"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.

"My life may soon turn into your poor income free life."

My miniature roommate gave me the title of this post...because she actually said it to me.

If I had it my way, I would continue to live a poor life, due to my ultimate career goal of being a Broadway superstar. This is not as much of a career goal as it is a lofty dream inspired by my affinity for Broadway showtunes.

And by affinity, I mean obsession.

And by obsession, I mean I live, sleep, breathe, and eat showtunes.

While it's not what I would call a "well-balanced diet," I find showtunes to be inspirational, gaudy, and unrealistic--three qualities I hope I always possess.

I realize that saying I aim to be "unrealistic" can take on a negative connotation. However, my version of being unrealistic is quite different from the typical definition of it. For example:

Typical Unrealistic Statement: "I want to be an astronaut."
My Unrealistic Statement: "I want to own a miniature Shetland pony farm."

I find that my inability to think within the norm makes my life much more entertaining than it ever should be, which leads me to back to the point of this post: Showtunes.

So, rather than write all about how much I love musical theater, I'm just going to re-post the movie my dancer best friend made about me for a class and the unrealistic life I lead.




Much thanks to LW for filming my life as it circles the drain.

'But I say no, no no-Amy Winehouse "Rehab"

Remember when Amy Winehouse told everyone "They try to make me go to rehab/ But I say no, no no"...and then she went to rehab? Me too.

Speaking of ridiculousness, I stumbled across the "25 Most Inspirational Songs of All Time" the other day when I was trying to find a catchy title for my last post. Naturally, the title of this site drives a pretty hard bargain with the claim that they have actually compiled a list of the 25 best inspirational songs ever. Not just this year, not songs from the 90's, but of all time.

There are a couple of songs that made the list with good reason. For example "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." Legitimate. It's inspirational, from a cinema classic, and has been covered by the most beautiful 800 lb. Hawaiian man I have ever seen. Also, "What a Wonderful World." The definition of inspiration. You could not possibly hate that song if you tried.

However, there are a few that made the list that I have some thoughts on:

20. "It's My Life" by Bon Jovi--this song makes me want to key my own car. If by inspirational you mean inspiring me to commit a Class C Felony, then yes.

16. "Music of My Heart" by N*SYNC-- You. have. got. to. be. kidding. me. Don't get me wrong, I was a big fan back in the day (and for some reason, I adored Kevin...the creepiest one of them all), but this song DOES NOT MAKE THE TOP 25 OF ALL TIME. If your heart is making music, you have a serious medical condition. It's an organ...and I'm not talking the kind they play in church. BADUM-CHING.

(I know that was bad. But it had to be done).

12. "True Colors" by Cyndi Lauper--When this was played at the end of Sex and the City 2, I shut the movie off. If this is actually being considered as inspirational and it inspires Sex and the City 3 to be made, methinks it needs to be buried underground forever. Samantha is far too old to keep up these escapades. She's going to hurt herself.

7. "Dare You to Move" by Switchfoot--Does anyone even listen to Switchfoot? No. This song was in "A Walk to Remember" and it was bad then. It's still bad now. How is daring someone to move "inspirational? Isn't that the opposite? "Hey, I dare you to jump out of that boxcar and into a pile of rocks!" DANGER.
(I read a lot of The Boxcar Children as a child. Don't judge. And also, Don't Dare me to move.)


6. "Never Surrender" by Corey Hart-- No. Just no.


Whoever wrote this list is listening to the worst radio station ever. I don't know how one creates a Pandora station this terrible and, frankly, I don't want to know.

Obviously, "That's What Friends Are For" is my favorite addition. That song really takes it home. Is that a synthesizer? A trumpet? Do I care? No. It makes me want to do a ribbon dance around Dionne Warwick, Luther Vandross, and the Whitney Houston, while wearing Stevie Wonder's sunglasses (he would let me. Because that's what friends are for).

*Edit--> Kevin was actually not a member of N*SYNC, but rather the Backstreet Boys. Either way, both groups are still wretched...but I stand corrected :)

Life Lessons (that everyone neglected to tell me)

As I was walking to the train this afternoon (out of work an hour early, thank you very much), I started thinking about my skills. At every interview I've gone to, I've been asked "What are your strong suits? Your weaknesses?" And every time I give the same answer, "I have advanced writing skills, strong public speaking abilities...and my only weakness is that I may be too personable..."--and then I give a smile and everyone has a good chuckle because I'm such a ham.

Moral of the story: My answers are lame.

