Moving On Up

I've been playing with a new design for awhile and have decided to go in favor of some cleaner lines and a new space.

You can visit me at my new home: http://theselittlemoments.wordpress.com/

Please update your blogrolls and keep reading. I love having you!

Can't I Have It Both Ways?

While rushing to get to an early staff meeting, I encountered the daily challenge of crossing the street across from my office. Sure, there's a crosswalk, but people don't stop. Even when I do my patented death stare and disappointed head shake at them.

A car on the opposite side stopped to let me go, but one look up the street told me I better wait, because the car on my side was flying. So there I am, giving the aforementioned death stare, when the car screeches to a halt. As I start to cross the street both the driver-side and passenger windows roll down and two guys lean out. I make the mistake of turning to look at them as I cross and am met with a "yeah, baby!" and some cat calls.

I am instantly pissed. It's 8 a.m. I am on my way to a very long staff meeting and I am tired. The last thing I want to deal with is obnoxious comments from some unidentified men.

As they drive off and I begin my walk down the street, a smile forces its way across my face. I am wearing the pants that make my butt look cute and my legs look super long. I do have on adorable stilettos that may make me strut just a little.

Then I get pissed at myself because what, now I like the attention?

Guess I can't have it both ways!

Irked

Dear Fergie Ferg,

Thank you for doing such a service to our nation's youth. Without you, "Delicious" and "Glamorous" would always be misspelled. I'd like to add "Tasty" to that list, but unfortunately, you spell it wrong. Newsflash: there is no "E" in Tasty.

Sincerely yours,

Molly

It's OK

I've decided that it's OK...

- to not like wheat bread. I know it's healthy, but you know what? I get more than enough of the good-for-you stuff. I want my sandwich on a non-wheat roll. Preferably a hard roll.

- to worry that my feet will grow when I have kids (it happened to my mom) and I won't fit in any of my beautiful shoes anymore. (Although, what a great excuse for a shoe shopping spree!)

- to own a Celine Dion greatest hits CD. What?

- to not answer the phone sometimes. Caller ID is a wonderful thing.

- to have conversations with the dog. He might not talk back, but he's a great listener.

- to wish that My So-Called Life was still on TV. Even just in syndication.

- to enjoy it when Michael works on a Friday evening. Bad TV + a new magazine + no one to tell me the show sucks = sweet.

- to tell myself repeatedly that muscle weighs more than fat.

"Welcome To The Real World She Said To Me"

On Friday night I attended my sister's orchestra concert. The show was great. And predictable. Like every Pops Concert before, the show ended with all three orchestras performing Stars and Stripes Forever. And just like every Pops Concert I had played in, as the last section of the song began, in full FORTE, they dropped the American flag. So patriotic.

I knew it was coming. Every year as I stood in the orchestra pit playing those very notes, I couldn't look at my friend Abby without laughing. Laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it. At the audience clapping along, goofy grins plastered on their faces. It was always a riot.

As I sat there watching my sister and laughing to myself, I realized how weird it was to be on the other side. Watching, not playing. That was me up there from fourth grade till graduation. Hours of practice, countless concerts and one amazing trip to Australia, New Zealand, Tahiti and the South Pacific. And for the first time in a long time, I longed to play in a group again.

Afterwards, we all filed into Cafeteria A for cookies and juice. As we pushed through the double doors I felt like John Mayer should be playing in the background. It was all so familiar to be back there, but also so strange.

Had it really been only seven years since I last walked those halls?

It feels like a lifetime ago.

Want. Chocolate.

I'm hormonal this week. The good thing is I did the shopping before in preparation because I knew if I went this week, I would return with Entenmann's chocolate covered donuts probably crunchy Cheese Doodles. Because those are my two weaknesses this time each month. So while it's a good thing that I didn't buy them, I'm not going to lie. I'm craving them big time.

But my hormones did get the best of me last night. I cried during the news. There was a piece about soldiers going off to war and leaving their families. It was so sad to watch them kiss their husbands/wives/fiances/significant others goodbye while tears streamed down their faces. I was seriously moved, but was holding it together. Until Michael looked over at me and said, "I love you, baby."

Then I lost it.

So really, it's his fault.

I'm heading home to New York this afternoon to see my family. I'm really looking forward to it.

Have a great weekend!

Just What I Needed

Remember when I talked about how glorious it would be to work from home? I was right. My boss, being the awesome boss he is, suggested that since I was going to spend the majority of my day writing my magazine pieces, if I felt like working from home today he'd be OK with that.

I felt like it.

Especially after our big move yesterday, I could use a little time away from the desk. And today has been every bit as wonderful as I thought it would be. I woke up at 7 as usual, showered and made myself look pretty. I've been in this state for awhile and there's one thing I still hadn't done. Gotten my Rhode Island license. So after primping and straightening my hair, I was off to the DMV. I was out of there pretty quickly (shock) with my new (temporary paper) license in hand. All that primping was a waste of time. The picture ain't that great. Of course.

A part of me was sad to hand over my New York license. No matter how long I live here, I will always consider myself a New Yorker. It's who I am. It's why I pronounce dog "daawg" and coffee "cawffee", why I throw my hands up in irritation and bad drivers "what are you DOing??" and refuse to eat my sandwich on a bulkie roll. That's what they call a roll in Rhode Island. I don't want a bulkie roll. I want a HARD roll. (Side note: when I first went to college I ordered a sandwich on a hard roll in the dining hall. The woman looked at me and said, "Oh no, dear. Our bread is fresh." Um...right.)

Afterwards, I dropped off my car for an oil change like a responsible adult. A responsible adult who may or may not have waited almost 6,000 miles for an oil change. I know, I know. I was back home by 9:30 and with my grande soy chai latte by my side, and was ready to work.

And work I did. I had a phone interview with a hilarious woman for a piece I'm writing and by the end of the conversation I kind of wanted to be her friend. That's weird, right? I couldn't help it, she was awesome. And she works from home as a freelance writer. And is having a baby. And is funny. She should blog.

I just finished the piece. I had so much information and I thought I would never pull it together. But I did...and I like it! Maybe it's because it's on one of my favorite topics: Weddings.

Which brings me to now. I'm thinking lunch since it's after two and I haven't snacked all day! Another plus! Then it's one more piece to write.

I know this won't be an all the time thing, but if I could do this, even once in awhile, I'd be really happy. I'm actually looking forward to going in to work tomorrow since today has been productive while also relaxing.

Awesome.

Still Here

I'm still here. I'm not sure if you missed me or not, but since I post every weekday perhaps someone thought it odd that it's been almost two days since you heard from me.

Yesterday we packed up our office. Today we moved.

I'm not too happy about it.

My old office was great. Hardwood floors, my own little space with a window that overlooked the street (allowing me to spy on who came in late, who went to lunch with whom and what everyone was wearing,) and sun. Glorious morning sun that heated the chilly room and wonderful afternoon sun that made the space cheery and inviting.

My new office is neither cheery nor inviting. There is no morning sun to warm the chill. As a matter of fact, the room is freezing. Turns out there is some afternoon sun which is the silver lining in an otherwise gray situation. There are no hardwood floors (although perhaps they're under the carpet?) and we're right across from the bathroom.

My boss (who shares an office with me) came up with a slogan for the day: "From the penthouse to the outhouse." Basically, we got shafted. And while I'm trying to make the best of it, I'm not dealing entirely well yet. My life report card would say, "Molly plays well with others, but needs improvement accepting change."

So, yeah. Freaking A, this sucks.

I'm going to go hang a poster or something. Maybe that will help.

Beginnings

Later this week we're moving offices. We've all been moving things around, sorting through files and throwing out unwanted stuff. Through the course of the move some interesting stuff has been found, including the cover letter I wrote just about a year ago.

In my opinion, it's pure cheese. Because, in all honesty, I quoted Forrest Gump.

Now, let me explain. My boss has a great sense of humor. In fact, a sense of humor was a requirement in the job description. As well as a love of chocolate. Hence, "life is like a box of chocolates." Yes. I really wrote that in my cover letter.

But you know what? I got the job.

I remember my first interview really well. I desperately wanted to sound upbeat and confident about what I could do. I was praying that despite being right out of college with absolutely no experience in PR, I would be given a chance. I remember thinking I made a big mistake when my now boss said, "well, I'm not really a big fan of Forrest Gump..."

Shit. Oh shit.

"But," OH! There's a but!

"I liked your cover letter. I can tell you can write." Phew.

When that cover letter surfaced last week I was surprised. I hadn't thought about it in so long. And then my boss began to read it. Out loud. In front of people.

I was so embarrassed. I could feel my face getting hot and all of the sudden I was the color of a tomato. It may have gotten me the job, but it's definitely not one of my finest pieces of writing.

As we pack up for the move and I go through my work from just a year ago, I can see a change. I've gotten better. Besides learning the PR ropes, my writing, both professionally and personally, has improved. I'd like to think I've come pretty far since that cover letter.

And that makes me feel pretty good.

Stay At Home Me

I woke up this morning to snow. Lots of snowing covering the yard, the deck and the cars, but not so much on the street. But since I had obsessively checked the weather reports yesterday I knew that the worst of the storm is due this afternoon. I hate driving in snow and wanted to avoid getting stuck in something yucky all together. So I'm working from home today. And I'm really glad I did as my street is now icy and white.

I told my boss I could really get used to this working at home thing. Editing while in bed while What Not To Wear plays in the background? Yes, please. I actually saw a story on the news last night about companies that are allowing employees to pick not only their own hours, but the location from which they work. If they want to work from the office, the work from the office. If a coffee shop, kitchen, or, like me, snuggled under the comforter in their queen-sized bed is more their scene, then so be it. The argument was that by incorporating your job into the environment that makes you happy, you'll actually be more productive.

