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.