This is what classy Mormons do on a Saturday night.

Yup, that's me. Looking my finest. Apparently, this is what I would look like if I failed to observe the tenets of my religion, let alone the dictates of my own conscience. It's like a snapshot taken inside the great and spacious building.

That's sparkling apple cider. Promise. It's not even mine. I'm holding it, because apparently you have to in order to look legit while hanging out the top of a limousine shouting "WHAT'S UP APPLEBEES!?!" as you're being driven down the town's main drag by a guy named Don.

How did I get to this point? Let me explain.

Meet Molly.


Many of you know Molly. It was Molly's thirtieth birthday this past weekend. Her husband surprised her with a limousine and a party. As guests, Allan and I were asked to come up with a favorite story about Molly to share with everyone. I ended up telling a lame one, because if I shared what I really love most about Molly I probably would have ended up emotional and embarrassed. So instead, I choose to share this way instead. Plus, this means she'll have a hard copy to treasure forever and ever and ever.

Molly lived two doors down from us while Allan was in law school and her husband, Nick, was in dental school. Now we live forty-five minutes away from each other (and she lives in excessively-mentioned CostcoLand. Jealous.). No one can deny that Molly lights up any room or conversation. She is guileless to the point of hilarity. She can talk to anyone, and develops relationships with everyone from the cashier at Kroger to the lonely old couple across the street.

Molly very well may have been the only thing standing between me and Prozac in the months following Jack's birth. She got me out of the house to the park, or sometimes just to her apartment, and she would talk so much that I completely forgot how tired, lonely, and crazy I felt during those postpartum months. Almost three years later she and Allan still do the best job of talking me out of all my "my two year old is going to grow up to be a terrorist"/"I can't tell if I'm really gluten intolerant or if it's all in my head"/"I just gained ten pounds over the course of two hours" crazy talk. Molly has helped me understand that being a perfectionist is a sure way to end up dissatisfied and depressed. Not because she is a perfectionist, but because she is so perfect at being imperfect. She makes it all seem so fun.

All of Molly's friends know she's special. Her husband knows she's special. And hopefully her kids will someday know how special she is, and how lucky they are to have her as their mom.

I'm lucky to have her as a friend.

Happy Birthday, Molly. Thanks for sharing your classy limousine.