You are currently browsing the monthly archive for June 2008.

I can’t feel my face. My chin, cheek and lips. Numb. Can’t feel my tongue either.

I have a conference call in an hour.

What are the rules about drooling on your boss?

People you will see at a Dave Matthews Band concert:

– The mother-daughter team.

I’m all for going places with my mom. My mom rocks. And we went to a concert together once — the Lilith Fair. Remember that one? It was a good time. But I was a teen then. Not a pre-teen. Apparently this mother had no qualms about bringing her what I assume to be around 12-year old daughter to a concert, then leaving her alone while she went to find a friend. I have to say, though, the daughter was rocking out. It’s apparent DMB is played often in that household.

– The Really? You’re a fan? Fan.

The guy next to me knew every. single. word. to every single song. And he sang it at the top of his lungs. The guy looked like a slab of beef and was wearing a Rhode Island Hockey t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. His black hair was precisely messed and spiked in that I-care-but-don’t-want-to-look-like-I-care way. He looked like he could be on an episode of Growing Up Gotti. He kept apologizing to me after every bump from his slam dancing. I couldn’t help but laugh.

– The lone twirler.

You know who I’m talking about. There’s one at every concert in every state across the country. The girl that comes alone, dances in the aisle and thinks twirling is the best invention since Birkenstocks. Ours disappeared after the opening act, but only after flashing the peace sign.

– The overbearing parent.

I really felt for this girl and her friend. They arrived in their matching tie dye tank tops and jean shorts, ready to dance the night away while dad sat quietly three rows behind them. Except  he did not sit quietly. He harassed them to change seats with him — why, I don’t know — and gave our whole section the opportunity to watch the typical “Dad! Stop it! Ugh, you’re embarrassing me!” argument. Eventually, they did switch seats with him, but he only continued to annoy them throughout the night.

– The weird guy with the joint.

Just because you passed it to that pretty girl and she acceptedit with a big smile, does not mean she’s going to sleep with you. Hell, she’s hardly going to look at you again. You had no shot from the beginning. And now you’re out of weed.

– The guy trying really, really hard to get laid.

The couple who was clearly on a second or third date in front of us (not awkward enough for the first day, but definitely not comfortable enough for say, the 20th) was doing everything you would expect people on an early date to do. If they were going to a club, not a DMB concert.

Let’s start with the girl, who chose a silky halter top and the tiniest, tightest white shorts I have ever seen in my life — a strange hybrid of spandex and latex paint that must be applied with two shoe horns and a turkey baster because omigod were they tight. And tiny. And she was, well, not tiny. You can imagine the backside visual we had.

The guy either came straight from work or was trying to impress her with his office duds and over zealous use of his BlackBerry. Seriously, he took the thing out every three minutes to show her how the camera worked. Dude, it’s not that cool.

He refrained from touching the spandexed hiney all night (thank you for that, office dude. I might have lost my dinner otherwise.), but the “casual” bumping into each other during every song left little to the imagination. I wonder how far he got. I mean, he did buy her at least two $8 Bud Lights. What a gentleman.

I’m sure many brides-to-be (and non-brides-to- be, including just about every woman in the United States) would agree with me when I say we think about our weight all the time. A lot. Like, daily. Sometimes twice a day. Or three times.

It’s such a weird phenomenon for me because until mid-college I really never thought about it. Maybe for Friday I’ll do a Molly Through the Ages post complete with pictures (I may regret this later — as I’m pretty sure there are some unfortunate wardrobe choices caught on film) to show you that as a youth, I was long and lanky. While some kids battled with their baby fat during their awkward years, my limbs grew faster than I knew what to do with and I was flat as a pancake.

Eight grade was particularly hard. I remember one conversation where a good friend of mine told me I’d be really pretty, if only I had boobs. I could taste the venom in my mouth, but refrained from saying she’d be really pretty if she wasn’t fat. Girls can be so mean.

