Picture Post

Confession: I just synched my iPhone's photos for the first time since before I went to New York to visit Jen. In early March. So here are some poorly lit photos of things that I felt the need to document these past months.

1. I love making fun of vanity plates--especially those which describe the person who feels the need to get a vanity plate.

 2. Hands down, the creepiest puzzle piece I have ever seen: 

3. It was a sad day for Portland.

4. This sign would be something I would do if I were in local government. Sometimes 10 minutes is too short of a time period and 15 is just too long.

5. That's what she said? Gross.

6.  What is more disconcerting than a bunch of mannequins? (Especially the armless ginger kid one with a smile straight out of a horror film.) (Although, I bet these kids have great parties when they come to life at night, à la Today's Special and Mannequin.) (I really like parentheses.)

7. Apparently this is a consequence of a fun-filled weekend with Reem in town.

8. Riding in cars with Shara. I'm short, I don't need any leg room. It's fine.

9. One stop shopping defined--as found in The Oregonian.

10. I'm not sure what makes me most uncomfortable about this picture, the tiger rug or the naked man's beehive. Toss up.

11. I am very troubled by this as well. I love it when people anthropomorphize animals and then eat them, but this goes further: all the way to sexualization. Always keepin' in classy!

12. This is also classy. Specifically since I found it in my grandparents' cabinet. Classy and awkward.

13. You didn't know I was such a bad ass, did you? (Please disregard the logic that if I were actually going 88 and not 2 MPH the photo would be super blurry.)

14. Because I'm not a huge fan of the scent I would never buy it. I was going to steal this from my grandmother's collection because it is such a classic. Apparently, my cousin didn't like that plan and "accidentally" dropped it, along with the rest of grandmother's perfumes. This is the only one I was interested in. It is the only one that broke. I'm not bitter, Jill, really. 

15. A student and I spent about three periods one week working on this puzzle as a geography review, only to find out at the very end we were missing several pieces. What is happening with Greece and surrounding countries?? Where are Ecuador and Chile supposed to be? I guess we'll never know. Thanks for nothing jigsaw puzzle!

Karaoke

Recently some of my friends and I discovered that we had not been karaoke-ing since Shara's birthday in April. That adventure took place at a kooky bar at the coast that was h.o.p.p.i.n.'. Sometimes I am not good at making decisions. It took me about 40 minutes with one of the karaoke song books to pick out "I'll Be There" by the Jackson 5. Come on, Molly! My friends who are so patient and kind were starting to get a little frustrated with me, so much so that they suggested maybe I should pick out a song and just have it ready for the next time we go.

I have very specific karaoke song criteria, which is how it takes me 40 minutes to choose one mediocre song.

1. Song cannot be too long. No "American Pie." No "Free Bird"
2. Song must not have longer than 4 measures of instrumental business at a time. Long guitar solos are awkward.
3. Song can't be too repetitive, especially at the end. It should end cleanly. ("Midnight Train to Georgia," I'm looking at you.)
4. I must know the song. ("Motownphilly" burned me before.)
5. Song must be popular enough that people know it, but not so popular that everyone ever knows all of the words and/or are sick of it. 
6. I have to sound at least pretty good singing it.

So, it took some time, but I decided I would perform one of my favorite songs, "Don't Stop Me Now" by Queen at our next karaoke outing. Then Rebel Wilson decided to sing it for her TV show (is it still on?) and now I'm out of luck. Thanks unfunny blonde Australian! We planned a karaoke outing for tomorrow, and I have to come up with some ideas in the next 24 hours.

Pat Benatar? Bruno Mars? Ke$ha? Nancy Sinatra? The BeeGees? The options are literally endless.   I only know that I'm not allowed to do Melanie's "Brand New Key."  Man oh man. My life is so hard.

Falling

I came to the conclusion in September when something truly mortifying happened to me at work, that I was thrilled to be working at a middle school simply for the reasoning that in a middle school, all of the students are even more self-conscious and self-obsessed than people generally are, and chances are pretty good they won't pay any attention to the embarrassment that is befalling someone else, at least not for very long.
I was reminded of this item to be added to my things for which I am grateful list today, when right after lunch I was playing on an indo board--I should back up. We decided to do a science experiment with different kinds of balance boards, one for skateboarding, one for snowboarding and one for surfing. I am the owner of the one for snowboarding, and am pretty good at that. I'm not someone who falls off of stuff, generally. I never fell on ice skates or roller skates or my bike. I'm not saying I never fall down. One time in college I fell down walking in a cross walk. I slipped on/tripped over...oh that's right nothing. I just fell down, as some cars stopped to let me cross. It was hilarious.* But back to today, I hopped on this made for surfing indo board, and was playing around, started talking to some of the kids, and got distracted from the fact that it was significantly taller than I was used to and crashed to the ground. I immediately got back on, because there were so many people in this room I couldn't not.

I'm fine, my shoulder, hip and ego are bruised, but I'm fine. It was pretty funny. And it didn't hold a candle to the truly mortifying thing from September, which I will never document ever, don't even ask. I will however tell you, so you can laugh at me if you want, if you ask nicely.

*For everyone else.

have you heard: chromeo

I've loved Chromeo since Ashley played me a few songs while we were driving around DC a million years ago. I am so in to their new song! 

cliché girl

I am pretentious. It's just sort of how I roll. Sometimes I am reminded just how unsubstantiated my pretense actually is.

