Every new begining comes from some other begining's end

Umm...did I just quote 90's alt-rock in my title?
Why yes, I believe I did.

Lately, I have been thinking about change; my life, I feel, is at a precipice. My whole world is about to do a back-flip and will undoubtedly result in something much different than what I have existed in for the past few years of my life.
Terrifying? Absolutely.
But would you believe me if I told you I was excited about it?
As a part of this turning point in my life which is both hypothetical and literal, I have found myself morphing into a person who literally craves change. I want new experiences, fresh perspectives, and unexplored feelings.
Does this possibly explain my shopping addiction? I think it may.

If we're being honest here, I think that despite my other proclivities this sentiment is particularly well-adjusted. There are people who live their lives in one perpetually stagnant point in history, and never progress. There are people who are afraid to know anything different, even though difference is an organic process and not something synthetic and foreign. We are meant to change, as human beings. And consequently, the world around us is meant to do the same.
There is something comforting and lovely about nostalgia, but there comes a point in everyone's life when their current state of being simply stops working- it no longer gives us what we require. That is the point at which I dwell right now. I am on the cusp of an "overhaul", of you will. I need a change. I need many changes. I need them to become the person I want to be, someone who lives to the fullest extent of their ability. The idea of change and progression within myself makes me feel healthier, more alive.

As one might have guessed, I was not always this cool.

When I was about 8 or 9, my parents decided that it was time to reupholster the dining room chairs. Which would probably not phase any normal child, nor would a normal child notice such a trivial and aesthetic change when there are more important things to be conquered like Barbie weddings and learning how to color inside the lines.
As you may not have guessed by now, I was not a normal child.
This suffices to say the particular change in discussion did not sit well with my 8 year-old self.

In fact, I had a complete and utter meltdown.

Apparently, aside from not being a normal child, I was also a child who did not cope well with change.

Exhibit A:
When my parents got a new microwave? Devastation.
When they got a new stove? Catastrophic.
When I came home from summer camp and there was not only a new couch in our living room but also a new cat sitting on said couch? Full-on nuclear annihilation.

So the new upholstery? May have been a bit of a problem for me to process.

In this situation, I proceeded to do what I did in every situation wherein my mother was too busy being a mom and didn't have time to by my psychiatrist: I hit #1 on my speed-dial and called my grandmother (what...you didn't have your own speed-dial when you were in elementary school? Loser). I then proceeded to dissolve into an 8 year-old-sized puddle of tears as I imparted the total audacity of my parents and the fact that they thought it was appropriate to bring NEW FABRIC into MY HOUSE.

So my grandmother in a fit of genius (or boredom...that's her main motivation for everything she does) recycled the old fabric from the dining room chairs and turned it into a doll for me- a doll with blond hair, a beautiful dress, and violet eyes. Yeah, she's pretty awesome. Not surprisingly, this quelled the storm.
And, because she's and equal-opportunity enabler, she made my brother and sister a turtle and a cat out of the same fabric.
Side note: I think it is of great relevance that you all know my sister named her cat "Special." Special was friends with Janie's pet goldfish, "Heavy." I couldn't even make this stuff up.

Although this little project was, in reality, probably just to shut me up, I like to think that she was trying to offer a lesson for the future.

Dwelling in the past feels safe and comfortable. We, as human beings, mentally relive moments in which we were the happiest, and try to re-create those circumstances in hopes of capturing those feelings once again. However, change is a natural progression and an important part of our evolution as human beings.
Change is good.
Change allows us to grow.
And, as long as we respect the lessons of our past experiences and preserve them so that they may be carried with us, we can use those instances as as points of advancement within ourselves.

My parents have since gone through three additional sets of dining room chairs, several new couches, and totally remodeled their kitchen.

And you know what? I'm totally fine with that.

But I still have my doll.

R.I.P. Employment

So I got laid off.
Which sounds like it might be a bad thing.
And really, it wasn't so awful.

I mean, don't get me wrong: there was some supreme horribleness for the first 48 hours, or so.
There were tears and lots of Kleenex first, followed by the customary mourning period in which I wear sweatpants while laying on the couch eating cold Chinese food and watching entire seasons of "Dexter" with my cats.
No, that is not what I do ALL the time (just, like, 80% of it).
No, that is NOT attractive.
But once you get past that part, being unemployed is actually not the worst thing that ever happened.

I really, really liked my job. I liked is so much that I worked insanely hard at it.
I was good at it, too. Probably because I worked so hard.
Not that I was being forced to. As I said before, I was quite fond of my occupation.
But this love and this ridiculous work-ethic instilled within me by my parents lead me to a life that involved nothing more than working, sleeping, eating, exercising. Repeat. Day after day.
Which, if you ask me, is not really a life at all.
Life should be about joy.
Or, at the very least, finding satisfaction in things other than those which you are being paid to do.
I liked my life. I was okay with the way things were. Because that is what one is supposed to do.
Did it make me joyful?
Negative, Ghostwriter.

This was not something I realized until I'd had some time to ponder the subject. Truthfully, it is probably not something I would have encountered upon, had I not had some free-time.
However unexpected and unwelcome that free-time was.

When life gives you lemons, they say, make lemonade.

So, I gots to get to makin' me some.

I've had the opportunity to do plenty of things over the last seven days that I haven't done in a long time: I've done laundry, made the bed, washed floors, cleaned my stove. I've read a book (can I even tell you when the last time I was able to read a book without passing out after three sentences was? Do the words "Billy don't be a hero" mean anything to you?), written on actual paper and in a place other than this blog, slept in, cooked every single day, re-arranged furniture...

The day after I lost my job, my Dad told me "enjoy your time off."
There you go, Dad.

I know I won't be unemployed forever.
And, eternal optimist that I am (except when I'm being a fatalist), I am determined to see the silver-lining in this situation beyond the simple matter of household chores and all that other stuff. This was quite clearly the Universe letting me know that I was not meant to have that job any longer than I did. There's something else out there for me. I can feel it.

There needs to be a change in Mollyland- the next task is figuring out what that change should be.

That's my next project, right after I finish Julie and Julia...because it is wonderful.

I've never been content to just accept something; I need to figure out the what and the why.
What do I do now?
Why was this last opportunity not the right fit?

I tend to over-complicate things, though.
I kind of like it that way.

I also like strawberries in my lemonade, too.
So I guess that explains a lot.

We interrupt this boradcast...

To bring you this important announcement.

Allow me to introduce the newest member of
the Fighting Illini hockey team:

This picture will never fail to amuse me.
And...
He's single, ladies!

Way to go, little brother.
Proud = ME.


You may now return to your regularly-scheduled programming.

Once Upon a Time...

..there was a girl named Molly.
She worked two jobs and hated it. She never got enough sleep and felt stressed out constantly.

Then one day, someone told her about their job and he whole world changed; the loved what they did. Loved the people they worked with. Loved their boss. Loved their coworkers.
And best of all, it sounded like a job that Molly would be really, really good at.
Was this company hiring? she asked.
Her friend said that they were, and told Molly to e-mail her a resume.

So Molly did just that and a few days later, she got a call.
Can you come in for and interview? the person on the other end asked.

During her interview, Molly thought about working in this office. She thought about the people who might be her coworkers and what her job would be like and what her days would be filled with.
The number one thing about this job that appealed to Molly: it would be making the world a better place.
She had always wanted to make the world a better place, somehow.
Can you see yourself working here? they asked.
Yes. Yes she could.