The other stand-out incident was a French trip to Quebec where some rumor began that I was anorexic (I WAS NOT) and my entire group of friends refused to talk to me for the first two days. Nice, huh?

My point is, weight was not what used to make me uncomfortable, but the lack of weight.

Don’t worry. That’s not the issue anymore. Look, I know I’m not what you would describe as overweight, but as I get older, I find I myself the most uncomfortable I’ve ever been in my own skin. Weight-wise. And I know it’s because I’m going to be the center of attention at a mega event in four short months.

I have stopped losing weight. Completely plateaued. I’ve reached the number my body apparently wants to be and I know it’s an achievement. It’s 12 pounds lighter than I was a year ago and all my past summer clothes are big now. I’m trying to focus on this milestone and continue to work on my toning — especially on my arms that will be exposed on the big day — but deep in my brain I voice still whispers — it’s not enough.

Recently my mom commented that I’ll never be slim. I know what she meant — she meant that no matter how many hours I spend in the gym, I’m never going to be a petite, small-boned girl that can walk on the treadmill for 25 minutes, not break a sweat and lose 15 pounds. She wasn’t calling me fat. She just meant that my Russian bones will always be my Russian bones and I’m not fat. I’m in shape.

And then there’s the woman at the dress shop. When I called to book my appointment for a fitting she scolded me that it was probably too early. “Most brides come in six weeks before the wedding,” she said. I explained to her that since I reside in Rhode Island and the dress shop is alllll the way in New York, it would be best to schedule fittings when I knew I’d be able to come into town.

Plus, you get more than one fitting anyway. I’ll be in again closer to the wedding.

“Well, fine,” she agreed. “But when you lose weight the seamstress will have to start all over again.”

When I lose weight. Not if. When.

So maybe she was just speaking from experience. Because it’s true, most brides ARE trying to lose weight. I certainly was. But the assumption, the almost demand that you will — you must — lose weight made me want to crawl through he phone and strangle her with her measuring tape.

Is this ever something that goes away, or am I doomed to repeat this the rest of my life? Will women ever stop measuring their self worth by the size of their jeans?

In a month and a day I have a party to go to. A wedding, actually. Whose wedding, you ask? My dear friend Clink. That’s right! The girl is getting married in four weeks omigod. My undying love for her is clear to any of you who have read in the past and the fact that her pre-wedding gift is sitting on my desk has nothing to do with the fact that I’m a bad friend and everything to do with the fact that I need a box to fit it in. Check the mail early next week, darling!

So, that being said. I need a dress. Now I know I enlisted all your help last time I was going to a wedding and then never made good on it, but I had my reasons. Mostly because the government is MEAN and made me pay a lot in taxes. But since I got my stimulus check and essentially broke even and it’s summer and I seriously have nothing to wear to this wedding, you must help me again.

#1: A simple little black dress, kicked up with some ruffle. Basic, safe, but pretty, no?

#2: I really like this one. The black and white pattern make it unique and I think the portrait collar would be really flattering. Or would it?

#3: I love the color, but I’m not sure about the neckline. Or the waist. Or the bust. Hmmm.

#4: Now it IS a New York wedding in the evening, but am I going to melt in sleeves in July? And brown isn’t really a summer color, is it. But the silhouette is so pretty.

#5: You might remember I was looking at this one in navy last time. Well the navy is no longer available, but I think the purple is really rich and beautiful. Plus, I like the wrap waist.

#6: Love the color, but if the chest doesn’t fit right it might stick out.

#7: I love it because it’s fun and different. But is it TOO fun and different? Do you see playful dress…or circus tent?

All dresses are from Nodrstrom.

7:15 a.m.

I hear a voice calling me far off in the distance. “Molly, wake uuuup.” No, no I will fight the voice. I will not wake up. “Moooolllly!” Grrrrrr. Open eyes. See Michael hovering over me grinning. Look at clock. 7:15? No. I will not wake up. I don’t have to wake up until 8! What are you doing to me? Go away. Go. Shoo! Michael, really. Shoo. Thank you!

