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I was tagged to write 10 things I like about myself. Apparently this is an exercise in positive thinking so I shouldn’t feel bad about tooting my own horn. So here we go…

1. I’m a loyal friend. I was never one of those girls who ditched her friends for her boyfriend. I always felt that female friendships are something to cherish and not take for granted. If my friends need me, I’m there. You may really love your significant other, but only a true girlfriend will tell you if your makeup looks slutty, your hair is frizzy or you shoes don’t go with your outfit. They are also the ones who understand lady parts because they have them. Who wants to screw up a relationship with someone who gets your period woes? Not me!

2. I’m a good writer. While I used to consider writing as just a hobby, it ended up becoming my major in college (journalism), propelling me head first into a job (publicist), introducing me to the world of blogging (hi!) and convincing someone to pay me to write about girly things (here! look!). I’ve also been published and have recently had some pretty cool people take notice of what I write. Not too bad for doing something you enjoy.

3. I love fiercely. I would put my life on the line for the people I hold closest to my heart. Yes, I am a sap–oozing girly, lovey, annoyingness all over the place–but it goes beyond that. Sometimes I look at Michael and my heart surges with love and it takes all I have not to grab him and spin him around in circles because weeeee! love! Especially since it’s often in public and then I would just look crazy.

4. I’m emotional. Now yes, this could be considered a negative thing, but I think it just means I care. I love hard (see above), but I also hurt hard. I cry at movies (and, cough, commercials), I hurt when my friends and family hurt. And when I get mad, I get mad. Maybe it’s my New York blood, but you don’t want to cross me. I also have very limited patience, but I guess that’s more for the 10 things about me you don’t want to find out about.

5. I’m a discount diva. I love to shop as much as the next girl, but I’m slightly frugal. No, not cheap. Frugal. Because of this, I have developed a knack for hunting down fabulous clothes and shoes for even more fabulous prices. Sure, it takes committing some serious time to digging through racks, but it’s worth it. French Connection tops, Kate Spade shoes, Juicy Couture sweaters…all for waaaay less than you paid. Haha, suckers.

6. I’m musically inclined. I started dancing when I was three, piano at five and violin at nine. I got rhythm, baby. I was one of the best in my dance school and rocked my piano recitals. I was pretty good at the violin too, but piano is my real love. Since moving away from home I haven’t had a piano at my disposal and I miss it a lot. Once we have a bigger house I’m buying one and playing it all the time.

7. The goods. What do I like about myself physically? My mouth is full and a color “women try to replicate with lipstick”, as my mom would say. My hair is shiny, my breasts are perky and I have fantastic eyebrows. In addition…

8. I have a great smile. Perfectly straight teeth (no braces!) and a big mouth make a winning grin. I always won the Best Smile awards in elementary school and summer camp. I’ve even had complete strangers stop me and tell me how nice it is.

9. I’m thoughtful. I like doing things that will make other people happy. When my friend started student teaching I sent her an unexpected card detailing how great she was going to be. She called me so happy because she had just gotten through a rough first week and had come home to my card. I dig through the shelves at the grocery store to find the yogurt covered raisins Michael likes and I sometimes bring my boss in a treat from Starbucks. It’s the little things that mean the most and I like to give that to people.

10. I have great shoes. I don’t have to say too much about this because, yeah, you know. I love everything about them–from searching through the store, trying them on, purchasing them and wearing them around. I get a weird sense of pride whenever someone looks at the rows and rows of shoe racks and tells me how great they are.

So, now that I’m done talking myself up…I tag Clink, Mike, Anna and Sass.

I got Ma’med.

As I was signing the receipt for my turkey wrap, a boy on the other side of the counter asked, “do you want to try this peanut butter fudge, Ma’m?”

When nobody answered him I looked up to see him staring at me expectantly.

“Did you just call me Ma’m?” I asked him.

He stared at me dumbfounded; fidgeting with his “Ben” name tag as the girl next to him snickered.

“Um…yes?” he replied.

“I’m only 24! Do I seriously look like a Ma’m?”

“Well, I’m only 20,” he said smugly. “So, you’re older than me.”

Punk.

While waiting in the reception area of my doctor’s office this morning, my attention turned to a girl who was standing at the desk. This girl, who was only 20 years old (I know because I heard her give her date of birth) was wearing the tiniest denim skirt I had ever seen on a human being. Not only was it tiny…she was, well…NOT. The denim was stretched tighter than Joan River’s face and because it was so small, it was creeping upwards.

I saw more crack than anyone should ever have to see before 10 a.m. Or ever, actually. Tiny skirt and no underwear? Why?!