Of course I'm a great writer. I majored in English. If I was not a phenomenal writer by this point, well, we'd have something to worry about. Public speaking? Obviously. I've done 35 musicals. For heaven's sakes, I could do cartwheels* in a cat costume while singing the entire score of "The Music Man" without batting an eyelash.

(*Note--I can't do a cartwheel. I end up just rolling around on the ground in a somersault-seizure movement. It's a really bad scene.)

And as for my weakness answer? Forget it. One day a potential employer is going to hear that answer and either a.) look at me with sheer horror or b.) physically assault me. Either way, I will not be getting the job.

This got me thinking. I realized that there are quite a few things I have done in my life that no one ever told me would be completely useless. Here are my top 3:

1.) Flute lessons--The chances of me ever becoming a flutist were slim to none. On the upside, it taught me to read music. On the downside, the very thought of having to play quickly enough to keep up with the rest of the band scared to the point where I now actually fear rhythm...

2.) Irish Dancing--*sigh* Eleven years. ELEVEN YEARS I danced. And what did it get me? Nothing. Not only did it hinder my success in other forms of dance until I was 21 years old (and that's still debatable), but it has rendered me completely useless at making my arms appear graceful...which is especially unfortunate since my wingspan is longer than my actual height. Yes, that's right, I am a human albatross. How embarrassing.

LOOK AT MY ARMS. Palms flexed, elbows locked--If I got a good flapping motion going, there is a solid chance I could actually take flight. Thanks a lot, Irish stepdance.

3.) Drinking Diet Coke-- For as long as I can remember, we've always had diet pop in our house.This has led me to develop a severe addiction to Diet Coke, so severe that I actually have a friend who asked me, for the sake of our friendship, not to give it up.

Why, you may ask? Because I turn into the daughter of Satan. God forbid I get a job somewhere that does not have a pop machine or fountain pop establishment within a 3 mile radius because I will actually lose all control over my life.

All of my hobbies (and yes, with the way I consume Diet Coke it can be labeled a "hobby) have done nothing for me except give me crazy arms and a caffeine twitch. They also have absolutely no connection to marketing/public relations in the slightest.

But hey...who's to say there's not an employer out there who wouldn't love to have a potential employee play "Hot Cross Buns" (in the wrong key), bust out a jig, and chug a $1 Diet Coke from McDonalds in an interview.

Everyone's got their talents.

Let's play a game of catch....up.

So I'm a little behind on my blogging...my apologies. I refuse to be one of those people who writes just to write something--no one wants to hear me ramble. I don't even want to hear myself ramble--it wouldn't make any sense and I'd talk about nonsensical issues and happenings and frankly, my life is not even that interesting to have intriguing happenstances...

See. Rambling. Yikes.

Let us begin.

Ta-Da! I got an internship!

I have acquired a Marketing/Public Relations internship for an interior design firm in downtown Chicago. Exciting, right? I know. Everyday I take the train down and walk all the way to my little job.....which is unpaid.

*Sigh*

These are my thoughts:

1.) I am so lucky to have gotten an internship, mainly since my resume is not quite up to par for the field I am interested in going into. And truly, it is a great internship. I have the most wonderful and pleasant boss in the world and I just love her. Seriously.

2.) Let's pretend this is one of those adventure stories where you get to pick your own ending. C'mon. It'll be fun.

Do you know what it's like to spend 8 hours working for free? If you do, read option b. If not, read option a.

a.) Congratulations. You have always been paid for every job you have ever taken. Clearly, the universe has taken a liking to you and bequeathed upon you frankincense and myrrh.

b.) It makes you want to curl up under your little desk and have a quick weep session. You are constantly budgeting the little money that you have leftover from college to stretch out as long as possible. You are, essentially, an indentured servant.

Part of me has actually considered trying to barter with the Metra conductors about a discounted ten- ride pass. For instance, if I brought Ronald (my favorite conductor) a hazelnut turbo boost from Dunkin Donuts, maybe he'll give me a ten-ride for half the price. Or...he'll kick me off the train for trying to barter with him like a pirate.

You win some you lose some.

I could not even begin to imagine what it would be like to have an unpaid internship that you HATED. Luckily, I love mine.

"So what are you doing for income?" you may be asking me, looking over the top of your spectacles with a condescending glare.

I'm babysitting. Yes, that's right folks, I have reverted back to my 7th grade self and am babysitting for extra dough. Unfortunately, babysitting stipends lasted a lot longer when your only purchases were slushies and candles from the Icing (why I ever thought I needed 40 blue glitter candles when I was 12 is bewildering to my present self).

It gets worse.

The following is an actual conversation I had with my best friend:

(While ordering at Aurelio's)

Cashier: "That'll be $18.27."