I can't exactly test this theory today because two thing I need to do I can't access. But I definitely see the logic in it. And today only reiterates what I've always know. Eventually, I will work mostly from home. I lucked out with my current job because the office is a fairly relaxed, non-cubical environment. But a lot of offices aren't. And I don't want to end up in an office like that.

Can I make a living as a stay at home writer? I don't know. I would really love to one day. Truth be told, at this point I'm not confident enough to find out. Being only two years out of college I feel I need more experience in the working world before I take a step back from it.

Right now I'm happy. Happy with my job, happy with where I am in my life.

And today I'm especially happy, because I'm still in bed.

That Was Way Harsh, Tai

The other day I stumbled across this blog. Basically, people submit their blogs for "review" by three women who proceed to rip them apart. I find this blog absolutely atrocious. These women are catty and bitchy and seem to have started a blog as an excuse to be just that. Since people (mostly women) are voluntarily submitting their blogs, the women can justify tearing them apart. And from reading their reviews it seems to me that since their own writing is just sub-par, they pick on others to feel better about themselves. So those who can't write...critique? Where is the logic in that?

Lately I've been really annoyed with the blogging community. When did it get so mean? The attack on Clink the other day and the bitchiness I referred to on Tuesday really surprise me. I don't find this stuff on men's blogs. Why are women so mean to each other? It's really sad that we have to break others down to feel better about ourselves.

Ugh, it's like a virtual high school.

Oh Baby, Baby

I want a baby. Not like, right this minute, but one day. Actually, I want two. Or three. But probably two. Over the last year or so my desire to be a mother has intensified. I'll see a tiny dress in Marshalls and imagine dressing my own daughter in it. Or I'll notice a baby-sized ball cap and picture it on the peach fuzz covered head of my baby boy. And the shoes! Oh the shoes! Itty bitty packages of cuteness.

Maybe it's because most of our couple friends are having babies. Or my time spent working in a daycare allowed for hours of chubby cheek kissing. Or the fact that I feel even more in love with Michael than I did five years ago and the visions of our future are feeling more like a reality and less like a dream.

I realize it's not entirely realistic for me to be pining for a baby of my own. There's that whole getting married thing. And the fact I'm not exactly ready for the life change that comes with having a child. I like my mid-week martini dates, weekends out and the freedom to come and go as I please.

For now.

But someday. Who knows, in three of four years I could be a mom.

That's completely terrifying and absolutely amazing at the same time.

The Glamorous

There's a blog I read sometimes. I don't read it everyday, I don't link to it and I've never commented on it. It's because I don't like the author. She's a snob.

Then why read it? I don't know, I think it's because being a mean girl is interesting. It's like those girls in high school you didn't like but secretly wanted to be friends with. I don't want to develop a blog-relationship with this woman, but I am sometimes curious about what she's up to. Even though I find myself rolling my eyes at her posts, shaking my head or even voicing the occasional "what a bitch!"

She's the skinny girl who knows she's skinny but complains about being fat so someone will tell her she's not. She's the girl at the bar batting her eyelashes, sticking out her cleavage and fake laughing to get a guy's interest, only to toss her hair in his face and move on the minute he buys her a drink. You know they type I'm talking about. She may come across as pretty, but her insides are ugly. And although I've never seen her, I know this is true. Because like all of us who blog, she puts herself, her insides, out there for us to read. And I assure you, it's far from pretty.
I wonder if beneath the Prada covered exterior this woman has true friends. Friends that will remain true despite her designer bags, rich husband and big house.

I might not have all those things, but I have a life filled with friendship and love.

And I wouldn't trade that for anything.


** I've had some requests to share the URL for the blog, but I've decided not to. I'm probably just paranoid but oh well. I'll tell you this much, the writing isn't that good and the woman appears to actually be just an aging bitch who now is married with children. Sorry to disappoint, but you're not missing much.

Tales From The Gym

My favorite elliptical was open. I did a brief scan of the surrounding area as I approached, noticing the woman to the left and the empty machine to the right. I put down my water bottle and iPod and left to get a magazine. When I returned the woman was at a moderate jog, alternately pushing her arms out in some slow tai-bo type move. I didn't really get it, but who am I to judge? (HA!)

I started running, when BAM! It hit me. B.O. My nostrils went into panic mode. B.O.? Not B.O.! Now yes, I know, I'm at the gym. Where people sweat. Including myself. But B.O.? I am deeply offended by B.O. (See here and here.) The smell was getting worse and I glanced over at the woman, now rapidly tai-boing, allowing for her armpits to be exposed and slowly kill me with their toxic emissions.

I thought it would be rude to stop working out suddenly and change machines so I stayed. I'm not sure why I did, why I was afraid of hurting this woman's feelings. I tried breathing through just my mouth, but that just made me thirsty. So I sucked it up.

And then, when I thought it couldn't possibly be worse, an older man began his workout on the machine to my right. The machine facing the opposite direction from mine so his rear is near my front.

And ripped a deadly fart.

Life Furnishings

In just two hours we managed to spend enough money to cover a mortgage payment. Today I bought a laptop, the most expensive thing I've ever bought and my first real big girl purchase. We also bought a whole new set of very non-office looking office furniture. We will probably weep when the credit card bill comes.

This is my first laptop and I'm enthralled with all it's fancy features. Seventeen inch screen? Droooool. Michael and I are already arguing over who gets to use it. The novelty of using it on the couch, in the kitchen, lying in bed, hell, even on the toilet if I really wanted to, is not wearing off. This is great!

But the coolest part? All the shopping, for us, for our home, felt just right.

Perfect, actually.

It Is Friday, Right?

Fridays are supposed to be a good days. I can wear jeans, the weekend is rapidly approaching (and Michael is off!) and everyone is more relaxed. Like most nine to fivers, I appreciate Fridays. But so far, today hasn't been all that great.

Someone cut the line at Starbucks. I was waiting patiently for my soy chai latte, standing third in line during the early morning rush. All of the sudden this woman came barreling through the doors, walked right up to the counter and slapped down a list. Anyone who knows me would tell you that usually, this would not fly. I would be the first person to call this woman out and remind her that there are people waiting in line. That were here BEFORE her. I went to elementary school. I know what happens to cutters. Cutters go to the back of the line.

But today I just didn't have it in me. I was too tired to make a scene in the busy Starbucks. So I let it go. No one else said anything, but there was some definite eye rolling.

All was basically forgotten with the first sip of my chai, until I walked into my building. Skunked. Again. Do you know how disgusting it is to work with the smell of skunk permeating your nostrils all day? Awful.

Which brings me to now. I'm hoping that lunch with coworkers will turn the day around. I'm also looking forward to dinner out in Newport tonight with Michael and another couple. This is huge because all of our couple friends? Are having babies. And that means very few get togethers. And when there are get togethers talk centers around, you guessed, the baby.

Don't get me wrong, I'm so happy for these friends. But the thought of a glass of wine and Thai food with a recently married, baby-free couple is looking really good right now.

I Didn't Sign Up For Gymboree

I took a risk by going directly to the gym from work. It's really hit or miss-- sometimes it's packed with the highly motivated after work crowd and other times it's almost empty. Unfortunately, last night it was busy. But I was lucky to score an elliptical and since I had forgotten my earphones for my iPod, (I know, I can manage to bring all my work out clothes and sneakers and the actually iPod to work but forget the earphones...) I grabbed an easy to read while you're running Star Magazine.

The good thing about my gym is that they have lots of new equipment and the price is right. The bad thing is that they also have a basketball court and after school activities that attract kids. Mostly kids between the ages of eight and 15. And I guess because they think it's cool they come into the gym when they're finished. Maybe it's because I'm usually plugged into my iPod, but I never really noticed them until last night. This time I couldn't miss them.

First there were the two girls on ellipticals. They must have been around 14 and after a few minutes one became bored. "Mia! Mia! Miiiiia! MIA!" I turned my head to see one of the girls yelling to the other, who couldn't hear her because she was smart enough to remember her earphones. Probably because she was well aware that her gym partner was the type of girl that frantically waved her hand in the air, "ooh, ooh, oohing" whenever the teacher asked a question. So annoying.

"MIA!!! I'm BORED!" Seriously, I almost threw my water bottle at her. Finally Mia heard her and lifted one earphone long enough to tell her friend to find another machine if she was so bored. Go Mia!

With 10 minutes left to go on the machine I spotted Gold Digger on a bike. Oh no! I had to get to the weights before he did. The image of is finger lost inside his navel cavity began to haunt me. No, no, no! Look away!

I looked ahead and noticed a woman with a girl who could not have been more than eight. The little girl was on the treadmill and the woman was encouraging her to run. The girl was only a little heavy and I felt bad for her. Wouldn't it be better for someone of her age to take dance classes or play soccer or even take walks with her mom? Must she already be told that she's heavy and be put in a gym?

I headed over to the weight machines and was bombarded by a group of twelve-year old boys. I know they were twelve because one of them was talking about his last birthday. These scrawny little boys in their over sized basketball shorts with their hair spike just so, jumped from machine to machine, acting tough and grunting as they moved the weights. It took all I had not to crash into them as they rapidly switched places with each other.

I finished up and realized how tired I was. I know you're supposed to be physically tired after working out, but mentally? No.

Damn kids.