The site of this girl made me remember back to my senior year of college, the first day of Greek Week.

The opening ceremony of Greek Week is a true Greek system spectacle. Girls serving as representatives of each house dress up in handkerchiefs and call them togas, guys strut around shirtless and push the squealing girls around in homemade chariots. Everyone is drunk by 9 a.m. After the chariot race, fun and silly events take place like tricycle and bouncy ball races.

Those of us who weren’t participating in the race sat down on the sidewalk to watch. Across the street from us was a group of girls in their togas, barely lucid and stumbling all over the place. As we watched one particular girl fall out of her high heels, a gust of wind blew, tossing the skirt of her toga napkin into the air.

“Oh…my…God,” said a voice behind me. I turned to see what the person was looking at. As the wind blew and the fabric lifted up over and over again, there is was.

Her vagina.

In her drunken haze (or maybe on purpose), this girl went out in public wearing nothing more than a dishtowel. And showed the entire Greek system her vagina.

Over and over again.

Wind blows…

Vagina.

Wind blows…

Vagina.

It was like a train wreck. The entire side of the street could not look away. Because not only was her sad little vagina flapping in the breeze, it was bald and tan. People, vaginas should NOT be tan.

But the best (or worst, depending on how you look at it) part? She tried to participate in the bouncy ball race. As she struggled to balance on the ball the referee said, “Um…you can’t put your bare, um, you know on the ball…”

Too drunk to be embarrassed about it, she stumbled down the street with her friends.

I think the lesson for today is always wear underwear. Even if they’re boy shorts. Because nobody needs to see your vagina.

Whenever my coworker is out of the office she leaves me in possession of her Magic Eight Ball. Last time I had it was February. I shook it as hard as I could and asked the same question I always ask it, “Will Michael propose soon?”

My sources say yes.

I really wanted to believe it so I wrote down the date on a Post-It and stuck in my desk drawer.

The Eight Ball? Was wrong. I’m not sure what the Eight Ball considers to be soon, but it’s been five months since I asked it. Not quite my idea of soon.

Since aquiring it on Friday, I’ve asked the same question once every day. Each day has been a different answer.

-Yes.

- It is decidedly so.

- Outlook not so good.

This is usually the time I shake it again, because obviously the Magic Eight Ball is just tired and is therefore giving me the answer I do not want to hear wrong answer.

Since the Eight Ball is being stubborn, I decided to ask it some questions about my weekend instead.

Is it going to rain for the Blessing of the Fleet? It is decidedly so.

Will that stop us from going to the beer tent? Concentrate and ask again.

Will that stop us from going to the beer tent? Very doubtful.

Will I have fun at the party on Saturday? Yes.

Will I end up drinking one too many? You may rely on it.

But it will be worth it, right? Better not tell you now.

Ooooh, that tricky Eight Ball.

I just made you say Underwear.

Underwear, yes. Can we talk about that, please? Because I’m having a serious issue with mine today. I wore a dress, and instead of going the traditional thong route–as I usually do when wearing a dress made from jersey material–I decided to wear boy shorts.

I always have the highest hopes for boy shorts. In theory, they’re fantastic. They’re a comfortable alternative to a thong, promise no panty lines and don’t leave you picking something out of your crack all day.

That’s what they want you to believe. Yes, they.

These damn boy shorts have done nothing but ride up all day long. Yes, I have no VPLs (Visible Panty Lines), but I would sacrifice that for a floss-free afternoon.

So I ask you, my faithful friends and readers, for help. You haven’t steered me wrong before. Is there such a thing as a perfect boy short?

And if so, where can I find it?

Me: Yeah, you didn’t hear? Kanye’s new album is dropping the same day as Fitty’s. There’s like, mad drama over it.

Jen: Almost runs into parked car. Excuse me? What did you just say?

Me: What?

Jen: –silence–

Me: Oh, um. I mean, Kanye West’s new CD is coming out on the same day as Fifty Cent’s. Apparently there’s a lot of controversy over it…better?

Jen: Uh, yeah. What the hell was that?

Me: I don’t know…it sounded normal coming out of my mouth.

Jen: I think that’s the problem.

Me: I’m ghetto on the inside.

And everyone calls him Fitty. (Said under my breath.)

“Try not to feel too jealous, hunnie. Your time will come.”

The end of my dad’s voice mail hung in the air as I processed his information. Cousin. Got engaged. In Paris. Ooh la la.

