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Is this Something I have to go to?: My Life Story

4 Dec

Am I the only 20 something who still calls their mom for things they should probably know by now? The two most common examples:

“What is the standard monetary amount for a wedding gift?…….::listens to response::…. REALLY?! Can I just give them my old crockpot and a bottle of Sutter Home instead? Un-fucking-REAL. What if I don’t even like them?! I definitely hate them. Definitely. Is it open bar?”

“Is this something I have to go to?” (“this” usually being a shower or wake for someone we’ve never spoken to). At this point, I have learned that if I have to ask, the answer is yes.

I thought being an adult meant driving, and mac and cheese with champagne for dinner, and a later bedtime. But lately I’m tired at 9pm. What is this shit?! The fact that I would give up my crock pot, the laziest cooking tool miracle thing known to man (or woman, if we are in a sexist mood), speaks volumes. And what I’m trying to speak/scream is: I DON’T FUCKING FEEL LIKE IT. Weddings are one thing. There is alcohol and dancing. I won’t get into wakes, because I don’t like to offend the masses, but at least they are in and out – for the most part. It’s those events that involve daytime mingling that trouble me.

We work all week for our weekends, only for our weekends to be filled with giving people money to be given a plate of  lukewarm eggs and watch them open up diaper genies. Thank God for booze, or I’d have been a total recluse upon receiving my first invitation to something. How awesome would it be if it were socially acceptable to RSVP with “Hey, I can’t make it to your baby shower on Sunday because it’s at 10am in east bum shit, I only know like two other guests and don’t feel like feeling awkward, plus I’m planning in advance for a vino hangover, but thanks for inviting me!”. I would totally be okay with this happening if someone did it to me, because it would give me the pass to reciprocate the favor onto someone else. The knowledge alone that I had the option to do such a thing, would make me a more affable person when I do decide to attend something.

But seriously, I think freeing up our weekends is something we can all get on board with. Let’s utilize the fuck out of that “ship to recipient’s home” feature on the Bed Bath and Beyond website, drink mimosas from home, and be merry! This whole idea doesn’t have to stop at showers. It can be valid for invitations to visit people, lunch dates with people you would like to cut off but can’t because you have family/friend ties to. Game changer, for sure.

I went to about 5 showers this year, and now every single bride or mom whose shower I attended is going to make a smart ass comment next time I see them, and I’m going to have to fake laugh and say “I’m only kidding! Because Molly Said So is a character!!!”. And now they won’t believe me when I say it. I really am my own worst enemy. The horrifying truth is that each year after this, these events will only increase! We as woman, need to stop this. Before 30% of our freedom is spent eating danish in function rooms filled with food warmers, and Pinterest ideas involving lemons and water. You can call me a bitter bitch. But just wait until you are in the midst of a dry baby shower for a coworker.

You’re welcome.

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Puppy Mom Social Anxiety

4 Dec

So this past Sunday I hired some dude to paint my house, because fuck that shit. This meant my husband and I had to go out for the day, a luxury we have been missing out on since being homeowners (THAT sounds pretentious). Once in the car, my husband looks at me and dead seriously says, “Let’s get a dog”. So we did.

Introducing the best girl, my furrbaby-cuddlebug-snuggle-muffin-angel-face-poopy-head, Dilly:


She’s the shit. I love her, she loves me, and I cry every day looking at her. She’s so awesome and is going to live the best life with her puppy mom instagramming her every move in life. She’s an Australian Shephard, and as a fan of bigger dogs, I thought she was standard size before we signed her papers (due to some seriously fucked up false advertisement), but after some research – and by “research” I mean Googling – we discovered she is a mini. At this point we don’t care because we love her and people who return animals are reincarnated Hitlers who I wish a lifetime of Irritable Bowel Syndrome on (harsh?).

After we got her and she was done getting carsick on puppy dad, we headed out to Petco or Petsmart or Petsomething or other to get her some puppy supplies. Anytime I go into any of these stores, it’s for bird seed for my bird Boba Fett, and really no one gives a shit about birds. You can just get what you need, pay, and leave. But going into that store with a puppy was a game changer. Everyone and their mom talks to you if you have a dog with you. Asking questions, and showing you pictures of their dogs, and talking about their dead dogs, and telling you that string toys are bad news, and giving you advice about how to raise a puppy that doesn’t murder. It was like a friendly, informative, puppy parent community. Tons of proud puppy moms and puppy dads just reliving their experiences. And I wanted to tell everyone to get the fuck out of my face before I tell my dog to bite their  face off in front of their dogs. Let me get the chow and leave before my dog shits in aisle seven.