Then there was another interview.
And a job-shadow.
And a third interview.
Throughout this experience, Molly learned more about the job- how it would help people and make their lives infinitely better. How there was a high need for communication and interaction with others on this particular occupation.
Molly liked that.
The people in the office were nice, friendly, and had good senses of humor.
Molly liked that, too.

So when they offered her a job, Molly of course said yes.
She was very excited.
She couldn't think of another job she'd rather have.
And it didn't hurt that they were paying her more than both her other jobs combined.

Molly adored her job.
It was the happiest she'd ever been.

Until yesterday.

Her boss called Molly into her office.

We have to let someone go.
We're not making enough money to pay the whole staff.
You were the last one hired.
We're sorry.

*Poof*

There went Molly's awesome job.
And her awesome paycheck.
And her awesome ability to help others.

So the question is....
Where do I go from here.
Because I'm not sure.

How does this story end?

I ALMOST FORGOT!

How could I?

In June, Blake and I went here:

Atlanta, in case you're not super-smart and can't identify US cities by random pictures of their skylines.

It was super-hot.
Like, really.
And I had a mint julep.
We also ate A LOT.
But that wasn't the best part.

I got to see this little chicken:

Molly-Squared Reunion Tour.

I was so happy, I almost cried.
Wait.
I actually did cry.

In case anyone was wondering

Some things about my life at it's present state:

I joined a gym.
So that I don't look like this:

It should be of note, however, that on Tuesday evening I spent 45 minutes on the elliptical machine because I thought, "I'm relatively fit. I can handle it" and proceeded to pull both my calf muscles and am now forced to hobble about like a 103 year-old.
Which kind of supports the notion that I needed to join a gym in the first place.
If you ask me.


I just spent a gloriously relaxing (...right) week with my charming family here:

That's me and my wonderful cousin, Jenny.
Here we are acting all nonchalant around the paparazzi.
Being famous can be sooo annoying, don't you think?
Photo-essay on our fabulous adventures soon to come.


I also got a new job.
Like, as in one that involves and office and a desk and company.

Pretty groovy, right?
I enjoy it.
And I will tell you all about it.
Soon.
My life is only so interesting.
I have to milk sources for bloggin material when I can.


Also, some people had some birthdays:

photo from here.
Their names are:
Mom
Dad
Blake
Gramma
Grandpa
Marie
Lara
Amber
Aunt Jane
Danny
And I owe them all special birthday blogs.
What?
Shut up.
I've been busy.
That doesn't make me a bad daughter/granddaughter/niece/cousin/girlfriend/BFF.
Okay. Maybe it does.


So what was the point of this post, you ask?
Mostly to make my grandmother happy because she keeps whining about how I never blog anymore.

Old family photo found from here.
Looks good for her age, doesn't she?
I'm actually kind of impressed that she can still use a computer.
Way to go Grams!


Stay tuned for more awesomeness.

...But now I see.

Earlier this evening, I was driving home from my weekly visit with Marie and Wrigley the Schnoodle in Virden (Oh, you didn't know that Marie moved to Virden? More on that later.) I was mildly drowsy with DiCarlo's pizza and strawberry-banana ice cream from Whirl-A-Whip. I hurried down Route 4, anxious to get home to me sweatpants and clean sheets.

As I hit a patch of road between Thayer and Chatham, there were no other headlights in sight. No fellow travelers in front or behind me. Kings of Leon found it's way from my iPod to the speakers. I smiled to myself and let the late summer breeze sweep through the open windows tangle my neglected hair into impossible knots. Air that smelled like fresh-cut grass, sweat, and burning leaves.

On the shoulders of the blacktop, the fireflies danced in their nightly testimonial to the impending dark. Deep indigo paint bled across the sky into a canopy in front of me. Corn whooshed by me on the left, soybeans on my right.

Above the fringe of the tall stalks of corn lay a strip of sky still untouched by night. The sun was melting into the horizon in a glowing ball. The atmosphere around it looked as though a child had seized a treasure-box from his grandmother's bureau and scattered it's precious contents across a quilt; sapphires faded into emeralds, emeralds into golden pieces of amber, amber into deep amethysts, and amethysts into brilliant rubies.

The corn's feathery fingers stretched towards the jewel-box sky, silhouetted by the disappearing daylight. Skeletal outlines of trees, set aglow by dusk, dotted the approaching landscape. Modest houses surrounded by fields of vegetative wealth sighed as they settled in to sleep.

I have seen a lot of breathtaking things in my life: the Eiffel Tower, the Trevi Fountain, the Black Canyon of the Gunnison, the ocean. I have never considered this place to be "beautiful." Desolate, barren, forgotten...maybe. But never beautiful. The place I grew up is populated by spires of metal and glass, twisting upwards into the gray-green mist, created leftovers from an ungrateful population. People congest the streets, moving and breathing as a single organism. That was beautiful to me. It still is.

But there is beauty in this place, too.

Sometimes the light just has to disappear for it's magnitude to be realized.

Well, this is kind of upsetting.

I think that if I were more inclined to actually do work while at work, this probably wouldn't happen so much. However, my productivity is currently being thwarted by the fact that it's 78 degrees outside today with a nice breeze, and all I can think about is eating a fresh peach, drinking a Long Island iced tea, and then napping on the lawn. Because that's how I roll.

Once again, Facebook has managed to take what started out as a perfectly average day and blast it into a billion shards of depression-coated gloom. And not because someone posted an unflattering picture of me in a bathing suit or something (because we all know that I un-tag those bitches as soon as they go up. No, seriously).

Honestly Facebook, on most days you bring me great joy. Like when Molly and I exchange massive quantities of "Mean Girls" quotations via commenting on Sally's status. Or when Lara and Amber and I find personal satisfaction in stalking the profile of someone we mutually loathe for the sheer sake of giggling at pretentious pictures that are meant to make this person look "sexy" and "cool", but in actuality makes them look like a total dumbass. Good times, Facebook. Good times.

Although I'm sort of ashamed to admit this, I'll be totally honest and say that I've been keeping a very close eye on this whole "Jon and Kate" scandal thing. Possibly to a point that borders on unhealthy. But whatevs. It's a whole lot like a train wreck, except with adultery and not-so-cleverly veiled attempts at insulting each other on national television. What's not to adore? I will also be honest and say, however, that it's a little sad; both because we as an audience (myself definitely included) are so entertained by their heartache, and also because a family is dissolving. And that is always sad, regardless of whether certain people choose to complain about the media firestorm that they invited in to their lives or not.

Sidebar: Yeah, I know Kate comes off as a bitch. But 1). that does not give her husband the right to cheat on her. Even if she beat him with barbed wire every single night, that doesn't mean that Jon's allowed to go out and get some from someone else. It doesn't work that way. You get a divorce, file a restraining order, and then sleep around. And 2). the woman has eight kids, for crying out loud. Do you have eight kids? I don't have eight kids. I don't even know anyone who has eight kids. And even if I did, I am most certain that two of them would be one age, and the rest of them would all be another. Even the other crazy woman on TLC that has 18 kids doesn't have six of them that are THE SAME AGE. Ergo, we as observers cannot say how a mother would or should act in this situation. All the icky tanning and weird haircuts and free shit and diva-like behavior aside, Kate might be allowed to raise her voice once in a while. Mmmkay?

So anyway, due to my present state of overdose on TLC (whom I wholeheartedly thank for running a Jon and Kate plus 8" marathon all. weekend. long), anything realated to the TV show catches my eye. Case and point: I currently have not one but THREE different trashy magazines with the cover story sitting on my counnter at home. No joke. It's becoming a problem.