I know I shouldn’t complain about this. My cousin is awesome, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t happy for her. I AM happy for her. I’m also more than slightly jealous of her. When I talked to her this morning she was completely giddy…gushing about her plans for a February wedding and still completely shocked at the recent turn of events. It was so pure and genuine, I was smiling as I read her words.

All this disappointment? It’s not fair to Michael. We had a wonderful weekend together. The kind of weekend that feels like it was created just for us. The kind of weekend–as cheesy as it sounds–that made me catch my breath, take his face in my hands and say “I just love you SO MUCH!” Because if I didn’t say it, it was going to burst out of the top of my head and fly all over the living room.

This weekend we talked about our five year plan. About what the future holds for us. At the top of his list was Get Married. It’s at the top of mine, too.

I know it’s coming. I can see it in his eyes when he kisses me. I can feel it when he brushes the hair off my face, wakes me up from a nap with a kiss, or lets me be the little spoon.

I want to be his little spoon for the rest of my life.

I’m ready.

I always find it really amusing to see what people Googled to get to my blog. I still get multiple searches for variations on the word “boobs”. In the last seven days there’s been some good ones, and one pretty nasty one that I refuse to post here. I’m not sure how someone searching for information on sexual positions using the backdoor region ended up here, but GO AWAY.  Maybe Google has a sick sense of humor, because half the time the searches represent nothing I’ve ever written about.

People searching for these phrases visited These Little Moments this week:

I peed myself at age 15-I’m sorry to hear that. But question, why are you Googling it? To see if other people are, in fact, peeing themselves at 15?

Who makes ace bandages-Um…isn’t it…Ace?

“I peed myself” bathroom-OK, seriously. I’ve never peed myself! I cannot help you!

Busty Miss Molly-See? Told you. Every. Single. Day.

Big Hair Fanny-Like, big hair on their fanny? Because…ew.

Get doo-doo smells out of clothes-Wash it? Throw it away? Seek help for having clothes that smell like doo-doo?

“I like to lose weight”-Hey! Me too! OMG we should totally be friends weeeee!

Cleavage enhancing liquid filled bathing-bathing suit, I’m assuming. And hunnie, you do not want liquid-filled anything in your bathing suit. They will float when you get in the pool!

Butt and white pants-OK, this one I understand. I feel your pain!

What are people searching to get to your blog?

One of the hardest parts about graduating college was the inevidible day when all my friends moved away. Rhode Island attracts a lot of students from New York, New Jersey and Connecticut, or “Tri-Staters” as my friend and I would say. It was great to meet up with these people, to share a common understanding of what a hard roll actually is and laugh at how obviously it was the Rhode Islanders–not us–who had the funny accents.

The not-so-great part is that most of these Tri-Staters had no intentions of sticking around after graduation. So as I made the choice to stay in the Ocean State, my friends and roomates loaded up their cars and headed home.

As time passed, it got easier. I have some great friends who are local and still see the ones who moved away every so often. But now things are changing. And anyone who knows me will tell you, I don’t do well with change.

Ashley is packing up her stuff and moving to the northern part of the state. Now, I understand that this is not a HUGE deal. If nothing else, Rhode Island is small. I can get to her new apartment in a half hour. 40 minutes if I hit traffic. But, right now she lives 10 minutes away. And before that she lived three minutes down the road. And even with the knowledge that her job is walking distance from my house, I am still beginning to slightly panic that I will hardly see her.

Then there’s Elle…my other half from college. Come fall she will have moved to D.C. And while I couldn’t be happier for her, starting a new life in a new town with a great career, I can’t help but be sad. Because while we don’t see each other too often, if we missed each other too much, she was just a short car ride away.

This all brings me to last night. As I climbed in my friend’s car to head to dinner, she casually said “I want to talk about my thoughts on moving. But not till we get to dinner.”

My heart stopped. The mere fact that she didn’t want to talk about it until I was in a public place with a glass of wine in front of me made it perfectly clear: I’m losing her too.

While she hasn’t made any final decisions, it’s looking pretty good that by next year she will be on the opposite coast, an entire country separating us. I quietly sipped my wine–willing myself to drink slow–as she talked animatedly about her plans to fly out there this summer and see if it was right for her. When she asked me what I thought I had two options: try and convince her to stay (for purely selfish reasons) or tell her to go. So I said what I know was right.

“You should go. I’m sure you’re going to love it.”

I hoped my smile, which felt tight and forced, came across as genuine. While I want nothing but the best for her, I can’t help feeling that with her departure a lot will change.

I can’t help feeling like not only is everyone leaving, but they’re leaving me. I guess it’s part of life. When my friends from high school returned home after college, I stayed put. But it seems different now. With classes and weekly parties a thing of the past, it’s really hard to meet new people. Where does a 20-something meet new friends?

