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."
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Did I mention he has a Bachelor's of Science?