During my ritualistic perusal of Facebook every ten minutes today, my newsfeed informed me that one of my "friends" (read: person I went to school with and do not necessarily dislike in any way, but never see in person) took one of those stupid quiz deals where it's supposed to tell you what kind of "something" you are. Normally, I just breeze right over in favor of discovering who is "no longer liste and single" and who "ended their relationship." Oh, and also because I don't really give a shit about what kind of Greek God you would supposedly be based on a series of overly-banal questions. But this particular quiz...this particular quiz was entitled "Which Jon and Kate plus 8 character are you?"

I have several issues with this in that these are not characters, THEY ARE ACTUAL PEOPLE...but...you know. It's cool. That and the fact that isn't it a little demeaning to the individuals themselves to reduce them to definitions consisting of options A through D and Yes or No questions? Not to mention pretty pointless.

But alas, Jon, Kate and their 8 beckoned me, so glance at the results I did. This person was supposedly Mady. My first reaction was "oh my god I can't stand Mady," which is true. The show portrays her as needy and selifsh and kind of an attention hog (notice I didn't use the traditional word "whore" here, as I felt that it might be in poor taste when talking about a seven year-old. See? I do have morals). Just annoying and dramatic in general.

And then, in a momentay lapse of sanity, I considered where I would fit into the mix, were I in fact a child and a pre-existing one belonging to Jon and Kate. It was in this brief, fleeting moment I came to this realization: I would totally be Mady.

Which sucks.

It would be at this point in my diatribe that I allow myself to choose whether I want to be the pot, or the kettle.

My sister will be the first to tell you that I was a *tad* bit dramatic as a child. And needy. And selfish. And an attention WHORE (see? Appropriate usage here because I am not seven). Also, annoying.

I would be the second person to tell you all those things.

There might even be a video somewhere that involves me in a tutu, spinning and singing for the camcorder, my brother interrupting me by trying to get my mother (aka the cameraman) to pay attention to him, me shoving him off-screen and yelling "get out of my SPOTLIGHT."

Oh, how I wish I were kidding.

I like to think I've matured a little bit since then, but I still see shades of my former brat self now and again. For example: umm....this blog? But I've also gotten to the point where it doesn't send me into a heinous downward self-esteem spiral when someone focuses on something besides me or what I'm doing. In fact, I kind of like it sometimes. Go figure.

Maybe I thought that I was so far beyond my former self that I had the right to judge others with the same afflictions. Clearly, this is not the case- I am neither totally uninhibited by my center-of-attention-ness, nor do I have the right to judge someone else who exhibits the same habits. Least of all a child who lives her life around television cameras and paparrazi.

I read somewhere once (maybe my AP Psych textbook...hey Ms. Rosenthal! I was paying attention that day instead of flirting with the boy behind me) that the reason we dislike the people we dislike is because they display through mirrored-image the traits that we most despise about ourselves.

I'll try to remember that next time I'm judging someone.

The operative word here being, of course, *try*.

A letter from the edge

You may have been wondering where I am. Probably not, though.
I certainly have.

Let me break it down for you:

-Pink eye (now complete with BOTH eyes!)
-Unpacking
-Work
-Health insurance malfunctions
-Trying not to freak out


I'm coming back.
Just not today.

PS- I also might be wearing yoga pants to work today. Because I'm a professional.
Sorry Lara.

When I'm in charge

I'm outlawing Wednesdays.

For real.

They're not even allowed on the roster.

Also:

MY SISTER IS COMING TO VISIT THIS WEEKEND.

So much love.

And.

Ummm...Blake?

Is there something you want to tell me?

Happy Earth Day!

Some people are just stupid

Really.

So, in a previous post I discussed my love for Mommy Blogs.

On the list of ones I love dearly is that belonging to cjane.

You should read her stuff sometime. She's really quite talented.

So talented, in fact, that someone (or several someones?) have been stealing her work.

You can read the details here, here, here and here.

I'm kind of amazed (but not really because of who she is and how many people clearly adore her) that so many of us have rallied to stop this crazy from infecting the blogosphere.

Sidenote: bloggers can be MEAN when one of their own has been wronged. I love it.

The offensive blogs in question have since been removed.

I'm sure I've been inspired in reading Courtney's posts to write some of my own.

I'm sure that others have inspired me to do the same, as well.

But the result has been my own.

Something I created.

My ideas have always been my own, even if someone else helped me get there.

Because isn't that kind of the point of all of this?

Never, never have I stolen a whole entire post.

And never would I be moronic enough to do it from one of the most well-known writers on the internet.

I'm also probably guilty of maybe posting a photo and not giving proper credit to my source.

Lesson learned.

I mean, duh people.

Come one.

How dumb does one (or a couple, for that matter) person get?

Also: not that this would ever happen because I have about 3.68 readers.

But.

If someone ever did that to me?

It would be Hammer Time.

Fo' shiz.

I'm going to drink the rest of my blueberry jasmine green tea now.

Thank you, and good day.

Edit: In second guessing myself, as I am wont to do, I've combed over my previous posts to make sure that I'm not a jerkface like *some* people.

I don't think I am, let me just say right now.

As an English major and seasoned writer myself, I'm pretty good about that sort of thing.

Do unto others, and whatnot.

But just to be safe.

Because no one like a hypocrite.

Least of all, a sarcastic one.

Arachnophobia

I love our new apartment.
I really do (pictures coming soon).
It's very pretty and brand new, not to mention a hell of a deal rent-wise.
Also: Bryan and Lara are moving RIGHT NEXT DOOR.
Supreme awesomeness, yes? Well, almost.

You see, there are some issues with our new apartment, some of which I've discussed before. The screen issue has been amended, the air conditioning one has not. Which is okay at the moment, since I'm still rocking the heat set at 70 (because that's as high as Blake will allow me to set it) and about five blankets when I sleep. Thus, I do not consider this to fall under the category of "pressing."
What I do place in that category, however, it the complete and utter infestation of SPIDERS that have invaded my dwelling.

Which is so not okay.

I am not a sissy. Really, I'm not.
I like to camp and be one with nature and shit. Really, I do.
When I fish (which is not often, trust) I can bait my own hook. Really, I can.

But things that crawl on me without my permission are, in a word: unacceptable.

The other night as I was laying in bed and Blake was brushing his teeth, he came in the bedroom (which is actually the office but is currently being used to sleep in because we still need to move my bed from the old place to the new place...convoluted, I know) to say something to me with a mouth full of toothpaste. Instead of instituting the intended conversation, his eyes darted to the wall above me, grew to the size of Wiley Coyote's right before Roadrunner dropped an anvil on his head, whispered "don't look up", and exited the room.
So what did I do?
I looked up.
Of course I looked up.
Wouldn't you look up?
Except I really wish I hadn't.
Because about two feet above my head was some sort of creature with approximately 5263 legs and all sort of grossness.
I, of course, froze in fear (I chose not to scream because we've got neighbors and I'm polite like that) until Blake returned with a wad of Kleenex to dispose of the freakish beast*, at which point we discussed how it could've entered the apartment and the possibility of it's friends following suit.
This did not please me.
*He also plunges toilets. I think I'm in love.

