In the past 22 years I have come to accept that I am a person of limited talents.
I credit eight years of a Catholic school education with my ability to draw a decent cartoon Jesus.
For one of my more envied talents, however, I can thank my older brother for teaching me to dangle my spit past my waist and suck it back up like Julian in “Big Daddy”. When I was 10 years old weighing in at nearly 13 times my age and hoping that one day I would be 5 feet tall, that trick was always funny. Today, as a 22-year-old single female, that’s obviously my most attractive quality.
Despite this very valuable skill set, there are still a few areas of my life where if I made some improvements my day-to-day would be a little easier.
The kitchen is arguably the most glaring of these areas. The first time I heated up canned soup on the stove I was so excited when it started to simmer that I splashed my spoon into the pot, took bite, burned my mouth and called my mom to tell her the news.
This was three weeks ago.
Since that breakthrough day #ManhattanProjectRedux has made significant contributions to the rise in Progresso Soup stocks. Also, in attempts to be more of a kitchen connoisseur, I have found that putting yogurt in the freezer does not make fro-yo or give you the feeling of having ice cream for breakfast.
Using #CookingWithMolly was also not my best social media decision of the week. Yes, my name is a drug. No it’s not a good pick up line at a bar. Thanks Mom and Dad, to continue the legacy when the time comes I’ll be naming your grandchild Angel Dust.
For more cooking tips and tricks, you should check out another blog.
Along with my kitchen incompetence I also cannot read a map. My dad, being fully aware of this, insisted that I get a compass to navigate my way around New York. He said it would be cool though because he found a compass app and obviously if you’re using your phone to do something it factors out any chance of it being considered weird.
If the life of Molly was simple, I would have let him download his app to my phone, tell him I used it all the time and text him in a few weeks saying my favorite direction to walk is southwest.
Instead I crushed the Eagle Scout’s heart and dropped even further in the favorite child tally by bringing him to understand that a compass would be about as navigationally useful to me as a barometer.
My map reading abilities may be lacking, but five years as a bank teller made me an excellent counter so the New York City grid system has been working in my favor.
In getting to know the city I have also been trying to take advantage of all the opportunities it has to offer. Believe it or not, Manhattan evening escapades are a little different than in Vermont.
You can clean me up and you can take me out, but you probably shouldn’t.
I crossed the park Friday night to meet some friends for a Group Text comedy show on the Upper West Side. All I really ever want from life is a little whiskey and a little laughter, but it rarely ever stays at just that.
During one of the comedian’s bits she called me out as being the only single girl at the table but assured me it was ok because she could tell I’m “a fierce black woman in a white candy shell.”
In the weird comment category that ties with the time my guy friend tried to hit on a bisexual girl who said she actually found me attractive and proceeded to get drunk and tell me about how she “lost her lady card.”
The next night I took a break from the bar scene and went to Riff Raff’s Club with some friends from F.I.T. We met up with some club promoters, jumped the line and had free vodka cranberries all night.
Riff Raff’s claim to fame isn’t that the bartenders try to pad their resumes or sound professional on Tinder by calling themselves mixologists, but they will paint your face, which after a few vodka cranberries always sounds like a great idea.
However, when I told the bartender to “paint me like one your French girls” that probably should have been an indication it was time for a little less vodka and little more cranberry.