Monthly Archive

Born: December 31, just short of the new year. The baby born on January 1st belonged to a nurse who worked at the hospital. She had a C-Section.

Age three. I began taking ballet classes. I remember the smell of new ballet slippers, the feel of my hair pulled back tightly in a bun and the desire I felt to be one of the older girls wearing overalls and scrunchy socks and dancing to “Born in the USA”.

Age five. There’s a big couch in my kindergarten classroom. I like to sit there and read. My teacher lets me stay longer than the other kids because she says I’m accelerated. This makes me feel special.

Age six. My sister is born. I go from being an only child to sharing a room. I love every minute of it, except when she cries. That I can do without.

Age nine. I’ve wanted to play the violin since I saw Itzhak Perlman perform on Sesame Street. I’m given the opportunity to choose an instrument in fourth grade and I don’t hesitate for a second. A home video of me playing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” a week after picking up the instrument shows my family trying to hide pained faces.

Age 10. My parents divorce. I break out in hives.

Age 13. I try my first drink at someone’s Bat Miztvah. It’s a Zima and it’s disgusting. I give it back after one sip.

Age 15. High school. I join the crew team and get in the best shape of my life. I meet my first boyfriend and date him until graduation. I travel to Europe.

Age 16. Playing the violin pays off. I spend my summer traveling to Australia, New Zealand, Tahiti and the Cook Islands with my high school’s traveling orchestra. I hold a koala, play a digeridoo, see everything from extreme poverty to extreme wealth and refuse to eat kangaroo.

Age 18. I get into all the schools I applied to, but can’t afford my first choice. I cry for two straight days until I have a revelation somewhere over the middle of the country as we fly home from a trip to California. I decide to accept the scholarship from the college in Rhode Island.

I graduate, but I do not cry.

I leave for college on my sister’s birthday. This time we all cry.

I drink too much the second week of school and find comfort in a girl who lives on my hall. We become instant friends.

Age 19. I meet a boy in a sexy blue uniform. He kisses me by the ocean. I fall in love.

Age 20. I meet a crazy/wonderful girl that tries to talk me into joining a sorority. I laugh at her.

Then I join.

Age 21. We host a huge New Year’s Eve party at the beach house I live in with the instant friend, the crazy/wonderful girl and my roommate from freshman year.

Later in the year I become severely depressed for no reason. It takes almost two months to discover I needed to switch my birth control. Within days of the switch I was back to normal.

Age 22. I graduate college. Walking across the stage is a blur. But as I step off the stage and cross through the arch, the first thing I see is Michael, arms outstretched, beaming at me. He scoops me up in a hug and my heart skips a beat.

I scan the audience for my parents and see that they are beaming as well.

Age 23. After working in a daycare for almost a year, I begin to panic and think I will be stuck there forever. I have what can only be described as a quarter-life crisis. It is not fun. While checking my email one morning, I notice a Monster ad for a publicist position. The ad mentions a love of chocolate and a sense of humor. I am late for working because I’m filling out the application and writing a cover letter.

I get the job.

Age 24. Twenty-four proves to be the best year yet. I make amazing friends who are understanding when I leave for a new job. I become part of an amazing community of bloggers who are there for the good times and the bad.

I get engaged.

I am happy.

Monday is my 25th birthday. And I know that 2008 is going to top all the rest. From kicking off the new year in Vegas, to pledging my love to Michael in October.

I couldn’t want anything more.

(Except maybe some Louboutins.)

Happy New Year to all of you!

“The family - that dear octopus from whose tentacles we never quite escape, nor, in our inmost hearts, ever quite wish to.” ~Dodie Smith

It was somewhere between my second glass of wine and my fist serving of lasagna that I noticed how happy I was. Sitting around the table with both my parents–divorced for almost 15 years, but still sharing Christmas Eve together. In true family tradition, it was unconventional. Last year we shared a dinner of Christmas Eve burritos. But it’s not the food that matters, it’s the company.

There were some rough years. Arguments, accusations, name calling. Holidays were divided, not shared. And while there is still the occasional disagreement or dispute over something, as far as divorced parents go, they get along pretty well.

