"The season is best enjoyed in the warm embrace of kith and kin"-Clark W. Griswold

I have decided to postpone my sorority life part deux post to write about what I am thankful for this holiday season (and by postpone, I mean that I inevitably procrastinated writing and now Christmas is in two days and a post entitled "What I am thankful for this Boxing Day" really lacks the emphasis I'm looking for).

I began formulating this post as I was working my holiday retail job at Orland Mall. It's interesting how much your attitude changes towards the holidays when you spend your time in a mall. I went from sauntering into work to the tune of "Jingle Bells" at the end of November to speed-walking through the mall, avoiding eye contact and taking on a Nine Inch Nails song as my theme. So, as I stood there, in what I imagine the seventh circle of hell to look like, I created a list of what I really appreciate as 2011 comes to a close.

So here it goes...the top five things I am thankful for this season.

1. Anti-Frizz hair products

Dear John Frieda and the creators of Redken hair products, from the bottom of my heart, I thank you for creating a substance that tames my poodle-like hair and allows me to participate in society like a semi functioning adult. I appreciate your team of scientific experts who have made this possible for all girls with sad, poofy hair. Give yourself a pat on the back.

2. Lenny

My 1998 Buick LeSabre is my best friend. That vehicle not only allows me to get from place to place, but provides a comfortable velvet couch for me to sit upon and a pair of screeching windshield wipers to listen to. Despite his broken tapedeck (whatsup 1990's) and ability to drain my bank account due to gas, it's a love that will never die. Because he will never die. I literally backed him into a cement pole at 20 miles an hour the other day and there was not a scratch. Not. One. Scratch.

He's committed. And so am I.

3. Milano's Pizza

Eating this pizza is like eating a hug. It embraces you with its cheesy goodness and warms the cockles of your heart (and not only because it's served at a cool 500 degrees F). 773-445-4010. Call it. You won't regret it.

4. This

This video (made by the creator of the diva video I posted a couple months ago) sums up what college was like for me. Jealous? You should be.

I am thankful that I got to live this every day for three years. When you're living in the midst of something, you never fully realize how much you'll miss it until it's gone. And now that I am graduated and away from it, I miss that energy more than anything. IUB made my life, and me as a person, better.

And finally...going right along the sappy route (after all, it is the holidays)...the #5 reason I am thankful this holiday season...

I got an internship/job.

:)

Happy Holidays everyone!

Haters Gonna Hate

I have been a lazy blogger (which makes me sound like I'm sporting a "Forever Lazy." I'm not. Sadly). Updates will be coming within the next few days...Updates such as the continuation of my sorority tribulations, a post about what I'm thankful for this holiday season and, most importantly, a post about the man in a full mink coat I met while working at the mall for the holidays.

Stay tuned. Seriously.

"This is the story of about how my life got twist turned upside down"-Me. Singing the Fresh Prince of Belair theme song.

Before I begin my story, I should mention that I believe in destiny. Not like real Merriam-Webster destiny, but comedic destiny. I fully believe the Universe subliminally puts ideas into my head so I can add to the breadth of stories I have collected over a lifetime.

Once upon a midnight dreary, I joined a sorority. And it was like this song by Luke Bryan.

Except that it wasn't. At all. I couldn't wear a sundress on game day because I would have looked like a total idiot, not to mention causing frostbite in every extremity. I didn't shake a pom-pom or drive the band "crazy"...

Because I did musical theater. The band was infinitely cooler than me.

I don't generally agree with the stereotypes concerning sororities. If you have ever met me (or can probably tell from my writing), I'm not exactly what I would call "sweet," "soft-spoken," or my personal favorite, "blonde." I mark the blonde stereotype as my personal favorite since I have brown hair and a soul comprised of darkness and pure jackassery.*

To explain any story, one has to begin at the beginning...or rather, explain how I went from being a trash-talking Southside girl to a bonafide initiated-letter wearin'-standard sorority rain slicker sportin'-pride shoutin' Big 10 lady.

(I hope you read that in a Southern accent, for that is how I meant it).