Granted, our unit is "garden level" (aka half basement), so creepy crawlies are logically more apt to finding their way inside than they would be in apartments that are totally above ground. However, as I mentioned before, it's also brand new. This means that there should be no cracks in the dry wall or foundation, and therefore a very slim chance of outside intruders. It was during this conversation that we made a discovery: an uncovered electrical outlet on the ceiling. Perfect portal for arthropodic foes.
And don't try to tell me that the cats will protect us. Presley is fat and lazy. And Kitty is way more interested in her catnip mouse than defending me from insect attackers.

Needless to say, I felt like I was being smothered by bugs all night.
It was like a bad episode of "Fear Factor."

And then...
AND THEN
As I was typing this post a few minutes ago, I happened to look up (what is it with me and looking up? Why must I always look up? Ignorance used to be such bliss) and saw another enemy...spider this time...chilling out on our ceiling.
Naturally, I enlisted the aid of my former defender, who told me I would have to wait until he finished the game of Halo he was tied up in.
So valiant, he is.
It was during this waiting period that the spider decided to shimmy down it's little thread...directly into the ceiling fan.
It never knew what hit 'em.

Now, there are either spider guts all over my bed, or a very pissed off and possibly paraplegic arachnid lurking somewhere in the dark corners of my bedroom, plotting his revenge.
Tonight is going to be awesome.

Edit- I went to climb into bed (heavily medicated, of course) just now, and discovered this hiding underneath the covers:Shortly thereafter, I went to the kitchen to get a glass of water in order to calm my nerves, and this was waiting for me in between the refrigerator and the wall:

Blake wants everyone to know that it was the best $1.99 he's ever spent.
Previous statement of love and adoration = retracted.

I hear you Lolcats

see more Lolcats and funny pictures

I hear you.

Your prayers have been answered

I know, I know.
That last post was a little bit...well, you know.
So to make up for it, I am giving you this.
Double your Molly, double your fun.
Something like that.

There's something I need to say

"I would be remiss if I didn't mention wanting to punch the universe in the mouth right now.

Really hard."

Thanks, Whoorl.

So, I will preface what I am about to write by saying that I am not a mother. Not unless you count my cat (plural now that I am cohabitating with another person), but I don't get to count him as a tax deduction so for our purposes today he will not be considered my offspring.

No I'm not a mother. But I know mothers. I have a mother. And I love mothers.

Occaisionally, I read Mommy Blogs even though I'm not a Mommy Blogger. I also hate the term "Mommy Blogger" because I think it's slightly derogatory. Like, "Oh, is that all you do? Raise children and write on a blog. Hah." Do not mistake, people: keeping up with a blog is h-a-r-d. I've heard that raising a child can be mildly challenging, as well. So the combination of the two is most likely somewhat of a task.

I guess I read blogs written by mothers because it moves me to see how much one person can be inspired by something that they love so deeply. They paint such a clear picture of the beauty and depth of this world, even though this world seems very ugly and shallow at times.

The best example of this is Nie Nie.

She was my first foray into the world of Mommy Blogs. I found her little piece of the internent though a link on MSN (of all things...this was back in the days when MSN was my end-all, be-all of popular culture...gross) that was part of an article describing her horrific crash and how the world rallied around her after news of it got out; people donated money, food, gifts, time...anything that they could contribute.

I am, despite my sarcastic and sometimes cynical hard-candy coating, a gooey-centered individual with a penchant for human-interest stories. This little blurb drew me to Stephanie Nielson's blog, and into her beautiful life.

From there, I found her sister Courtney's blog that narrated her own life as a mother of one small child, and then as mother to her sister's four children while their parents were recovering from their injuries sustained in the plane crash.

After that, there was Dooce and Anything Said, and Gorillabuns.

All of these women have children, yes. But make no mistake: they are not defined by being mothers.
They are defined by the person motherhood has made them become.
Each and every one of them discusses often and at length the changes having children in their lives has brought upon them. It's difficult, yes. There aren't any lies about how seamless and easy motherhood is (I know this because I babysat every kid on my parents block...maybe it's not quite the same but it's my only point of reference here). But being around young, inexperienced minds seems to add a different sort of clarity to life.

Maybe I'm just a big dork because of all this.
Whatever.
There's a point to what I'm saying.

A few days ago, Melinda from Anything Said wrote a brief post about how Shana from Gorillabuns had tragically lost her infant son, Thalon.
As I read the original post, the comments, and all the subsequent posts linked to the first, I started to cry (yes, at work again. Lara is going to fire me).
Like I said, I realize I'm not a mother.
But when I think about how I would lay down in oncoming traffic for Sophie and Ethan, who are my cousins and NOT my children, it proves to me that the power of being a parent is real and not just something people make up to project an image of domestic bliss.

And it is with this thought in my head that I cannot even imagine what it is like to be Shana right now.
I don't know her.
And she sure as hell doesn't know me.
I've never commented on her blog or linked it or officially followed it or anything like that.
It was just a peek into a life that didn't belong to me, narrated through a funny and intelligent voice.
And that's the other thing: I think everyone expects mothers, particularly ones with small children to be all about Gymboree and diapers and graham crackers. But read these blogs and you will be amazed, as I was.

The problem I've always had with organized religions is that many of them put their faith in one entity. Which I'm sure gives people comfort, but is also really scary if you think about. One being. One being for all these people.
I know that God or whatever you choose to call it is supposed to be omnipotent and doesn't make mistakes. That there's a big plan and everything happens for a reason or whatever.
But a plan that involves taking someone's child away from them?
A plan that causes someone so much emotional pain they can't breathe?
A plan that allows someone to create a life through love and happiness, bring it into this world, only to have it taken away from them before they really had a chance to show it the full measure of everything this world has to offer, thereby leaving this person to feel like they've done something wrong?

That is a plan I cannot support.

Because the point is that bad shit happens.
And sometimes there's nothing we can do about it.
More often than not, the awful things that happen to us make us stronger and more determined people.
But sometimes...sometimes the things that happen to us are so painful that they don't make us stronger. They tear us apart and we're never completely whole again.
When we did nothing to deserve them.
And there are those who would try to tell me that something planned for all of this? That there's a bigger scheme out there that involves to total and utter destruction of a person's character?

How is that fair?

Oh wait. It's not.
Not to Shana, not to Thalon, not to anyone who has ever had to deal with the kind of pain that only that kind of loss can bring.

I know that this is usually a venue for me to sit and talk about how I ate too many cookies or my car blew up or something like that.
But occasionally, it becomes necessary for me to say these kinds of things. Because they're important to me, and they should be important to you too.
I'm not trying to offend anyone (all four of you who are reading this).
Sometimes, certain things just need to be said. And quite often, I'm the one saying them even though I probably shouldn't.

I'm going to step off my soapbox now.

Thing I don't understand about the universe today

Why do cute shoes always mangle my feet?
I feel as though everytime I find a really cute pair, the rip my feet up. It's not fair.
I bet if I could afford Manolos like certain New Jersey socialte/nannies/lawyers/bloggers that I am aquainted with, my feet wouldn't look like raw hamburger.
Raw hamburger covered with bandaids.

Why do married men hit on me?
And only married men.
Swear to Jeebus.
Like I give off some sort of "irresponsible and a good potential midlife crisis candidate" sort of vibe.
It's very weird and confusing.
Anyone else have this problem?
Probably just me.

Why do Peeps taste better stale?
The only food in the world that falls into that category.
Also very weird and confusing.

What the F is up with this weather?
Stupid April. It supposed to be warm.
And stuff.
This is not conducive to my cute dresses and sandals plan.
Time for Plan B.
Except for too bad I don't have one of those.
So, let's get with the program.
Do you hear me, Spring?