Trigger

I listened to the self-titled Third Eye Blind CD on my way into work. (Yes Michael, you can have it back and yes, it was in a case and no, it's not scratched.) I know the words to every song. It was the CD I played on repeat in my CD walkman during a trip to the Jersey Shore. It was the CD I bought for all my friend's birthdays and the CD that makes me think of overnight bus rides during my trip to Australia.

The trip down memory lane got me thinking about other music that represents a certain time for me. There was Green Day's Dookie, the first CD I ever bought myself in sixth grade. This followed the first ever bought for me, TLC's Waterfalls, but we don't need to talk about that.

Eighth grade brought Alanis Morissette's Jagged Little Pill, for when I was angry or just felt like being moody. This was followed by the girl-power anthems of Meredith Brook's Bitch single (we changed to words for a summer camp song..."I think farm's cool, you grow vegetables, and when they're grown you eeeeaaat them!") and I was a Wannabe for the Spice Girls. Marcy Playground's Sex and Candy, Semisonic's Feeling Strangely Fine and Savage Garden (another one we can forget) were all played at top volume as I danced around my bedroom.

Papa Roach, Limp Bizkit and Jay-Z's Vol 2...Hard Knock Life corresponded with wanting to break up with my boyfriend and spread my wings.

I bought Dave Matthews Band Crash because a boy I liked was a big fan. I could never get into it and packed it away for years until I met Michael, also a DMB lover. Since then I've really grown to like them on my own. I guess it took meeting the right boy.

Speaking of the right boy, Counting Crows' August and Everything After is the CD I associate with Michael. Always one of my favorites, it became the soundtrack to the long drives and talks into the wee hours of the morning that our relationship was built upon.

I love how music can trigger memories.

Bet you have Meredith Brooks stuck in your head now, don't you?

Is It Summer Yet?

I need a change. I'm in a rut. Maybe it's because Mother Nature is making one last attempt to prove it's winter that I want to get the hell out of here. I want to lie on a beach with a drink in my hand and the sun beating down on me. I want to float in and out of sleep to the sound of waves crashing. I want to go dancing. I want to eat Mexican food washed down by a cold Corona. I want to wake up to the sun streaming through my window instead of an alarm rudely beeping.

I need to be refreshed. I'm going through the motions...wake up, work, eat, sleep, rinse, repeat.

I want to drive with my windows down, wear sundresses and open-toed shoes. I want green grass and flowers and frozen lemonade. I want to drive past the sea wall and eat ice cream cones before they melt. I want fireworks. I want dinners outside and citronella candles. I want white capris with strappy sandals, bonfires and bar-b-qs.

Wake up, work, eat, sleep, rinse, repeat.

I want to go on evening walks with Michael, go out on the sailboat and eat corn on the cob. I want daiquiris, margaritas and mojitos, big sunglasses and naturally highlighted hair. I want fresh fruit and swimming pools, freckles and tan lines. I want sand in between my toes, coconut scented sunscreen and evenings warm enough for shorts but cool enough to wear a hoodie.

Wake up, work, eat, sleep, rinse, repeat.

How much longer till summer?

Literal Translation

When I first started this blog I wrote a post about the meaning of the title. And while I feel as though most of the time my posts accurately reflect it, sometimes they tend to stray. But today, in literal translation of the meaning, These Little Moments have made up my life recently:

- I went out to lunch with my boss on Thursday. During our conversation I mentioned that I had been exhausted lately and didn't know why. With a raised eyebrow, my soon-to-be father for the second time boss asked, "are you pregnant?" WHAT? NO! I'm adamant about taking the required measures (at the same time, everyday, since I was 16) to prevent that from happening. No!

Later that afternoon I was feeling so nauseous that I took the next day off. The rational part of me knew that I had come down with the bug that was circulating through the office. The irrational part of me freaked out for a good two minutes. Am I pregnant? I can't be pregnant. Could I be pregnant? Damn you, boss!

No worries. It was just the bug. Of course.

- We went to dinner at his mother's house yesterday. I am always anticipating the worst but it wasn't that bad. She always invites other people and counting us there were 11. Of course her table isn't meant to sit 11 so I got to straddle the leg of the table and eat on an angle. She was nice and even gave me my favorite Easter candy (solid chocolate mini-Cadbury eggs with a hard candy coating...drool....) But I knew there had to be something.

Turns out it was one of the guest's birthday. I've had dinner with this woman at least 20 times now, but didn't know it was her birthday. If I had, I would have brought a small gift or flowers and a least a card from me and Michael. But his mother hadn't mentioned it on the phone so we had no idea.

After dessert, the guest was presented with gifts. On the card from his mother read "blah, blah, blah, Happy Birthday! Love, The Mother, the foster children, Michael and the dog." My name was not included. My name was conveniently left off, but THE DOG was thoughtfully included.

The other adult guest had also brought a gift so it appeared as though I was the only one who didn't bring one.

ARGHHH!!!!

- Yesterday I was doing my usual weekend house cleaning and had finished just about all the chores I wanted to do. I was about to walk out of the kitchen when I noticed a few dishes in the sink that could be washed. I reached inside the blender with the sponge and "OW! Damn it!!" I dropped the sponge and cursed as I realized I had stabbed my finger with the blender blade. I wrapped my finger in a paper towel and sat on the couch with my arm above my head. That's what you're supposed to do, elevate. Right? I sat there for a few minutes looking ridiculous and feeling sorry for myself because, OW, and then decided to yell for Michael to come downstairs. He did, asked if I was OK and asked if he could do anything.

Well, no, actually. I just wanted acknowledgement of my boo boo.

"Do you want a kiss?" he asked.

Yes! He makes things better.

My finger still really hurts though.

Feel sorry for me, I think that will help.

A Post With Little Purpose

I stayed home from work today. A combination of being overwhelmingly tired and slightly nauseous (no, I'm NOT pregnant) made staying in bed very appealing. Also, it's pouring. Buckets and buckets of cats and dogs. So I feel I made the right decision.

Our yard borders a river. Most days it's very peaceful and pretty to look at and Kodiak enjoys barking at the geese and ducks that like to float with the current. Today, however, the river is in our yard, making it soggy, muddy, squishy and overall gross. I would take a picture to show you what it looks like to have a river instead of a backyard, but that would involve going outside and that's not going to happen.

Even the dog won't go outside, minus once this morning to pee. And then he left a trail of muddy footprints through the kitchen and do you know how much fun it is to lift up the feet of a Newfoundland to wipe their paws? He's 120 lbs, I'll let you figure it out.

I'm off to shower. Nope, haven't showered yet. I think it's a rule that if you stay home from work there will be no showering before noon.

You must also watch bad television, eat ice cream and paint your toe nails.

Puppy Love

I was exhausted last night and fell asleep on the couch. After waking up around 10:30, I dragged myself upstairs and fell into bed. I was sound asleep and didn't even feel Michael come to bed.

At 1:30 a.m. I sat straight up in bed, gasping for breath. It felt like my heart had literally stopped. It took me a few seconds to realize that I had jumped into Michael's arms and Kodiak was barking. Not his usual "I'm happy to be in my yard" bark either.

This bark was more of a howl and a growl in one. He was standing in our doorway looking out into the hall. It was scary. He ran out into the hall and stopped at the top of the stairs, looking down and continuing his aggressive noises. I was straining to hear what he heard, but couldn't decipher anything. After a few minutes he calmed down, but I was AWAKE now and couldn't sleep.

Kodiak usually sleeps in his crate, but every now and then we let his sleep upstairs with us. I was really glad we had made that decision. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and hoping that I would get tired again. Just then he was off into the hallway again, growling and upset. This time Michael heard noises that we determined were probably the neighbor's kids and their car. I was still on edge, though, and tossed and turned. While I was lying there I realized how far Kodiak has come in the year we've had him. He's always been a Daddy's boy. I was a good second if Michael wasn't around, but the minute he came home I was pretty much forgotten. Now I am showered with kisses when I come home, he lays next to me when I watch tv and most of all, he's protective. Newfoundlands aren't aggressive dogs, but they are very loyal to their families.

As I tossed around thinking about how far he's come, a cold, wet nose touched my arm. I looked over to see the big, fluffy head I love so much. He rested his head on the bed and looked up at me with his big, brown eyes, as if to say "are you OK, Mom?" I scratched his head and the he lay down on my side of the bed. Something he never does. He stayed there the rest of the night until he woke me up with kisses in the morning.

I really do love that puppy.

Gold Digger

My workout last night started off well. I got on the elliptical and a few minutes later I felt a tap on my arm. I looked over to see my friend Ashley on the next machine. We both laughed at the fact that we were working out right next to each other and hadn't even noticed. I suppose we were both following typical gym courtesy where you work out and mind your own business. I hate it when the person next to you is constantly looking over at your machine. I can tell they're comparing our distances and my speed against theirs. No thank you.

After chatting with Ashley, I finished my cardio and moved over to do weights. I was resting in between sets and scanning the machines to see which one I wanted to do next. My eyes stopped on one directly across from me. Sitting on the machine was a guy in his early 20s, obviously oblivious to everyone around him. Why?

He was picking his nose.

Not just picking, DIGGING. We're talking up to the knuckle, face contorted, must have been hitting his brain, digging. He wasn't even trying to hide it! Talk about gym courtesy. I almost threw up.

This went on for a least a few minutes. I didn't stick around to see if he cleaned the machine after he was done. I moved far away to another machine and vowed not to step near his until at least the next day.

Seriously gross.

At least he didn't eat it. At least, I don't think he did. I wouldn't be surprised, though.