When I decided to rush, I was a junior. At 20 years old, I was one of the oldest people rushing, which I thought was totally fine. I'm sure you're thinking, just as I was, that 20 is "not old..you've got at least 60 good years left in you!" But in rush culture, I may as well have showed up in velcro sneakers, a house coat, and red lipstick on my teeth. Or worn a giant red A upon my dress.** Either way, going through rush was like having my head rolled up in a car window. Repeatedly.

On the first day of rush, I awoke extra early so I would have time to tease my hair, spackle my face, and strap myself into a pair of shoes that by the end of the day, would incite me to cut my feet off in a "Saw" ***fashion.

Have you ever had a conversation with someone and slowly watched their eyes glaze over as they try to stay interested in what you're saying but are clearly looking for the nearest fire escape/ rope ladder/ rapunzel to use as an escape route? Well when you're the grandmother of the rush circuit, this is a reaction you become used to. I knew I had "lost" a house somewhere in between the question of "You're how old?" and "You finished that cup of M&M's rather quickly..."

I got hungry. Sue me.

In addition to dead eye reactions, I was prompted with a countless number of strange questions. My absolute favorite being, "What's your favorite part about riding horses?"

This would be a perfectly normal question, except I don't ride horses. Nor did I tell this girl that I did. Nor was I wearing anything equestrian related. So when I responded with "Oh I actually don't ride horses...", her response was "Oh...okay....but like what would be your favorite part?"

Seriously. this is my life.

The whole "I'm a junior!" statement was likened me to the Grinch--no one wanted to come near me with a ten foot pole. You would have thought I was trying to steal the livelihood of the whole greek system by rushing which should have bothered me more than it did, but alas, I was more concerned about my hair frizzing. Typical.

The first day that I visited the house I would end up being given a bid for, I knew it was where I wanted to be. I think that the people you encounter when you rush play a huge role in your impression of that house. For instance, I felt like I wouldn't fit into the previously mentioned chapter because I didn't know what she was talking about for the entire 40 minutes I was there. But when I visited my chapter, I was paired with someone who was just like me. She didn't offer me a fake smile or a generic question and, more importantly, she didn't figuratively (or literally) slam a door in my face because I was way too old to be rushing. It was the one place that didn't make me want to lay in the middle of Wright St. and let the 22 Illini bus run over my little black cocktail dress (which is quite an inappropriate outfit for 1pm on a Sunday).

I should mention that even though I never got to be as involved as I would have liked, I loved (and still do) my house. I love the people, I love the philanthropy, I loved the two exchanges I ever got to go to, and I love that I probably stocked up about 25 free meal coupons that I never got to use (so if any of you ladies can track those down, they're all yours). So despite my resentment towards the feeling of getting kicked out of houses a la Jazzy Jeff from Fresh Prince of Belair , I was a very happy girl on bid day to find out I had gotten exactly what I wanted.

But more importantly, in true Molly Sheehan fashion, all of the memories I had of my own rush experience went right out the window when I was on the other side the next year...

Stay tuned for Part II: The Art of the Girl Flirt.

*Yes, I made "jackassery" up. There's not many things I can do with a B.A. in English, so I'll be damned if I can't make up my own painfully appropriate words.

** This is the most I have used my major since my last English final in April. What do you do with a B.A. in English? You write sarcastic blog posts. That's what.

***The Saw series is definitely grotesque, but how painfully appropriate is this video both for the post and in the context of "Footloose?" Nothing I love more than a little violence, showtunes, and sarcasm all rolled into one video.

Let's Get Physical (Physical)

Olivia Newton-John's music video for her timeless classic "Physical" will always make me uncomfortable. And by video, I obviously mean her haircut.

I joined a Bally's Total Fitness that opened up near my neighborhood. I thought that paying for my own gym membership would motivate me to go and I'd be in rockin' shape in a matter of weeks.

Consequently, I spend most of my time laying on a mat on the floor, having a near asthma attack, and people watching.

There is no better place in the world to people watch than at a health club on a Monday morning. Everyone assumes that the "weirdos" of the world come out at night, hiding behind trees and watching from a distance.

Nay. Nay I say. They are all actually out at 11 am in broad daylight at the Bally's Fitness on 103rd and Cicero...and they are all on the treadmills next to me.