That night I listened as they reminisced about years past. About adventures in their 20s and who they were at my age. And although I couldn’t relate to all they had done (they call me the black sheep of the family–a quintessential girly-girl who would not fit in communally living or jamming with a band), I could understand together or apart, my parents are extraordinary people.

That night as Michael and I drifted off to sleep, I thought about our relationship and where we’ll be 30 years from now. Both being products of divorce, it is extremely important to both of us that our vows remain true for the rest of our lives. But aside from that, I hope that one day we can sit at the dinner table on Christmas Eve with both my parents and our very own children, sharing a dinner of burritos or lasagna and the stories of who we once were and who we have become.

High: Having and awesome holiday party at work where I gorged myself on yummy food and spiked hot cider, listened to Christmas music and got this as a gift from my boss:

Low: Getting hit in the Marshalls parking lot (why, Marshalls? Why?) as I was backing out of a space. The old man who hit me had originally passed me, but then decided to throw his car in reverse and come flying backwards to get a space. It was like slow motion–I couldn’t get my car into drive fast enough and all of the sudden there was a BANG and his bumper was in my fender. Crap.

We got out of our cars and he explained that “I couldn’t look backwards while I was backing up.” Bewildered, I exclaimed, “That’s why you hit me!”

It was like pulling teeth to get his insurance information (”I don’t know if I even carry it,”) and I practically had to force my contact information on him. And he didn’t want to call the police because “it’s not a crime, I just hit your car.”

Oh. My. God.

After he left I called Michael repeatedly, but couldn’t get in touch with him. Just as I was about to try again, Jen called. At which point I burst into tears and told her what happened. Her mom suggested I go to the police station and fill out a report so I did. I walked in a puffy from my tears of frustration and began filling out the paperwork. Michael arrived just as I was finishing and I can not tell you how happy I was to see him.

The dent in my car isn’t awful, but it still sucks I have to go through the whole insurance thing now. Merry freaking Christmas, huh?

High: Going out with Jen afterwards because I could really use a drink and exchanging Christmas presents. She really liked what I got her and it was nice to see her open it.

Low: Waking up at 1 a.m. with just enough time to run to the bathroom before emptying the contents of my stomach every hour, on the hour until 4 a.m. At one point (sorry, this is gross) I was sitting on the toilet with the garbage can on my lap, not knowing where it was going to come out of and shaking from the nausea. And also wishing that I had thought to grab a hair tie because if puke got in my hair I think that would be the worst part of all.

High: Not puking since 4 a.m.

Low: My whole body feels like it’s been run over by a train.

High: I get to start my vacation one day early.

Low: It will be spent on the couch feeling crappy.

High: But Michael is home with me.

Happy weekend.

While getting ready:

“What to wear, what to wear. Pants or skirt? Skirt! Yes, I’ll wear a skirt. How about my new Ralph Lauren one? Perhaps with a black top. Which top is clean? Oh, the one with the puffy sleeves. I don’t know if that works with the skirt. Will try it on. OK… not bad, but not great either. Maybe with slouchy boots? No. Not with slouchy boots. Skirt is too long for slouchy boots. Forget the skirt. What about the red dress? For today’s holiday party. So festive! Hmm…too sexy for work? How about with the slouchy boots? NO. Not with the slouchy boots. Look like a festive office ho.

I really want to wear the slouchy boots. Maybe with jeans? Where are those skinny jeans? Omigod I will never fit in those. Will give it a try anyway. Ah! They fit! But are skinny. Well, they are skinny jeans. Ok, with the black top and the slouchy boots. Oh girl, you cannot pull off this look. Boots over jeans? You look stupid. Take them off. But wait, it’s trendy. Am cute! Am cute? Ehhh….

OK! New skirt. With heels. And…NO. Damn it. It’s the top. Stupid puffy sleeves. Jeans, yes. With…what? White sweater. With slouchy boots? NO! Stop it. Seriously, put the boots away.

White sweater, dark jeans, brown heels. Done. Wow…look at the bed. That’s a lot of clothes. No time to put away, must do hair.