Sing

Know what's funny? Having your picture end up on a band's website. The band that was playing at the bar this past weekend. It's not a great one, but I'm nice so I'll show it to you.

That's me in the middle, sandwiched between Jen and her cousin, the lead singer.

Moving on...

My friend is getting married in May and has asked me to sing during her sand ceremony. When I told my family this they were surprised. Actually, I think the exact words were, "Really? You? Why did she ask you to sing?" Not quite the encouraging words I was hoping for.

The truth is, I can sing. Not like my sister who is incredible, but pretty well. But my family has never really heard me sing, so I guess I can't really blame them for the lack of support. They've heard me a little in the car or around the house, but never singing singing. I guess I just didn't see the point. My sister is the singer in the family and I'm the dancer. We fell into those roles and made them our own. So while my sister is still a great dancer, she knows it's more my thing.

I sang an a cappella solo during Greek Week my senior year. At first I refused, but Elle and my sisters convinced me that I was good enough to do it. When the day came I was so nervous. I barely remember it happening...all I remember is that Michael was standing in the back of the room and I stared at the exit sign above his head the whole time. It wasn't until afterwards when I watched the video that I realized, huh, I'm not too bad.

When my friend asked me to sing at her wedding I was shocked, but flattered. At first I wavered, but knowing that it meant enough to her to ask, I accepted. That was a couple months ago and the wedding seemed far enough away not to freak out.

I just realized the wedding is in exactly three months. That is not far away. At all.

It's a short folk song that she picked out and the sand ceremony only lasts what, a couple minutes? I'll be fine. I'll be fine. I'll. Be. Fine.

No one will be looking at me anyway. Right?

I hope the room has an exit sign.

That Girl

Saturday night I went to a bar with some friends. Jen's cousin's band was playing and we figured it would be a good time.

We found parking somewhat easily for a weekend in Newport and managed to snag two seats both at the bar and near the stage. We ordered our drinks and started to catch up. The band started--playing covers ranging from the Killers to 80s hits and everyone was dancing. It was loud so we had to scream at each other to be heard.

All of the sudden I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see a guy, late 20s, saying something.

"WHAT?" I yelled.

"Can I buy you girls a drink?!" he yelled back.

Oh yeah, sure. I like free drinks. Of course with free drinks comes chit-chat, but I'm good at that and didn't mind. He was in the Marines, in from California for a few weeks meeting up with his friend from college. When the conversation lulled I tipped my drink at him, said thanks and turned back to Jen.

A little while later her cousin bought us drinks. As soon as he left a round of shots appeared in front of us. "From those guys," the bartender said, pointing at California Marine.

Again, I like free drinks.

A little while later CM appeared at my side again asking if we wanted to join him and his friend at another bar. I declined, saying we were meeting up with more friends. And then the inevitable:

"Can I get your number? I'd love to take you out sometime."

So the real question was, am I a dick now or a dick later? I can be that girl that clearly talked to him for the sole reason of free booze, or be the girl that lets him think he'll see me again and then never calls.

"Give me your number," I replied. He punched the numbers into my phone and when he turned to say something to his friend I shut my phone without saving it. We waved goodbye and CM disappeared, unaware that he would never hear from me.

I know it's mean. But I obviously had no interest in this guy (Hello, hot boyfriend.) And I never asked for the drinks, they just appeared.

Part of me felt a little bad as he walked out the door thinking he did well.

But after being in a relationship for so long and not being the flirtatious vixen I once was, the other part of me was like, oh yeah, I still got it!

Nice to be reminded.

Gluttony

Thank goodness it's only once a month that I deal with this serious dilemma: do I eat the donut, the gummy bears or the crunchy cheetos? Because I? Want all of them. Any other week I would be dry heaving at the thought of consuming all of that and would really rather eat an apple. But not this week.

Calorie-wise the gummy bears are the way to go. But my hormones do not care about calories. My thighs may protest, but my hormones? They're saying donut. With sprinkles.

I probably shouldn't tell you I've already had chinese food today.

I'm not going to tell you if I choose the donut or the gummy bears.

Because there is a chance I may have already eaten the gummy bears.

It's All Ridiculous

I was expecting some interesting searches that would lead people here yesterday. You have to expect it when you write about boobs. A look at my stats revealed that people were searching for, among others, "boobs", "big boobs", "little boobs", "my sister's big boobs" (um, ew), "breast milk" (did I write about breast milk? No.), "small boobies", "boobs get bigger", "blog girl boobs" and "milk maids".

I was also very surprised to see how many readers are in the same boat. It's nice to know I'm not alone in my frustration.

Moving on...

The weather was so nice yesterday that I decided to take a break from the office and go for a long walk. What I wasn't anticipating was that the warm weather had made the once frozen ground turn into a squishy, muddy mess. This caused me to step awkwardly around puddles and completely coat the heels and sides of my not-so-appropriate-for-walking-in-the-mud shoes.

As I started to head back to my office I felt pain on the bottom of my feet. Crap. Blisters. Just what I needed. Now the following is kind of gross, I'm not going to lie. But you've read about my bathroom habits, embarrassing moments and my issues with Things That Smell Bad. I think you can handle it.

The blisters had to be popped. There was no way around it because by the end of the walk I was hobbling up the stairs on tip toe. I'm no stranger to blisters. I was a dancer, after all. Blisters were a weekly thing. Once one healed, another formed. I was also on the crew team in high school. I once had a blister that took over the width of my hand. So gross. If they hurt, oh well. You danced on them, you rowed with them, you dealt with it. Pop, drain, repeat.

Apparently my tolerance has worn off because these new blisters? They HURT. Seriously, how am I ever going to give birth?

On a completely unrelated topic, some things that have been bothering me lately: men driving VW Bugs (it just seems weird), a house near work that still has headless scarecrows propped up on a bench that have been there since October, and the realization that with spring on the way, Mandals will once again make an appearance. You know, Man Sandals, those leather sandals with the open toes made for men?

Shudder.

Boobs

I ordered a really cute dress that was on sale last week. It came in the mail yesterday but I waited until this morning to try it on. The image reflecting back at me from the mirror was not what I was hoping for.

I looked like Miss Molly Milk Maid offering you my rack of lamb.

Holy. Boobs.

I always liked my chest. It suited my frame just fine and I certainly rocked the cleavage in high school and my early years of college. But then came junior year. One day I went to put on my favorite tank top and it didn't fit. I struggled to get it over my chest doing one of those awkward, twirly dances you know you've done in a dressing room when the dress you picked was too small.

I called Elle into my room and presented her with the problem. "Huh," she said. "They got bigger!" Bigger? Why did they get bigger? I didn't want them to get bigger! I was happy with what I had before. After much deliberation and denial on my part, Elle convinced me a trip to Victoria's Secret was in order. Time for new bras.

We walked into the store and I picked out a few in my old size, determined that they would fit and the tank top had shrunk. Elle laughed when I let her in the dressing room and told me I could not walk around with my chest up to my chin. She left and I stood there, staring at myself in the mirror and trying to wrap my head around it. This is what women want, right? Big boobs? But all of the sudden I felt self-conscious and so much more aware of them than I ever had before.

Suddenly Elle thrust her arm over the door and said, "try this one on." It was a D. I refused. "I am not a D!" I yelled at her. But she made me. So I did.

And it fit. Perfectly.

I left the store with my new bras and a feeling like I was going through adolescence all over again. It just felt weird.

Over the next couple weeks other people began to notice. My sorority sisters were making comments. My roommates were making comments. (I was no Boobeski, but it was a noticeable change.) After a visit home my sister started calling me "D's". Michael was making a lot of comments. Needless to say, he did not see this as a problem. But I was starting to feel like my boobs were what people were noticing about me first. Not my big smile, my sense of humor or intelligent questions. My boobs.

I know some of you are rolling your eyes. Thinking, what is she complaining about? Maybe you have nice B's that fit perfectly into any any top or bathing suit you try on. I don't.

I have to pass by all the cute spaghetti strapped, empire waisted, flowy tops because I look like I could serve you dinner off my chest. I could never wear a strapless dress without looking like a linebacker.

But I do put things in perspective. My mom was lucky that her breast cancer did not result in a mastectomy. Many women are not so lucky. Thousands of women, even women my age, have lots their breasts to cancer.

When I step back and look at it that way, having large breasts may be an inconvenience, but things could be so much worse.

I'm really disappointed about that dress, though.

Tagged Part 2

I was tagged. I've actually done this one before, but I don't think there is a shortage of weird things about me. So here we go. Six Weird Things About Me.

1. I cannot watch a movie unless I see it from the very beginning. Even if it's a movie I've seen 1,000 times, know all the words to and own the dvd. If it's not the beginning, I can't watch it. And if it's one I haven't seen? Forget it. I tried doing that when TNT plays movies back to back...watch the second half first and then the first half. It sucks.

2. I hate it when people shorten my name. My name is Molly, not Mol. I mean, come on. It's only five letters. How lazy are you that you have to shorten it to three? There are only a select few who are allowed to call me Mol and they had to earn it. Big time. The worst was when a professor would call me Mol on the first day of class or when a coworker did it the first week at a new job. And then you're stuck with it because you can't really say, "actually, DON'T." When I hear Mol, I think mall or maul. Ugh.

3. It's no secret I want to got engaged. It's also no secret that I browse the Knot, look at rings and dresses and think about reception sites. What may be kind of weird is that I already have a list. A big list. Full of everything from photographers to bakeries to florists. A list I've complied by reading message boards on the Knot. So that when it does happen, I'm ready to go. I am aware how sick this is. I am also aware that maybe I need to get out more on the weekends.