I'm not much of a chatty cathy when I go to work out. Generally, I'm on a pretty direct mission to get in there, lift, run, and cry in the bathroom when I realize I can no longer lift my arms over my head. So when strangers try to talk to me as I'm hanging onto the treadmill for dear life and letting my lifeless body skid over the track, I'm not in much of a mood to respond.

What I am in the mood for, however, is watching people jam out to WHAM! while climbing the Stairmaster.

Case 1: Bros

I know I cannot make remarks on young adults who are at the gym in the middle of the day because I too am only kind-of employed*. But the amount of hair products I see walking over to the "man" side of the gym (you all know what I'm talking about) is incredible. The height of the hair is just amazing to me.

My second favorite part of this demographic is their attire because, let's face it, who doesn't love a guy in a Wrestlemania sleeveless shirt?

Me. I don't love that. I don't want to see you wear a sleeveless shirt and a sweatband. You look like Olivia Newton-John (and that, my friends, is not a compliment).

In an effort to increase the awkwardness of this gym section (as if the grunting wasn't enough), I have volunteered (to no one) to be the only girl who dares cross the threshold into All-Man's Land. There's nothing better than the look I get as I almost crush myself under a 25 lb weight from the guy next to me pressing 250lb.

But he was wearing a Looney Tunes shirt. So I still feel cool.

Case 2: Short-Shorts Man

Short-Shorts Man (SSM) is my favorite. person. on. earth. Everyday, this man takes about 30 laps around the gym to survey all the ladies.

He looks just like this, except he's 65, wears a toupee and wears a nice pair of cerulean lycra shorts from 1986.

He also sports high white socks and bright white New Balance gymshoes.

Talk about a dreamboat.

Anyway, SSM especially likes to shake his groove thang as he walks by all the younger ladies. His favorite move as of late is dropping his sweat-saturated towel and ever so slightly pop-locking-dropping his way to the ground and slowly back up. He then looks to the right..and then to the left...and winks.

At me.

Always at me.

"Am I a target for socially awkward situations?" I ask myself, preparing an escape route so this man doesn't lure me into his car with an offer of a Werther's Original and can of warm 7-Up. Because at this point, my jaw has dropped and I am blushing to high heaven.

SSM, of course, EATS THIS UP.

I'm expecting a proposal soon.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away....

If this is wrong, then I don't want to be right.

"Children smile on the average 400 times a day. Adults: 15 times a day. Ever wonder why?"-Unknown

Dear Unknown Author,

I can prove you wrong.

Here's how: today we're going to take a little trip down Molly's memory lane.

It has been brought to my attention more than once that I did not look like a happy child. Why? Because I did not know how to smile. Some of you may wonder--how does a kid not learn to smile?

How could you not smile when your mother poses you to look like a painting in a haunted mansion? Here is where it all started. I would not consider myself to have been a truly unhappy child; however, the photographs beg to differ. This is when I first started to realize that my mom is truly a show mom. I mean, when your mother starts pretending that you and your brother are in an advertisement for Gap Kids, one starts to catch on that she has got other motives besides merely taking a family portrait.

And she wonders why I call her Patsy Ramsey.

I'm going to go ahead and state that it's safe to say I wasn't smiling here because someone took a weed wacker to my bangs. My lips say, "I'm trying to smile!" while my eyes are still reliving the horror of what was obviously a very traumatic afternoon of haircutting.

But I think we all can agree that I am working those puffy cap sleeves.

This, my friends, is the culmination of everything I have been trying to explain.

Welcome to my First Communion photo. I never really considered (until today...14 years later) that I am dressed like a miniature bride...which is definitely creepy and probably a detail that someone needs to look into.

Besides the fact that I look as though I got married at 8 years old (I am now scarred for life), there are a couple of things we need to discuss that led me unable to smile:

1.) White gloves and White Rose:

Why am I adorned with what one typically sees at a Catholic funeral? I have pallbearer gloves on. Mind you, they are satin, but nevertheless, they are short...white...gloves. Don't even get me started on the rose.