Actually–and this might sound really pathetic–the person I’ve started to become really close with lately, the person I am actually beginning to think of as a friend…I’ve never actually met. Apparently blogging is the new online dating. Just for friends.

24, blonde hair, brown eyes. Loves martinis, shoes, bad TV and good pizza.

Any takers?

Since I’m now a public access television star, I’ve had to go into hiding to avoid being crushed my all my fans. Because of this, I have nothing of real interest to tell you about today. Being famous is so stressful.

Alright, fine. I really have nothing to tell you because I’ve been doing that crazy thing called work all day. So, instead of a story, you get shoes! BAD shoes. Just as a heads up, last time I did this one of my readers actually owned a pair that I was dogging. (Sorry, DE!) I apologize in advance if your feet are currently adorned with the monstrosities I’m about to make fun of. And if they are, maybe we need to go shoe shopping together.

It reminds me of those plastic bags from the grocery store you put your produce in. Only it’s the one you filled with cherries that you accidentally sat on in the car.

If penguins ever go extinct, we’ll know why. It even looks like it has an eye! The shoe is staring at you!

I think I’d rather strangle myself with the strap than wear it on my foot. Especially since it seems to be made from electrical tape.

Sticking with the produce theme, here’s a perfect way to get your daily requirement of potassium.

A reader submission courtesy of La. A nice autumn leaf attached to your foot by shriveled, dried out grass.

This shoe is called “Memories”. Memories of what, exactly? Of the day you were tied to the stake for exposing your big toe through the hole in your shoe? Wench!

I just have to come right out and say it. Ever seen a Silver Bullet? Just stretch it out a little further. This shoe looks like a vibrator. Yes it does, yes it does, yes it does!

This morning my boss informed me that I might have to do a television interview today. Huh? What? It is only Tuesday, right? And only 3/4 of my brain has returned from vacation and aren’t you forgetting I’ve never actually BEEN ON TV BEFORE?

Of course I didn’t say that. I just nervously smiled and said OK. Because as freaked as I was, if I had to do it, I would do it. And rock it. I hoped.

Luckily for me (and the entire state of Connecticut), someone much more qualified to speak on the designated topic was able to do it. So my job was just to supervise the interview.

The interview and the B-Roll shots went fine. Until the reporter made his way to a particular spot along the water to shoot his stand-up and bridge.

“A bridge is in the middle of the story, Molly,” he said. “You know, like a bridge between the beginning and end.”

Golly gee shucks. Sure is kind of you explain to me the meaning of a “bridge”. That there school I done gone to didn’t learn us much about them here journalism. Maybe next you can explain to me the meaning of a lead.

No? What about the meaning of arrogant and condescending?

I politely smiled and told him, yes, I remember that from my four years in college as a journalism major.

Update: Guess who was just on public access television? THIS GIRL. Right here.

While I was gone, I was tagged by Anna to write eight random facts about myself. But since I’ve done a whole bunch of these, I’ll tell you eight random facts about our Vegas trip.

1. We stayed at New York, New York, home to Coyote Ugly, a dueling piano bar and lots more. They convinced us upon check-in that for $10 more, we could upgrade to a room with a view of the Strip. Sold! Turns out what they really meant was for $10 more, we would get a view of the Strip, and also a 20-mile hike from the elevator to our room.

The casino also has a rollercoaster that I swore I would never get on. Heights = Hate. Both Val and Jen wanted to go, and not wanting to be the only one who stayed behind, I paid my $12.50 (!) and took a ride.

I’m never doing that again.

2. Remember how I joked about texting Clink with Vegas tips and updates? Remember how I said we weren’t that geeky and would probably only do it once? Um, yeah. We texted the whole vacation and she even let me know when she got there! But it ended up being a great idea. I made sure she brought comfortable walking shoes (because even with the Monorail, those casinos are HUGE), and she took my advice and hit up the Treasure Island buffet. Heaven and gluttony all on one plate.

3. Despite it being H-O-T in Vegas, it was not humid. And no humidity means no frizz! Whether it was straight or curly, our hair looked great. 

4. I knew it was going to be a good trip when we were checking our bags at the airport. The guy at the counter took one look at our four bags for three people (one huge one was entirely filled with toiletries, shoes and hair appliances. I’m not kidding.) and said “has Vegas been warned?”

