesn't have a holiday.) But are we so uncomfortable with expressing love that we need to dispute a day for it?

I don't need chocolates, flowers or a Vermont Teddy Bear ... though the latter is absolutely hilarious. What I love about February 14th is the aura. It reminds me of making Valentine boxes from old shoe boxes in elementary school. Of the small care package my mom would have waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs every V-Day, without fail. (I still miss them.) I look forward to watching a movie, eating some takeout and letting J know that he is the Hidden Valley to my ranch.

Aaaaand scene.

25

2009-02-03T22:06:00.014-06:00

So it's February. And a) I didn't blog as much as I told myself I would in January. I get a big fat F ... surprise, surprise. 2) I'm turning 25 in two weeks. I'm not one to get overly excited about birthdays. Nor do I feel bothered by them. But 25 is kind of a milestone. I mean, I get a discount on my car insurance. I don't care if it's $5 less a month, it's the principle of the matter.

So anyway, there's this thing on Facebook going around called 25 Things. People write down 25 random things about themselves for all the FB world to see. I thought it only appropriate that I tell you 25 things about myself on the year of my 25th anniversary as Molly Jane. (Ok, it's kind of a cop out to not post it on FB ... and it's also a free pass from thinking of a blog on my own, but if you judge me for it, you're dumb.)

Here's what I got:

1.) At work and in public restrooms in general, I have to plug my ears otherwise I can't pee. Even if there's no one in there, the aura gives me "stage fright."

2.) Look, you know this about me already ... but I freaking hate cardboard. It's disgusting. More disgusting than thinking about Donatella Versace topless. Did you see that?! Ew.

3.) My closet is color-coordinated.

4.) I'm secretly reading the Twilight books. Crap ... my secret's out.

5.) I play Dance Dance Revolution as a form of exercise. And I'm pretty good at it. (I also sweat a lot.)

6.) When I was a kid, I pretended one of those battery-powered lint removers was a razor. I pressed it to my cheek, and had a circle of dots on my cheek for at least six months. I was a smart kid.

7.) I know all the words to the song "We Didn't Start the Fire."

8.) Three of my girlfriends and I once kidnapped and "tortured" a friend because he stole the 8-ball from All's pool table at a party. It's one of my favorite memories. How the kidnapped party feels about it? Yeah, I don't know. It was all in good fun but we did duct tape him to a merry-go-round in the park and drive off for a bit ...

9.) Out of boredom, a group of friends and I chipped in to purchase a toilet at Home Depot and proceeded to spend hours taking turns sitting on it at a busy intersection.

10.) I play three instruments and one of them is the handbells.

11.) I first watched Sixteen Candles when I was 6 when my 6 siblings and I were home alone. For some reason, the scene where Jake Ryan calls Samantha's house late at night several times from his house party stuck in my mind. After we finished watching, I went up to my room, and pretended like I was scared that someone kept calling me and I dialed 911 ... even though in my mind I was going to resolve my fears with my true love, Jake. Yeah ... the police had to come to the house because I dialed and hung up. Oops. And Sixteen Candles is still one of my favorite movies regardless of the embarrassing association my memories have with it.

12.) I can shoot water at least 10 feet through the gap in my teeth. I haven't taken official projectile measurements, but trust me on it.

13.) When I was 7 I ate an entire pan of Stouffer's lasagna by myself. No lie. (I also probably wasn't full afterward.)

14.) I hate two bands: Oasis and Hootie and The Blowfish. The rest I just kind of dislike are negotiable. Those ... are not.

15.) I will always love really bad jokes and immature ones, too. Example of the former: How come no one in the ocean likes lobsters? Because they're shellfish. Example of the latter: My boyfriend told me he played Call of Duty last night. I said, "Hahahaha, you said duty."

16.) I moved into my apartment six months ago and I still haven't put anything up on my walls, even though most of the stuff is laying against the respective walls it will live on. Hi, I'm lazy, nice to meet you.

17.) J calls me Noodle. I call him Dinosaur. Just an example of how dumb we are because we really make no sense. I also call him Doobie Brother, and I have no idea why.

18.) I get the "Lambchops Underwear" theme song stuck in my head far too often to make any sort of sense.

19.) When I eat burritos, I pick them up and kind of toss them in my hand. I don't know if I'm testing the weight or if it's just a weird quirk. I'm guessing it's the quirk thing.