4. I was never into naming my cars, but in high school my first car was a Volvo and it was super cute. So my friend Abby and I named her the Molvo. And Abby had a Saab. Which, you guessed it, we named Saabby.

5. I call cats Moosies. I'm not entirely sure why I do this or where it started, but it stuck. And it has to be said in a high pitched, squealy voice. The sad thing is my friends and family are all aware of this and some of them even call them moosies now.

6. I had one of those allergy tests done years ago and I'm allergic to dust mites, ash trees and cockroaches. I don't know what an ash tree looks like and I've only seen a cockroach once, but whenever my allergies flare up I blame it on ash trees and cockroaches. Because, clearly, what else could it be.

I'm passing on the meme. Mike (no, it's not Michael), Sass, Ripe and Daily Editor...you're tagged!

The Weekend Means...

An hour massage, an evening of bad TV with no one around to complain about it, indulging in bad-for-me food because I can, then working out on the new elliptical to make up for it, staying up late, sleeping in the next morning, going to a birthday party for a kid I just adore, shopping with Sass, drinking good wine, snuggling with Michael, reading light hearted novels, new magazines, avoiding the cold by curling up under a big warm blanket, soy chai lattes, a trip to Marshalls, catching up on phone calls, making yummy dinners and no work on Monday.

Have a nice weekend!

Shoe Life

It's no secret that I love shoes. I am a firm believer that shoes can represent your personality, dress up any outfit and make a statement. I can also relate shoes to big moments in my life. And you thought I was weird before...

The first time I put on my toe shoes I felt so grown up. For years I had watched the older girls in the dance studio balance on their big toes, legs long and straight, back arched. I longed to dance like them, to be like them. I was nine, a little on the young side, but ready. The toe shoes were baby pink satin with long ribbons my mom had sewn on. I remember the feel of the lambswool on my toes, the look of the ribbons tied around my tights and the smell of the rosin as I crushed it under my toe. For years after that I defined myself as a dancer. As if putting on those shoes represented who I was.

In fifth grade I wore the red Tweety Bird sneakers. As hideous as they were, I didn't think so at the time. In fact, they were the first pair of sneakers I ever had that my mom didn't have any say over. Before going shopping she assured me that I would be allowed to pick out my own shoes. And boy did I. She hated them. Tacky, she said. And I was going through that awkward, lanky stage where my feet were huge. What's the best way to deal with that? Emphasize their size with big red sneakers. Awesome. But despite how ugly they were, I loved them. And I picked them out all by myself.

Eight grade brought the clear platform jellies. Another great choice, I know. But this one wasn't all about me. This one was about boys. Because the minute I put on those shoes I felt adult and attractive. I was 13, after all. In my wide leg Limited jeans, velour top and clear jellies, I felt ready to talk to any boy. And I did. Got my first real boyfriend that year.

High school brought high heeled mary janes and Nine West boots, a new boyfriend and attention from guys as I walked down the hall. I knew they were checking me out as my heels clicked down the hall. And I liked it.

I went to Europe the summer after graduation and this is where the addiction began. My first pair of "real" heels, gorgeous, unique, expensive heels came from a boutique in Austria. Things were never the same after that.

I was wearing knee-high black boots the night I realized I was in love with Michael. I wore those boots until the heels broke.

The day I walked across the stage and accepted my college diploma I was wearing pink heels with a little bow. I was so happy, I think I might have strutted. Just a little.

One day I will buy the perfect, elegant shoes to wear with my wedding gown, the first pair of tiny shoes for my baby and eventually shoes to wear to my children's graduations and weddings.

My shoes will always have a story to tell.

Sugar High

This time last year I was working in a preschool and was miserable. As much as I love kids, it's not where I wanted to be or what I wanted to be doing. But the job market was bad and the benefits were good. So I stayed.

On the morning of Valentine's Day I sorted through my closet trying to find something pink to wear. Ordinarily I don't color coordinate my clothes to the holiday and for some reason I never buy anything pink. But when you work with a whole bunch of 18 month-3 year olds, you have to dress the part. So I put on the only pink I have, a Juicy Couture baby pink sweater that I really didn't want to wear in the vicinity of finger paint, and headed off to work.

Holidays at a preschool are the best days to work there. Well, great for the taste buds, not so great for the waistline. I was greeted by trays of brownies and cupcakes, baskets of cookies and boxes of chocolate. One parent was a pastry chef and her Valentine's Day treat baskets were to die for. I think I ate all day. All. Day.

Know who else ate sugar all day? The children. Know how many children were in my room? Fifteen. All on sugar highs. For eight hours. Yeah, that was fun.

I saw on the news this morning that the preschool had closed for a snow day. I can't help but think there was more than just snow behind that decision.

Randomness

Apparently, I am 80. I don't know if I slept weird or what, but my back is killing me. Especially my entire right side from my head to my hips. And I couldn't get a massage appointment until Friday. I'm dying. No, really. Tonight it's a hot shower and a muscle relaxer. Stat.

My fingers are crossed for a snow today tomorrow, but it's not looking too good. As much as I don't really enjoy winter, I was looking forward to one good snowy day. And you can't get more romantic than snow for Valentine's Day. Michael and I once got snowed in at a beautiful bed and breakfast in Chatham, MA for Valentine's Day. It was gorgeous.

Speaking of Valentine's Day, I was pleasantly surprised to hear from Michael seeing if I could leave work a little early tomorrow. He made reservations at my favorite restaurant. I wasn't expecting dinner since we usually just do cards, but it's very sweet and made my day.

For some reason my blog traffic has been especially heavy today. I think it must be because I wrote about religion yesterday. And people have been reading from all over the world. Which is actually very cool.

Freaky

This is the weirdest thing ever. Try it.

1. While sitting where you are lift your right foot off the floor and make clockwise circles.

2. Now, while doing this, draw the number 6 in the air with your right hand.

Your foot will change direction.

Freaky!

Testing The Waters

Religion has always been a strange topic for me. Growing up my family was not religious. My mom (raised Catholic) and my dad (raised Jewish) had both stopped practicing by their teens. My sister and I were raised being taught values and kindness and celebrating holidays with both sides of the family, but we did not attend church or temple on a regular basis.

My mom made sure to teach us a little history behind both religions, but since there was no weekly reminders (like CCD) eventually the stories faded away. And while everything was fine and I never really felt like I was missing anything, a part of me was envious of my friends and cousins. Like they were privy to a members-only club that held secret information. If you weren't in, you didn't get it.

As I got older and my friends weren't running off to CCD or the JCC after school anymore, religion just became something in the background. I developed by own beliefs of something greater than myself. Something along the lines of nature. But whenever asked about it I could never give a strong definition. I'd just say I didn't associate myself with either religion, but I believed that yes, there is a God whatever He (or She) may be.

The first time I realized this was going to be a problem was when I began dating my high school boyfriend. He was Jewish. His mother had married a non-Jewish man but decided to raise her children as her religion.

She never liked me. Which I found very hypocritical.

No matter how polite I was or how often I tried to discuss other topics with her there was always that underlying feeling of disapproval. I couldn't win.

Religion took a back seat again in college until things became serious with Michael. He was raised in a very religious home, and while he does not practice like he did as a child, it is still important to him. As we discussed our future together I began to get nervous. Couples break up over religion. Would he be willing to accept who I am and what I do (and do not) believe? Would I be able to accept his beliefs?

The short answer is yes. After much discussion I learned that while it is important to him that religion play a role in his and his children's lives, it is not all consuming. And he accepts whatever path I choose to take.

His mother does not accept this and it will always be an issue. But that's another story. (I just can't win with mothers!)

That being said, I am curious about it. So without him knowing I started doing some research. Because while I know a little, I can barely scratch the surface of what the Bible is all about. I did some research and bought a book that breaks it down and really explains everything. I was reading it in bed the other night when Michael got home. He saw what I was reading and questioned me about it. After I explained he smiled and kissed me. Because he knows that while it's mostly for me, it's also for him. For us. Because if it's important to him, I want to understand.

This does not mean that I'm converting to Catholicism. Not even close. I still have a lot of problems with some of what the church stands for. And I am very liberal, which rubs a lot of people the wrong way (Especially his mother).

But I'm learning. And we'll see where it goes from here.

Ms. Judgy Pants

I'm judgemental. There. I said it. I make a snap decision about someone in the first few moments of meeting (or seeing) them.

The reporter? Geek in high school. Turned the volume up a little in college and learned the advantages to dressing well. Still not too suave with the ladies.

The guy at the restaurant? Townie. High school education. Crude. A little clueless. (He was wearing flannel pajama bottoms with what I think were skiers on them and sneakers circa 1997.)

Granted, the reporter could have women lining up to date him, (although I sincerely doubt it) and flannel pants guy could be have easily been promoted from the paper goods department at Walmart to automotive parts. See! I did it again!

I consider myself to be a nice person and it's only in certain company that I would voice these opinions out loud. And these opinions are kind of mean.

But then again, what are people thinking about me?

Flashback

I head the song "Free Falling" on my way into work today and it reminded me of a post I had written before this blog existed...


I was driving home from work yesterday with my iPod on shuffle when Tom Petty's "Free Falling" came on. I was suddenly transported back to senior year of college.

Scene: It's the last night of Greek Week. We're at a highlighter social in someone's beach house. Music is pumping, black lights are glowing and everyone is dancing. Scrawled across my back is the requisite "Moelle" as well as numerous suggestive adjectives written on every other conceivable area of my wife beater.