5. We saw a real-life escort. A man, who had a striking resemblance to Milton from Office Space, was grinning ear to ear as a beautiful woman with a very expensive Chanel bag chatted him up over drinks. Eventually she left and he hovered around outside of the bar waiting for her. We took bets on when/if she would come back. She finally did…must not have been paid yet! Lucky for you, we managed to get a shot of them in the background of another picture.

6. We had two famous people sightings. One was A.J. from The Backstreet Boys. The other was Steve Schirripa, “Bobby” from The Sopranos.

7. There was a lot of drinking. One souvenir cup can buy you discounted drinks at a lot of places. My favorite were the banana daiquiris by the pool. There were also massive yard drinks that were knock you off your feet delicious.

8. As tired as I was when I got back, I would do it all over again in a heartbeat.

Hi blog friends! Did you miss me? I missed you. I have returned from a whirlwind vacation and I am happily tired. Vegas? Vegas rocked. There was swimming…

and bar hopping…

there was drunken strolls through Paris (complete with speaking French at the top of our lungs) with resulting bathroom fashion shots…

there was debauchery on the Strip…

and dancing up a storm.

Clearly, it was a wonderful time. Stories to come, as soon as I get rid of this jet lag!

The final guest post is by my one and only. The man I love. My Michael.

The Little Things

A quick introduction, I am Molly’s boyfriend Michael. When Molly asked me to write something for her blog I had a hard time deciding on one thing that I would write about. We have been through a lot together, everything from major life accomplishments like graduation from college, to cancer in both of our families and the loss of my father.  After some thought, I decided that one of the things I love most about her and our relationship are the little things. Life is full of ups and downs and major events, but these things do not happen every day. For me, living life day to day with each other, sometimes doing nothing, is when the strength of our relationship shows.

I love the way we can be perfectly content just being lazy together, whether it is lying on the couch or hammock together or hanging out in the yard with the dog.

I love taking walks together. One of my fondest memories is one that both Molly and I share. We took a walk near the Cliff Walk and Salve Regina University in Newport one foggy night, hand in hand. It was so peaceful.

I love how we both know what the other is thinking without saying a thing.

There are so many other “little things” that define our relationship, but the best one is the way Molly makes every day better just by being with me. She is my best friend and I love her with my whole heart. (I know…sappy).

I am sure you are all looking forward to her return to writing on her blog!

Michael

Today’s guest post is written by my dear friend Danielle, a.k.a Dani California. 

Ode to a Girl Named Molly

It all started with a head hitting a mirror.

For those of you who know, or for those of you who do not know…Molly and I have known each other for quite some time. We met at the tender age of four, forced by our parents to have a sleepover when we had never met. It started off awful, not because of Molly, but because I had to actually clean my room! The only couple of things I remember are: watching “Romancing the Stone” (quite a vivid movie for two four-year-olds, anyway), Molly falling off the bed and hitting her head on my mirror and a friendship instantly being born.

From that point on, Molly and I spent so much time together. The two of us created so many different games to play that would occupy hours of our time. My favorite of course was “Teenagers”. We named ourselves Jaime Parker and Kelly McGreggor and had purses with “grown up” things like fake check books and credit cards. Then again, who can forget “Rocks and Sticks, Dirt and Flowers”, where we would stand at the end of my driveway, waving these items at cars. We thought they might stop and buy something! And last but not least, our radio shows. Oh yeah, we were cool. We would play “Heart and Soul” in different keys on the piano. I would always make Molly play for me because she was so good. She just had a knack. Funny enough, I took piano lessons from her piano teacher’s mom! Not our only similarity. Our dads knew each other from when they were about four also! Another funny similarity: One night when I was staying over her house, for bed I put on these tacky boxer shorts with martini glasses and sunglasses on them. She had the same pair. How, I do not know! It all came down to good taste!

I am getting side tracked, so moving on…I remember my first year of high school we basically talked everyday. I would gossip and talk about all the boys I had such crushes on and she in turn would do the same. My crush for most of that year was Dimistris Bochinis and Evan Sheedy (well, he was my crush for like years)! I remember Molly’s was Peter Yoon, but they were dating! So cute! Ah boys, so many, so little time.

Our friendship hit a cement wall after I finished 9^th grade. I moved. I remember Molly came down to see me before school started and again on Halloween, that was our holiday. We spent it together for years. After that Halloween, we didn’t get to see each other much. I have mentioned this to her a few times, but will mention it here. It saddens me sometimes to think of all the things we missed out on. Getting driver’s licenses together, high school dating, parties, proms, and being total bitches to our moms! I know we did that in our respective states, but how much fun would that have been together?