Me (opening wallet): "I've got it. It's my treat."

BFF: "But Mol...That's all your babysitting money."

(silent pause)

BFF: "Oh god. That sounded like we were in high school again."

Why did that sound like we were in high school again? Because I practically am. I'm essentially volunteering and babysitting. All I need is my khaki skirt, black Marist polo, and Doc Marten's and I am all set.

Truth be told, I could go for a Marist chicken sandwich and a tray of fries....

"But I learned that there's a certain character that can be built from embarrassing yourself endlessly."-Christian Bale

Christian Bale would know what it's like to embarrass himself. I believe that what he gained from his freak-out heard round the world is the type of character described as "I'm-never-going-to-get-hired-again-because-I'm-crazy-so-I'm-going-to-laugh-it-off-and-not-threaten-the-lives-of-anymore-production-staff."

I, also, am embarrassing (in a much less threatening way)

I shall continue my travels to my very first job interview...now. Two weeks later. I'm typically very efficient (great information for any interested employers who want to give me a job *wink wink* *nudge nudge* *pleasesomeonehireme*), but I've been quite busy laying outside getting sun poisoning and, as a result, am now confined to my couch so I do not actually get 3rd degree burns all over my body *sigh*.

Part Deux--also known as, "I am unable to live life normally"

9:04 am--I put my shoes back on. At this point, my face is literally aflame with embarrassment. Who, literally, walks out of their shoes in front of an entire train station? Me. The answer, for any odd happenstance that one could never think of happening, will always happen to me. Talk about amateur hour.

9:10 am--I embark upon the front of LaSalle Street Station, full of hopes and wishes and a plea to successfully stay in my shoes. I begin walking toward the red line, which is where the second moment of inner-mortification begins...

(Before I get into this, let me explain one small detail. I have grown up in Chicago my entire life. Not a suburb of Chicago, not an extended stay in Chicago, but actually within city limits. This being said, it is unbelievable that after living here for 21.75 years, I have experienced none of my city. For example:

I have never been to the air & water show.
I have never been to the Thanksgiving or St. Patrick's Day parades (mainly because I was previously devoted to the southside parade, R.I.P.)
I have never gone to the Field Museum.
I have never "Biked the Drive" or taken a boat ride on the river.

I blame all of this on my parents (sorry, Mom), who constantly think I am going to be kidnapped everywhere I go. )

How does this tie in to my journey? My unintentional obliviousness to my home city also explains why I don't know how to navigate public transportation. What I'm saying is...

I have no idea where the Red Line is.
Not one clue.

9:30: IT IS NOW 9:30 AM. For the past twenty minutes, I have been walking, no, barreling up and down Jackson, trying to find the Red Line. Why Jackson, you may ask? Because my mapquest told me I could catch it on Jackson. Guess what? Mapquest LIES.

9:35: My tolerance and patience no longer exists. I am sweating and muttering profanity to myself. I no longer am giving the impression that I am a savvy business woman, but rather that I live inside a cardboard box and have actually lost my mind.

9:45: I have stopped talking to myself, recollected my thoughts, and formulated a new game plan--I'll just walk there. ( Mind you, my interview is on Grand).

9:55: I can no longer feel my feet. I am walking like a duck down State St. I stop over at a McDonalds to change into a more sensible shoe (I am perpetually prepared for disaster). I look in the mirror, smooth my hair again, and realize that my shirt is see-through and I wore a floral printed bra. I actually hate myself.

10:00: Guess what is on State Street? The stops for the Red Line. Out of principle, I refuse to get on and continue walking. Take that, public transportation.

10:15: My destination is within reach. I can hear the epic Rocky music playing as I see the sign appear before me. I contemplate doing the slow run, but realize no one else thinks I am as funny as I think I am, so I resist.

10:20: I walk upstairs to the agency reception desk and am notified that the woman I am to be interviewing with is running twenty minutes behind. Oh good. Maybe twenty minutes from now I won't be perspiring like LeBron James and can actually hold an intelligent conversation.

11:00: Interview. Panic. I am actually pulling at strings to relate my major to this job.

12:00: The interview ends. I thank them for their time. I get in the elevator, take it down, the doors open....and I step out of my heels again.


Unfortunately, I did not get the job. I did learn, however, that for my next interview, I am going to hot glue myself into my shoes.

People all over the world, join hands, start a love train, love train

Guess where I didn't want to join hands with anyone?
The Rock Island Metra train at 8:23 am yesterday morning.

Here begins Part One of the tale of my travels to my very first big girl job interview...