As I was trying to catch up on episodes of The Voice (1) this long weekend, I fell in LOVE with Say Something (2). It helps that I've been an anxiety ridden, emotional wreck for about a month, but this song is awesome for me right now.



Then, Becky lent me a copy of "The Fault in Our Stars" and told me to read it.  I started it without realizing it was a YA novel. I started it without knowing it was about teenagers with cancer. Had I known either of those things I probably would have written it off as some saccharine, Nicholas Sparks-esque business.* I started it knowing only that Becky hoped I would like it. I devoured it in a few hours last Thursday. (3) I now want to read everything that John Green has written. Fan girl. (4)

I've also been really in to Tegan & Sara's newest album. (5) And I feel like such a tool about that because it is way poppier than all of their other albums. I have and like them; I just don't love them as much as I love, love this album. (6) Keep it poppy! Keep it snappy!



So cliché.

*I've still never been able to sit through The Notebook, despite Goslovin being in it. I guess I'm not a real girl yet.

Don't do Molly.

Ever since Miley's "We Can't Stop" it seems like Molly (mdma) is everywhere. I mean I know that it has been around for years, but now it seems to be everywhere. I don't think it helps that I have gone to a few shows recently of DJs where kids think it is a rave and bring their glow sticks, pacifiers,  fuzzy boots, and various levels of scantily clad-ness, along with their drugs.

At the first show, Zedd, a few weeks ago Shara, Paul, Jeremy and I were just there to get our dance on. I don't think Shara and I knew what we were getting ourselves in to. I kept asking Paul questions about these kids making poor life decisions. "Why do they have pacifiers?" "What's with the vicks vapor rub?" I think it was a fascinating anthropological experience* for Shara and I, almost like a modern day Dante's Inferno--we were getting a guided tour of at least one level of hell.** The one thing about Paul versus Virgil as a tour guide is that when you ask him, "what's the deal with the lights?" he gets a creepy guy with a mirrored mask, a fuzzy hat and glowy gloves to come do the glowy hands thing in my face. Shara got her phone and recorded the whole thing. It was hilarious. I didn't want to be rude, but I also didn't want to extend the agony any longer than necessary, so I pandered to him. After what seemed like an eternity, he took off his mask and had the most self-congratulatory face, "you're welcome." "Thanks."

At one point, Shara and I were sitting down hydrating and we couldn't hear each other without shouting, so we texted back and forth what has probably been the funniest text conversation in quite some time. Mostly it was talking about the people doing edibles, or being gross, or crazy.

I say fascinating anthropological experience, and I mean it. Truthfully, before this happened, I'd never seen coke in real life, let alone see someone spill a bunch on the ground, and still consider ingesting some of it. Ground cocaine is the best kind of cocaine, I guess. When Paul and Shara told me about another concert on Saturday night, I was game. Shara and I were armed with light up rings, and ready to get our jumping up and down on. The crowd at this show, maybe because it was 21+, was way classier.*** There were about 5 people dressed like rave kids (all who were older than me,) and then a hundred others just there to get their dance on.  Way more awesome.

At both shows, there was a lot of joking about my name.**** Shara and I thought we heard someone else who's name was Molly, and I said, "let's talk to her!" so Shara yelled out "Molly!" in close proximity a few times, and she did not turn around, so she was either really not paying attention or it was people talking about drugs. Don't do drugs.

Paul sent me this in my spotify inbox and I laughed heartily. The lyrics are typical Molly talk, both of me and the drug. It speaks only of the fun times, and not of the debilitating lack of serotonin the drug and I leave you with for days afterward.




*I took notes. Literally. One guy had a huge tattoo on each of his arms. One arm said, "When you are suffering" then the other said, "know that I have betrayed you." Classy.  And at one point, I started clapping, and then as if by magic, (or mob mentality, the two are so intertwined) the hundreds of other people in this venue were clapping with me. People... what are you going to do with them?
**Does that sound like I'm condemning those people?
***Excluding one specific group: one guy, three girls. The girls would cycle through, one at a time and grind all over the guy. At first we were confused, then we quickly realized they must be in a polygamous relationship. 
****No Irish prostitute talk this time. Just drugs.

caffeine and adultery

Caffeine and I have a very strained relationship--it amplifies my anxiety and keeps me up far too late, but I also like to use it sometimes as a stimulant. Today was a day that I would have very much appreciated some caffeine. With that mission in mind, I set out with Nancy and Juan Carlos at lunch. We decided to hit a drive thru for them and a Starbucks inside of an Albertson's for me.

As I walked in to the Albertson's, leaving my coworkers in the car to their Burgerville,  it became very apparent that the couple with exceedingly poor taste* meeting up near where I was walking were having an affair with one another. "That's disappointing,"** I thought, but then headed toward the Starbucks kiosk. I suppose, (perhaps due to my preference for an appropriate amount of personal space, specifically when strangers are concerned,) I wasn't standing close enough to the person who was placing their drink order to show that I was in fact in line, but this oblivious couple cut in front of me. This aggravated me immensely. I try very hard to not inconvenience or perturb people around me, and I expect others to do the same. (Case in point: I will wait until the next exit if I've been an idiot and not gotten in the correct lane on the freeway. This might surprise some as I can act like a total bitch, but at no point do I feel like me and my business are more important than anyone else's. These people apparently do not share my beliefs.***) I didn't make a fuss. What would be the point of that? True I was in a hurry, but I thought, "my drink requires like no work at all...it'll be fine." Being behind them, I was forced to witness their awkward and very forced middle-aged PDA, which I must say was a real inconvenience.