Of course we get together when we can and as soon as we do it is ALWAYS like no time has passed. I do wish I could just pick up the phone and ask her to take a ride with me to Starbucks or go shoe shopping, but unfortunately our lives have not brought us in that direction. Ms. Molly is in RI and I am in LA (Los Angeles, not Louisiana). I know that one day I will move back to the East coast and be closer to her and get to see her more often, but until then, I can only do this…I love you more then just a friend. You know I always thought of you as the sister I never had. There are only a few people throughout my life who know the little quirks…what makes me laugh, what makes me cry and what has made me the person that I am today. I am thankful to say that you are one of those people. Thank you for always being you and never changing.

Funny things:

Molly washed my feet one time after we went walking in the dirt. Nobody touches my feet!

Molly was jealous when I was allowed to shave my legs and she wasn’t.

Strange twist: Molly was younger then me and could dye her hair, I couldn’t dye mine!

We use to buy containers of icing and dip Hershey’s chocolate into it!

Honk, Oh Honk…..HARK, a swan! (You just had to be there)!

The videotape from the 5^th grade birthday.

When people were coming to view my house that was for sale, we told them it was infested in the hopes they wouldn’t buy it.

Misc. Things:

I had a “shrine” to Molly. (Not as bad as it sounds, I basically hung my favorite pictures of the two of us on my mirror).

Her “Dani California” blog made me cry.

We met at four, are now 25 and 24, and have never had a fought. To me, that ’s a true friendship.

Today’s post is written by my boss, Mike. Without his cool factor, I would not be posting daily.

The Working Molly

So, by now you know Molly is in Vegas.

What? You didn’t know? Have you been living under a rock? I thought everyone knew Molly was in Vegas. Heck, I’ve been hearing about it for, oh, I don’t know, let’s just say “a while.”

And, if we know that Molly is in Vegas, then I know she’s not here. Meaning, she’s not at work.

Yup, I’m Molly’s boss. I’m Mike - not too be confused with Michael. You know, the Michael.

You can normally find me here. But today, I’m here - filling in for your favorite shoeru (whatever that is) while she’s lounging around the pool in Vegas.

Molly recently named me a Rockin’ Blogger. So, in order to live up to that esteemed position, I felt I had but no choice to accept her invitation of being a guest blogger while she’s on vacation. By the way, did you know she went to Vegas?

Ok, so where do I start? I guess she asked me to sit in for a day in order to give you an idea of what the working Molly is like.

I wish I knew.

Kidding. Jeez. Settle down. I’m kidding. Well, maybe not.

No, the thing is, Molly does work. She works on her blog. She works on her Vegas plans. Among other things.

But, as her boss, it really doesn’t matter to me, because, somehow, in the middle of those important things she does during the day, she also does the things I ask her to do. After all, I am her boss, right?

All of you regular readers know Molly posts pretty regularly - nearly every day. That’ll continue, I’m sure, as long as she keeps getting her work done. If you see that she is no longer posting so frequently, good chance it’s because she hasn’t been getting her work done!

When I learned she had a blog, it was no big deal to me that she post (and, um, ok, read blogs) during the work day. Just get the work done, I told her. Then I really don’t care.

You also know she has a great style in her writing - and that’s the main reason I actually encouraged her to do this at work. She’s got to write a lot for her work in our public relations office. And she’s got to edit the work of others and do some proofreading.

No better way at improving writing, in my opinion, than doing more and more of it. And, knowing that some of what we do is, well, boring, I didn’t want her to lose her style on my account. In fact, my hope is that some of that creativity will find its way into the day-to-day stuff she does for me.

So, I let her blog and read blogs - boss of the year, don’t you think?

I don’t really have any dirt for you. So if you were looking for a little of that, I can’t help.

One of my favorite Molly stories was her arrival time for her first and second interviews. I had her scheduled, I think, for 2:30 for her first interview. I got a call at 2 p.m. from someone telling me she was here.

Now, I’m as prompt as anyone, but 30 minutes ahead of time is a bit much, don’t you think? I thought so. But, I knew this was her first ‘real’ gig, so she had the benefit of the doubt. Nevertheless, I still made her wait.

I knew after the first interview that she would be a finalist. She didn’t have any experience in the field beyond college, but something told me she’d make it through to the final round.

She did. And, on the second interview, she did it again - 30 minutes early. I couldn’t believe it. I felt like saying, never be that early. Sit in the car in the parking lot. Go get a drink. Something! That’s ok, though. We laugh at it now - along with her cover letter, which you can read about here (if you haven’t already). Regardless of what she says, and what I said, it did help her get the job.

So what else can I tell you that you don’t already know?