20.) In other meal news, I apparently go all OCD on the way my food is arranged. I have to turn the plate so that the entree is on the right and the side is on the left. If I'm eating fast food, I have to fold the wrapper in a square before I start in.

21.) I'm oddly obsessed with amusement parks. I could talk for hours about Disneyworld and Universal Studios. And words can't describe how excited I am for the new Harry Potter theme park. For serious.

22.) I have eight bottles of perfume, but I almost always forget to put any on in the morning.

23.) I think I'm totally boring.

24.) I buy kids' bandaids. I currently have Batman and Harry Potter. They're kind of awesome.

25.) My favorite game at birthday parties as a kid was a food relay. You'd wrap different types of food in aluminum foil, split into relay teams, and each person would have to run to a chair, pick a food, eat all of it entirely and run back to tag the next teammate. To my recollection, one year a girl had to go home because she had to eat marshmallows in one round and powdered donuts the next. When a bff did this game at her party, I puked because I had to eat Nutri Grain Bars. (Sick.) I still have fond memories nonetheless.

Where I'm going

2009-01-28T12:02:00.004-06:00

My 2009 vacation calendar is shaping up quite nicely. It's slightly daunting only because I don't want to find myself going absolutely bonkers in December with zero vacation days left to my name. But it's exciting because I have oodles look forward to.

1.) Dallas in March

I'm visiting a dear friend, her boyfriend - I guess I like him, too - and their new canine friend. (I'm stoked to meet Tex, the Louisiana Catahoula Leopard dog.) I will come armed with Claritin and a small, carry-on bag - as my butt face airline is one that charges for checked bags ... so much for looking cute. I will also be fully prepared to celebrate St. Patrick's Day, lay by the pool - weather permitting - and spend quality time with a gal I've known and loved since day one of my existence.

What I will not do in Dallas:

Spend too much money on clothing/shoes - written proof that I've made a promise to myself. (Psh.)
Visit any restaurant Jessica Simpson has gone to. (Ok, that was a low blow.)
Be the second gunman on the Grassy Knoll.

2.) St. Louis in May

This is the vacation of J and Molly, 2009. After much deliberation, we decided to regrettably decline an invitation to holiday in Napa. (Yes, I just said holiday. It sounds cooler, so what?) We are not immune to the recession punch felt 'round the world, so we opted for a more wallet-friendly excursion. We'll stop at a winery on the way and go antique shopping - much to J's dismay, I'm certain. We'll also take in a ball game - Go Royals! - see some animals at the zoo and in general, grace the city of St. Louis with our awesomeness.

What I will not do in St. Louis:

Visit East St. Louis. One experience was enough ...
Play bar golf. For sentimental and liver-purposes, I save this for MVC trips only.
Go "up in the Arch." Unless J insists, I'd like to save facing two fears at once - heights and claustrophobia - for a more worthy cause. You know, like death.

3.) Colorado in August

J has college friends getting married. I don't know much about it except that I'm going. What I do know is that the company will be entertaining, and I won't be at work. Winner.

What I will not do in Colorado:

Lay out in my bathing suit reading chapter after chapter of the 7th Harry Potter book, forgetting that since I'm in the mountains, I'm closer to the sun. Hello, lobster Molly. (I have never in my life been this miserable. Knee surgery included.)
Lose my pants on a ski lift. (Yes, "ski lift in August" doesn't compute, but that story is just too classic not to mention.)
Forget to be awesome.

4.) Camping in an unknown place at an unknown time

Last year, we went to Colorado. This year, we might try to keep it closer to KC. We'll eat our weight in smores, find some hiking trails and laugh a lot.

What I will not do on the camping trip:

Wear makeup.
Go to a camping site with port-o-potties only. I'll bathroom in the woods before I step foot in one of those. Dry heaving just thinking about them ...
Strangle any snoring members of our tent population.

I'm a simple girl

2009-01-23T15:23:00.003-06:00

I've noticed lately, that when I'm corresponding with people I haven't spoken to or seen in a while, and they ask me how I'm doing, what I'm up to, etc., my response is always the same: "I'm a simple girl."