Social anxiety on high alert. I guess.

Love you, Dilly-kins. <3 <3 <3


3 Dec

I just logged into WordPress for the first time in forev, and was greeted with a message that my domain expired 3 days ago! This made me kind of sad, because I love blogging. But, life. I think it’s been over a month since I’ve written anything. When I first began blogging my father told me not to write every day because I’d run out of material, and ain’t that the truth! I’m just not interesting enough for a daily post. I look back on some of my blogs from years ago, and it’s pretty evident that I was writing every single day. DELETE! I made a decision this year to only write when I really had to get a thought out there, or risk being Buzzfeedy. It sometimes sound pretentious when a person says “I’ve been so busy!” to excuse themselves from anything, because unless you’re in med school, are you really that busy? But yeah, I’ve also been really busy, so I guess that assumption is debunked. The house I bought in Weymouth wasn’t exactly a shithole per se, but it needed a lot of cosmetic work for me to even consider bringing my nana over. I also broke my MacBook, and, well, have you ever blogged from a Dell or an iPhone? Because those were my options. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve written entire blogs from shitty laptops, and even from my phone. But I have to be shitfaced and REALLY motivated.

My point is: I renewed my domain and I’m going to write when I have something to say.

Stop Waiting For Friday

23 Oct

I read a quote somewhere on the internet, or maybe I didn’t, that said something about “stop waiting for Friday”. That’s all I remember from the quote. But it got me *thinking (*sleeping standing up in the shower at 6am with sporadic glimpses of almost one whole thought), that I need to stop looking forward to Friday so much. Friday is only a fraction of the entire cornucopia that I call LIFE. Tons of cool shit happens on weekdays. Like shows. Can’t watch Real Housewives on a weekend (pretend there is no DVR). Weeknights are also badass for falling asleep to How It’s Made. Puts you right to sleep by 7pm listening to a calming narrator describe how nuts and bolts come to fruition. And let’s be real for a minute, you live tweet an episode of 20/20 on a Friday night and you’re obviously a sociopath, virgin, or both. You live tweet Dateline on a Tuesday night and you’re DRUNK. What’s the better description?

Also, American Chopsuey night is usually on a weeknight. People love ground beef with pasta in Ragu. There is just something about that lazy (American?) recipe that gets the people GOING. Be wild and throw some mushrooms in there or something. Not me though, I don’t like the texture of mushrooms. American Chop night. Can that be changed to a weekend? No. Weekends are for buffalo chicken. Everyone knows that. Idiot.

I know what you’re thinking, “What the fuck else is great about weekdays?”, and I have a (questionably) GOOD answer for that: Thursdays. Thursdays are ALMOST Friday. If you are prone to mind sorcery, you can TRICK your brain into thinking that Thursday and Friday are just one really long, shitty day until the clock strikes 4:30pm.

So there it is. You just got hit with some wisdom. Or maybe you didn’t. But either way, don’t waste your cornucopia (life) dreading Monday. Bake a lemon cake on a Monday night. It makes you happy for a brief moment. Life is good, you guys.

Not So Dirty 30?

6 Oct

Sup, ya’ll?

This weekend, while out at a girlfriend’s 28th, I asked the birthday girl and the rest of my friends if they felt a big difference between who they are now, and who they were when they were freshly 20-21. Their answers ranged from “still the same old Jane/don’t remotely want to get pregnant”, to “I was a jack-ass-hole with no regard for anything other than peeing in alleyways when the lavatory was out of order on the Bustonian”. I asked myself the same question, and felt like it was difficult to answer in the sense that I feel like the same old Molly who breaks the seal too early in the night, but who also got excited over Pumpkin pasta sauce in the supermarket today, as well as the growth spurt of my lucky bamboo plant (shit has has 5 leaves now! It used to have 0 leaves. So by comparison, you  can see that we have nourished this bamboo plant since the day we brought it home from Ikea).

This got me, a poorer version of  Carrie Bradshaw who has literally zero in common with Carrie Bradshaw, thinking:

Who the fuck cares? Why do we ask questions like “do you feel different from when you were 20-21?”. Of course we all feel kind of different from when we were in our early 20’s! Unless we are still playing games called Edward 40-hands, wearing BOGO shoes from Charlotte Russe that disfigure our feet to house parties, and feel like “over a railing at some random dude’s place” is a normal place to get some solid rest, we are probably a little different. But at the same time, we are not that far off from our early 20’s because 21 was only 5-6 years ago, and those Charlotte Russe tragedies are still in the back of our closets, and every year they aren’t given to Goodwill, a podiatrist has a minor heart attack.  Basically we have come into who we REALLY are. But only slightly. Like, we still watch Teen Mom. But only when there is nothing else on, and we hate all the moms now, not just Farrah.