• She really does love shoes. A lot.
• She really did go on “operation no food” or whatever she called it for Vegas.
• Did I mention she’s going to Vegas?
• She taught me how to text message.
• She hates Blue October.
• She knows more about Friends than any of the original cast members.
• She drives a Honda Accord - and it’s blue.
• She likes root beer.
• Her favorite satellite radio channel is Flight 26.
• Her first concert was Matchbox 20.

What else? I got nothin’. But if you have questions about the working Molly, just let me know. I’m happy to reveal more!

Hurry back, Molly. The work’s piling up.

Guest post #1 is written by the amazing woman who brought me into this world: my mom! 

Gene? or Virus? 

Molly asked me to do a guest spot on her blog while she is dancing her feet off in Las Vegas. There are many tangents I can go off on about my daughter, but I suppose writing about the obvious is the way to go. 

So, OK, I knew we had some shoe-aholism in the family. 

Aunt L was the Imelda Marcos of the bunch, with multiple pairs. When we would visit her, Molly would make a bee-line for her closet, just to look. Since she was related by marriage and not blood, I wondered if attaining this shoe-interest from a non-blood-relative could be viral in nature.

At a very young age, Molly had an affinity for shoes.  She used to try on my black slouchy suede boots and stand around in front of the mirror posing - they were mid-calf on me but practically hip-waders on her.  I couldn’t let her walk around in them because the heels were so high she would probably either break an ankle or fall down the stairs. So she would just pose.

I would find my shoes worn and discarded all over the house.  She was distraught because she wanted the peach colored toe shoes but they only had the baby pink in her size; was adamant about getting the red high-top sneakers with Tweetie Bird on them.

OK, a lot of this is normal kid stuff.  But upon visiting Aunt N (direct bloodline) one summer, we discovered not only did N have quite the selection, but they were neatly kept in their original boxes at the top shelf of the closet - laid out as if in a shoe store.  Rather impressive, if not perhaps a bit compulsive. Molly zeroed right in on that with an alert fascination. At that point it crossed my mind she possibly had inherited the shoe gene instead of contracting the viral version.  Aunt N possessed an eclectic mix of fun, comfort and flirty style, but Molly found them staid compared to those of Aunt S.

Aunt S -  the queen of “the cute little shoe“.  She is the one in the adorable, sexy designer heels at astronomical prices.  “What do you think of this cute little shoe?” or, “OMG, I just had to buy this adorable pair of cute little shoes!”, or “Oh, it’s nothing, just a cute little shoe I found on sale”.

Aunt S’s cute little shoes are not known for their comfort but they range from the bizarre to the beautiful. Butter-soft calfskin stiletto boots.  Tawny open-toed sling-backs with leopard print heels. Delicate numbers with twisted satin tops. Bejeweled pumps.   Periodically she would decide she was changing her image (”This is no longer me”), tire of them, and the cast-offs would arrive piled in an upscale shopping bag.  Everyone coveted them and would eagerly dig through the bag, only to be disappointed as they were always about a half size too small or an inch too high and no one could tolerate the pain of wearing them for even a few minutes.

*  Parental Warning (it’s my duty) - As an aside I will note that Aunt S has done a number on her feet from years of cute little shoes and can now only wear “comfortable” shoes (see “Mom”, below).

Finally, we come to the direct blood-line, the Mom.  I am one who, for the most part, prefers to be barefoot and will wobble and fall off a pair of even the lowest of skinny heels. I didn’t care about these things - but acknowledgement of the recessive shoe-gene hit me in middle age, when I suddenly discovered while moving and packing that I had years of shoes I could not part with.  Where did they all come from? Freakier to discover many of these shoes were different variations on the Mary Jane. And there was an inordinate number of red shoes, or the same shoe style in different colors. I also have a thing for cowboy boots, if they fit right.  Ultimately, they all have one defining criteria - they need to be comfortable.  Molly rarely is interested in my shoes now (”I wouldn’t wear them but they look cute on you…”).  She finds almost all of them boring and incredibly pedestrian -  flats and Birkenstocks  - referred to with disdain as “Air-Jesus” sandals by Uncle P (who is married to Aunt L and has learned to live with this affliction).

I suppose having a shoe-thing is not so bad, if one can keep it under control.  I thought Molly showed remarkable restraint the last time we shoe-shopped together, which was a surprisingly fun experience.  I have to say there was something fascinating about watching her navigate the discount shoe aisles and hone in like a heat-seeking missile on the perfect pair, and then try to show restraint (would she have bought them if I wasn’t there?).  She accused me of making “that face” when she showed me some of the things she liked.  She doesn’t realize it, but she makes “that face” too.  Funny thing, genetics…

Wearing (she doesn’t like these):

Wanting:

Alright, my bags aren’t packed yet. But I will be leaving on a jet plane bright and early Monday morning. Vegas, baby!