It is true that my drink of choice at Starbucks takes about 20 seconds to prepare. But, despite the fact that this immoral, ugly haired woman only ordered regular no frills coffee, she hemmed and hawed over her pastry decision for probably 2 minutes. Finally, after much consultation, she decided on what vaguely resembled a cinnamon roll and asked for it to be heated up. With a great deal of sincere regret the barista informed her that in their kiosk they didn't have anything to heat up pastries with. Ugly hair was really upset. She then asked if there was a break room or somewhere that this barista could go to heat up her snack. I would be showing a great deal of restraint to say I was simply gobsmacked by this request. And when the barista complied I thought I would need smelling salts. The couple took a seat at a nearby table before picking up their drinks, so the barista poured the coffee, left the kiosk to drop off the coffee to the table before getting the cinnamon roll out of the case.

The barista looked at me apologetically and said in her best customer service voice, "I'll be right with you," and jogged off, cinnamon roll in hand. Suffice it to say, I opted to not wait and did not have any caffeine - which is probably for the best as it is currently almost 2 am and I am still wide awake.

The thing I found most shocking about this whole scenario - not to minimize my consternation at their flaunting of their affair, the fact that they had their tryst at least partly in a grocery store, their blatant line cutting, or the ridiculously self-centered request to heat up a cinnamon roll in an employee break room microwave for crying out loud- is that this couple did not tip this girl. I don't think the barista only decided to be nice because she thought she might get something out of it - as I hope that isn't the sole motivation for anyone to be nice...but seriously? When you are so difficult and ask for so many (some would say absolutely inappropriate) accommodations, you should at the very least be nice about it!****

*Not even taking into account their affair. She had 90s permed hair with a badly bleached two-toned color job: platinum blonde on the crown and a darker orangey grossness on the hair underneath to say nothing of the circa 2004 outfit. He wore camouflage and shorts, despite the very chilly and rainy weather, paired with pristine construction boots and tall wool socks.  

**Both the aesthetic choices made and their immoral behavior.

***In the importance of aesthetic choices, moral behavior or social interaction.

****If I was her stylist and she didn't tip me, I'd absolutely turn her hair the non-pretty/non-natural-ginger-orange that her hair is currently and then tell her how amazing it looked. "That color looks fabulous on you, especially paired with the tonally dissonant platinum on top! It really *ahem* flatters you. The only thing that could improve this would be a perm à la every tween and Suzanne Somers from 1992!"

NocheTussin

I have officially finally caught up* on New Girl for this season, and I have to say, I am actively disappointed. I miss season one levels of funny. The Jess/Nick thing is ridiculous. Schmidt and Winston were once the reason I watched the show, now Winston does puzzles and dates his cat and when was the last time Schmidt did something worthy of the douchebag jar and dating both of those girls at the same time? Weak sauce.

I miss shows that are funny. I miss Happy Endings. For moments like this (specifically the first two minutes.):





*When a coworker and I were talking about tv recently I told her that I hadn't had time to watch any of New Girl or The Voice, two shows that we talked about last year pretty consistently. I told her I'd get on it, when one of the 8th graders informed me that it is possible to go in to your DVR and set up a series recording so the DVR records all of the episodes for you. I wanted to say, "I know you little Chachi brat, now get out of here!" What I said instead was, "Oh, I know. I'm recording them, I just haven't had time to watch them."

have you heard: days are short playlist

Les voisins gênant: Reality Check

A few weeks back, one of my grandparents' neighbors saw me at their house, chatted me up and invited me over for a "reality check." Immediately I regretted not being quite skilled enough with my evasive maneuvers and able to avoid the entire interaction. Then I thought, "I'm an overly anxious 30 year old with health issues, no career, working in a job that isn't even close to what I want to do with my life, being hit on by at 36 year old who's never not lived in his parents' basement, did not (to my knowledge) get a degree and who has at least one illegitimate child. That's quite enough reality for me, thank you." Out of curiosity I asked him, "what do you mean by a reality check?" He came back with, "a whiskey or tequila." I thanked him, declined and told him, "it's not as bad as all that," and went back inside. 

Sometimes I feel badly about wanting to avoid certain people and interactions. But only sometimes.

October 28.

I really like the google doodle today celebrating Edith Head's birthday. I really love her.

Sometimes when I think of everyone that I share a birthday with and admire, I kind of feel like October 28th is a pretty great day to have a birthday.

Edith Head
Evelyn Waugh
Bill Gates
Andy Richter (and Donnie, Chareth, Rocky, Emmett)
Jonas Salk
Brad Paisley
Ben Harper

I also feel like I should start accomplishing things with my life.

Rebel without a cause.

There has got to be something about my demeanor that screams 'rebel' -- something that the rule follower in me is completely unaware of. I bring this up for a few reasons:

1. It was recently suggested that a very tattooed man, who dresses in leather and teaches kindergarten was the "perfect" guy for me. I'm not sure what about my non-ironic wearing of grandma cardigans screams 'I'm looking for a Hell's Angel turned kindergarten teacher,' but clearly something must.  Here I have been all this time inaccurately thinking I wanted a preppy guy who saves leather for wallets, shoes and belts.