Up? Down? Half-up! With headband! It’s 9:30 ah!”

At work:

“Stupid outfit. I hate you. And why am I shedding all over the place? Don’t anorexics lose their hair? Clearly, I am not an anorexic, as I have already consumed half of my daily clementine allotment and let’s not even talk about the brownie batter last night. Or the ridiculous amount of food I’m going to eat at the holiday party today.

Does this outfit leave room for a food baby?

Ugh, I should have worn the puffy shirt.

And maybe the slouchy boots.”

I set the alarm earlier than usual so I could get up and go the gym. Michael did his best to rouse me from my sleep, but it just wasn’t happening. I don’t know why I was so tired, but there was no way I was getting up.

An hour later I forced myself out of bed and groggily shuffled downstairs to feed the dog. After he ate, I began my normal morning routine: shower, makeup, hair and poop.

What? You don’t have a usual poop time? Or better yet, girls don’t poop, right? You’re lying.

As someone who has a stomach so sensitive that if I look at food it’s upset, I know that when I have to go, I better take the opportunity while in the comfort and privacy of my own home.

I repeat: comfort and privacy of my own home.

I plopped down on the seat (wait, sorry. Plopped is a bad choice of word. Sat. I sat down on the seat.) and let my mind wander as I looked out the window overlooking our backyard.

I was suddenly snapped back into reality when I noticed a MAN walking in my yard towards the window.

Omigod! I’m pants-less! On the toilet! Pooping!

I bent myself in half getting as close to the floor as I could and listened. I heard the sound of a hose being dragged over icy snow and realized that it was the gas man coming to fill our tank. (Gas man. Appropriate, no?)

When I heard him walk back towards the truck I jumped up and closed the shade. I sat back down and waited, as things were now not going as smoothly as before, and silently cursed the dog for being in a food coma and not barking at the arrival of a man.

I don’t think he saw me. Or if he did see me, he was polite enough not to laugh.

He did leave a 2008 calendar on the deck, so I guess it wasn’t a total loss.

I always do this. I have the best intentions of Christmas shopping for other people. I remember snippets of conversations all year long. I file away things they’ve mentioned or if I can’t come up with anything, I flat out ask them. I write lists. I plan budgets. I get it done!

Except somewhere along the way, I also do some shopping that’s not on the list. Mainly, for me. I bought one thing for Michael–the first season of Everybody Loves Raymond because he likes that show and wanted to start collecting the DVDs–but all the other stuff was for me.

Like the Ralph Lauren skirt that is so sexy-sophisticated and totally a classic item that I can wear forever.

Or the turquoise crocodile bag that is such a unique color and fantastic addition to any wardrobe.

Or the v-neck top that’s super flattering.

(Do you see how I’ve justified each purchase?)

The thing is, I shouldn’t be spending money on myself. Especially since with the wedding and switching jobs (you know that lovely period of time when you’re done getting paid at one but haven’t gotten paid at the other?) money is tight.

But I didn’t buy any shoes!

Yet.

What have you bought for yourself this holiday season?

 PS- If you’re looking for some holiday gifts for babies, my friend makes the cutest booties. Check out her Etsy site, Kaya’s Kloset!

In 18 days my entire office flies to Vegas for a week. The first few days are fun days, followed by working at the biggest trade show in the world. The company is also celebrating its 10-year anniversary with a big party in a big suite in a big hotel. Which is awesome. Except for the fact that I need a party dress. My boss will be wearing one that was featured in Us Weekly so yeah, we have to look good. Let’s discuss.

Dress #1. I’m digging the ruffles, but I’m afraid the bow will be all, “hey! Look at me! Sitting on hips!” I do, however, think it’s a cool twist on a classic black dress.

Dress #2. Love the color, love the wrap around the bust, love the length. Only concern is that the straps may be too skinny and would require a strapless bra. Ew.

Dress #3. I think the pattern on the bottom is fun and I love the belt. But it may not be dressy enough and my arms don’t look as good as hers.

Dress #4. The new Audrey dress. So classic, so sophisticated. So…predictable?

 ”Mom, lemme out. I gotta pee. Mom. Mom? Mom!”