Ugh.
Time to go move more shit.

In other news: WE GET INTERNET TOMORROW!

Sooo...maybe I'll be doing some posting from home?

Maybe?

If I had a million dollars

I would buy everything in this store. But I don't, so I can't.
Maybe just one or two or five things.
I know I just cleaned out my closet, but whatever. (I'm not listening to you Lara....lalalalala....can't hear you)
Until such time as I can afford to support Keiko monetarily, I will support her by reading her blog.
Doesn't she seem like a really lovely person?
I'm kind of jealous of how cute she is, too.

I wrote a post some time ago about how I am a total bibliophile and have this need inhale books that way humans need oxygen.
At this moment in time, my reading list is a little pathetic and depressing because we're moving (still...even though we've been paying rent since the 5th and are STILL NOT TOTALLY MOVED IN...that's why the Universe gave us Easter Sunday. Sort of.) and I have no time to sit down and actually read. I'm also so overwhelmed with everything that is going on right now that I've come to a point where I can't really muster any enthusiasm for reading.
Which is weird.
Especially for me.

I think I need to add some more books to the list.

My Antonia by Willa Cather: it's Gramma's favorite book. Therefore, it deserves a place on my list.

The Pigman by Paul Zindel: this one happens to by my Mom's fave. Which is strange because it's so...depressing. Everyone is dead. Ruth is not a depressing person by any means, so what the hell? Despite the oddness to it, the book is still very powerful. I remember reading it in 7th grade and crying all the way through it. But, that's what I do sometimes.

Before I change my mind, someone needs to take these away from me so I don't injure myself:


Have a happy Easter, ya'll.

Some things for your Friday

Anyone remember Dunkaroos?
We should petition to bring those suckers back.
I could go for some frosting and kangaroo-shaped graham crackers right about now.

We get to move into our new apartment (score!)
On Easter Sunday (not score!)
But hopefully we'll be done by the end of this weekend (maybe score?)
Which would be grand.

If you haven't already, you should probably play yourself some Peggle.

I just discovered this wonderful site.
It makes me happy.
Most fabulous.

After work today, I am getting myself the biggest, most giganticist
pear martini in the tri-state area.
It's gonna be swell.

Oh, and sushi too.

Stumbled across this little article.
I give an enthused, wholehearted *thumbs up* to the first and third.
I am always on the lookout for good date ideas.
Because that is my job.
Much like Blake's job is to move all of our heavy stuff.

Photo via Hello, Lolla.

No, YOU have a good weekend.

If you ever wanted to know what it's like to cry at work

Just ask the me from ten minutes ago.

I found this a little bit ago via A CUP OF JO.

Lara tried to stop me.

I didn't listen.

What's wrong with me?

I dare you not to cry when you read it.

I dare you.

I'm going to call my grandfather and tell him I love him.

Right now.

And so should you.

Stupid Decisions

We all make them.
Some of them involve too much tequila or a second cupcake or the color mauve. All of which I of course know nothing about.
Some of them are a little more serious. Some of them have a profound effect on the rest of your life.

My choice tonight was none of that.
It was purely self-indulgent and the result was something along the lines of me getting the sh*t freaked out of me. Which is really productive when you're in a big building all by yourself, you know, at night and stuff.

Sometimes when I work these overnights I watch movies or television shows on websites that stream media. I don't download anything- I just watch stuff that's readily available. As of late, I've kind of been on a "WB shows of my adolescence" kick. I just finished the first season of "Rosewell", and tonight I decided to see what "Supernatural" was all about.
I guess you could kind of say that my television show tastes while working fall into the same category as my reading habits (see: Cullen, Edward): teenage girl.

I will admit that I've always been something of a scaredy-cat.
I couldn't watch "ET" until it was re-released when I was, like, 17.
"The Leprechaun" scarred me for life and to this very day I cannot watch it or even look at Warwick Davis without experiencing chills up my spine. This made viewing "Harry Potter" a little difficult.
The giant mole-thing from "City of Ember" still give me nightmares. And I saw that movie a mere two months ago.
Basically I have little to no tolerance for things that are even remotely unnerving.

So...and why did I choose to watch a show entitled "Supernatural" again? One would think that a show whose title pretty much implies that it has everything to do with ghosts and demons and monsters would send up red flags all over the place.

No so much.

I suppose I figured that I could handle it. After all, if I can survive living in a studio apartment with 96876 boxes, a single bathroom, two cats, and one cranky boyfriend, I can probably deal with any daunting thing that the worl has to offer.
Besides, how scary can a show birthed from the same network which spawned the likes of "Dawson's Creek" and "Popular" really be?
Apparently very.
At least for me.

Don't believe me?
Let's just say...
There's a security guard from the main hospital on his way out here right now to check the building for anything ghost-oriented.

I'm not even a little bit kidding.

Oh man.

So, we got the keys to our new apartment today.
Yup, that means it's official.
I'm living with a boy.
Heaven help me.

I'll post some pictures real soon. I will say that the apartment? Super-cute.
Lara and Amber died when they saw it.
Marie saw it too and I think she liked it, although her response was a little more subdued. She's more of the strong, silent type (yeah right).

Comcast (aka the devil) is coming to set up our cable and internet tomorrow. So, that's good.
We have dark cherry hardwood floors, polished porcelain tile, brand new cabinets, and granite counter-tops. Also good.
Except for there is no rod for the shower curtain, shelves in the linen closet, bars in the clothes closet in either bedroom, no screens on the windows, and no A/C unit at the moment. Bad.
Blake=a little peeved. Especially since this was all supposed to be done, and we even told our landlord that we didn't mind waiting to move in until everything was finished.

On the bright side, we don't have to live in my teeny weeny studio anymore. Which is cool, because we were getting ready to kill each other. Blake claims that I was the only one getting annoyed with the living situation and that he was perfectly calm the whole time, but I know that deep down he really did want to punch me in the face just like I wanted to punch him. Small living spaces plus a crapload of stuff are not conducive for healthy relationship communication.
It leads to dumb disagreements like whether or not the Barack Obama poster should be in a frame or not (answer: no, it should not because framing it defeats the purpose of having it in the first place...it's supposed to be grassroots, not wall art).
I'm very excited to not have to live like that anymore.
Can you tell?

In other news: I just bought this.
I'm really excited for it.
It's a custom lisitng from Etsy seller HotButter.
Her name is Ashley and she's really nice and obviously very talented (she designed and made it herself!). Originally, she'd made red ones around Valentine's day which I'd come across in my Etsy travels and thought were really cute. Bored at work one day, I was browsing my favorite items for a new make-up bag because the one I have is approximately 5 years old (maybe more) and I was in need of an update. I sent her a message asking her if she could use the same design concept but with purple and voila!
Image courtesy of HotButter.
Supreme awesomeness. Thanks Ashley!

Swear to Zod, Etsy is like crack for me.
Seriously.
Affordable, handmade items that support independent artists? It's almost guilt-free.
And, you can find pretty much anything on Etsy. Like, if I see something (example: a piece of jewelry) that I love but it's super expensive, chances are that there will be something very similar, if not EXACTLY like the original item.
I've also found some incredibly unique pieces on there.

Like this little beaut.
I have to admit, I was a little skeptical at first. But I've worn it several times and I love it. I get compliments on it every time I wear it. cookoorikoo has other ones in different colors. I might be buying another one. And by might...well, we all know that that means.