See, it used to be, "Oh, nothing. I'm boring." But then I realized that response told people I was unhappy. I mean, being bored with life is not a good thing. So I changed my response to simplicity, to exude happiness. Because I'm happy. Extremely. But let's be honest, my simplicity is still boring to hear about.

So I've decided I need to take up a hobby. Other than reading - because rarely can I find someone to talk to about books. Here are some options I came up with:

• Become a connoisseur of something. I choose soup.

• Raise sea otters. Because if you can see this picture without melting, we're not friends:

• Start collecting spoons again. (Yes, I said again. And I'm not talking about those tiny souvenir spoons. Ones from restaurants. Ok, instead of "collecting" I guess I meant "steal." Start stealing spoons again.)

• Use Dance Dance Revolution as a form of exercise regularly. (Oh wait. I've already started down this course.)

• Learn to play the recorder. With my nose.

• Start a tribe of Sea Monkeys.

• Join the Renaissance Festival. I think I'll start at the wax-dipping station. So I can make fun of the obligatory awkward high school-aged couple who hold hands for their wax hand sculpture.

I think this is a good start. I'm just picturing talking to family during the holidays about my collection of 128 sea monkeys and then serenading them with my nasal recorder skills.

Any more suggestions?

Martha Stewart?

2009-01-07T13:06:00.008-06:00

So I was just stumbling through the internets, and I found a "Did you know..." page. It holds the secrets to life's simplest, yet annoying, dilemmas. Ice on the steps? Pour warm water with Dawn soap in it, and they won't freeze over again. Need to get some wax off the edges of a used candle to reuse the glass holder? Put it in the freezer for a few hours and then hold it upside down. I'm not going to lie, there are some pretty snazzy hints here. There are some, however, that beg to be addressed. Here goes ...

"To clean artificial flowers, pour some salt into a paper bag and add the flowers. Shake vigorously as the salt will absorb all the dust and dirt and leave your artificial flowers looking like new! Works like a charm!"

Molly's Resolution: How about you don't buy artificial flowers at all?

"When boiling corn on the cob, add a pinch of sugar to help bring out the corn's natural sweetness."

Molly's Resolution: Don't tell me what to do.

"Use air-freshener to clean mirrors. It does a good job and better still, leaves a lovely smell to the shine."

Molly's Resolution: Actually, this is so dumb, I don't even think I can dignify a response.

"A sealed envelope - Put in the freezer for a few hours, then slide a knife under the flap. The envelope can then be resealed."

Molly's Resolution: Tell me why I want to reseal an envelope when someone else has already licked it.

"Crayon marks on walls? This worked wonderfully! A damp rag, dipped in baking soda. Comes off with little effort (elbow grease that is!)"

Molly's Resolution: Baking soda may work wonders. Let's just clarify who should be doing the cleaning. Not you. The offender. I don't care if he can't talk yet. Put that kid to work.

"Whenever I purchase a box of S.O.S Pads, I immediately take a pair of scissors and cut each pad into halves. After years of having to throw away rusted and unused and smelly pads, I finally decided that this would be much more economical. Now a box of SOS pads last me indefinitely!"

Molly's Resolution: What the F is an SOS Pad? And by the way, if you ever use the phrase "smelly pads" in a sentence ever again, I'm hunting you down and cutting off your left ring finger so you can't type the letter "s" anymore. (Or "x". Take that!)

A Christmas Story

2009-01-07T09:31:00.003-06:00

So I'm a little behind. Whatever.

Here's my Christmas story, circa 1987.

I was three years old. My bff had a Christmas party in her basement. We got all gussied up ... we're talking velvet dresses and those doily things around our necks. After all, we had to look nice for Santa.

It was my turn to sit on Santa's lap. I'm sure he asked me what I wanted for Christmas, but I've blocked out any niceties. You know why? Because that jerkface tried to give me an orange. My response to this truly heinous attempt? "Uh. No thanks. I'm 'lergic." (That's "allergic" for you not fluent in Three Year Old.) And in case you're wondering, no, I wasn't respectful and sweet when I declined his gift. I was snotty. But I maintain that I had every right. Santa's supposed to know that ish, right?

He tried to salvage his mistake by offering me an apple instead, but I just jumped off his lap without a word. (Ha. I sure showed him.) Here's a picture:

One guess to which one is me...