“Ooooh, Mom! Snow! I love snow! It’s cold! It’s wet! I eat it and lie in it and roll in it!”

“Thanks, Mom. This is great!”

“Come in? What do you mean, come in? I do not come in. I love snow! See how it sticks to my head. Notice the drool freezing into an icicle. Come in? Mom, you crazy.”

“I am Kodiak. I think I’m little. See me run like the wind away from Mom. I am a blur….woosh!”

“Freedom!”

“Wait, have to check if Mom’s still watching.”

“Mom, you see me? I’m not coming in. No way, no how. Snow, Mom. Snow! “

“I am Kodiak. I am black as night against my pure white canvas. Must go paint it yellow.”

“Haha, Mom. I win! I won’t come back in until I’m completely covered and then I’ll shake it in your kitchen.”

“Bye, Mom. Gotta go. SNOW!”

See Peter for back story.

Hi 18-year old Molly, it’s 24-year old Molly. I’m here to offer you a little advice. Stop rolling your eyes and hang up your chunky blue Nokia. I think I can help you out.

First of all, can I say how fabulous you look? You can’t be more than what, 118? I guess dancing three days a week really paid off. Because of that, I have to warn you about three little words: dining hall food. Oh yes, you will be seduced by the endless buffet of grilled cheese, pizza and carbs. The make-your-own waffle bar will look enticing. STAY AWAY. The salad bar may appear boring, but make your way over and and introduce yourself. I promise you will thank me later.

Know what else puts on the pounds? Alcohol. I’m not saying don’t partake, just don’t partake three days a week. Your thighs will never forgive you.

And while we’re talking about alcohol, I’m not going to lecture you on that because you’re going to be fairly responsible. But if you remember anything about this topic, remember this: if you don’t have Dixie cups, do not forgo jello shots for one giant bowl. Eating one giant jello shot with a spoon is gross. You will regret it when you puke green.

Don’t forget that college is actually about learning too. Don’t take the second psych class. You’ll hate it and will have trouble keeping your eyes open. Take more writing and branch out within your major. Don’t listen to your journalism professors when they say that PR isn’t real writing. Don’t avoid the PR classes because of the stupid girls in them that all claim they’re going to do entertainment PR for celebrities. Most of them are going to end up living in Hoboken, pretending they live the glamorous city life, all while getting coffee for the assistant to the assistant of something.

Take your studies seriously and try not to fall apart during the year after college. I promise, you won’t be changing dirty diapers forever. (What, you didn’t know you’d work in a daycare for a year? You will. And you’ll nanny. It will make you stronger.) Your first job is going to be awesome and you’re going to learn a lot. If you bring chocolate to your interview, you might be able to speed up the hiring process.

You’re going to meet a ton of people. Some awesome, some not. Don’t let the stupid people get to you. There’s always going to be mean girls and arrogant guys. It’s not high school, but some things never change. Try to ignore the sorostitute wardrobe of wide headbands, big sunglasses, North Face fleeces, leggings and Ugg boots.

Yeah, Ugg boots. They look exactly how they sound.

The friends that you meet are going to be your life line. The ones you left behind will always be there, but your relationships are going to change. Take note of the girl that chases you down the hall to make sure you’re OK, the one that dresses up in giant pink sweatpants to make you laugh, the quiet girl from your summer job and the amazing women in a local sorority.

That’s a surprise, huh? You in a sorority? You’re going to love it.

You’re going to kiss some toads. Some cheaters, some liars, some idiots. But then you’re going to fall in love. Oh my god, are you going to fall in love. He’s the kind you like, too. Tall, dark and handsome. He’s going to make you feel safer, sexier and loved more than you ever have before. Hold on tight to him. He’s going to be your husband.

If nothing else, savor every minute of the next few years. They’re going to fly by. Before you know it, you’ll be on the cusp of 25, planning a wedding, working full time and doing grown up things like paying bills, cleaning the house and getting regular oil changes.

Don’t forget who you were and appreciate who you’ve become.

Life is going to be pretty good.

Love,

Molly

(Thanks, Clink!)

