Jun 12 2011


Published by under General Molly

Greetings, Cool Peeps:

Do you ever wonder about yourself? Do you ever look in the mirror and say, “Are you freakin’ kidding me?” For those who have ever pondered their own behavior, I’m coming clean with ten wacko things I do or have done. I won’t be doing them David Letterman countdown style because I couldn’t possibly rate these acts in terms of wackiness.

1. I like to test beauty products in stores. Being a lotion freak, I scan the shelves looking for the bottle labeled Tester and I go to town. More than once, I have had complete duh-you-moron moments when I have squeezed big wads of soap into my hands. Soap, as if you didn’t know, needs to be washed off with water. Nobody wants to stand in the middle of a freakin’ store with soapy, sticky hands and no faucet to be found.

2. I have gone to restaurants or other public places, seen my own image in the glass, and said to myself, “Who is that freakin’ woman and why is she staring at me?” Yes, peeps, I truly have.

3. I have been known to try to start verbal battles with digital voices, especially those with whom I am stuck in voicemail hell. So far, not one has duked it out with me, but I’m ready for her when she does. The woman in my GPS is my arch enemy. I call her “the bitch.” There is no rhyme nor reason to the bizarre routes she chooses for me. She gives women a bad name. Because of her, I have an insane reaction to the word recalculating. I’m betting I have lots of company here.

4. I have had meltdowns looking through my closet for a favorite item of clothing only to find out that I’m wearing the freakin’ thing. I look for sunglasses when I’m wearing them, keys when I’m holding them, shoes that are on my feet, earrings in my ears, and much more. I know you can relate. You do it, too, right?

5. I look for elephants in rain puddles.

6. I’m just kidding about #5. I like to write completely absurd things just to see if people are paying attention.

7. I have seen cars on the road that look exactly like my own, and sometimes I have actually looked to see if I am driving.

8. I hope I’ve outgrown this one, but I used to get the names and addresses of random people from the phone book before going out of town on a trip. I would then send them a postcard once I got to my destination, saying how much I wish they were with me and what a great time I was having. I would end it by signing a fake name and smudging it. I just loved wondering about peeps’ reactions. I mean, did they stay up all freakin’ night wondering who sent it? Did they ask everyone they knew if they had sent it?

9. I have locked my keys in the car more than once. Don’t you just hate sitting behind the steering wheel waiting for someone to open the freakin’ door?

10. I often put perfume on before having my photo taken. Yes, I know it is lame and I know that it does not make the photo smell of my fave scent. But in my head, I feel like it makes me prettier. And when I feel prettier, I smile more. How about you?

Okay, I’ve just spilled my guts here. Please, tell me about some of the wacko things you do. Anyone have any habits like mine? Lisa, Janet, Talatha, Caroline, Leigh Ann, Sheri, Stuart, Harriet, Carolyn, Rebecca, Caroline, James, and everyone else out there — I’m talking to you! ☺

See you next week!

Yours in pickiness,


37 responses so far

Jun 05 2011


Published by under Travel

Greetings, Cool Peeps:

“Beam me up, Scotty.”

Oh, how I wish what worked for Captain Kirk would work for me.

Today I’m going to talk about traveling: the good, the bad, and the ugly. My favorite part about trippin’ is arriving at my destination. Everything in between usually stresses me out.

Does anyone like to pack? Have you ever taken a trip when you used exactly what you calculated you would need, no more, no less? Even if I’m taking a quick jaunt for business, I never get it right. If I fly somewhere on vacation, forget about it. I’ll have way more of everything I don’t need and then have to run out and buy (if I can find it) whatever I neglected to pack.

What really burns me is when I forget things like the charger for my electronic devices. A charger is something you totally cannot do without, and you do not want to buy a new one just for a freakin’ day or two.

Of special fun for me is trying to make sure my suitcase doesn’t weigh over fifty pounds. My hair stuff, hair dryer, Jimmy Choos, and assorted beauty products weigh that much. I neither want to pay a charge for overweight luggage nor sit on the airport floor, sobbing, as I go through my suitcase and try to figure out what I can discard or throw into my overstuffed carry-on. And I don’t even want to talk about security.

Do you know why my hair is shoulder length? Because when I had long hair it used to get caught under the shoulder straps of my luggage or heavy purse. As many of you long-haired peeps know, having a shoulder strap pull your hair, jerking your head to one side, is not a pleasant experience. Shoulder welts are not pretty, either.

Let me move right along to the greatest bane of my traveling life: flying in freakin’ coach. Really, why not just chain me to the wing and pull me along at five or six hundred miles per hour? At the very least, it would cure my cabin fever-slash-claustrophobia.