Elle and I are dancing on a futon. Below us is a sea of Greek life, including uninvited girls from another sorority. We try to ignore the obvious tension caused by their presence, but it mixes in the air with the cigarette smoke.

We've been shaking and shimmying for a good hour, our drinks occasionally splashing over the sides of our red Solo cups as our feet slip in between the cushion and the planks of the futon. We're sweaty, tipsy and having fun.

As the bass fades away from the last song, the first strains of "Free Falling" begin. The crowd cheers. It's an old favorite. Elle and I grab each others hands and start to sing and sway. I look down and see the crowd swaying in unison. Hands are in the air and everyone is singing at the top of their lungs.

At the base of the futon is a girl from the other sorority. Shes singing along and looks up and catches our eyes. A mutual understanding passes between us and her. We can all get along. What the hell? We grab her hands and start singing together. She whips out a highlighter and writes "[her sorority]+ ZETA" on my torso. I scribbled "Free Falling" on her back. You're ok? I'm ok. We're ok.

In between the music and my pink-punch haze I realize that this is the perfect ending to the perfect week to the perfect year.

Elle and I hug. We both know this is symbolic of the end of an era. In a few weeks we will graduate and leave college behind.

But for now, we'll just keep on dancing.

How To Piss Me Off

I left my office 15 minutes before the typical lunch hour so I could get in and out of the grocery store as quickly as possible while avoiding the usual swam of idiots I encounter. I figured that I would pick up lunch and dinner in one shot. I breezed through the store, got what I needed and headed for the checkout line.

The woman at the register gave me a half-hearted "paper or plastic?" before scanning my items. It was no mystery that she would rather be anywhere but there. As she was scanning I swiped my card, hit credit and scanned the candy rack while I waited for her to finish.

"Credit or debit?" she asked, snapping me out of the candy haze.

"Debit, please," I replied.

"You hit credit, not debit," she said exasperatedly.

"Oh, oops, sorry. Credit is fine." (If you can already see I hit 'credit,' why are you asking me credit or debit?)

"Well which is it? Credit or debit? I mean if you're going to change your mind again I need to know which button to press."

"Credit. Is. Fine."

I don't mean to sound like a snot, but isn't her job to provide a service to me, not give me attitude? Is this really such a huge deal? Especially since I told her that credit was fine and she didn't have to hit another button?

Because you know, that would be so much work.

100 Things I Learned From My Mom

Inspired by Alissa's list.

1. Always be polite.
2. Always keep a savings account and hold your own checkbook, even when you’re married.
3. You’re never too old to cozy.
4. If you want long hair, you have to take care of it.
5. You didn’t actually vacuum if you went around the shoes.
6. Lying is hurtful and disrespectful.
7. No one can take away your education.
8. You should always have enough money for first and last month’s rent, an unexpected car problem and a good pair of shoes.
9. Sometimes ice cream before dinner is OK.
10. A man should be hardworking, educated and kind. He must have a sense of humor and a job. He must respect you.
11. No matter what, you can always come home.
12. Fingers do not belong in your nose…unless they are clean. And never in public.
13. There is a very fine line between tasteful and inappropriate cleavage.
14. Always call or send a thank-you card.
15. You can accomplish anything if you work hard.
16. Tattoos and body piercings that are chic now eventually go out of style the same way clothing and hairstyles do. Tattoos are forever (and I will be out of the will.)
17. Travel.
18. Do not make fun of people who are different from you.
19. Good friends are important.
20. Always keep good dark chocolate in the house.
21. Hot dogs and spaghetti are boring. Eat ethnic food!
22. Learn a foreign language.
23. Know the history behind different religions.
24. Don’t let people push you around. Compose your thoughts and make your point.
25. Exercise.
26. Play an instrument. (Or two)
27. Laugh.
28. Say “I Love You.”
29. Dance around your living room in your socks to good music.
30. Read for pleasure.
31. Money doesn’t grow on trees. You have to earn it.
32. Family always comes first.
33. Driving is a privilege, not a right.
34. Making your bed makes the whole room look neater.
35. A hotel room doesn’t have to be fancy, but it must have clean sheets and a clean bathroom.
36. The sun makes you happy.
37. Don’t drink and drive.
38. Don’t clean the kitchen sink with the bathroom sponge.
39. Plant a garden.
40. Drink soy milk.
41. Take vitamins.
42. Take chances.
43. If you need your mom, she’s there. Day or night.
44. Burritos are a quick dinner that always tastes good.
45. Always make a traveling pee pee.
46. You might look funny in snow boots, but your feet will be warm and dry.
47. Take pictures.
48. Write.
49. Never leave candles unattended.
50. Good sheets make all the difference.
51. How to make the perfect “dip dip” egg.
52. Every Christmas ornament has a story.
53. To value myself.
54. To be open-minded.
55. That even though women are completely capable, sometimes it’s easier to hire a man to tile a floor or paint a wall.
56. It’s OK to cry at movies.
57. That when you have to go, you have to go. Everybody poops.
58. A messy closet is an unhappy closet.
59. A mirror can make the whole room look bigger.
60. Cheese is a necessity.
61. It’s OK to love shoes.
62. Eyeliner makes small eyes bigger.
63. Don’t procrastinate.
64. That when the leaves show their palms, it’s going to rain.
65. There’s nothing better than a maple sugar candy.
66. Wear sunscreen.
67. Floss.
68. Be on top of current events.
69. Hair grows back, but don’t mess with it too much.
70. Sing.
71. Get your oil changed.
72. Balance your checkbook.
73. That she’s proud of me.
74. Smile.
75. You can love the ocean without actually going in it.
76. Don’t eat too much candy. It will rot your teeth.
77. And if it does, get the white filling.
78. Learn your family history.
79. Appreciate art.
80. Don’t eat processed foods.
81. Drink lots of fluids when you’re sick.
82. Get lots of calcium.
83. Call just to say hi.
84. Eliminate clutter.
85. It's true, socks do disappear in the dryer.
86. Dress appropriately for an interview.
87. It’s OK to flirt.
88. Always carry a Bandaid, Advil and Chapstick.
89. Eat tomatoes and peas right off the vine.
90. Get a hummingbird feeder.
91. Drive slowly in the snow.
92. When tying your shoes bunny ears work just as well as the other way.
93. Believe in something bigger than yourself.
94. Wear interesting jewelry.
95. Voting is a right that not everyone in the world is fortunate to have. Use it.
96. Brunettes are even sexier than blondes because they have more mystery and soul. They didn’t get a free ride because of their hair color – they earned it.
97. A girl can buy her own diamonds.
98. Trust your instincts.
99. Learn from your mistakes.
100. Your mother is always right.

Weekend Recap

Preparing for my lunch with Sass was much like getting ready for a first date. I changed my outfit three times. I made sure my hair and makeup looked good, but not like I was trying so hard. I was nervous, but I was excited.

And I was late.

I, always irritatingly compulsively early, was late. But with good reason. I got stuck behind and old woman at the ATM that I swear had never used one before. Eleven minutes we sat there (ELEVEN!) while she punched at the screen and hit cancel over and over and over again. It was to the point where I wanted to get out of the car and be like, lady, seriously.

By the time I made it up to Providence I was a good 15 minutes late. Maybe 20. Is torture for me to be late. I'm surprised I wasn't twitching.

I met Sass at the Cheesecake Factory and it didn't really feel all that weird. I had a really good time and I hope we meet up again. And by the way, her ring is stunning in real life.

Sunday we woke up to a HYPER dog. He usually has a "play date" of sorts twice a week with a german shepard, but Michael's friend was away for the weekend so they didn't meet up. This made a serious impact of the dog. Every time the phone would ring he would run to the door and look at you expectantly. Like, "Dad, let's go see my friend, Dad. Dad? Dad? Friend!"

We took him for a walk on the bike path, which turned into a jog. Running along side of him seemed to be the only way to keep him from stopping to sniff (and pee on) everything. While I don't especially enjoy running in the cold (hurts my ears and throat) it did feel pretty exhilarating.

Afterwards I took a ride to the local book store and spent $50 (man, I need a library card) on new books. And proceeded to spend eight wonderful hours reading through one and starting another. Eight glorious hours.

And now it's back to work. And the thermometer said 10 degrees this morning.

FUN.

Because I'm Tired Of Looking At Spreadsheets

Stolen from Alissa, who stole it from someone else. So it's OK.

[A is for age:]
24. Which is not that exciting of an age...it's not one of the milestone ages like 25. I'm so not ready for 25.

[B is for booze of choice:]
I'm a vodka girl, or a coconut rum girl. Or a martini girl.

[C is for career:]
Public Relations.

[D is for your dog's name:]
Kodiak...but he has a thousand nicknames. Dooze (see also: dooze-man, dooze-face), bubby, handsome boy, puppa...

[E is for essential items you use everyday:]
My toothbrush immediately first thing in the morning, overpriced face wash for dry skin, cell phone, iPod and XM radio, Smith's Rosebud Salve.

[F is for favorite song(s) at the moment:]
The entire Wicked soundtrack, Nothing Left To Lose--Mat Kearney, My Mistake--Michelle Featherstone.

[G is for favorite game(s):]
Uno, rummy 500, Boggle

[H is for hometown:]
Pleasant Valley, NY.

[I is for instruments you play:]
I started piano when I was five and violin in the fourth grade. I haven't really touched the violin since high school and I don't have a piano right now which is KILLING me. I'm awesome on the piano.

[J is for jam or jelly that you like:]
Straaaaaawberry.