8:00 am: I arrive at 103rd street station 23 minutes early (thanks, dad). And yes, I did have my dad drive me, solely to save me the embarrassment of trying to parallel park Lenny in one of the residential areas. Trying to park that road sofa is truly impossible, which is why I usually just throw him into park wherever I please and pray the police will assume some meek 95 year old woman just misplaced her vehicle...

8:10: I mosey on over to The Coffee Shop (creative, I know), encountering the CUTEST little old man in a camel color suit. Slay me. I wanted to just pack him up into my bag and keep him safe forever. I also manage, in the 3 minutes, 30 seconds I was there to spill creamer all over the counter and burn the entire roof of my mouth with what was apparently lava flavored coffee.

8:15: Sitting on a bench in my skirt suit, accompanied by giant black "Jackie O" style sunglasses, listening to the "Evita" soundtrack (hey, you can take the girl out of the theater, but you can never take the theater/diva/natural inclination to stand on a balcony and sing to the invisible Argentinian masses out of the girl). I am anxiously awaiting the train, not out of excitement, but out of pure anxiety. I hate when trains approach the station because they are so incredibly loud and fast that I just panic, despite taking the train over 100 times in my life.

8:25: Two minutes late. Thanks a lot, Metra. I situate myself in a nice little seat, hang up my blazer to avoid wrinkles, and begin to thumb through a 9 month old Shape magazine I found in my night stand earlier that morning.

(Disclaimer: I often find that my life is very much akin to that fairly new MTV show "Quiet Library." For those of you who are not familiar, the premise of the show is to document the stamina of contestants in how long they can stay quiet while being asked to do hysterical tasks. It really is quite funny. Alas, my life is very much the same--being put in situations alone where I have to endure insane people/events around me and not be able to comment or laugh. )

8:27-8:50: The train conductor obviously lets all the oddballs at every stop know where I am sitting so they can surround me and subsequently make me blush for the entirety of the trip. My personal favorite:Oh yes, ladies and gentleman, that is not only a calf length tube sock and black pleather sneaker, but also a real nice diamond patterned pair of tights. This woman only comes in second place to the young lass who audibly sang the entirety of "Bohemian Rhapsody" in the seat in front of me, but I could not get it on video to post here. This woman, who I've affectionately named "Sneaks," also gets the gold medal because she a.) put on her tube sock and pleather gym shoes on the train and b.) removed said items from a Thomas the Train tote bag. Yes, I said it--THOMAS. THE. TRAIN. Where do these people come from? Wherever it is...I'm so glad they exist.


9:03--The train pulls into the station. Sneaks sprints off down the aisle, naturally, since she's clearly training to be the front runner in the Chicago marathon. The lead singer in the Queen cover band is asleep and murmuring to herself in her seat as I gather my things to embark upon Chicago.

I put on my sunglasses. I smooth my hair. I'm ready to take this city by storm...

Until I stepped clear out of my high heels in the train station, as if I had been raptured and taken to the heavens.

To be continued...

"Well let me bring you back to the subject, Pep's on the set"-Salt n' Peppa

As I sat last evening on a giant lime green school bus, in an electric green shirt (I'd like to call it a nice combination of neon and kelly hues), trying to stop my friend from setting me up with what seemed to be our 16 year old bus driver, I fully realized a potential fork in the road that is my destiny...

I could have a reality tv show.

Let me backtrack to how this came to be...

My eyes popped open yesterday morning, glistening with a mixture sheer delight, fear, and uncontrollable itching (this is not at all related to my emotional state--I had slept with my contacts in for the fourth night in a row and actually thought my eyeballs were going to actually spontaneously combust from dryness-induced friction)--for it 'twas the morning of one of my very best friend's bachelorette party. This party, without question, had the potential to be a night of glory. For one, twenty-two women in matching lime green t-shirts were going to board a LIME. GREEN. SCHOOL. BUS. Lime green, people. If that isn't a key ingredient in a hypothetical "You're going to embark on an excellent adventure" party fondue recipe (everyone loves something melted. Let's be real.), then I don't know what is. Secondly, the bride is my life twin:
We look alike, we think alike, and have gained the ability to have conversations through a series of hand motions and eye movements. It's an interesting talent. We are also in the process of writing a book of our trials and tribulations ( coming soon to a bookstore near you!).

ANYWAY, as I observed my surroundings while at this party, as I had just finished karaoking the B-52's smash hit "Loveshack" with the bride's brother (who happens to be my best friend), I very seriously realized how obvious it is that I need a television show. Mind you, at this point I was laying on the bow of a boat that was in the middle of the bar mulling over how wonderful it would be to be a.) a mermaid or b.) the lady who is carved into the front of pirate ships...