Peeps, I have to say it: if you recline your seats in coach, there is a special place in hell for you. Even people of moderate height know there is no legroom to be had. You have to be a contortionist just to get stuff out of your bag that is placed under the seat in front of you. Nothing fun about it. Which is why you do not need the jerk in the seat in front of you to freakin’ recline, smacking you in the knees and completely restricting your access to whatever you’ve carried on. And what is the grand prize for such insane rudeness – an extra inch? That extra inch will never give you as much comfort as it will give another pain. Karma is a bitch. Just remember that. Do not recline in coach. Just don’t do it.

If I have to fly, give me a window seat. At least I can get a glimpse of what it’s like to float above the clouds; there’s something magical about it. And I can rest my head against the wall and drift off to sleep.

I have just one little issue. Why is it that every time I really need to use the restroom, it’s during refreshment time when the peeps in the middle and aisle seats have their tray tables lowered with drinks on them? I don’t like to ask people to move, so I wait until the imbibing and munching are over. I’m nice that way. The only problem is that by then, half the plane wants to use the restroom. And if the line weren’t long enough, the captain will invariably come on and tell us that they’re going through some turbulence and that passengers must return to their seats and secure all seat belts. Oh yeah, and restore all trays to an upright position.

Why can’t Scotty just beam us all up? How about you, cool peeps; what are your favorite and least favorite parts of traveling?

See you next week,

Yours in pickiness,


24 responses so far

May 29 2011


Published by under Humor

Greetings, Cool Peeps:

You know, there isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t think about how technology has vastly changed the way we do everything. I won’t even try to give a brief mention to everything (both positive and negative) that has come from a recent technological advance. So, I just have one question: with all of the “stuff” that has been invented, why hasn’t someone figured out how to make a rewind button?

Do you know how many miserable situations could just be avoided if we could hit REWIND and go back even five seconds in time – even two? Think about the car accidents alone that could be avoided. Now that would be amazing.

But I don’t want to get too heady here. I’m just thinking about my life and about all the times when just a five-second rewind would go a really long way.

Even if you haven’t done it yourself, most of us know someone who has chatted up either a female acquaintance or stranger with the words, “So, when is your baby due?” only to receive the mortifying response, “I’m not pregnant.” Those are the moments when you either want the universe to zap you into oblivion or the ground to swallow you whole.

A friend of mine, Dina, recently ran into a former co-worker, Caleb, on the street. She smiled at the woman by his side and pleasantly said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Caleb tried to say, “I don’t think that’s possible,” but Dina enthusiastically babbled on to stranger. “Oh, but Caleb used to talk about his mom all the time. He said Mother’s Day was invented just for you. And that you make the best cherry pie ever.”

And then the earth fell silent. The woman shot rays of poison at Dina and Caleb atrophied where he stood. Finally, just as the Tin Man managed to mumble “Oil Can” in the “Wizard of Oz,” Caleb mumbled, “This is my wife, Sarah, Dina.” Is that not a total duh-you-moron-rewind moment?

TV and radio shows have seven-second delays for a reason. People, including yours truly, make mistakes.

One of the worst rewind moments ever is sending an email to the wrong person. Have you ever gotten an email which you didn’t realize was sent to multiple recipients, and without realizing it, you send a personal response to everyone? That is horrific. But it gets worse.

Once, I was in a situation where I needed to warn a friend about a recent former friend who had just stabbed me in the back. Because I was still fuming over the betrayal, I chose the backstabber’s name, and not the name of my current friend, from my email list. The MOMENT I hit “Send,” that horrific, paralyzing, sinking feeling of dread overwhelmed my senses. “ARE YOU FREAKIN’ kidding me?” I screamed to the universe. I suffered for two days, waiting for payback.

A week later, I ran into the backstabber on the street. She looked right at me and said, “Molly, I deleted your email. I have no interest in any apologies you make to me.”

Normally, I would have read her the riot act, and been very clear that no apologies were ever made to someone who had done wrong to me. (Tried to steal my boyfriend!) But I didn’t care. I had been saved.

There are all kinds of rewind moments. When I kindly hold a door open for someone who does not acknowledge me, or let someone in traffic who does not wave thanks, I often wish I could rewind and take back my kindness. But then again, I wonder. Isn’t it a better world when we put our best out there, whether or not the kindness is returned?

What about you, cool peeps? How often do you wish your life had a rewind button?

See you next week.

Yours in pickiness,


24 responses so far

May 22 2011


Published by under Children

Greetings, Cool Peeps:

Yes, I want to get married. And yes, believe it or not, I want to have children. When I was in high school, I had lots of babysitting jobs; it was a great way to enjoy the company of children and earn money.