[K is for kids?]
Not yet, but I cannot wait.

[L is for last kiss?]
Yummy.

[M is for most admired trait?]
I'm a caring and trustworthy friend.

[N is for name of your crush:]
Michael.

[O is for overnight hospital stays:]
None. Knock on wood!

[P is for phobias:]
Heights. Illness of a loved one. Not reaching my goals.

[Q is for quotes you like:]
"I still have my feet on the ground, I just wear better shoes."~ Oprah; May all your joys be pure joys and all your pain champagne."~ Um....the Food Network.

[R is for biggest regret:]
I cheated on a boyfriend out of retaliation. I was young and it was stupid, but I regret doing something so malicious when I should have been mature enough to talk about it.

[S is for sweets of your choice:]
Anything chocolate, cupcakes.

[T is for time you wake up:]
I shoot for 7 a.m. Sometimes it's 7:15. And then I'm running late.

[U is for underwear:]
I wear them.

[V is for vegetables you love:]
Peas, carrots, celery, cucumbers, baby tomatoes....mmm I want a salad!

[W is for worst habit:]
I'm a pack rat. And my "closet" (our second bedroom) is a mess.

[X is for x-rays you've had:]
Ankle, teeth.

[Y is for yummy food you make:]
I make a mean parmesan chicken, stir fry, banana bread.

[Z is for zodiac sign:]
Capricorn

Friday Ramblings

On Friday's I usually wear jeans to work. But not jeans jeans. I reserve my cute Ann Taylor denim trouser pants for Fridays. But today I decided to wear regular jeans. And I feel weird. Under-dressed despite my cashmere sweater and non-snow (I know) boots.

It seems like people really check out on Fridays. The office atmosphere is more relaxed, people step away from their desks. Keyboards are suspiciously quieter. My already mellow boss finds new things in the office drum on with his drumsticks. Quite often there's an invitation for lunch, an excuse to take a walk or an extended phone call. The promise of the weekend, two glorious days off, is no longer days away.

And tomorrow I'm meeting Sass for lunch! I'm excited, but nervous too. Will she like me? Will I like her? Are we both really the people we portray in our blogs? I have a feeling that once we get passed the initial this-feels-like-a-first-date jitters, it's going to be a really good time.

I just hope no more freaky snow comes out of nowhere. A slight dusting, they said. Slight dusting my ass. Southern Rhode Island got clobbered, which meant people on the road drove. very. very. slow. It was pretty, though. And watching the dog prance and jump and run laps around the yard was very cute.

Weekend, I'm ready for you.

Really?

I called my sweet, handsome, college educated boyfriend yesterday to ask him to take two pieces of chicken out of the freezer so I could make something for dinner.

I got home around 5:40, said my hellos to Michael and the dog and walked into the kitchen to determine if the chicken was fully defrosted.

Then I stopped.

Sitting on the counter was not chicken, but a pork chop and a piece of talapia.

I walk into the living room holding the half-frozen not-chicken.

"Michael, this isn't chicken."

"It's not?"

"No, it's a pork chop and fish."

"Huh. I thought that chicken looked like fish."
*
*
*
*
Did I mention he has a Bachelor's of Science?

Perfection

Not so perfect:

- Waking up early because we only have one bathroom and Michael was working the same time I was today. And we both needed to shower. It actually makes sense that I shower first on days like this because when I'm done he gets in the shower and I do my hair and makeup. That way the mirror is free for him to shave when he gets out.

But 20 minutes makes a huge difference in your sleep pattern. At least it does for me. And now I have that tired headache behind my eyes.

- Attempting to make "real" oatmeal (not instant) without any directions because we need to go grocery shopping tonight.

- Shmutz on my sleeve. What the hell? Is it oatmeal?

Perfect:

- Not immediately turning the TV on last night and curling up on the couch to read a book, something I haven't done in a very long time.

- Michael getting home 30 minutes later with a big smile on his face because "I missed you!"

- Smiling behind my book as Michael yelled at the TV during the State of State address.

- Reading my book in bed (ah the reading!) under the warm comforter and flannel sheets.

- Drifting off to sleep to the sound of Michael singing along to Dave Matthews in the next room.

Yeah, I guess life is pretty good.

Fears

I hate driving next to trucks on the highway. My friend's mom was in an accident when she was in college caused by a truck moving into her lane without noticing her there. I think that story really scarred me. Even though she told it to me 20 years ago. I always find myself scooting alllll the way over to the side of the lane whenever a truck passes me.

I'm terrified of heights. I have no idea where this came from because I used to love roller coasters, trust falls and zip lines. A few years ago Michael and I were hiking in New Hampshire and came across an old fire tower that you could climb for a great view. We got half-way up and I started to shake. I couldn't move. It took all I had to get to the top, where I basically huddled in a corner and held on for dear life. Getting down was even worse. Ever since then I avoid being up high at all costs. Except for flying. I have no fear of flying. Weird.

I'm afraid of something happening to my parents. Especially my mom, a breast cancer survivor. I refuse to watch "Step Mom" or any other movie where the mother dies. We made the mistake of watching "The Family Stone" at Christmas. I had already seen it, but forgot how it ended. I was bawling at the end and hugging my mom like there was no tomorrow.

I'm scared of wasps.

Especially big ones.

With stingers.

Can't Win 'Em All

Are soy chai lattes caffeinated? Because if they are I think I'm going through withdrawal. After drinking way too many lattes this weekend I opted not to have any today. And now I have a serious headache. Connection?

I'm also starving and am looking forward to eating my lunch that's in the fridge. Homemade lasagna and salad.

"Oh, you had time to make a lasagna this weekend?"

No, I did not. However Michael's mother had time to make him a lasagna, a big salad, a pot roast AND a carrot cake yesterday. In between church and a 3 p.m. dinner. Which I decided at the last minute not to attend. Because I had "plans". Which included CVS and the couch.

When he walked in the door that evening with heaping bags of food I felt the pangs of yet another jab at me.

I can't compete with a four-course meal made with love, control and a dash of guilt.

And she knows it.

Mother: 1
Me: 0

The Cold Has...

- caused the laundry pile to take over the bedroom because I cannot bring myself to do laundry in these temperatures. Good thing it's Friday because I am officially out of socks.

- made me look like and idiot starting my car. PJs, slippers, Michael's huge coat and full-on work hair and makeup is quite the look.

- given me a severe case of Morning Brain. Driving to work I thought to myself, "Gee, my windshield is dirty. I should clean it." It occurred to me only as the the wiper fluid was hitting my windshield that, huh, it's below freezing. And, oh yeah, the wiper fluid is freezing to my windshield.

- made me (yes, it's the cold's fault) get two soy chai lattes in two days.

- made it necessary to wear gloves.

- one of which is now covered in soy chai latte that spilled as I was crossing the street.

- made by boss wear jeans. To work. I'm shocked!

- made me wear a (cute) hat which gave me (not so cute) static hair.

Oh, winter. Boo you.

I'm Starting To Think I have Issues...

My hair looks like crap today. I have a hair appointment tonight so you would think I'd be OK with my hair looking less than perfect now. But I'm not.

For some reason I think my stylist will judge me for having a crappy hair day. I feel like my hair should be voluminous and shiny and gorgeous to prove to her that yes, I take care of my hair! I'm not a shlub! I didn't throw my hair in a ponytail when it was still wet!

It's like making your teeth sparkle before going to the dentist or shaving your legs before a doctor's appointment. You want to present yourself as the best possible You. The together, competent You.

I seriously considered washing my hair last night so I would have time to straighten and style it today. Of course I chose to watch The Hills instead (Those girls have good hair. Bitches.) and didn't leave myself enough time to do it this morning.

Seriously, could I be wasting brain cells on a stupider problem? In a few hours I will be sitting smack in the middle of a salon and my hair will be sticking up in all directions between multiple layers of foil. In front of people. This does not bother me.

But a limp, semi-damp ponytail? Completely unacceptable.

Issues, people. Issues.

Necessity

Michael had a meeting after work last night and afterwards was going out with some co-workers. I knew this a week before hand. I had no problem with it.

I got home from work, made myself some dinner and settled in to read Real Simple and watch a new (finally!) episode of Gilmore Girls. The dog was being good, I was cozy in my PJs. It was a nice evening.

Around 10 I decided I was ready for bed. I did my routine, put the dog to bed and snuggled under the flannel sheets, anticipating dozing off before the end of the Law & Order: SVU re-run.

Instead, I tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable. Hot, then cold, then hot again. First the pillow was too hard, then it wasn't hard enough. And I was so thirsty but didn't feel like getting up for a drink.

A little after 11 I finally fell asleep. I woke with a start around 12:15 and realized Michael wasn't home yet. While this wasn't cause for concern quite yet, I couldn't help worrying. He had to work early the next day. The meeting was far away. What if he drank too much? What if there was an accident? Why isn't he home yet?

Toss. Turn. Toss. Turn.

Just as I was debating calling him, I heard his car pull up. Phew.

He got in bed, spooned me and gave me kisses.

I was sound asleep in five minutes.

A Weighty Issue

Growing up I was always very thin. So thin, in fact, that an 8th grade french trip to Quebec was nearly ruined by a group of girlfriends who turned on me and told everyone I was anorexic. Which I was not.

I started dancing when I was three and by 17 I was a thin girl with a dancer's body. But I never really thought much about my weight. I was how I was.

And then came college. And the late nights and the dining hall food and the drinking. And consequently, a few extra pounds. I started working out and got healthy again, but the body I had in high school is long gone. I enjoy the curves that come with being a woman, and I get compliments on my body, but every now and then I am find I’m still unhappy with it.