My friends and I went on to talk about turning the “big” 3-0. Basically, we are unphased about turning 30. Nothing blogworthy there. I actually get irritated when people complain about turning 30 because again, who the fuck cares? Thirty is still young. You can put “People Who Base Their Happiness Around Bullshit Life Milestones” in the top 14ish of my “Things That Are Kinda Fucked” list.  If you think that some hyped up milestone will be the sole provider of your happiness, then I’m sorry for you because you are going to get reality checked SO hard the day your plane hits the runway on the returning flight from your honeymoon and your husband turns to you and makes a joke about dutch ovens. Or the day your baby poos on your hand 17 times. Shit has changed. Women (mostly) aren’t purposely getting pregnant before 25 anymore (18 in the South). And getting married post 30 is actually pretty regular lately. I felt YOUNG getting married last year at age 26. I remember thinking “I wonder who will think I’m knocked up, lol”. Shit has changed. I mean, these milestones are really fucking exciting. I almost had to pop a squat halfway down the aisle I was THAT excited while getting married (JK…KINDA! GROSS!). But they aren’t the be all end all, or whatever. Don’t be that asshole who has a doomsday countdown to 30 on your iphone, because no one likes a type A personality.

I mean, Is 30 really “dirty”? Because I felt slightly dirtier when I was shitfaced eating at Chau Chow’s at 2am at age 20 on a Monday night. Anyways, pardon me and my 2.5  years left of the 20’s (sorry to any 30+ readers).


Dirty Little Secret

19 Sep

I need you guys to go ahead and play this video for effect as you read this blog:


I regret to inform you that for about 2 weeks, I have been hiding something from you. Well, technically I haven’t kept anything from you because I haven’t blogged in 2 weeks. But I do have a secret that I feel I need to share with you because integrity and shit. The good news is I’m not pregnant. The bad news is I’m moving to Weymouth.

Yup. Weymouth. I know what you’re thinking: “You sellout-hypocritical-ass-bitch-slut! You made fun of Weymouth for years by writing that it’s only claim to fame was that it was hometown of the Cliffhanger outdoor patio, Amazing Adult Video Express, and the guy from the movie Blow!!!!”

I know. But guess what? Amazing burned down. And George Jung was released from prison. Sure, the Cliffhanger is alive and well, but Winter is coming and maybe the outdoor patio activity will cease for a few months. Shit happens. Quincy is my heart and if I could afford a house in Quincy I would never leave. But right now, Weymouth is as close to Quincy as I can get. Don’t judge me unless you’ve been furiously scouring Quincy for an affordable decent starter home for over a year only to be heartbroken 79.2 times. However, I realize you’re human so if you do want to judge, let me paint a clearer picture for you. THIS is the kind of house I can afford in Quincy in my price range:



All for a fixer upper. But not down for total demolition. Ya feel me? I mean, I don’t even like to vacuum, let alone install a new house.

So what does this mean for me? Does this mean I’m not a Quincy girl anymore? Am I just going to be some whack-ass Weymouth girl who believes that Mary Lou’s coffee is coffee and not just a chocolate drink? Who thinks they are hardcore because they are from a section of  Weymouth that ends in “dub” (18 isn’t 8 Mile Road, you guys), and have lived through the terror of Route 18 between the hours of 5 and 6pm?  No. Because once you are “from” a place in which you have peed in the woods of a marshy peninsula on a frigid drunken evening when you were 17, you remain part of that place forever. Your *DNA (*pee) binds you to that sacred, disgusting, ground. You become the dirty that is Quincy. If you are from a place that you are confident you could drive through blindly, knowing every congested traffic intersection (all of them), when to slow down and brace for every pothole, then you are forever “from” those infuriating roads. When you have eaten even one piece of Wollaston Theater popcorn and roughly 236 personal panned pizzas from Alumni or Fowler House in your lifetime, then you have accepted the body of Quincy into your soul. Does that make sense without being sacreligious? No? Okay.