“You’re right, Michael. I do have too many pairs of shoes.”

“Omg I loooove your mullet!”

“I’m actually going for the cupcake look. Please bring me the biggest wedding dress you have.”

“Of course I don’t mind. Your B.O. doesn’t bother me at all.”

“No thank you, I don’t eat cake.”

“Yes! The O’Reilly Factor is on!”

“I love my arm jiggle. Really.”

“Bring on the dairy!”

“No, I would not like a foot rub.”

“I hate makeup. Eyeliner and mascara are the devil.”

“Hey old man, could you just drive a little slower?”

“Me? Oh I practically live at the gym.”

“No martini for me, thanks.”

“Yes, I would love to go to Bible study with you!”

I remember when you were born. A tiny pink bundle of baby with no hair, but soft peach fuzz on the top of your perfectly round head. I sat in the rocking chair at the hospital and held you, looking down at your face and trying to decide if you looked like me. Mom and Dad smiled, someone took pictures. My heart swelled with pride as my little sister fell asleep in my arms.

I remember when you climbed up on the roof in Nantucket. He told you it was fine and you were little so you listened to him. I can still feel the panic in my chest as I stood on the little deck, looking up at you perched on the point of a window. I don’t remember if you were scared. I think you were. But I was more scared. Because I could not stand the thought of you falling. You got down safely, and a lock was installed on the deck door. Higher than you could reach.

I remember you in dance recitals. I loved that people compared you to me as a dancer. It made me proud. And when the Irish lullaby began to play and you danced across the stage in stockinged feet, I teared up. Your long hair whipped around and you looked like a little woodland sprite.

I remember you in orchestra concerts. Your face so serious as you played the cello. I sat in the audience remembering my time on that very stage and at the same time, being so impressed that you could play that instrument. While the violin came easily to me, the cello was something I always wished I could pick up.

I remember your laughter. You could always crack me up like no one else. Your sense of humor so sarcastic, so unique. As we grew up we became very different people. You dressed in Hot Topic, me in J Crew. While I sang along to Brittney, you belted out classic rock. My feet were adorned in pointy stilettos, yours in clunky boots with buckles. But whatever our differences, you could always make me laugh.

I remember when your laughter stopped. When depression and anger got in the way. When the wrong crowd and the wrong behavior drove a wedge between you and us. I remember the fights, the tears and the defeat. I remember thinking it would never get better.

And then it did. I remember the day you got into college. You were standing in my kitchen when we got the call. A smile burst across my face and wouldn’t go away for days. Despite it all, you had been given a chance.

I remember you at Family Weekend. So happy, so vibrant. You told me how it was the best decision you ever made, how you were so lucky to get this chance.

And I remember the phone call from Mom. I remember her words–not happy. Failing classes. Wants to drop out. I got angry. I sent you an email full of rage when you wouldn’t answer your phone, then apologized on your voicemail later. I feel angry, disappointed, bewildered and betrayed. I want to shake some sense into you and at the same time, hold you and let you cry.

Let me help you. Let us help you. We love you and we want you to figure out what’s right.

Please call.

The lovely Kickyboots made a knock-off of Starbuck’s Cranberry Bliss Bars and even though they didn’t turn out exactly as she hoped, I decided I would try to make them anyway. Why? Because come winter time, Michael and I single-handedly support our local Starbucks by purchasing the delicious treat.

See that drizzling? You can thank Sandra Lee and Semi-Homemade Cooking for that lovely trick. No pastry bag? No problem! Just snip off the corn of a Ziplock bag! Anyway, it’s tasty, but it’s certainly not bliss. I’m sort of disappointed I made cake, icing AND drizzle from scratch and it doesn’t taste the same. Boo.

Yesterday, Michael and I decided to finally hang up the copious amounts of artwork that has been leaning against the wall forever. Artwork included a print from my last job over the bed in the guest room, (yes, that’s a stuffed Newfoundland on the bed and the picture IS straight, I don’t know why it looks crooked in the picture) and others in the hall and kitchen.

We also finally hung our diplomas in the office. You know, just about three years after actually graduating.

