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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.

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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!)

Because Molly Said GO!: Birch Street Bistro

4 Aug


A few things I look for in a restaurant: delicious steak, (several) good drinks, a good vibe and an aesthetically pleasing atmosphere, and finally: good music. I found all of these things at Birch Street Bistro in Roslindale Village. So much so that I went twice in one week (#fat). The first time I went to Birch Street was for a bachelorette dinner. We sat out in the adorable courtyard, think white lights, flowers, ivy, and brick. Perfect girl’s night setting with a menu full of girly drinks, like the mouth-watering Watermelon Sangria. I was told by one of the girls I was with that the roasted chicken falls right off the bone, so I took her recommendation and ordered the chicken. I did not regret that decision. So good! We decided to split the bread pudding for dessert. I was full from eating an entire chicken, but had to give it one bite: heaven!

The second time I went to Birch Street was last Thursday for date night with my husband. I requested that we wait for a table outside because it’s too pretty to ignore when the weather is just right. We got a drink at the bar and before we finished them our table was ready. Thursdays, I was told, are live music nights, so I was pretty excited about that. There was a DJ playing reggae music while the band set up, which was cool.

We started with an order of calamari, which I had to stop myself from finishing after 4 bites, to save room for the entree. Ryan always hopes that I will order whatever meal he doesn’t order but was torn between, so that he can pick off my plate. He also almost always orders a filet mignon, and unfortunately for him I had already tried the chicken, so we both got the filet. While we waited for our food, we relaxed by listening to the live saxophone player and his band. Good vibes all around. When our food came out, it looked too pretty to even eat. The steak had a little bit of red wine reduction dripping from it, and was served with roasted potatoes and spinach. The steak was separated in the middle by some gorgonzola cheese, giving it a more unique taste than your standard filet. Ryan always says that when you need A1 or any kind of sauce with a steak, that it’s not a good steak. Well this steak did NOT need any extra sauces. It stood on it’s own, and we both agreed it may be the best steak we have ever tasted. Cooked just right for both of us (he prefers rare, while I opt for medium).

Whether you are looking for a girl’s night out, or a date night listening to some jazz, Birch Street Bistro is the perfect choice. Great food, drink, atmosphere, service, and music! Get going! Because I said GO!






Dedicated to the Basic Bitches All Across the World

31 Jul

I love basic bitches. I love basic bitches, because basic bitches are meeeee. And I should only love those which are me. (Reeeeeemixxxxxxx)

The concept of “the basic bitch” is so in right now. Like, “THAT bitch be BASIC!” Being dubbed a basic bitch means you’re a boring broad with no eye for the non-basic. What defines a basic bitch? Well, according to what I’ve seen on the world wide web, a basic bitch is an average Jane who enjoys outlet shopping, pumpkin lattes and other seasonal coffees/beers, the dollar flip flop sale at Old Navy, desk jobs ranging from 40-80k annually, The Notebook/Ryan Gosling in general, Longchamp bags, instagram’ing bodies of water or sunsets, popular clothing worn for comfort, Pinkberry, TGI Fridays, hash tagging “love my life”/other things about life being pleasant, joining Planet Fitness, sock buns, discussing crockpot recipes,  Toms, going to school for business/teaching/nursing. Basically the basic bitch is someone who likes what a lot of other basic bitches like and do what other basic bitches do. Well you know, I have some coming out to do because I’m a a bit of a basic bitch myself.

Bitches all over the world like to think of themselves as “not boring”, and herein lies the problem with the basic bitch. No one wants to be boring. But let me ask you bitches this: What is wrong with enjoying flavors of Fall, comfortable clothing, a good monthly bargain on a gym, some froyo topped with coconut and granola, or bragging that you’re sitting by the sea, and going to school for something in demand? As for Old Navy flip flops, they are the perfect amount of flip, with a good amount of flop and I can dig that. I can match my $1 footwear to my flag tank on the 4th of July, throw on a red white and blue bandana, and people will consider me “festive”. What’s so wrong with being festive/4th of July’sy?

I’d like to give all the bitches who don’t consider themselves basic out there a little wake up call: you’re as basic as the rest of us. Because the number one sign of a basic bitch is calling other bitches a “basic bitch”. Bragging about being non-boring is more boring than a sober game of Scrabble on a rainy day. Real non-basic bitches don’t concern themselves with matters of the basic. All these women namecalling basic bitches need to realize that the most boring thing in the world is not admitting to being the slightest bit boring. You think people find you fascinating because you are “artsy” (subjective), minored in Philosophy,  love your weird ass job, have never owned a pair of Uggs, made your own Toms out of hemp, only drink your coffee black imported from a 3rd world country, and only shop at Trader Joe’s? I’m pretty basic and I like Trader Joe’s, so what does that say?! Because let me remind you: basic or not, NO ONE GIVES A FUCK. Boring or interesting: people only care for so long.  Just be who you are and if other people like the same shit, stop getting exasperated and pretending not to like it anymore. Everyone is a little bit weird, and that makes us all a little bit similar, thus you’re basic unless you’re Angelina Jolie. And that about sums it up.




Vitamins and Tour Trolleys

31 Jul

Every once in awhile, annually before getting married, I go on a week long health kick. Cut the booze out. Cut the guacamole y Tostitos out. Cut the self loathing on the couch while I watch Dance Moms. JK, I love Dance Moms, and myself! But I do go on health kicks maybe once every 6 months for (short) periods of time. And I try to take vitamins. Because vitamins are healthy and good for your organs (liver, I hope). Last Summer I was on a “don’t forget your vitamins EVERY DAY or you’ll fucking DIE” thing. Mainly because Sally Field osteoporosis commercials scared the SHIT out of me for many years. Like, what if I’m just walking and break my clavicle? Hell no. I also am partial to ignoring pill bottle directions. Just for vitamins and natural supplements, NOT for hardcore drugs, don’t worry, I’m no fool!

ANYWAYS, last Summer was on a vita-crack binge and thought it was bologna that you had to eat before you take one measly vitamin. So the first day of my binge, I ignored it. It was a Saturday and I was headed out to day drink at a family cookout with Ryan. Ate a couple raspberries from the fridge then popped a Women’s vitamin (because I’m a woman. So weird, here I was thinking I’m 17), and headed out the door into the glorious sun. Well, I made it to the steps outside of my apartment before starting to feel something …weird. Almost like…nausea. But that would be impossible, I thought to myself, I was sober last night! I walk 5-10 more feet, slowly. I notice a group of tourists standing across the street in front of the Adams Mansion, awaiting the next trolley for their tour around Quincy. Ryan, who is walking in front of me, notices I’ve stalled. I get to the middle of the street. And boom, start puking. Ryan looks at me in horror. I am throwing up red raspberries (AKA “BLOOD” to the asshole tourists across the street STARING at me) right in the middle of my street. Some old man shouts “Hey missy!!!! Are you alright!!!!”. NO I was NOT alright! Think you’re having a bad day checking out tombs in Quincy Center?! I’m over here puking up red shit in front of 15-20 strangers with fanny packs and good intentions!

Fuck you Sally Field. sally


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