Blame Twitter

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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.