2a. When I ran into a dear friend a couple weeks ago after not seeing each other for a few months, she asked me if I was still going to church. Not in a "are you still attending the singles' ward?" way, but in a "have you gone inactive yet?"way. When I told her I was very much still going to church, she seemed more than a little surprised.
2b. One of my co-workers who is also LDS, (and who claims to not judge people) told me I was on my way to being apostate. Is it just me, or does that sound conspicuously like a judgement? Also, if I am about to be apostate, I am doing a terrible job.  If I weren't so convinced that being a disciple of Christ is the best way for me to be a good human, I'd have to reevaluate and change goals.

3. This last instance needs a little back up. One of the girls who was on the committee to plan our summer YSA conference last July told me that weekend how shocked she was that I was being nice to her. Apparently, she did not find me at all nice in any of the planning meetings- this might be due to the fact that I would shoot down her less than stellar ideas, i.e. getting pre-made pancakes from Winco to serve at breakfast. I really was diplomatic with all of the ideas I wasn't crazy about, but to that one, I just asserted "VETO!" (You would've done the same thing.)  So, already she doesn't really have the greatest picture of me, unless she's right and I'm just the biggest jerk ever.*

The other night I was at a dinner that she was at along with some stake presidency members from the regional committees, their wives, and four regional YSA reps from the three regions in our area.  This girl informed me that I would respond to a certain situation by just screaming, "shut the bleep up." I said, "probably not, and definitely not with the bleep**" "You don't cuss? That surprises me. You seem like such a rebel." The rest of the table, filled with people who know me significantly better than this girl and one clueless guy, all looked at her with a quizzical expression. I said, "How am I a rebel? Because I am a critical thinker? Because I'm politically moderate?" My Vancouver counterpart said, "Those are considered rebellious when you're Mormon." Then the clueless guy says, "there are two questions to see if you are really a rebel." Friends, I knew I was in trouble at this point, because homeboy is crazy bananas pants. "#1. Can you do the rebel yell?" "Like the Billy Idol song?" "No, like the confederate soldiers would yell..." "Let me stop you there, I always favored the North as I am solidly anti-slavery." At which point, one of my favorite people in the world, a stake presidency member from a different committee said, "I don't think she meant politically moderate in the 1860s." Crazy banana pants then said, "#2. When you see a storm trooper..." Friends, I'll stop recounting this tale right here. It just got stranger, and then it turned in to a Spanish Inquisition type situation with this girl asking me questions that I was not even close to wanting to answer. I am not a confider by any means, especially when I am not a huge fan of the person asking the questions, but she was looking for answers so I was forced to evade.  As we were leaving, one of the stake presidency members remarked to me that he had never seen a questioning like that, ever.  I think it is quite an accomplishment that at no time during the dinner did I scream out, "shut the bleep up!"despite the fact that that is not even close to how I roll.

I think what bugs me most about the two situations is that these are people*** who have seen me in limited settings and then draw conclusions about me. I want to join every person who was on a talk show in the 90s or reality show in the aughts and say, "you don't know me!" But clearly, I'm leading them to a place where they draw these conclusions. So maybe I should just embrace this rebel in me and start frequenting tattoo parlors and the Harley Davidson store and try to meet kindergarten teachers there. 


* I actually might be. Tonight when my father asked me when I wanted to come over and celebrate my birthday I told him I didn't want to celebrate anything with his wife, and that he and I should get together the two of us. I've not heard back from him and it has been 4 hours.

**hell, damn, asshat, and bitch don't count as swear words, right?  OK, so I might have lied, but I sincerely doubt the bleep she was referring to was hell.

***I'm not sure either are reliable character witnesses. If I were a cattier person, I'd relay that one of them started crushing on and then stalking an adorable and very kind guy after summer conference, thinking that the stalking seemed less weird when she called it out. Wrong. And the other, being one of the prudest and mormoniest Mormons around has said multiple times to me, "I'm not a Molly." Wrong, and she's making me like my name less. But I'm not catty, so I won't.

Worst Song Ever

Last week my friend Annie posed the question, "what do you think the worst song ever is?" I immediately came back with "Tubthumping," or that 'hey now, you're an all star' song. Both of which were completely discounted by Annie and Becky. Then I suggested "Wooly Bully." Again shot down. We'll have to agree to disagree on the quality of those songs, and now I completely question my friends' taste levels. But as I was driving to work this morning, I heard a song. A song so terrible, I can now believe with confidence I have found the worst. song. ever. And in the spirit akin to, "this is disgusting! Try it!" I implore you to find this song and give it a listen and tell me I am wrong.

Lies I Told Today.

One of the things that I find so exhausting about being in a school environment is the hundreds of interactions I have in 7.5 hours.  Sometimes in order to make some of those interactions less awkward or as short as politeness will allow, I lie. Also, to inspire and/or relate to students I lie. Sometimes it absolutely is necessary. Even though I know I am not 'supposed' to, I told some lies today.

8:30 am- Nice to see you too!

10:00 am- That's so cool!

12:00 pm- Nice to see you too, but I've got to run.

1:00 pm- Boys like girls who are good at math.

1:30 pm- That sounds like a good plan.