You should also know that I just went back and added about six more to my favorites.
Because they're just so darn cute.

Oh Etsy.
Why can't I quit you?

Image courtesy of cookoorikoo.

Part of a Well-Balanced Breakfast

This is the text message I just received:

Sexy.
Morning hair is my fave.

Fashion is made to become unfashionable

Some other things.
Because I'm bored.
Like WHOA.

So, I cleaned out my closets yesterday.
It is considered by many, myself included, to be a blessing that I have not one, but two walk-in closets in my tiny studio apartment. So much so that I've chosen to honor this blessing by stuffing both full of clothing.
And my hallway.
And my couch.
And my floor.
And my bed.

Needless to say, the amount of clothing I own is somewhat of an issue.

The most depressing part (or...not depressing, depending on how one looks at it) is that this state of my obsession is most definitely scaled-down from the point it was two years. To prove my insanity: my wonderful mother and grandmother had to engage in what we jokingly (or not so jokingly) refer to as an *intervention*, wherein they recognized that I was indeed suffocating in the results of my shopping addiction, drove the four hours to my apartment and methodically went through my clothing piece by piece to determined what I needed, and what was simply there because I got bored and decided to go to Wet Seal.
I know.
Wet seal.
Gross.

I have since been rehabilitated, but only to the point that most of us can be. After all, I'm only human.
I still love pretty things.
I still get bored with stuff that I already have.
I still read magazines and lust after the treasures on the glossy pages.
Plus, Target still exists. So, there's that.

This cleansing became necessary when it was determined that there was know way in the physical or theoretical universe that my stuff was ever going to be able to inhabit the same space as someone else' stuff ...unless there was some reduction in volume.

So, reduce I did.
Lara kindly played the role of BFF and assisted me on this project. I think it's always easier to have someone there with you for moral support, and also to validate your decisions. I know that I always tend to talk myself into keeping things that I probably shouldn't keep while purging. This person must, of course, care about or have some sort of investment in your situation. As Lara so succinctly put it, she was "doing this for the good of yours [read: mine] and Blake's relationship." Amen.

We yanked everything out of both closets and divided it into four piles: a keep pile (laundry pile, really), a giveaway pile (all of this went to Vanessa because Amber and Lara are too tall for antyhing that would fit me), a Goodwill pile (for stuff that wouldn't fit Vaness or that she wouldn't want), and a throwaway pile (for stuff no one wants).

I kind of wish I had read this post before I embarked on this great adventure, but really when it came down to it Lara and I probably followed many of the same steps outlined. Jordan's blog is just much prettier than mine. I attempted to so something similar when I moved last July ( I move a lot, don't I?) but did not disgard nearly as much. Probably because I was by myself, and I convinced myself that I really needed a vast menagerie of bargain shirts from Charlotte Russe that were both ugly and cheap-looking. Seriously, what is with the origins of my former wardrobe being from stores meant for 16 year-olds? Ridiculous. I have plenty of beautiful clothing from Express and Nordstrom and Bloomingdales, and even some things from London and Paris and Italy and Spain . Yet I still waste my time, space, and money on nastiness that is worthy of little more than dishraggery.

So, all those went bye-bye.
Along with a few of the aforementioned "nice" pieces that I don't wear anymore, or were in disrepair.
I also decided to put some of my older but well-loved things in storage. Like t-shirts from high school and college that I don't necessarily want to wear but also can't bear to throw out. This, Lara allowed me to get away with.
She did not, however, allow me to get away with things like "but it's really cute" or "it might come back in style." She was a complete closet czar, if you will. She once again spouted a nugget of wisdom while justifying herself in saying, "Molly we are TOO OLD for embellished denim mini-skirts." Point taken.

In the end, I gave five bags of clothes to Vanessa, two to Goodwill, three to storage, and one to the trash. I even got ambitious and went through my shoes, purses, and jewelry too.

I must admit that although it was hard to let go of things in the moment, I don't miss anything that went into those garbage bags yesterday (yes, garbage bags. Ghetto, I know). Life feels...ligther, somehow. And everything the I ended up keeping I genuinely like.

Isn't it funny how *stuff* can evoke such strong emotions in us? After all, it's only fleeting. It comes and goes so quickly when compared to the broad spectrum of life. I'm not trying to preach; I am a member of the *Stuff* Makes Me Happy Club. It just feels must better and much more rewarding to get that feeling from a smaller number of things.

Plus, this means I'll have more room for new stuff.

Because as long as there's Etsy, I'll be okay.

Okay, so I changed my mind.

Remember how I said that "Heroes" was sucking it big-time?

Well I lied.

Last week's episode ruled. at. life.

I can't wait for tomorrow night. In fact, I don't know that I've ever been this excited for a Monday in the history of ever.
And that is a scientific fact.

I'm so sorry, Officer Matt Parkman.
Can you ever forgive me?
XOXO.

PS- Don't go back to Janice. She's a tramp.
Even if she is the mother of your child and stuff.

The Economy Can Suck It

Seriously.
Life is expensive these days.
Rather, MY life is expensive.
I'm trying to be cheap.
I really am.
It's just...not possible.

I mean, I don't consider myself to be high-maintenance in any way, shape, or form (Blake might disagree with that statement, but whatever. I cook him dinner three to four nights a week so if he's complaining, he's not doing it loudly).
Except for the fact that I flatly refuse to dine at buffets (Lara and Amber did come close to getting me in the doors of one last weekend but thankfully the plans fell through...whew, dodged a bullet) or shop at Wal-Mart. But both of those are based strictly on moral and/or hygienic reasoning. Not because I'm trying to be difficult.
My problem is not the degree to which I need to be maintained, but the degree to which my imagination functions. Meaning, once I decide on something in my head the chances of my being wholly satisfied with something other than my originally planned idea are...well, non-existent.

Case in point: bedspreads.

My last post (no, I'm not posting a link. Stop being lazy and scroll down) was in regards to a quilt set that I spied while suffering through the romantic comedy nightmare that was and is "He's Just Not That Into You."

**Okay, maybe the movie itself wasn't all that horrifying...I'm just bitter that people who are that good-looking are expected to be believable when they sit around in their fabulously over-priced clothing in their $5000 a month apartments and bitch about how their relationships suck. I'm sorry, but no.

I looove that bedspread.
I am actually embarrassed to admit how much time I have wasted while scouring the interwebs for its likeness. To no avail.
I want it.
I need it.
But it is nowhere to be found.
And, in truth, probably only exists in that very film because it was probably specially made by some fantastic couture designer as a favor to the set-stylist, considering that most in the profession do not simply run out to Bed, Bath and Beyond and fetch any old bedspread for a multi-million dollar movie.
No no.
Because then how on earth would they ever torture people like me?People who will never be fully satisfied with the state of their bedclothes unless it involves that very article of bedding?People who find perfectly acceptable (and probably cheaper) replacements are Target, but still can't get the magical concept of this ethereal, unattainable comforter out of their stupid heads, and will therefore never really *like* said replacement.
You see what I mean?
I'm losing my mind.
Over a BEDSPREAD.
The hell?

Which brings me to my next point: couches.

