An Ode To Molly McIntire

I am properly obsessed with the Netflix show, Nobody Wants This. Aside from the Adam-Brody-of-it-all, it’s just a light-hearted, warm-hug of a show and a throw-back to the rom-com genre that consumed the early 2000’s. And it’s the perfect, bingeable show for us millennials—30-minute episodes are great for those of us with young kids who need to decompress after a day of work and parenting, but who also typically pass out from said day at 9pm. Getting through an hour-long episode of anything is a rarity for me, so plowing through 2 episodes is *chef kiss*.

So after a Day Lights Saving Time Sunday from hell—again, if you have kids you know—I poured myself a large glass of wine and snuggled into the couch with my husband to enjoy 2—maybe… 3 *GASP!*—episodes of the newly released, second season.

And episode 5—“Abby Loves Smoothies”—centers around a premise EVERY millennial girl can relate to and go to war over.

Without giving too much away, Joann gatecrashes an event that Noah is “officiating” for a “client” named Abby; who happens to be Joann’s ex-best friend from middle school. Under the guise of “supporting” Noah, Joann shows up looking poised and fabulous. Abby graciously welcomes her—knowing exactly who she is. Joann eventually calls in reinforcements—aka her sister, Morgan—so they can both callout Abby for the drama that lead to the demise of their friendship.

What was said drama, you may ask?

Joann had it on good authority that at her “Moving Up” sleepover, Abby snuck into her bedroom and gave Felicity—Joann’s American Girl doll—a vindictive haircut. And consequently, Morgan shouldered the blame from their mother. Even though Joann always suspected her, Abby never confessed and they never spoke again. So twenty-five years later, Morgan shows up to Abby’s event, ready to burn the house down—or more specifically; cut Abby’s first child’s hair.

“An eye for an eye” kind of deal.

In a normal circumstance, a reaction like that seems a tad extreme. “It’s just a doll!” you’re saying to yourself, “Get over it!” But explain the above circumstance to ANY millennial girl and see the look of shear horror and immediate disgust. Felicity Merriman or one of her five, history-infused companions were not simply dolls.

They were our EVERYTHING.

Boys had Nintendo 64—even I played Golden Eye a few times—babies had Tickle Me Elmo—lord, I remember the Black Friday mania from that year—and some of us had Furbies—the only toy my Dad ever attempted a Black Friday, early morning Toys-R-Us run. But American Girl Dolls were their own category. Ask any girl in their mid to late 30’s; they were the upper echelon Barbie doll, each set in a different period of American history with a series of books—and naturally, apparel and accessories to go with each new story. Marketing genius, if you ask me. Highly coveted, relatively expensive, and the specific doll choice…well it could be likened to picking the name of your first child. That choice said EVERYTHING about your personality and judgment would be rendered for the rest of your life.

Ask anyone who picked Samantha Parkington.

And who did I choose?

Surely the title of this blog gives it away? Really was there any doubt that Molly McIntire—the spitfire, quirky, book-smart girl with a wild imagination—was my doll of choice?

My immediate attraction to Molly was purely an aesthetic thing; I was weirdly obsessed with glasses. From a very young age, I was desperate to don a pair. I’d pop out the lenses of cheap, plastic sunglasses and adorn them like they were proper prescriptions. I remember semi-faking vision tests, hoping I’d be able to score real ones—pretty sure the optometrists saw right through me. Eventually I’d get my wish and be deemed nearly blind by the age of thirty-nine, but Molly and her cute, metal frames were the closest thing I had. Plus she was the most recent timeline for the then original six dolls—her story took place in 1944, during WWII. Her father served as a doctor in England, and she helped with the war effort at home.

It’s probably where my love of historical fiction started.

And while others had to beg their parents or earn their AG Doll with good grades and stellar behavior, I already knew when I’d receive Molly; it was the agreed upon gift from my grandmother for my First Holy Communion. A precedent set by my older sister—who received Kirsten Larson—and continued with both of my younger sisters—Felicity Merriman and Josefina Montoya, respectively.

The night before, excitement was bubbling inside of me; I couldn’t sleep! It was a big day in the eyes of the Catholic Church and we’d been rehearsing for weeks—I was also chosen to sing at the sacramental mass, in front of all my classmates, our families and the entire congregation. I got to wear a pretty dress, have my hair done, and my parents were throwing a huge party in our backyard following the ceremony.

But let’s get real; I was more excited to FINALLY get my Molly.

I distinctly remember that moment; following the communion mass, my grandparents walked into our house and my eyes drifted to the long oblong box my grandmother carried. Mom-Mom kissed my cheek and handed over the box saying, “Here she is!” My hands were shaking as I tore the pink wrapping paper to reveal the maroon colored box beneath, with the words American Girl Doll emblazoned in white lettering across the center. I lifted the lid and there she was. My very own Molly; complete with her navy-blue argyle sweater and matching skirt, twin plaited hair with red ribbons, and tiny red purse. And of course, her glasses.

She was all mine.

There was no other toy/doll that so totally encapsulated my adolescence the way Molly did. It was just her. Birthday, Christmas; consumed by the latest accessories or matching outfits. My mom used to make my sisters and I set up our dolls under the tree on Christmas Eve, so Santa could dress them in their newest outfit. Last Christmas Eve, she tried to convince all four of us to bring our dolls and set them up under the tree. Cute, but no, Jane; we’re all too old and have too many kids. I learned to braid, simply to keep Molly’s hair in pristine shape—something I’m still pretty proud. In 4th grade, I bonded with a girl in my class over our mutual ownership of a Molly doll—and that little girl is still my best friend. Above all else, Molly is the only surviving toy of my childhood; she has moved with me twice and is now packed away in a box for safe keeping—along with her plush-red bed, clothes chest and bicycle.

So yeah, I 100% get why Joann never spoke to Abby again and held a twenty-five year old grudge. If anyone touched a single-hair on my Molly’s head there would be hell to pay. I’d for sure show up at my aggressor’s house, wearing a bomb outfit with a hefty axe to grind. And I’d be coming with numbers; several of my best friends would show up in similar fashion, ready to throw down in the name of Molly.

Because those dolls were our childhood.

And we’d cut a bitch for crossing that line.