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?
06 August 2009
04 August 2009
Too far?
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.
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.
22 July 2009
Solved
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.
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.
17 June 2009
Milk was a bad choice
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.)
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.)
16 June 2009
Obsessed
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.
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.
08 June 2009
Airplane
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.
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
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.
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.
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