7:31 a.m.

Grrrr the blender is SO LOUD. Why does he have to make a smoothie right this very minute? Doesn’t he know I have 29 more minutes of blissful sleep? Shhhh.

7:33 a.m.

I dream that I’m taking a shower in a public bathroom (ew) wearing a bathing suit (odd) when a woman starts yelling that I cut her in line. I tell her there was no line, but she can form one now because I’m not done. Suddenly there’s a group of angry mothers complaining that their kids need a shower and I ignore them and continue to wash my armpits and feet, which are really the only things I end up washing since I’m wearing a bathing suit.

OK then.

7:55 a.m.

“Moooolllly. Good morning!” OK! I’m up, I’m up. I’m moving. Am I moving? Just put one foot out of the blanket. A little more…a little more…OK! Now the other foot. Almost there…but the pillow is so soft and UP!

7:57 a.m.

Puppy love!  Hi! Hi, hi,  hi, hi! Good morning! Can I pee please? I can barely open my eyes and you’ve had a full day already. Silly dog. Hi Michael, good morning to you too. Boy are you chipper for 8 a.m. Lunch? Yeah, sure. I can make you lunch. No, Kodiak. You may not have any turkey. Go sit down. Go on. Sit. Sit down! Good boy. Here’s some cheese. Oh, you love cheese!

Michael probably wants chips. Ew, salt and vinegar. I hate salt and vinegar. Can I get them in the sandwich bag without touching them? I think I can, I think I can, I think I…yes!

8:15 a.m.

Shower time. Jeesh, showering is such a process sometimes. I wish I could just be magically ready. Oh I should try that new deodorant today. It claims to be super strong and have no white residue which YEAH RIGHT, but I’ll try it. It has the same amount of active ingredients as all those clinical ones but is half the price. I’m nothing if not a bargain hunter. Yes, even with deodorant.

Did I ever tell the bloggies about the last deodorant? I dont’ think so. I’ll have to tell them it’s OK but not as good as my old one. I should also tell them that the Shoeru hasn’t died, she’s just behind and yes, they can still submit questions and I’ll add it to the list. Wow, I miss buying shoes. A lot. I think that will be my first purchase after the wedding. Wedding. Cupcake. Dessert. Ice cream. Gelato. Sugar. Cereal. Breakfast.

I should get out of the shower.

At work.

Huh, this deodorant does work (Mitchum). And no residue. We’ll see how it is at the end of the day.

George Carlin died? How did I miss that? And that means there’s one more, right? First Tim Russert, now Carlin…who’s next? I hate how death comes in threes. Mostly with famous people. Does it happen with non-famous people too? Probably. I don’t really want to find out.

I’m still hungry. The English muffin didn’t cut it. Oooh I have my frozen grapes downstairs! I forgot I left some at work. Mmm grapes are good.  

It’s only 9:30? How is it only 9:30? Oh, Monday. You strike again.

Today was supposed to be a good day. I woke up refreshed, happy that it was Friday and the weekend (and a martini) where only eight hours away. The temperature was perfect and I’m wearing yoga pants and who in their right mind isn’t happy while wearing yoga pants?

So there I was, all happy and naive because the work gods or the universe or someone thought it would be funny to have a work project I worked so hard on for DAYS basically get thrown down the toilet with one bad review. Fun.

So, as I prepare to do damage control, and seeing as how a martini is still seven hours away, I thought the one thing that could brighten my day at this very moment was some good old wedding mocking.

Join me, won’t you, as I describe for you just how to have the Cinderella Wedding Of Your Dreams.

You must start with the dress. The bigger, the better because Cinderella would wear nothing short of a ball gown. Now let’s be clear, I’m not mocking the ball gown. The day I bought my dress there was an itty bitty thing trying one on and she looked fabulous in it. I would look like a cream puff. Now that we’re clear I’m not mocking the ball gown, let it be understood that I will be mocking everything else.