To this day, I attributed the experience to the fact that I was just being a brat. Upon inquiry to my mom, however, about how I came to find out Santa wasn't real - there were several story swaps about this, but I couldn't for the life of me remember when and how my imaginative soul was crushed - I realized I had a perfectly good reason to cut that jolly man with my words. Mom informed me that they never took part in the Santa song and dance. Therefore, I never really believed in Santa and my "naughty" response was a product of that disbelief.

So there was no point to sharing that story, since the season has passed. But it's what you're getting, so deal with it.

Why winter is stupid

2008-12-22T09:53:00.002-06:00

• 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.

Definitions by Molly

2008-12-11T12:36:00.003-06:00

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.)

Filler

2008-12-09T15:18:00.003-06:00

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.

Ah, adulthood

2008-12-07T21:18:00.011-06:00

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.

(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.

Gotta potty

2008-12-03T09:48:00.003-06:00

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.

Don't be that person: Concert Edition

2008-10-29T09:13:00.005-06:00

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.

R.I.P.

2008-10-22T14:00:00.004-06:00

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.

IOU

2008-10-21T10:01:00.003-06:00

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."

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

2008-10-02T15:43:00.003-06:00

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.)

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.)

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

2008-09-23T09:39:00.003-06:00

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.")

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

2008-09-19T08:34:00.004-06:00

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?"

Trust issues

2008-09-15T13:30:00.005-06:00

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.

Stalker

2008-09-12T12:25:00.004-06:00

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.

Things I need to come to terms with, part one

2008-09-09T10:13:00.003-06:00

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.

Huh?

2008-09-08T08:35:00.004-06:00

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.

Wake up call

2008-08-29T08:17:00.008-06:00

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:

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.

Loud and proud

2008-08-26T09:02:00.005-06:00

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:

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.

Bad decisions ...

2008-08-18T12:29:00.003-06:00

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

2008-08-18T09:26:00.004-06:00

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?

The disappearing guilt

2008-08-12T09:19:00.000-06:00

I have decided to return the jeans.

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

Gross.

2008-08-08T03:53:00.002-06:00

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.

Frick!

2008-08-07T08:27:00.003-06:00

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.

Wishful thinking

2008-08-06T08:42:00.004-06:00

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.

Open wide

2008-07-15T08:50:00.005-06:00

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.

Green

2008-07-07T08:51:00.004-06:00

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.

Making a list. Checking it more than twice.

2008-06-27T09:44:00.006-06:00

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:

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?

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.)

Ode to Andy

2008-06-06T10:17:00.003-06:00

Like his baldish head
My coworkers killed his fish
Fancy spectacles

Shake, rattle and roll

2008-06-02T09:10:00.004-06:00

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.

Bucket, please

2008-05-30T08:38:00.008-06:00

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.

The latest announcement

2008-05-22T08:57:00.002-06:00

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

Um. Ok? ...

Another thing that doesn't suck ...

2008-05-21T12:27:00.003-06:00

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

2008-05-21T10:11:00.005-06:00

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.

Back to reality

2008-05-19T14:56:00.003-06:00

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?

Obligatory driving rant

2008-05-07T13:38:00.002-06:00

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.

Searching for inspiration

2008-05-05T14:49:00.004-06:00

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 ...

Lost.

2008-04-30T10:26:00.005-06:00

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.

Sold ... to number 34

2008-04-22T09:04:00.002-06:00

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.

Peeping Tommy

2008-04-18T08:06:00.004-06:00

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.

Seymoure Butts

2008-04-16T12:12:00.003-06:00

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.

I'm a loser

2008-04-14T16:00:00.002-06:00

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 ...

Don't go. Stay!

2008-04-11T09:48:00.004-06:00

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!

Equally as funny ...

2008-04-04T13:28:00.002-06:00

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.

Telephone is a funny game

2008-04-03T18:08:00.003-06:00

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.

My closet welcomes a new friend

2008-04-02T08:26:00.004-06:00

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.

Smell you later

2008-03-27T10:36:00.004-06:00

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.

It's so not the thought that counts

2008-03-18T12:08:00.007-06:00

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:

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.

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!

I also broke things.

2008-03-17T18:28:00.004-06:00

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.

2008-03-17T08:26:00.003-06:00

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.

What's that under your nose?

2008-03-11T14:16:00.002-06:00

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

2008-03-11T08:34:00.002-06:00

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