Blake and I had a discussion about couches tonight.
Why? Well...that part is not important right now. My guess is that the reason will probably be apparent by the time you're done reading this post, but I also have a feeling that my mother would be reallysuperpissed if I wrote about it on here and didn't officially tell her first. Even though I kind of already did. But whatever.
Okay.
So, couches.
My current couch is, in a word, unacceptable.I
t's older than I am.
Seriously. There are pictures of me as an infant on this couch.
It's comfortable and has a large amount of sentimental value, but as far as furniture goes, it's number is totally up.
Blake's couch is newer, a good size, and comfortable. The only real flaw is that the cushions are not attached to the sofa itself, so the slide out when you sit down and you have to keep readjusting them, which is annoying.
Oh, and it's also red and green plaid.
So, there's that.
Basically, in a few months I want a new couch.
Simple enough, right?
No, not really.
Not if you're us.
Because I want a neutral color.
Blake wants something "bold" (his words, not mine- hence parentheticals)So, I engaged a compromise:Purple.
That's right.
If I can't have the awesome bedding that I want, I will at least have a purple couch.
To which he responded:"Whatever, I don't really care right now."But I do.
Because my crazy imagination (the one that won't allow me to let go of ideas to the point the it threatens my emotional well-being) was already taking the concept of a purple couch and running with it.
To the point where I have throw-pillows and lamps picked out.
Not to mention wall decor.
I'm not even kidding.
So, what did I do when I got to work tonight?
Why, Googled "purple couches", of course.
And this is what greeted me.
It is amazing.
It is perfect.
And I want it.
Except for one minor detail.
I don't have $1900.
Not to spend on a couch.

So, to Craigslist I did go.
And once again searched the magice words. In Springfield AND Peoria AND Chicago AND Bloomington-Normal.
I found a couple.
But they looked gross.
And probably smelled like dog.
Maybe my mom will buy me a new one...Or maybe I'll just have to put up with seating arrangements that look like they belong under Christmas trees.
And my brain will be unsatisified because it will be forever fixated on the idea of a purple couch.
And I'll get all depresssed and eat lots of ice cream.And it will be all YOUR fault, Economy.

All your fault

If you wanted...

You could buy me this bedspread.*
Or, at least find out who makes it?
Because I'm not having any luck.
Someone needs to invent a search engine where you just upload pictures of things
and it tells you what they are or who makes them.**
And stuff like that.
Other than bedding, I'm not very interesting today.

*Bradley Cooper optional, but appreciated.
**Do you hear me, Jordan from Status King? That's your next project.

Twidiot

The other day, I lost a huge personal battle.
I've already given in to the temptations of gaucho pants, gigantic earrings, and unnecessarily large amounts of bronzer. Does it really matter if I give in to one more supposedly and inexplicably trendy thing that goes against all my morals and cultural expectations?
Probably not.
Except that this time, I joined Twitter.

Have you heard of Twitter?
Of course you have. Unless you've been living in a cave in the Mojave or you're my grandma or something. But just in case you have (or you are my grandma), I will explain.
One of the greatest and most wonderful things about Facebook is that it provides a place for users to put "statuses"and update them as they see fit.

Por ejemplo:
Molly is... eating lunch.
Molly is... taking a nap.
Molly is... rotting in a gutter somewhere.
Molly is... angry because Heroes is starting to suck more and more each time she watches it but she can't stop because it used to be so good and she's secretly hoping that the next episode will blow her mind and all will be right with the world again. But it doesn't, and it's not. She just gets disappointed. Every. Single. Time.

See? Fun, right?

This glorious little function is generally agreed upon by the ever-expanding population of Facebook to be the most desirable part of the whole "FB" (that's what we seasoned veterans call it...FB) experience.
This is perhaps because people, myself included, are nosey.
We're also a self-indulgent generation. If it's not worth putting on the internets to make our peers jealous and for the rest of the world to see how obviously amazing we are, then it's simply not worth doing. This very blog might, in fact, be considered exhibit A to my argument.
But really...is the issue even foggy enough to warrant an argument?
I digress.

The statuses on Facebook are the best part.
Everyone knows that.
Except the only problem is that you have to deal with all the other crap that Facebook spews forth from it's ever-widening gaping void of creative programming.
Send your BFF's bumper stickers!
Virtual bumper stickers!
With pithy sayings!
Even though they all live in different states!
Just by clicking a button!
Isn't technology FUN?!

I've often found myself pining, like so many of us no doubt do, for a land where statuses can be and are posted unencumbered by requests for offensive buttons on a fake bulletin board and electronically simulated gardens. Because there's no way any of the aforementioned things could ever exist outside of cyberspace. Especially with, like, wood and grass and stuff.
If only someone would have the innovation to create such a magical place and save us all from the horrific fate of having to sift through 97 requests to have a theoretical daiquiri via a computerized social-networking site with people you haven't spoken to since high school graduation.
If only such a world existed.
If only...

Enter: Twitter.

Twitter is nothing but status updates.
All the time.
With none of that other "applications" BS.
It's pretty much the coolest thing in the history of ever.

You can also put an RSS on your Blogger template so that the people who visit your blog (all three and half of them) can see what you're up to, even if they don't have Twitter accounts.
Now my mother knows when I'm watching re-runs of "Friends" and eating Thin Mints instead of doing stuff she asks me to do, like proof a design or get a degree.
It's just like living at home, except without the free food and rent.

And...AND! You can follow all sorts of famous people on Twitter. Unlike Facebook, people don't have to accept your friendship request to see your profile. So, you can poke around in peoples lives with complete confidence and total anonymity.
Like right now? I know that Ryan Seacrest has to pick out a suit for this weeks Idol taping, Dr. Drew just got back from Chicago, and Jimmy Fallon did NOT use audience plants for some segment on his show (PS- did you know Jimmy Fallon took over the Late Show? Maybe I'm the one who's been living in a cave in the desert).

All hail Twitter.

I can now poke my nose not only into the lives of people I actually know, but into the lives of complete and total strangers who also happen to be on TV.
And it's addictive.

Didn't they used to arrest people for this?

Yes, yes they did.
I believe the term used most often in restraining orders is "stalking."

Now it's perfectly legal.
My prayers have been answered.

I think I might be getting lazy

Me: What should I make for dinner?
Blake: I don't know.
Me: I don't really feel like cooking.
Blake: I'll just fix a sandwich.
Me: And I could eat that leftover pasta from the other night.
Blake: Well, we've got all those extra noodles that are already made. We could get creative.
Me: There's sauce in the pantry! And I've got that zucchini and that eggplant and some broccoli that I could make, too!
Blake:....I think I'll just fix a sandwich.
Me: Yeah. I'll probably eat the leftover pasta.

Dear Spring

I really love your warm weather.
Really.
Days like today put me in good moods and make me hopeful that the months in which you will take up permanent residence here in the Midwest are just around the corner.
However.
This whole allergy thing?
Killing me.
Dry eyes, runny nose, sneezing, coughing...do I sound like a NyQuil commercial yet?
What are you trying to do to me, Spring.
Do you not want me to enjoy your sunny, mild days with the wind in my hair and flip-flops on my feet?
Seriously.
This totally sucks.
As such, I'm submitting an official request:
The cessation of any and all assassination attempts henceforth would be greatly appreciated.
Have a wonderful evening and a pleasant tomorrow.