2:30 pm- No judgement, but...

And chances are pretty good that I'll repeat more than one of these tomorrow.

Flow

Today I was able to have the first proper chat with my dear friend Ashley since she got back from her summer in Central America.  With the two of us it could go anywhere, so I wanted to document the subjects broached during our 84 minute conversation this afternoon. In order:

bird poop
luck
Nicole Richie
Australia
bad music
running
tendons
NPR
school
depression/anxiety
meditation
Miley Cyrus
twerking
drugs
creepy old guys
boyfriend (past tense)
Utah
how much we love Jen
boyfriend (present tense-hers)
jolly ranchers
boy
Groucho Marx
eloping

Training Wheels

My brother got some training wheels for our little brother and I played deliverer bringing them back to the Westside after trivia on Tuesday. When I told my father that I had them, he was excited and we arranged for a time for me to swing by his house to drop them off. I then said, "Why are you even putting training wheels on Isaac's bike? They're a crutch. You're enabling him. The most efficient way of him learning to not fall is by falling. I never used mine. Remember, I made you take them off, like, immediately?"* My dad was chuckling at how ridiculous I was being, saying, "I'll think about that," in a way that meant of course he wasn't going to even consider not putting training wheels on Isaac's bike. I then said, "I have no idea why I'm not married with a family of my own." My father laughed heartily at this.

Why is that funny, dad?**

*I really never used my training wheels. They were installed on my bike, but I hated the noise they made so I learned really quickly how to make them not touch the ground. That said, I was four and have no idea how long those things actually stayed on my bike. But that didn't stop me from being ashamed of them from day one.

**Reem, that was just for you.

Zen and the Art of Wallpaper Removal

For the better part of the last week I have been spending time at my grandparents' home of many, many years removing wallpaper. Some of these wallpapers have come down very easily, some...not so much. I am a huge proponent of wallpaper! huge. Even though I've spent about ten hours on a ten foot length of wall. (Concentrated chemicals will be applied to the multiple coats of wallpaper tomorrow. It is such a beast, I keep thinking, "No wonder grandma didn't remove this before repapering!") This has been an interesting experience.  Earlier this summer, through various refinishing projects done for other people, I realized that I really only like doing DIY stuff for myself. I know this sounds so selfish...but...well, it is. But hear me out. As I was refinishing these super old chairs for some people I know, for example, I realized, this is not fun, even though I charged a lot. I usually really like building or finishing stuff. But these chairs--even though they had great bones and turned out to be pretty gorgeous--I just really hated most of the experience. (Another potential occupation crossed off the list.) But this wallpaper removal, I haven't hated.

This beast of a room has actually been fairly cathartic to conquer. I have hated the top layer of wallpaper since I was a very small child. My brother and I would stay in that room on the weekends when my dad would come back from Minnesota to visit. I hated that wallpaper, but I was also terrified of my grandparents, so I tried to avoid them by staying in that room, (surrounded by dusty blue peacocks and beige flowers) as much as possible when we were at the house. It is just not my taste. Not like the gorgeous cream damask that I was sad to take down from the entry, or the gorgeous blue floral that I've convinced my entire family to let stay up and update the rest of the master bath. Well done there, Grandma. But most of the time spent taking down what I have managed to get down thus far was spent - I wouldn't say enjoying what I was doing, but I was happy to be helping people I love. Also, I think it really plays well in to the type a aspects of my personality. The more OCD/perfectionist I am about the wallpaper, the better.

As an added bonus, my grandfather is super impressed by how quickly I'm getting stuff done. Tonight when my father and I brought him a chocolate malt he said, "You know you've got the greatest daughter in the world!" What?!? I've really come to appreciate my grandfather over the past year and a half since my grandmother passed away. We talk about movies a lot*, and even joke about a certain non-blood-related relation that we both aren't particularly fond of. It has only taken my whole life, but I finally have made some headway. So there's that too.

Am I still afraid to touch anything in the house? You betcha. My grandmother might be deceased, but it is almost Christmas card season and I'd like very much to not be trashed this year.

*He has created a searchable database of all of the films he's seen since at least 1971. When I heard this I was disappointed I hadn't thought of doing that myself.

Weber Cooks

At a family dinner the other night, Ke$ha came up in conversation as Ke$ha is wont to do. (I have often said that the Venn diagram of my brother and I as far as tastes go, the only thing in the common area is The Muppets. When you throw our cousin Jill in to the mix, the common areas are The Beach Boys and Ke$ha.) As the conversation progressed, Jill was sending the lyrics of the song 'Stephen' to her friend Stephen, and Stephen had no idea what was going on. My brother said, "Oh speaking of that song, have you guys seen Weber cooks?" When we all said 'no', we opened up my laptop and watched in horror. Here was everyone's favorite Ke$ha song, being the sound track the a truly train wreck of a video. And then there were more than one.  My mom, brother and I were all horrified, and Jill was like, "Why is that gross?" It was pretty funny.

These videos are simultaneously hilarious and super, super depressing. People don't actually eat that food, right? And people don't use their microwaves that much- and with plastic, right? And, people don't actually film the saddest man on the planet making inedible foods, edit it poorly, mix the audio terribly and put it on tv, right? I think I might be wrong on all counts.

Potatoes and Creamed corn: 13 minutes of microwave use
 
1:17 notice the CU of nothing. It's my favorite part.
1:26 "And when it is done..."