(OK, maybe I’m mocking that train just a little bit. I mean, how are you going to dance in that thing?)

Moving on…

The cake should be the centerpiece of your reception. Be sure to showcase it with its very own carriage.

“Love…let me count the ways” calculators. What every guest wants to throw in the trash will cherish forever.

Nothing will make your fairytale come true like a castle backdrop. Stroll through the cardboard arches with your new husband. Stop to marvel at the sky-like drapery and pause to admire the foam swans.

Candlelight provides ambiance. Make sure your tea lights are tucked firmly in your crown holders.

A Cinderella bride would not be complete without her glass slippers. Promise me you’ll wear flats and not the stripper variety. Cinderella would never approve.

People. I saved the best for last. Did you forget the mice? Gus Gus? COME ON. A Cinderella wedding must showcase the best of the best and the best would not be complete without chocolate mice favors.

Yes. They look like turds. Mice turds. On your wedding tables. Immortalized forever in photographs and seared onto the brains of your guests for eternity.

You’re welcome.

Yesterday was a wonderful day. I took a comp day I had saved from my Canada trip and headed to my old work to have lunch with two of my most favorite people.

The lunch was unfortunately too short, but it was great to sit outside, catch up and spend time with people I didn’t realize how much I missed until we were together laughing.

Later in the day, Michael and I headed to our caterer for our official tasting!

And the winner is: Chicken Roulade Filled with Prosciutto and Mozzarella. I was skeptical, but it’s SO good and I think that anyone who doesn’t like prosciutto will still like this dish because it’s not overpowering and basically just moist and delicious. The sides are green beans and the most amazing ginger mashed sweet potatoes. I could not stop eating them.

But the best decision of the tasting was most definitely our desserts.

The two-part dessert will feature a cupcake tower with two different kinds of cupcakes. A traditional white cake with a yummy sugary frosting and a red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting. They will be deep purples and reds to go with our color pallet. Something like this:

Also, and this is my personal favorite, we’re definitely doing the cookie bar! There’s going to be five different type of cookies, including chocolate chip, peanut butter, ginger, a sugar cookie dipped in chocolate and my shout out to my roots — New York black and white cookies. They will all be displayed in big jars similar to this:

And to top it all off — because what are cookies without a glass of milk — little shot glasses:

Omigod, is it October yet? I seriously cannot wait to eat!

I play with my earrings constantly. I take them out, wipe off any ear gunk that might be on the post (oh come on, you know what I’m talking about) and put them back in. I probably do this at least three times a day, absentmindedly while I read a document or talk on the phone. I’ve done it since I was nine. Can’t explain it.

I freak out that I might be pregnant at few times a year. Not for any sane reason, but because one thing will be different enough — my stomach will seem puffy or my chest will hurt or I’ll have a incurable craving for chocolate donuts washed down by crunchy Cheese Doodles. And then I realize that — shock — I’m not pregnant at all. I am, in fact, getting my period. Duh.

I spend a good part of my workout watching one girl who is always there. Her body is insane — remarkably toned, tiny bones, dark tan. She runs effortlessly on the Arc Trainer, which the few times I’ve used I feel like I’m going to a) fly backwards off the thing, b) die, or c) fly backwards off the thing and die. I curse this woman my entire workout and hate her with a passion. She’s the best motivation ever.

I’m not afraid to use my womanly wiles to get my way. Flirting is part of the PR business. It even says so in one of the work documents I signed upon hiring. (That sounds bad. They didn’t tell us to flirt, they just said charm is good. Lap dances are bad.) I spent the better part of yesterday trying to convince a senior editor from a well-known publication to attend an event my client is having and you bet your ass I turned on the charm.  I thought I had lost him, but an email this morning proved that I had roped him in.