Love-
Me

So, this one time I turned 24

On Friday.
I slept in until 9 am.
Cuddled with the cats and got phone calls from my familiglia, including my brother who never remembers anything but remembered my birthday. I was impressed.
Went to lunch with Ree Ree at Incredibly Delicious, where we dined on salad and sammiches (she had chicken salad, I had goat cheese and sundried tomato...yummmmm) and iced tea. We topped it off with the most delicious red velvet cake I've ever had.
No, really.
And then we decided that we needed to bring treats home for our favorite boys. Plus a loaf of bread. And maybe a roll for the road....and another treat for later.
I recieved a lovely package in the mail from my equally lovely sister. She made a sweet card with pictures of the two of us as little girls and sent a beautiful children's book called "Sisters." It might have made me cry just a little.
Lara, Amber, and Vanessa and I had dinner at Ginger. We ate too much sushi and noodles. But that's okay.
We trapsed around Springfield for the obligatory free birthday drinks that seem to be tradition 'round these parts (except Two Brothers now makes you pay for them...what is that?) and laughed way too much at all the trashy people. That's what we do for fun, mostly.
On Saturday, I ate a cream puff for breakfast.
And did some laundry.
And took a nap on the couch.
With the cats.
When Blake got home from work, he gave me my birthday gifts: Scene It! for the X-Box (!!!!) and two beautiful framed prints which he did not create, but after I hang them up and people start asking, I will tell them that he did. He's pretty talented, my boyfriend.
Then Chris suprised us all and came for a visit.
He and Blake and Amber and Vanessa and I went to dinner at Xochi for margaritas and burritos.
I did a shot of tequila, as instructed by our favorite waiter, Aurelio.
Halfway through the dinner, Gabe appeared out of thin air. Direct from Macomb.
After dinner we retired to an evening of Rock Band, Apples-to-Apples, and You Tube videos.
Amber and I ate a whole pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream.
She and the boys spent the night.
The next morning while the boys slept, the two of us drove to her house in Auburn, and then back again to have brunch with out three groggy male companions.
Then it was showers and off to Raymond (for me, at least) to have dinner with Lara's wonderful family and their vast assortment of exotic cheeses.
On our way back, we picked up Amber and arrived back in town to find the boys, plus Bryan, laying on the living room floor. Clearley exhausted from an arduous day of playing video games.
We rounded out the weekend with Ricky Gervais.

I ate way too much.
I drank a whole lot more than I usually do.
I slept in.
I didn't accomplish much of anything at all.

But that's okay.

Because I had a lovely birthday.
And I got to spend it with my wonderful friends.
Together in the same location.
For once.
And I got to talk to my awesome family.

And besides.
Birthdays only happen once a year.

Dear Eric and Marie

Yes that is your sock.

No, I don't care.

I know. I'm a bad friend.

Sorry.

Love,
Molly

PS- He also chewed a bunch of paper up. All over your living room floor.
You're welcome.

Where Have You Gone, Joe Dimaggio?

As I write this post, understand that my heart is in shreds.
No one died.
No one broke up.
No one even stubbed their toes.
Yet my chest is quite literally in pain.

This week was a tough week.
The Center is hiring an extra maintenance person and an extra security person, both part-time.
We ran an ad in the Sunday paper expressing our need.
By the time we got to work on Monday morning, we had twenty voice-mails inquiring.
By 10 am, we had twenty more.
By the end of the day, we had about fifty applicants.
That was day number one.
The amount increased exponentially throughout the week.
Which is wonderful.
Somewhere in that sea off applicants, there must logically be at least two responsible, hard-working people who we can be proud to employ.

So why the aortic pain?

Because there aren't just one or two viable options in that stack of papers.
There are sixty.
Of all the people who applied, about two-thirds of them are fully, if not totally over-qualified.
What's more, is that these are not 18 year-olds looking for an after-school job. I mean, some of them are, but most of them are tradesmen; electricians, plumbers, heating/air conditioning repairmen, carpenters. They're not lazy or uneducated. They're good at what they do. And because of the state of our economy, part-time janitorial work is their last option. If they want to feed their families or pay rent or put gas in their cars, what other choice is there?

My hearts breaks because as they come to the office and ask for applications, I have to look each one of them in the eye, smile, and choke back tears because I know that we can only give two people jobs that all of them so desperately need.

I'm not the one doing the hiring, but I'm doing all I can to make sure that worthy applicants don't get over-looked.
I've taken to drawing stars on the tops of applications if I feel that they should have an interview. If they're dressed nice or are polite or have a relevant resume, they get a star.
The ones who remind me of my father get two stars.
My father, who wouldn't miss a day of work even if he was missing an arm.
The ones who remind me of him are the ones in leather work-boots and plaid flannel shirts and stonewashed Levi's and Carhart jackets and smell like sawdust.
The ones witth creases around the corners of their eyes that still sparkle with humor and mischeif, with skin rough and calloused like leather from working outside in the sun and the cold and the wind for twenty years.
The ones who work the hardest and the longest hours.
The ones who are the best at what they do.
The ones who would do anything they could to make sure that their families were warm and safe and happy.
Those are the ones that remind me of my dad.

He has a job right now.
In fact, it's a very good job.
And we know that he's very lucky.
Because the reality of being in the trades, whether you're a laborer or a foreman, union or non-union, is that sometimes you can go without steady work for a very long time.
And there's a possibility that one day soon, my dad might not have his very good job.
Or any job at all.
And if that happens, I would want someone in my position to look at him and see how hard he must work, how trustworthy and responsible and loyal he is.
I would want someone to give him a chance to continue to provide for his family.
Because he deserves it.
And so do they.

I was in a really foul mood earlier this evening.
My boss (at my other job, not at the hospital...I kind of love my boss here) was being a total jerk.
I accidentally squirted ketchup on my shirt.
I have a lot of loose ends to tie up before I graduate.
I was at odds with living situations.
I was mad because my plans for my birthday might not work out.
I was annoyed that everything I love and want matierially is so freaking expensive.
Bascially, I was stressed and therefore I was not happy.

And then I remembered their faces.
And realized that even though my paycheck might be meager even by today's economic standards, it's still a paycheck.
My boss might be the spawn of Satan sometimes, but at least I have a job.
Moreover, I have two jobs.
One that I love.
One with really great health insurance.
At least I have a job to stress over.
And an apartment that I can afford to live in.
And even thought I have to drive a minivan because my other car tried to incinerate me, it's still a car.
I have so much to be thankful for.
And such a short time on earth.
Why should I waste my energy complaining about things that others need so badly?

That doesn't change the fact that my heart is breaking, though.

I am legitimately scared for our country.
I don't even remember feeling like this.
Even when the Twin Towers fell on September 11th, 2001 it didn't feel like this.
When that happened we came together as a nation.
And now all we're doing is pulling apart.

I am scared.
I am scared, but hopeful too.
The reason Barack Obama won this presidency is because the peope who voted for him believe that he has the power, the will, and the passion to stabilize all this chaos.
I am one of those people.
And I really hope that I'm right.
Even the people who didn't vote for him, those who hate him and all he stands for.
I imagine that they hope that I'm right, too.

Because how is it fair that people who work their whole lives, that do all they can to maximize their positions in life to make better ones for their children, suddenly find themselves unable to do so through no fault of their own?
How is it acceptable citizens are losing their jobs all around the country so that their superiors can avoid taking a simple cut in pay?
How is it reasonable that we as a country can fight a war on foreign soil that was not ours to fight in the first place and rebuild a nation that we were not asked to rebuild, but cannot afford to help our own people help themselves?

Pride and nationalism turned to apathy and indifference at some point in the last two decades, or so. Now we're stranded.
And my heart breaks for all of us.
I hope that President Obama can heal it.
Heal our society.
Heal the country.
We're all waiting.
We're all watching.

Our nation turns it's lonely eyes to you.