Chili and Cheese Nacho dip: 4.5 minutes of microwave use

Quick note to Steven, you could spend the last 45 seconds of your segment and stir that gross junk together properly, I mean, if you wanted...

Rice a Roni: 23 minutes of microwave use

0:30 He puts the plastic knife in the "thing" with the rice into the microwave.
2:45 "You have this hot dish, that you can eat, that is made of rice."

The Spaghetti: 13 minutes of microwave use

This man has asbestos hands. He takes the glass bowl out of the microwave after ten minutes, and he took those potatoes out after ten minutes. Yikes. That said, I don't have a microwave, but I feel like 10 minutes is a long time in microwave time. Am I wrong?

have you heard: phosphorescent

obsessed. 

The Medium is the Message

It was like old home week this weekend. A very special birthday of a very special girl brought a lovely couple (birthday girl in tow) from the South and a charming girl from the East. Like always, it was delightful to see these wonderful people.

I have to say that even after about 20 years of friendship, Reem - the charmer from the East - teaches me things every time I see her. This weekend's lesson: beautiful people can say anything with far fewer consequences.*

At a loud bar in the Pearl we danced, played and joked. We made friends and I shocked these new friends with the mere fact that I am fun (aka kinda shameless) whilst being completely sober. Needing a slight break from the revelry and noise, I stepped outside to find Bex and get some fresh air. After a few moments we were joined outside by Reem and a man who immediately drew to mind George Eliot's villainous** "frog-faced Joshua Rigg." I will never fully understand why Reem was spending any time with this guy in the first place.  But I am getting ahead of myself.

This angry, spiteful fellow was introduced to me as an ex-Mormon, and I to him as an active-Mormon. (Immediately he hated me, maybe for this fact alone.) His job is helping homeless teenagers in some capacity, and when Reem told him that she helped out with the finances for a charity with a similar aim, he announced that he doesn't deal with that bs*** and that working on the front lines is really where it is at. I reminded him that it is because people like Reem dealing with that bs that keep these institutions financially viable he can have a job. AND, I said, the more money organizations can spend on marketing and publicity, the more people can be involved and truly effect change.

Reem then told this guy that he was prideful. He protested, and demanded evidence to justify such an accusation. After a few seconds of trying to pinpoint exactly what it was about Captain Prideful, Reem said, "Molly help me out here." I added that it was his demeanor that made him seem prideful. He objected to this. He wanted proof. He got super angry, and turned to me, completely forgetting it was Reem who called him on his mass amounts of pride in the first place, and said, "Suppose I was to call you a 'bitch.' I would need some proof to back it up." At this point he put a cigarette the wrong way in to his mouth. I said, "My behavior is your evidence, just like yours is to us. And you're about to light the wrong end of that cigarette." At which point Reem and I took our leave, found our friends and left for a different bar.

Since then I have been pondering why Captain Drunk and Prideful was yelling at me and not Reem. I wasn't being any more sassy than Reem was. I wasn't the one who initially called him out. But I'm also not the one who is gorgeous. I'm not the one he chatted up and bought a drink for. I'm the cock-block sober friend who remembers all of the details of the evening, including the fact that he was frog-faced and a ginormous douche b, who didn't have even the slightest chance with Reem--but I bet he'll remember it differently, when he writes his weekend recap blogpost.

* Using the scientific method, we took this hypothesis, used a control group (me) to compensate for variables and unequivocally proved this theory to be true.

**Can he really be called 'villainous' just because he dashed the expectations of charming ne'er-do-well Fred Vincy? I say yes- mostly because when boring people beat out charming people it is a bummer.

***One guess as to whether he used the expletive or the euphemism.

Chronique d'un été 2013

Pretty much can't get enough of these tunes this summer:

Live every week like it's Shark Week.

The other day I got a voicemail from a guy one of my friends has recently started seeing (whom I have never met) asking me for help with an activity for church. It took me a few days to call him back and when I called him back tonight, we had a super awkward ... entertaining conversation.

Things went awry straight off.  During the initial pleasantries, when I asked how he was doing, he answered "It's Shark Week, so..." So....what?? Unfortunately I don't feel I have enough information to infer anything from the fact that it is Shark Week. Then he brought up this dance, and how much he liked to dance, and I responded, "Are you asking me out?" Friends, he. was. not. When he brought up that we had met at the YSA conference a couple weeks ago, I admitted to having no idea who he was. He told me of when we "met"- not an actual introduction or conversation happened. No wonder I had/have no idea who he is. He then brought up my friend with whom he is spending some time, I went on to praise her and suggested that he 'lock that down.' He laughed an uncomfortable laugh. I knew it was time to cut and run. I told him I would help him with the activity for church. He then instructed me to put his number in my phone - as though I will need it in the future. I hung up and wondered if it was actually Shark Week and what that might mean to me and my life. What adventures are in store for this week of weeks? I have no idea, but I am all pins and needles--not unlike the underwater cameramen inside the metal cages in the chummy water filming the swarming sharks for the Discovery Channel. Maybe it is this kind of excitement of the unknown that this man was talking about when he said, "it's Shark Week, so...." I think I have missed the boat (pun intended) on Shark Week up until now.  But not anymore! No sir. I'm going to do just what Tracy Jordan told me to from now on.