I know I’m going to get flack for this. Michael will tell me I’m crazy. Friends will tell me that at 24 I wouldn’t want the body of an 18 year old. And maybe it’s true that only I hate my thighs.

A friend of mine is coming to visit this weekend. I am so happy that she will be here but a part of me is apprehensive about it. She’s tiny…just over 5 feet and has lost a lot of weight since college. She looks great and I’m happy for her. But there’s that voice in the back of my head that won’t stop comparing myself to her. When she’s around I feel like a house despite my 5’6”, size 6 frame.

Do men have these issues or is it reserved strictly to women? Because it really sucks.

Thanks

Dear New Guy,

You're outnumbered 4:2.

Please put the seat down.

Thanks.

Company

One thing I've learned from having a dog is privacy goes out the window. Especially when the bathroom door doesn't lock.

Imagine my surprise the first time he pushed open the door as I was sitting on the toilet. He walked right up to me, squeezed himself into the tiny area between my feet and the wall and lay down. It's amazing how vulnerable you feel, even in your own home, with the bathroom door wide open and a big animal at your feet.

Or the time no one was home and I was taking a shower and nearly DIED when a big black nose suddenly thrust itself past the shower curtain. Trust me, nothing prepares you for that.

As time went by, having Kodiak in the bathroom became more and more routine. We actually wait a minute before undressing or sitting on the toilet because we know it's just a few second before he pushes open the door and does a trademark FLOP on the floor.

To non-dog people this might sound gross or annoying, but to us it's perfectly normal. He's a love, a real people dog. He just wants to be where we are. When we take a shower, he takes a steam. When we do our business, he takes a nap.

It's actually very cute.

Except for that nose in the shower thing. I don't think I could survive that again.

Pen Pal

My first day on the job was spent running around with CNN.

A few weeks later my boss received a letter from a man in Ohio who had seen him on TV. In almost un-legible handwriting he wrote of his interest in our company, his life in the Navy and his past vacations to New England. Enclosed was a photo of him standing by a flower bed. The note on the back read "I am 79 years now. I was 58 in the photo."

His name is Norm.

My boss had no plans of writing back to him, but the letter struck a soft spot in me. Maybe this man lived alone with no family. Maybe his hobby is watching the news and writing to people he sees. Maybe he's waiting for someone to write back.

So I did.

And what developed was sort of a pen pal. Every so often I receive a letter from Norm. Most take awhile to get through since his handwriting is so bad, but they are always amusing. He's told me about his hobbies (woodcarving and NASCAR), his family("Got a nephew around those parts") and his friend's pool ("It's very cool and relaxing.") He writes without rhyme or reason, underlining certain passages or writing some in red ink. ("I've always liked to watch the Friday night fights from Foxwoods", "I bought a Japanese truck...a Tundra.")

He's sent me postcards of Ohio, stickers and another photo (again of him at 58, not 79.) I keep the conversation light, talk mostly about the weather or ask him questions about himself. Maybe it's because I'm cautious (or paranoid?) or maybe it's because I'm a New Yorker, but I never divulge anything very personal about myself.

Or maybe it's because he kept asking for a photo and was trying to guess what movie star I looked like.

The creepy old man stuff aside, I like hearing from Norm and I like to think that my letters bring him some joy.

I haven't heard from Norm in awhile and whenever a long stretch of time passes I wonder if he's still alive. I know that sounds morbid, but he is getting up there. And if he does pass, will I ever know?

I like to think that he's just very busy making his wood carvings and driving his Japanese Tundra.

Is It Friday Yet?

Last night I sliced my finger while trying to open a bottle of fancy olive oil. The wound cuts across my finger at a ridiculous angle, making it impossible to cover the whole thing with a bandaid. It hurts. A lot.

I'm really beginning to hate the words "strategize", "micro-manage" and "team".

My skin is still rebelling like a petulant teenager.

Now that it's getting cold I have to fight the feelings that always creep up around this time of year. Maybe it's a mild case of Seasonal Affective Disorder, but winter makes me want to curl up in my bed and stay there. I'm hoping to get through the season with vitamins, working out, snuggling and wine.

Lots of wine.

Grievances

Mother Nature -- I knew it had to become winter sometime, but couldn't we have eased into it? Fourteen degrees is not what I wanted to encounter this morning.

Skin -- I've done everything to appease you. I have washed, lotioned and cared for you just as I should. I did nothing to deserve the breakout on my chin. Nothing! You are 24 years old. I suggest you start acting like it.

Shoes -- Why do you hurt me? I know you're just a smidge higher than I usually wear to work but I really thought you would pull through. Apparently you are made for the walk from the car to the bar and nothing more. You are so beautiful on the outside, yet your true colors are showing.

Fridge -- Why are you so empty? Why can't you just fill yourself up? I really don't want to go shopping for you. And I absolutely cannot go after work. I'm wearing beautiful yet evil shoes. I refuse to walk around a grocery store.

I refuse.

Return Of The Date

Despite the weather, yesterday was a nice day. We slept in, took the dog for a long walk, shopped for my elliptical (yay!) and went out for dinner.

Over a shared appetizer of steamed dumplings it dawned on me that I could not remember the last time we went on a date. We always used to go on dates. In college we had a "date night" once a week, no matter what.

I guess sometime in the past few years, between work and life, we settled into a routine. A comfortable, happy routine...but a routine none the less.

It's funny how relationships change. I saved some emails Michael wrote me the first few months we were dating. I had just finished my freshman year and had returned to NY for the summer. The time apart was agony. The torture of new, young love was enough to make me realize I never wanted to be apart again. (Incidentally, that was the only summer I ever went back home.)

They are the sweetest letters and I really cherish them. Everything was new, we were so in love. We were both high on the new relationship buzz and the curiosity and excitement of the unknown.

Every six months or so I read those letters as a reminder of where we came from, what our relationship was built upon. They always make me smile.

And although the infatuation has melted away, what remains is something strong and wonderful. We're no longer planning our next date, but our future, our family, our lives. I wouldn't trade it for the world.

But what had a tendency to get lost in the fray is that time we used to sit aside just for each other. Moving in together gave us the advantage of seeing each other every day. Together time became synonymous with dinner, tv and bed. And while that is all well and good, I don't think either of us realized how much we missed that special time.

Until last night.

So as we dug into our entrees it was decided. We will bring back date night.

And I can't wait.

Randomness...or Sneakers and Speakers*

This week is the first full week I've worked since Christmas. It's been so tough to get up early five days in a row. I mean, God. The agony.

I left 15 minutes early today because I was up! And ready! So why not?(!) Apparently leaving 15 minutes early means you will encounter 10 times as many asshats on the road. Lesson learned: no more leaving early.

I went out last night for my mid-week martinis with Jen. We ran into some people she went to high school with, including a guy I worked with briefly at a coffee shop in college. He didn't recognize me. I guess I'm just that memorable.

*During the conversation he mentioned that earlier in the day he had bought sneakers and speakers. I just liked the way it sounds.

Also in that group of people was a guy that apparently applied for my job. Obviously, he did not get it. Because I did. Awkward...

And towards the end of the evening a group of people erupted in applause because a couple got engaged in the bar. My thoughts alternated between "They just got engaged in the bar!" to "They just got engaged in the bar?" Well, OK. Thoughts? Let's be honest here. That was said out loud. Blame it on the two martinis.

While getting ready to run the dishwasher this morning I happened to stop and read the label.

On the front: New! So effective, no need to prewash!

On the back: For best results fill both regular and prewash compartments.

Huh.

And finally, it's National De-Lurking Week! I know you're out there, I check my stats. You're all over the world! So stop by and say Hi. Love me? Let me know. Hate me? Let me know that, too. I can take it. And all those loyal readers that have never commented (cough, JEN) here's your chance.

Fashion Faux Pas

While out to lunch today I spotted one of Those Guys. You know the kind, the vintage Nike wearing, European-cut clothing sporting, my-hair-is-meant-to-look-unwashed type of guy. He would have pulled off the look perfectly if under his sporty zip-up he wasn't wearing a Family Guy t-shirt. Not quite a fashion disaster, but a definite oops. We've all had them. We look back at pictures and cringe at the "what was I thinking?" moments. Mine? Oh...there were many.

I owned a pair of red Tweety Bird sneakers. I thought they were the coolest thing ever. I was in 5th grade and was styyyyling, baby. Oh yeah.

I'd also like to point out that I searched Ebay just do you could actually see the horror that used to reside on my feet. Thank God my taste in shoes has improved.

Like any child born in the 80s, I also wore an assortment of snap bracelets. My favorite one was zebra striped and furry. I also had a few metallic ones and one that was a really great shade of lime green. I used to coordinated them to my scrunch socks. Until they were banned from school for being dangerous. Apparently if you took off the fabric coating they were nothing more than a bendy, metal WEAPON.

The mock turtleneck. But not just any mock turtleneck, oh no. A velour mock turtleneck. In long sleeve, short sleeve and a dress. I sported black, stripes, forest green and the dress....the dress was an iridescent purple that changed from dark to light depended on if you brushed the velour up or down. I may have worn the dress with clear platform jellies.

Overalls. An almost daily outfit in the 7th grade, complete with the baby t-shirt and boxers. You know, so a strip of your midsection was showing, but not enough to be considered inappropriate. My favorite boxers? Blue flannel with sheep on them. That I made in Home Ec. Yeah.
So overall, it was pretty bad. But at least it wasn't a Family Guy t-shirt.