You are currently browsing the monthly archive for December 2007.

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:

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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.

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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.

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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.

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

audrey.jpg

 “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.”

kodiak-snow-1.jpg 

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

“Freedom!”

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“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.”

kodiak-snow-3.jpg

“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!”

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