We’ve booked our show tickets (my vote to see Celine was quickly vetoed…), made a list of clubs we want to go to, planned a night for some Thunder and are all so excited.

Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you, my lovely readers. When I thought about leaving my poor blog unattended for four whole days, I nearly started twitching. So, for your reading pleasure, I have enlisted four people who know me better than most to guest blog in my absence. Be sure to check back every morning for a new post and leave comments…I can’t wait to hear what you have to say when the truth about me really comes out!

See you Friday!

You know what sucks about being a woman? Mood swings. Specifically, mood swings the week before your period. I think part of it stems from the fact that I’ve been trying really, REALLY hard to eat well in preparation of Vegas and it just so happens that this time every month all I want it a chocolate covered doughnut followed by a bag of crunchy Cheetos. Gross? Yes. But oh so satisfying.

Well, I didn’t have the doughnut. And I certainly haven’t had any Cheetos. Nope. I’ve had yogurt. And blueberries. And…yeah.

Michael took the day off yesterday and I was so happy to have him home with me. We had a really nice afternoon of walking with the dog and going to Starbucks, but come 4 o’clock my mood had severely shifted.

I was cranky. And weepy. And everything he did annoyed me so much that all I wanted was for him to “GO AWAY AND LEAVE ME ALONE!” Which of course he wouldn’t…because he knows that this side of me pops up once a month. And he thinks it’s funny to wrestle me until he’s got me pinned and then try and stick his fingers in my nose and ears. Boys.

After an hour of this (and one good no-reason cry while I made dinner), I was normal again. Hormones…what the hell?

Another reason I was cranky was that the gray sky threatened rain all day. And rain would mean no fireworks. I LOVE fireworks. There’s something about a band blasting patriotic music while the entire town gathers to watch the sky light up that really moves me. And I wanted my fireworks, damn it!

As per tradition, Jen came over and as the rain started to fall, the three of donned our rain jackets and umbrellas and started to walk to the center of town. As we walked, the rain got heavier and heavier and by the time we arrived we had to huddle under a tree to avoid becoming completely drenched.

Soon after we arrived, an announcement was made saying they were waiting for a window of opportunity to start the show. It took 45 minutes for that window to appear. Forty-five minutes of squishy flip-flops, damp pants and wet faces for the sky to clear and a spectacular fireworks display to start.

I stood in the middle of the field, stray raindrops sliding down my cheeks and felt like a little kid as light and color exploded over my head. It was perfect.

Turned out to be a nice Fourth of July after all.

Update: OK, I caved. I’m sharing a brownie with my boss. SHARING!

I can’t think of a better way to start my morning than finding out that the lovely Kate has named me a Rockin’ Blogger. Thanks, hunnie!

It’s really hard for me to narrow down a few choice bloggers to pass this award on to. There are so many I enjoy reading and I seriously think you all rock. So in lieu of a real post (because I have serious Vegas-brain right now), I will attempt to name a few who I feel are very deserving of this award.

And the Bloggy goes to:

Mike- for his honesty and willingness to share with the world the heartache of losing a sibling within days of gaining a daughter.

Anna- for the touching story of having her baby at 36-weeks.

Laurie- for her revolting, yet hilarious tale of a bathroom mishap.

And Spring- because she called me her shoeru and I think that’s awesome.

We’re officially in the single digits. With Vegas right around the corner, I’ve taken note of the piles and lists that have accumulated over the past month. So here you go, Vegas preparation by the numbers:

Number of outfits bought: 5

Number returned: 1 (because, really, what was I thinking?)

Gallons of tea drank in substitution of work snacks: 28

Number of pee breaks: countless

Bags of frozen strawberries consumed: 3

Pounds lost: 5.5

Current pairs of shoes coming for the four day trip: 5

Pitchers of sangria shared while planning: 3

Number of purchases made after drinking sangria: 1

And now a question for all the ladies. (Really guys, I’m going to talk about my period now. You might want to come back tomorrow.)

I’m supposed to start my period on the second day of the trip. I’m really not too excited about that and was considering skipping it by starting my next pack of pills on Sunday. Has anyone ever done this? I hear it’s OK, but have always been too nervous to actually try. Is there spotting? Cramping? Nothing? Tell me what you know.

Guys, if you kept reading…good for you. Real men aren’t scared by periods.