My bad Freddie Scott

I am embarrassed, ashamed and quite humbled to say that I had no idea that Biz had sampled from a song in one of my all-time faves. But now I know, and I'm so glad I do because the original is a great, great song.




Thanks Biz. Thanks Freddie.

Was that supposed to be charming?

The website I update periodically as part of my calling wasn't letting me access the calendars yesterday, so I asked the bishopric member who saved said website last year for us for a little help. I felt slightly like a stalker just hanging around as he was chatting with some guys for a minute or two. As soon as he finished up with them, instead of being able to pounce and have all of my questions addressed and allow the YSA masses notified of upcoming events, I was instead chatted up by one of the guys this bishopric member was talking to. Feeling more than slightly disappointed at the prospect of having my task hindered, I still reached out to meet his hand in friendship.

"Hi, I'm Barry."*
"I'm Molly."
"That's an unfortunate name."

At that point I took my hand back. I did not try to conceal any emotion, although given how cluelessly this man had dressed and styled himself,** I should have probably been a bit more patient. I wasn't angry, just very, very confused. This is what you're going with? You turn to leave, look at me, come back to introduce yourself and then immediately insult me? F A S C I N A T I N G.

Probably because of my eyebrows-to-the-hairline expression of pure gobsmackedness, he immediately backpedaled, "I mean because of the whole 'Molly Mormon' thing. That must have sucked."
"It isn't true for me, so it doesn't really bother me."***

[Awkward silence.]

I started to walk away, and he started to follow, so I said, "I have to go talk to Brother Do Not Answer.**** Nice to meet you.*****"

Suffice it to say I immediately word alerted some friends to announce that I had met the man of my dreams.  I can't help but thinking if the website had been letting me do what I wanted to do, I probably would have missed my chance. Kismet!



*Apparently when I speak poorly of people at church I change their names. (And by speak poorly of I mean reporting exactly what happened as objectively as possible).

**Homeboy was wearing a huge burgundy dress shirt, circa 1992 and had a hipster curled at the sides mustache. We all know how much I love both of those things.

***I heard the phrase Molly Mormon for the first time at the age of 17 from a 40+ year old woman who was trying to be funny by making fun of my name. How much of a brat I was I probably deserved being made fun of then and much more, but how was she to know that on our first meeting?

****Not his real name either, but how he is listed in my phone.

*****I lied in a church.

Molly the hipster

There are a lot of words out there that I would use to describe me -- hipster is not one of them. Sure, you talk to hipsters and they say, "I hate that word." or "I am so not a hipster!" But seriously folks, I am not a hipster.

Why do I bring this up? A few weeks ago, a new team showed up at trivia and sat right next to us. Other than some trivia-related pleasantries, I didn't say much these guys. Come to find out the next day that one member of this team was my friend Shara's co-worker. She relayed to me that I was described as the blonde hipster.* The fact that I was lumped into that particular designation led to a mild existential crisis. Hipster? ME?!?

In order to remedy this head on, I made a chart to determine if I was in fact a hipster.

 

As expected, the similarities are far out numbered by the dissimilarities. (And really genocide was just a good-faith add. Everyone hates genocide, right?)

So after chart told me that I was more non-hipster than hipster, and with the help of Shara, it was decided that the key indicator to this person that I was a hipster was my glasses. Which I have to say is fair.

 

 But as a true hipster would point out, I've had thick rimmed glasses since 2000. So really hipsters are copying me. #originalhipster


*If this man knew anything about hipsters, he would know that hipsters aren't blonde--that's an oxymoron in and of itself. Also, he would know I am not one. Unlike my cousin Jill.

showstealer pro trial version

trial version has expired - click here to purchase full version - HILARIOUS.

Officially just finished season 4. I won't give any spoilers (I will however say I totally knew something in episode 3 that was revealed in episode 12.) but I will say that I agree with Tobias and I think that having matching luggage is romantic.

Speaking of luggage. I have to confess that after I saw that I had the same suitcase as Carrie Bradshaw I felt kind of like a Carson Daly-sized tool. Not that I liked it any less, but there were certain pangs of guilt associated with my love for a while.

Guilty pleasure no more. Now that I know that the Fünke's each have one, I feel like I am just fine.

Now, go finish season 4 and let me know when you're done so we can talk about it.

It's a soft g.

As I was running some errands today, I stopped off at Trader Joe's for some groceries. I approached the cashier and found myself behind a teacher from an area high school that I had worked with for a week when I was a sub. He was a baseball coach, which I am sure he's good at, because he is not the greatest teacher on the block. He was teaching English and mispronounced gerund. I digress; I'm not here to make fun of his teaching skills, or lack of comprehending rudimentary pronunciation guidelines for his native tongue and teaching subject matter. I should state that I didn't realize I was behind him until... well let me start over.

At Trader Joe's I was buying more than the three things I had gone in for and was regretting not getting a basket. My arms chock full of produce, and some dried mangoes (damn you Joe!) I looked for the shortest line. I am very skilled in always picking the wrong line--I had done it at Whole Foods 15 minutes earlier*, I always get the chatty cashier, or the person who doesn't know how a debit card works, or the classic "shoot I forgot mushrooms, can you go wait while I take forty five minutes to go grab some?" egomaniac. It's a problem I have. I saw a line with one guy in it. In his arms were two bottles of wine. BINGO! That's the line. So the cashier speedily rings up the wine and announces the money due. "$4.98." The guy hands the cashier a $5. I look at the bill, and I am gobsmacked that I have not misheard the total. Five dollars? For two full sized bottles of wine?!? I have to look at this fellow patron to see what kind of person would buy that kind of wine, and there he is: the man who doesn't know when to use a hard G and when not to. Fascinating.