This got me thinking.

I am constantly surrounded by a myriad of characters who make up the plot of that is my life. I honestly cannot say I associate with anyone who is normal or mellow. Rather, my life looks like an episode of some sort of Real World/Celebrity Rehab/Golden Girls compilation. What better career could I possibly make for myself than making use of my lovely associates and creating what would obviously be a smash television hit. I'd like to have moments as memorable as Teresa flipping the table on Real Housewives of New Jersey, emotions as raw as Kimora Lee Simmons anger over not having enough gold-plated bangle bracelets in "Life in the Fab Lane," and enough popularity to keep gaining new versions of my same television programs a la Kirstie Alley's ability to star in an identical show with (going on) 4 different titles.

I fancy this show to be something along the lines of the movie "The Truman Show," where I am just constantly filmed. And lucky for me, with the rising popularity of the movie musical, I can sing showtunes to my heart's content (Get excited for that, readers. All Showtunes. All the time.).

My ultimate goal, from this, is to replace Chelsea Handler on E! when she decides she has had enough. I can slip right into those Jimmy Choo's of hers and harass comedians and celebrities alike.

If all else fails, I could fit into the show "Mob Wives." I've got a whole head of dark hair, quick wit, and enough bronzer to rival any of those women.

p.s. I have a job interview Tuesday...

"I'mma let you finish. But Beyonce had one of the best blog posts of all time." -Kanye West

I am using this post as a disclaimer for all future blog posts--if only Kanye's disclaimer had been a little better than "I'm really happy for you...BUT," the world might be a little different and Kanye wouldn't have to wear those sunglasses that look like prison bars--a prison named "Everyone Hates You."

I digress...

The following describes all of the odd linguistic tools I use in addition to subject material that will be completely moot if not explained:

-- : I enjoy the use of the over-extended hyphen (I'm sure it has a name. I haven't taken a grammatical class since 7th grade...talk about successfully avoiding that within my major). I think it makes everything infinitely better when I can extend a sentence beyond any reasonable length.

... : The same goes for ellipses. I could kiss the person who invented the ellipses. What a fantastic idea.

Lenny: Oh, Lenny. Where do I even begin. Lenny is the name of my beautiful 1998 maroon Buick LeSabre. He has velveteen seats, a broken tape player, and a new back window as a result of a baseball bat-smashing incident. If I was going to be stuck on a desert island, Lenny would be the one item I would bring with me. It truly is a love affair that will last a lifetime (or until I can afford a black, camel interior Toyota hybrid vehicle....sorry Lenny, but a girl has got to move up a la The Jeffersons.)

Violence: I have this tendency, when I think something is cute or endearing, to exude phrases such as "I'm going to punch you in the face" or "You're so cute I'm going to throw you down a flight of stairs." Completely inappropriate, painfully descriptive--that's my style.

Musical Theater: I'm sorry, but if you don't love a good showtune, you're barking up the wrong tree. Liza? perfect. Patti Lupone? Even better. The crazier they are, the more talented they are and the drunker they are, the more I like them.


So, my dear readers, whenever you are confused, please refer to this post and you will begin to understand the oddities of my mind.

"One small step for man, One giant step toward unemployment."-Neil Armstrong

Okay. So maybe Neil Armstrong did not exactly articulate that exact quote. But half of it is correct and I'm looking at that as a glass half full situation. Sue me for utilizing comedic effect.

So here I am, a four day old graduate being thrust out into the real world of job searching (and by searching, I mean finding 20 postings, applying for 20 positions, and hearing nothing back), bills, and gaining two new roommates (fondly known as Kathie and Kevin Sheehan-my parents). Here is what I've learned thus far:
-I majored in a subject that did not prepare me at all to find a career. Great.
-I am most looking forward to buying a suit to wear on interviews. I want to get an old giant cellphone to use to complete my look of "Early 90s woman on the go"-- complete with black nylons and gymshoes, of course.
-I don't have Bravo or the Lifetime Movie Network in my cable package at home. This is a huge incentive to find a job.

My greatest fear at this point in time is pulling up to a job interview in my lovely 1998 Buick, Lenny. For anyone who has been in my car, it is a delight, as it is a sofa on wheels. However, it also tends to give outsiders the impression that I am either a.) in a gang or b.) a 95 year old woman. Obviously, either impression will inevitably hinder my obtaining gainful employment.

This begins my dilemma--where do I find an employer who wants to hire a saavy, sarcastic, slightly awkward, seasoned writer with a panache for the outlandish and outstanding?


Maybe we'll find out. Or maybe I'll be selling hot dogs in the local park by my house.