I started Christmas shopping and began wrapping, only to run out of tape three gifts in. So I wrote out our Christmas cards instead and finished some thank-you cards for engagement gifts.

And yesterday we bought our tree! I’m decorating it tonight so I’ll show you more tomorrow. I’d also love to show you how cute the house looks lit up with candles in the window and a wreath on the door, but it was raining last night and I’m not that dedicated.

How was your weekend?

With the end of 2007 right around the corner, I thought I’d highlight some of my favorite parts of the last year. In pictures, of course.

We rang in the new year by celebrating my 24th birthday. The evening deserved a major thumbs-up. The girls are also making fun of my super-straight thumbs, or finger thumbs, if you will.

Midnight: the official start of 2007. We look like fools. 

In May, my beautiful sorority sister (hi, Big!) got married. It was the most fun wedding I’ve ever been to.

In July, it was time for Vegas, baby! This particular picture was taken in the bathroom at the Paris casino. After we drank a yard drink and ran through the main floor speaking French.

Our first night, at the Bar at Times Square. Note the jet lag and the weirdo behind us. I love this picture and have it framed on my desk.

September 24, 2007. The best day of my life. Engaged!

Don’t think I don’t know how lucky I am. He hated  having these pictures taken. He did it because I wanted to. 10 months to go!

On top of all that, I also started a great new job. I think 2007 has been my best year yet. I can’t wait to see what 2008 brings.

I’m loving the ideas you guys are coming up with and Michelle’s question about my first kiss ever, and then my first kiss with Michael seems like a fun place to start. But please keep giving suggestions on the last post. The more material, the better!

The First Kiss Ever

I was in eight grade. His name was Peter. Actually, my best friend liked him in seventh grade (scandal!) and I passed him notes for her, including one that I wrote for her because she didn’t know what to say. They never worked out and by eighth grade she had moved on to another conquest.

I don’t remember how we started dating–and I use that word lightly because come on, it was like, sitting together at lunch and holding hands in the hall–but it lasted four whole months until he broke up with me at the eight grade picnic. Whatever, I digress.

About a month into dating we were doing our usual end-of-day walk to the buses when he slowed down by an exit. My heart started racing. I was going to get my first kiss, I just knew it! I leaned in and closed my eyes, expecting a gentle kiss on the lips…and got a big wet tongue in my mouth. Ah!

Not wanting to be uncool, I kept kissing…until I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the vice principal, threatening detention if we didn’t cut it out immediately. (Side note: remember all the kissing that went on in the halls in middle and high school? Who did we think we were?) I got so freaked out about getting in trouble that I wouldn’t kiss him again for almost a week. Perhaps this is why he dumped me.

The First Kiss With Michael

It was early April of my freshman year and we had been seeing each other on and off for about three weeks. He told me to dress warmly for our date and I bundled up in my college sweatshirt. We arrived at a beautiful state park with giant rocks overlooking the ocean. We walked around for awhile, but the wind was cold, so we huddled down in the crook of one and snuggled together. We talked and laughed and then just stopped. Staring into each other’s eyes I decided I would kiss him. Apparently he had the same idea, because we leaned towards each other at the same time.

The kiss was wonderful. There was something magical about the waves crashing, the wind blowing and being wrapped up in his arms. We kissed for awhile longer, pulling back every now and then to look at each other and smile. Just as I was about to suggest we get out of the cold, he exclaimed, “let’s go to dinner!”

I laughed, explaining I didn’t bring any money, but he insisted he was taking me out. So we went–to TGI Friday’s. Not the most romantic setting, but I was smitten and it didn’t matter. He drove me back to campus hours later and kissed me goodbye. I floated back to my dorm, only to be met by a “where were you?” from my worried friends, which quickly changed to, “Awwww!” when I told them about the kiss.

He gave me millions of butterflies that day and he still does.

Oh, and those rocks? That’s where he proposed five and a half years later.

You people are hilarious. I love how you all come out of the woodwork to talk about farts. My readers = awesome.

So because my readers are so awesome, I’m leaving the next post up to you. Maybe you’ve been reading me for the past two years. Maybe you only started this week. New or old, what do you want to know? I mean come on, I’ll basically talk about anything!