2.)Bangs:

I actually remember what happened this day. My mother sometimes likes to think she's crafty and capable of performing what I now pay a woman $120 dollars to do. On this fine day, she decided I needed a little trimmy-trim and proceeded to gather my bangs, twist them into one clump, and cut straight across with kitchen shears. The result? This photo, where I look like the weird kid in the back of the classroom who eats glue and talks to herself.

3.) Red Lipstick:

I often joke with my mom about how she is a show mom, similar to the moms on TLC's "Toddlers & Tiaras" or Lifetime's "Dance Moms." She (and everyone else) brushes me off, telling me I'm overexaggerating.

THE WOMAN PUT RED LIPSTICK ON ME FOR MY FIRST COMMUNION PHOTO.

Nothing says "Welcome to Catholicism!" like dressing up like a harlot.

Obviously, I've got the whole "smile like you mean it" thing down now.

*I would also like to offer a sidenote for the 2nd and 3rd photos--how cute was my brother?*

Hell no, I did NOT leave the Southside for this.

Growing up on the Southside of Chicago is (how do I put this?) a whole different way to grow up than anywhere else. Various mannerisms, beliefs, and fashion choices that I have always considered to be "normal," are actually not acceptable. For example:


This is what I looked like going to high school every day: a polo, black skirt (tied with a hair elastic on the side so I could wear it lower), an undershirt that did not match, argyle socks and a pair of Doc Martens I have owned since 2002. For thirteen years, I wore a uniform. For thirteen years, I never had to dress myself. Henceforth, on my first day of college I neared an anxiety attack over what to wear to class because I did not know what all the kids were wearing in those days. (Note: I loved wearing a uniform. If it was still socially acceptable for me to wear one, I would not even hesitate for a moment.

When you grow up in Beverly, you spend most of your nights sitting at a park/cemetary and wandering around the neighborhood. You're assumed to be a "Bev-rat":

Bevrat [behv-rat]; noun: A person from the Beverly/Morgan Park neighborhood
who spends their time doing hoodrat things with their friends.

From these descriptions, one would gather that a born and raised Southside girl would typically have an edge to her--a fighting spirit learned from years of competitive sports and running from the Chicago Police. Typically, this would be true.

Unfortunately for me, I am not typical.


I would like to tell you that I got this black eye from playing a contact sport. I would like to say "You think this is bad? You should see the other guy!" I would like to say that I'm a tough Southside girl who doesn't take lip from anyone.

But let's remember...I sing show tunes, Irish dance, and was the last picked for the Illini Union Board Musicals baseball team (yes, that's right).

It was my second to last night of being in Champaign, IL and having my own apartment. Naturally, I wanted to go out with a bang!....clearly, when the Big Guy upstairs decided to answer my prayer, I was not specific enough in my request.

After a raucous night out with my musicals gang, music prodigy best friend, dance best friend, and myself went back to my apartment to continue the evening. While in my apartment, I had a sparkling moment of clarity: my true calling in life was to be a gymnast.

Mind you, I've can't even do a cartwheel.

Let me set the scene for you:

Dance best friend is standing in front of my coffee table. I am standing about 4 feet behind her. Music Prodigy best friend is sitting on couch, facing Dance. Without notice, I run through my living room and jump on Dance's back, using her as a vault (naturally). Dance ducks, clearly jarred by the fact that a Mary Lou Retton poser just leaped through the air and tried to use her as an inanimate object.

I am now tumbling through the air like a gazelle that has just been poached. Within milliseconds, I skid face-first across the carpeted floor and barrel into the leg of my coffee table, landing on my left eye.

As I lay there, positively certain that I have broken my neck, I quickly forget this has happened. That is, until the next morning, when I awoke to my friends staring at me and simultaneously stating, "YOU LOOK GREAT!"

Guess what? I didn't look great. I looked terrifying.

I think I'll need a little more training before the next Olympic games.

Direct Quotes Regarding my Black Eye

"It's not so bad!"-Aaron Kaplan

"Holy Shit."-Gas station attendant at Mobil on the corner First & Green

"You flew through the air beautifully. YOU WERE FEARLESS."-Lauren Welton

"DID YOU BEAT SOMEONE UP IN A BAR?"-Kath (my mother)

"What did you do...5 rounds with Tyson?"-Jake, my brother's best friend.