She's No Country Cousin

This post serves a fairly selfish purpose. Only about seven people in my life will care about the contents of this blog, but I'm okay with it.

I'd like to take this opportunity to brag about my cousin Molly McNearney. Memorize the name now, trust me. She was recently promoted to Head Writer at Jimmy Kimmel Live, and in the male-dominated world of late night comedy, this is one giant feat. A success, of course, but also a speedy ride to the top. She now is queen of the jungle out there, and given that her officemates are prone to fart, burp, swear, sweat and guffaw while in brainstorming meetings, that is saying something.

If the show isn't currently set up in your Tivo, then I'd suggest you get on that. It comes on at 12:05 am here, so clearly I'm not up to see it, but rest assured I watch most of the shows in the following days. Jimmy is a riot (and much thinner in real life!), and the bits the writers dream up are ridiculous, funny, clever and culturally relevant, if not always culturally reverent.

When I was in LA in March, I even got to rub Guillermo's tummy for good luck. Jimmy's relationship with Cousin Sal has got nothing on us, babe.

Here's a photo from a skit she acted in with Pat O'Brien from "The Insider", spray-tanned orange to look like his offspring on Take Your Daughter to Work Day:


Molly is funny, charming, witty and one of the best writers I have ever experienced. Her timing is impeccable, and she can do accents like nobody's business. When she was my roommate here in Chicago, she went through all levels of classes at Second City, and even graduated from Improv Olympic with flying colors.

Here's a photo from a skit where Jimmy had "the girls" together to mourn the last "Sex and the City" episode airing:


Molly, there on the far right, with her hand firmly clasping the cosmo, is the type that has 42 irons in the fire at all times, and never really sits still. I am pretty certain she's writing a screenplay and a book as we speak. While drinking a sissy latte and scarfing a chocolate scone with the other hand.

Tina Fey—look out. Your job security may be in jeopardy.

And, Molly, please remember those that knew you "back when"...or else.

Or else I'll tell everyone I know that you:

• Can make a fierce siren noise by banging on your throat.


• Used to love to dress up as a geek and act out skits as the character "Bertha."


• Are a lightweight drinker. Or at least, you used to be.


• Locked yourself out of our apartment once a week. On a good week.


• Molested me in a photo booth once.


• Got "lessons" at our dining room table. With a candlestick.


• Are a hack at an indoor water fight. Using a iced tea pitcher IS cheating.


• Once, for a shining moment, held a golden phone.


• Impersonated the 7-Eleven cashier. Perfectly.


• Prank called our neighbors, only to listen through the walls for their reactions.


• Participated in, and possibly won, the "no shower" contest at your all-girls high school.


• Send sweet, verbose, sappy birthday cards that make me cry.


• Mocked my Dad at a Second City show while on all fours.


• Made a 6-month long pro/con list before moving to California.

Look where that pro/con list got you after all. Is the mic warmed up yet? Can I get a mic check? Miggity mic check. Congratulations, Molls. We knew you could do it. Go show those men who's boss.

I'm a dead woman when you make it big, aren't I?

Good Golly

The prodigal cousin returns!

Miss Molly is coming to visit this weekend, and I can hardly contain myself. We're having sleepovers, which unlike the ones we had as kids, will include lots of wine, and I can't wait to sit opposite her on my sofa in our pjs and talk until our eyes are bleary and we deny that we're tired.

She is the reason I moved to Chicago after one fateful weekend in St. Louis, and I have so much more than just that to be thankful for because of her. I'm just a better person for knowing her, for being near her, and for basking in the glow that she radiates.

At any rate, I hope you're as blessed as I am to have an amazing (and record-book-large) extended family. I hope you, too, have a cousin that can make you laugh until wine comes out your nose, lets you cry until everything bad just goes away, convinces you that feeling that way or this way is normal and that you'll be just fine, and knocks you back with love in the kind words she'll inevitably write in the thank you note she picked out just for you.

I leave you with the above photo because it just makes me laugh. She's the little darling one on the left, and I'm the giant in back—with the bangs that start yesterday—behind my adorable sister Lauren. Can you believe I am only 15 months older than Molly??? I look like I could bop her on the head and eat her for lunch. With a side of pickles.

I think I still do. And could.

Empty Promises

While celebrating the holidays with extended family, the innocent question "So, Colleen, are you seeing anyone?" keeps coming up. It is practically the first question I'm asked. I'm sometimes not even fully in the door. The coat has definitely not even been yet hung in the closet.

This casual, yet loaded, inquiry inevitably leads to a laughing, joking, somewhat cynical conversation of The Vortex that has sucked in (and sometimes spit back out) the guys in my life, and the lives of my other single cousins.

The stories are piling up (I made notes on the plane and realize I currently have no less than 11 stories to tell) of the myriad vortex tales. The airplane napkin is chock full of my love disasters.

I promise the publishing of these stories is coming soon. For now, begin to collect yours, and send them my way.

Just be sure that you change the guys' names, to protect the guilty.

Two Birthdays, Tiny Bottles

Ever the efficient lady, I love when you can knock out several celebrations at once. With my birthday landing just three days after the birth of Jesus, it always gives us days of reasons (excuses) to party. I'm now in St. Louis, celebrating even more.

Last night was my birthday, and seeing as I'm with my mom's ginormous family, there was no shortage of fun.

My aunt offered us "girl beers"—small, 7 oz. holiday dressed Bud Lights—and while they are petite and cute, I must admit that they make me a tad self-conscious.

It didn't take long for me to have several dead soldiers of "girl beers" lined up next to my place at the table. Had to move the evidence so no one counted them and started the "you must be the birthday girl" conversation. Not that anyone can blame me—I'm in a huge Irish family and right after taking your coat, you're handed a drink.

Tonight is O'Brien Christmas, which means yet another party.

There will be approximately 70 people there, I kid you not, ranging from 2'5" to 6'5"—and 15 months to, ahem, the older set. Lots of blondes, lots of freckles, lots of cute fashions, lots of loud voices, lots of hugging, lots of laughter.

There are doctors, pilots, writers, lawyers, designers, realtors, artists, marketers, web gurus, sales executives, retirees and hardworking stay-at-home moms. Oh, and one cousin that is so smart and successful but that no one quite understands what he does for a living. All we know is that is passport is full of stamps from countries that end in "stan." And I am pretty sure he's fluent in 9 languages. The rock climbing hydrogeologist will not be here this year, and that is a shame. His stories rock.

Gotta love family. I need to read up on everyone's kid's names just to be sure. Maybe I'll hold off on the girl beers until we've said our hellos, to ensure that no one is erroneously greeted.

Because tonight is NOT my birthday, and I can't play the birthday girl card anymore.