I have a dress fitting in 11 days and I’m mildly freaking out about it. This is exactly what happened when my dress first came in and it was fine. FINE. But that doesn’t stop me from thinking I must have gained weight somewhere — enough to make the back of my dress refuse to close. I also have a doctor appointment this afternoon where they will make me get on a scale. I wore the lightest thing I could find — a thin shirt and jersey knit skirt. With flip flops. Which I will take off before getting on the scale.

I always have the weirdest dreams and I tend to remember most of them, at least for a little while. Recently I dreamt that I made a website to talk trash about Michael’s grandmother and she found it. She then called to tell me how disappointed she was in me and that I was a horrible granddaughter-in-law-to-be. When I woke up it took me a minute to figure out if it had been real or not. The thing is, I would never design a website to trash talk someone.

I would just write a blog post. 

Dear Skin,

We’ve had a pretty good relationship over the past year. You’ve been smooth and even and fairly blemish free, which I think says a lot during a period of stressful wedding planning and work. That being said, I wanted to apologize to you for getting a little over-zealous with the CVS brand Clearasil to stop what felt like an incoming zit. I didn’t even stop to think that you might already have been irritated by the sun and spreading the whiteness on you would do nothing but completely dry you out.

I’m doing my best to regularly apply lotion to you, my aching chin skin. Please forgive me and speed up the healing process.

Yours with lotion,



Dear Work,

Can you maybe ease up a little this week? I know you’re punishing me for taking Wednesday off but you have to understand, the day is already booked solid and the comp day is well deserved. But the emails? And the follow up calls? And the slight panic in my chest that the press list won’t be as full as I need it to be on Thursday are really getting under my skin. And speaking of skin, it’s probably not helping heal my dryness (see above).

I promise if you go smoothly for the next few days I will clean out my Outlook inbox so it’s not storing close to 6,000 emails anymore. Promise!

Yours in PR madness,



Dear Marshalls,

When I stepped through your doors yesterday my heart skipped a beat. It had been so long, my dear. Months since I last walked your aisles. Week upon week since I tried on your shoes. With bated breath I let my eyes adjust to your bright lights and began my quest.

With a gift certificate to burn I felt no guilt. No nagging thoughts telling me I should be saving, not spending. You were mine, Marshalls. And it was going to be good.

Except it wasn’t.

I graced your dressing rooms with stacks of clothes. Multiple trips with dresses and tops, all the colors of the rainbow.

You were mocking me, Marshalls, weren’t you? I even went into the Cube for you. I sorted through the tacky (and my, was there tacky. Rhinestones, Marshalls? You can do better than that.) and found the pretty. I cooed over the summer dresses and swingy tops. But in the end, it was not meant to be. Not one thing fit right. Not. One.

Defeated, I wandered over to your bedding in the hopes of a sheet set or a duvet stopping me in my tracks. Alas, it did not happen.

I left with two pillows. Two regular, sleeping pillows. Because we needed them. How sensible.

How boring.

You let me down, Marshalls. I had high hopes for you and they were slashed. Please restock so we can try again soon.

With bated breath and a full wallet,


Since it went over so well last Friday and there is an abundance of scary out there, I give you for your Friday pleasure…

Remember the poofy dress from last week? This is her again. In her carriage. Really.

And these are her bridesmaids! Which makes me think I really went the wrong direction when picking dresses for my girls. I’d need three more colors though so maybe lime green, yellow and hot purple.

Yes! Just what I was looking for. Creepy headless place settings. What are they supposed to put in those things? Cash? Give us money or we’ll bite your heads off. Also, notice the TWO random Jordon almonds.

Michael, baby. I got just the present for you. His and Hers thongs! The black shrink wrap is so manly and it’s always been my dream to cover my lady business with a doily. Break out the razor, we got a tushie to shave.

Get ready to Take the Plunge. Or blatantly say your marriage is going down the toilet like a piece of crap.

Happy Friday!

Ask me anything!

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Alltop, all the cool kids (and me)