What I am getting at here is that I am forever a Quincy girl. I’m basically just updating a house I bought, building equity for a few years, obtaining more shit on Weymouth, then planning my escape. I suppose I could always divorce my husband and move back to Wollaston with my parents, but then I think they’d return the patio set that they bought me…and that would be counterproductive. Plus I like my husband and want to live in a house with him.  All jokes aside, right now, I am excited about this move and look forward to a new chapter, and any new blog material that might come along with homeownership (spoiler alert: my next blog will be entitled “I’m Poor”!).

So Quincy, I’ll be in you (sounds sexy) every day and having a 5ish year sleepover in the next town over. I hope you understand. Over and out.


Go Fund Yaself!!!

10 Sep

Hey guys,

It’s been awhile. I know. I’ve been waiting around for a little inspiration. And I found it this month after seeing 3 people on my Facebook newsfeed post links to Go Fund Me accounts. Wondering if something was wrong, as what is usually the case with a donation website link -whether it be an illness, financial assistance with funeral costs for a family member, or natural disasters affecting ones home- I was worried that my acquaintances had been affected by some sort of tragic event.

When the clickage of the link brought me to the page, I was stunned. All three times.

What I read was paragraphs of complete bullshit by totally healthy, able-bodied individuals, requesting the monetary aid of family and friends and acquaintances like myself for help with the following:

  • Higher education school loans.
  • Caribbean vacations.
  • Rent needed to move to a new residence for no good particular reason.
  • Gas money for travel.
  • Automobile violation fees.
  • Higher education loans from someone who did not qualify for financial aid (think about what this means).
  • “Every day expenses” (this translates to booze money in my book).
  • Tits. No joke, I saw a Go Fund Me for a boob job.

Look, I would love to quit my life here, move to California on a whim, and crash Leo’s yacht, whether he’s in shape or out of shape. But guess what? I’m not going to beg anyone via the internet because I want my pipe dreams to come true without being prepared to make them happen MYSELF. Because if you are going as far as to create your own donation page FOR YOURSELF, and write a couple paragraphs explaining why YOU are deserving of charity for loans or rent or superficial shit because you worked hard like you should probably be doing, then you are obviously not fiscally prepared to follow your dreams and should probably go back a couple of steps.



What’s harsh is this: envision yourself in front of every single one of your Facebook friends, with a straight face, and a small, squirrely looking man playing a small (the world’s smallest) violin behind you. Now force a single tear to stream down your stupid face, as you explain your problems to whoever the fuck it is you are talking to (probably some chick or dude whose locker was next to yours in high school). Tell them that life has been hard since you started pursuing your liberal arts degree. You have to live at home. You can’t work full time because you have night school twice a week, so you need money to pay off that Easy Pass ticket without affecting your bar tab. Or tell them about how you can’t defer your students loans for your MBA any longer because you’ve been out of school for two years. Or that gas money COSTS MONEY, thus making traveling not as convenient as you would like it to be. Make sure you let them know how it’s going to suck balls to pay a monthly bill for something YOU CHOSE TO DO, that comes free in some other shittier country. MAKE THEM FEEL THE STRUGGLE.

Because the struggle, my friend, is real.

Okay, now all sarcasm aside, I am not trying to pick on anyone here. I just would pray to Tupac that if I ever totally lost my fucking mind and started a donation page for myself, that one of my friends would pull me aside, look into my beautiful blue eyes, compliment them, and then slap me clean across my dome. I’d hope that I would then WAKE UP and realize that although donation pages are a great thing, that they help people out who REALLY NEED IT, they are NOT for people who WANT. At the risk of sounding like an uber-Republican grandfather after a nice pork dinner: the sense of entitlement is unreal. No one, not family members, not friends, owes it to you to help you pay a parking ticket YOU acquired. Or for some silicone. I mean, it’s charming to joke about being poor, I do it all the time. Just today I opted for Dunks over Starbucks (FUNNY RIGHT?! But only because it had a drive-thru, not because I’m poor!!! Don’t laugh at me!!!). But to stand atop Mount Washington with tattered pants, and a can of Spam? That’s pretty much the same thing as creating a Go Fund Me for yourself. If that makes sense?

Jeez, there’s always gotta be someone who ruins a really good thing, huh?

(PS: Do you think it’s considered “tragic” to drop 2 iPhone’s in less than 1 week? Because I did that. Shattered TWO screens. The first time I did it, someone laughed at me in the Marshall’s parking lot (MARSHALL’S…ANOTHER POOR JOKE! FUNNY RIGHT?!). So not only did I lose a perfectly good Apple product, but I also got bullied. Go Fund me, right now!)


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