More relationship stories?

A photo essay?

Childhood anecdotes?

The task falls to you! Give me some good ones and maybe I’ll even post again later.

And while we’re on this housekeeping thing–I’m way behind on my blogroll. If I’m missing you, it’s not intentional. Just let me know!

I cannot wait to hear what you guys come up with.

I don’t know if it’s all men, or just Michael, but he’s really proud of his farts. The noisier the better. But the silent and deadly ones? Well, you’d think he deserved a prize based on the grin that bursts across his face.

I’m used to it. I’m used to him cozying up against me, only to release a gaseous stink. I’m used to the occasional dutch oven. I’m used to it, but I don’t like it.

The first night we had Kodiak in the house the poor thing was nervous. He slept next to our bed and in the middle of the night Michael and I both woke up at the same time. Apparently being in the new house had given Kodiak a nervous tummy and he was farting up a storm. A storm that smelled so bad, it actually woke us up.

Last night I was once again awakened by an odor so stinky, it made me bury my head in the pillow.

Except it wasn’t from Kodiak. It was from Michael! Gagging, I looked over at him and I swear to you that even though he was asleep, there was a big ol’ grin on his face.

Any suggestions on how to get him back are greatly appreciated.

PS- Is it bad that I have a category dedicated to Things That Smell Bad? Hmm.

So far, I like the new job a lot. I love the cute kitchen, the skylights, the hardwood floors. I love the banter that goes back and forth between employees and I really like working with Ashley.

What I don’t like is the inevitable, uncomfortable first days, where you’re given busy work while you learn about the company but really feel useless. I went through that at my last job too. It’s just part of the package, I know. But as I sit in my cube (which I think is a nice cube. I’ve never had a cube before, but this one is spacious and not at all Office Space-like.) listening to everyone else typing and talking on the phone while I search Google and rearrange my three pens, I feel a little weird.

I brought the pictures that used to sit on my own desk, but I definitely need to hang more stuff. I’d take a picture to show you what my new space looks like, but my phone would totally make a noise and I don’t want to already label myself as Weird Girl. They’ll figure that out on their own when I have my first hissy fit about wearing snow boots.

Also? The phone is scary. There’s no extensions, so everyone has their name next to a button and you push it to talk to them or forward a call.

I swear I’m not a 75-year old woman seeing an office for the first time.

Saturday night we attended a Christmas party for the fire department Michael used to volunteer for in college. I always look forward to the party because it’s a great chance to get together with all the guys I used to hang out with in college and see some of the girlfriends-turned-wives that have become close friends.

I went back and forth with my outfit choice, finally deciding on a red BCBG dress, textured stockings and heels. I thought I looked pretty good.

We were a little early to the party, so I had a good view on the front door during cocktail hour. And as the current group of college-aged firemen started coming in the door with their dates, my mouth hit the floor.

Their outfits were borderline obscene. All of them! I have never seen so many girls teetering around in skinny heels with the bottom of their dresses barely covering their butt cheeks. I swear, if someone dropped a fork it would have been a serious Britney situation.

After I picked my mouth up off the floor, I turned to gossip about it with my friend. Except she was already sitting at the bar talking to another wife about babies. My friend–a mother of two–and this woman–a soon-to-be mother of two–had found their common bond and were talking a mile a minute.

I turned back to look at the group of girls. “How nice of you to hop off the pole for a few hours and join us,” I thought, followed by “oh my god are you old enough to be here?”

Clearly I could not discuss this with the guys I was standing with, as they saw nothing wrong with it.

This is how the entire cocktail hour went. Me standing next to Michael making small talk with people, all while feeling really stuck in the middle. Not yet a mommy, but not a ho either.

I think this is a weird age. I turn 25 in 28 days. (Yes, New Year’s Eve.) I’m pretty sure I already had my quarter life crisis about two years ago so I’m not freaking out, just thinking about huge differences just a few years make.

Three years ago I would have been one of the girls in the tiny skirts (OK, well not that tiny,) and three years from now I could be a mom.

Crazy.