*At Whole Foods it was a chatty cashier who decided to engage the customer before me in a conversation about the documentary Forks Over Knives. I fully support that sort of conversation, but I'm not sure it was the most appropriate timing, given that there were three people waiting. I just wanted to buy my ginger, beets and Portland Bee Balm! Although it gave me time to try to decipher whether this chatty cashier was wearing crazy eyeliner or if she had a face tattoo. Jury is still out, though I hope that it was make up.

Fennel

When I was in New York, I was able to visit with my dear friend Rachel. She is a super cool chick, and I really enjoy our time together. She was telling me about her new blog venture Made Weekly which has garnered plenty of positive attention in the tumblr sphere in its short life span. Rachel's concept is great - five recipes, five days, one ingredient. At our lunch we discussed our mutual love of fennel, and I told her about how a few days before I went to Mario Batali's tiny tapas place, Bar Jamon, with Ashley to commemorate our trip to Spain a few years back. We enjoyed lots of delicious things, including the greatest pan con tomate ever*, but specifically a plate of malvarosa cheese with fennel infused honey. It was a taste sensation, let me tell you. A combination I would never be creative enough to think of, but I certainly enjoyed it. Thank you Batali!

And thank you, Rachel! Last week's ingredient was fennel on Made Weekly. Go check it out. Be inspired to add it to a marinara sauce over pasta, throw it in a chicken salad, or do any of the beautiful suggestions offered up by Rachel.


*Even the salt was extraordinary, I kid you not.

Hug a tree.

Today was fairly warm, sunny and wonderful in Manhattan. Ashley and I decided to take advantage of the sun and walk around Central Park after lunch. We started in the North Woods. We were walking along a trail when we noticed a woman hugging a tree. I mean, this woman was literally hugging a tree. She was out for a walk with her dog. Her dog was patiently waiting, rested and ready to go, and she was just embracing this tree. As we approached, I expected to see a companion with a camera, or something to explain this visage. No companion. No camera. Just her patient dog, and a long suffering tree. After about 90 seconds she let go of the tree and continued on her walk. As she passed us, she carried with her the strongest scent of marijuana this side of a Phish concert.

Sometimes I am an idiot.

Correction: Most times. Most times I am an idiot. But sometimes my actions instill fear (in me and probably others) for my failing mind and make me woefully aware of what a burden I am.

I am sitting at the Portland International Airport, waiting. I am about to head 3,000 miles East to visit with a few of my dearest friends. I have checked my luggage, but I have yet to go through security. Why the wait, you may wonder. Well let me first tell you that I did remember a few things that I usually forget: my dslr, its charger and usb cable, my fitbit's charger, my iPhone charger, my supplements, gum, a coat and a jacket. Pretty good right? Laptop and power cord? Check and check.

Unfortunately, I forgot my phone. Yep. My phone. That little delightful concoction of plastic, metal and glass that would tell me where Jen lives/where I am supposed to travel to when I arrive at JFK. I realized this as my sweet, (and sick with a bad cold) mother dropped me off. She decided to race to go get my phone and bring it back to me, like a saint. And I decided to sit near the ticket counters, hoping the line for security stays really short and that I'll be able to dash through it and make it to my gate in time.

Oy vey, Molls. I used to have such hope for you... And thanks mom, for helping me, yet again.

This made me think of the time when I left my phone at my house in Provo when I was flying home for Christmas one time. I would love to be more responsible or even more remember-ible. If I had remembered my phone, I could be playing songpop and not have elevated cortisol levels, and I could have not made my mother drive the 20 miles each way to the airport 4 times. Oh and did I mention I didn't have enough gas in my car to make all of those trips? Well I didn't.

I would make a terrible boy scout.

"How's that New Year's Resolution working for you?"

was the super-sassy question from Shara yesterday.

The truth is, I have written about fifteen blog posts over the last few weeks, and for whatever reason, they have stayed in their draft versions because I didn't really want to post them. I'll go through them soon and decide if I want to actually share about the time I was an accidental racist at Sephora, or how I finally bought myself a new computer and phone, and was welcomed to 2013 by a couple sassypants girls at church who have been making comments on how old my 3Gs every time I saw them for an exhaustively long time, and when I called them materialistic in a bitter joking way, they then called me materialistic because I went from one Kate Spade phone case to another,* or how song pop is my new favorite app, or one of the dozen of other topics I saw fit to start to share, but then didn't.

But for now, let me tell you that I have been organizing a YSA activity for church for March, and things keep not working out as desired, so we'll see how it actually goes. But yesterday I found this in the course of planning and it totally made my day. 

P.S. his foot is over the line, but I bet old Tricky Dick counted the pins he knocked down on this turn instead of treating it like a foul.


*That's pretty much the gist of that one, except for who cares that I had my phone for 3 years? It still worked, it was still fine.**
 **THAT SAID,  I couldn't turn it off and consequently felt super guilty and anxious about not being the rule-follower I like to be on flights to and from LA in December.