But now I’m older. I adore kids, but I am too old to babysit. Just as I don’t want to attend any weddings until I have my own, I don’t want to babysit for any kids until I have my own.

About six years ago, I ran into a high school classmate here in Swansea. She had gotten married right out of high school (even I didn’t want to do that) and had three kids by the time she was twenty-three. When I saw her, she looked absolutely frazzled. She was pregnant with her fourth, taking her three-year-old twins to the doctor, and the babysitter at home had just called to say she had a family situation and couldn’t stay.

“Oh, Molly, I just live five minutes away from here, on Devonshire. Could you stay with Benjamin until I get home? I’ll only be an hour. You would be saving my life!”

I’m a nice person. How could I say no to saving a friend’s life? So I went to her house, relieved the anxious babysitter, and said hello to Benjamin, her five-year-old whom I’d met several times before.

The teenager on duty had informed me that it was Benjamin’s bath time and that she had just drawn a bubble bath for the grassy-kneed, mud-covered child. Wasting no time, I took Ben upstairs (I so had not bargained for that) only to find that in his effort to help the babysitter, he had poured out half a bottle of bubbles into the running water. The freakin’ bathtub was overflowing. The bubbles were everywhere.

My horror was no match for Benjamin’s delight. That’s right. De-freakin’-lighted. Before I knew it, the fully clothed child began splashing water and bubbles all over his clothing and his face. Then, he jumped in the tub and submerged himself in water. And then I saw him go “gulp!” And then another “gulp!”

“Oh, Benjamin,” I said, in utter mortification, pulling him out of the tub. “You’ve swallowed bubbles!”

The child looked around the bathroom, assessing the situation and wanting to reassure me all was well. “Don’t worry, Molly,” he said, looking at the bubbles that now covered the floor. “There’s still lots left.”

The inner me screamed, and I told Benjamin we would have to drain the tub and clean the bathroom and start all over again. Cleaning the bathroom, redrawing the bath, and washing Ben without clothes took forty-five minutes. No sign of his mother. Just as Ben was finishing his bath, she finally called. I was thrilled.

“Hi, Molly. Everything okay? The doctor had a hospital emergency, so he’s just seeing patients now. You don’t mind staying with Benjamin for another hour, do you?”

I wasn’t happy, but karma being the bitch that it is, I thought I might score some points with the cosmos by playing the happy camper.

Determined to be a stellar role model to this bubbly child in his mother’s absence, I explained to him that after he got out of the tub and dressed, we would wash his soaking wet clothes because you should only put dry clothing into a hamper.

After Ben was finally toweled dry, he told me that he wanted to use the toilet by himself. I gave him his privacy and told him I’d just be in the next room if he needed me.

I went into the den and sat down. This wasn’t so bad. I would enjoy being a mother some day.

“Molly!” came the scream. “The toilet threw up!”

Benjamin, after doing his business, had decided to surprise me by washing his wet clothing—in the toilet. For all of our sakes, I will not describe in graphic detail. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

I know, peeps, I’m lame. I’ll toughen up when I have my own. I’m sure of it.

So, make me feel like a real duh-you-moron wimp. Tell me your crazy kid stories. I can take it.

10 responses so far

May 15 2011


Published by under Dating

Greetings, Cool Peeps:

As many of my regular readers know, in addition to my job as features reporter, I write obituaries for the Swansea Herald. Writing obituaries is a very sad thing to do. I have always believed that one of our greatest common fears, as human beings, is losing those we love and having to go on without them. There’s no joy in hearing sad news or having to write about it, but it is satisfying to pay tribute to those who have departed.

Writing obituaries is also preferable to being the paper’s society reporter and having to write about other people’s weddings.

In this week’s blog, however, I take great pleasure in the obituary I am about to write – the obituary of the blind date.

The blind date has died. It succumbed to a slow death from natural causes that were years in the making. The blind date is survived by its brother, Online Dating, who appears to be thriving.

The blind date was at the height of its popularity before I ever knew what a detestable thing it was, back in the prehistoric, pre-personal-computer age. Usually, one person, who knew two parties who didn’t know each other, decided that said parties should meet. Quite often, the person/matchmaker/she-devil who set up these often ghastly (but yes, sometimes successful) hook-ups, would be brimming with confidence about the potential for lifelong happiness between the two not-so-certain parties.

Let me put it this way: just because I like a certain type of music and said man likes it, too, that does NOT mean we are compatible. Money does not make me fall for a man, nor does the matchmaker’s perception of his good looks. But, nobody ever wants to hear the “loads of personality” line. You just know that anyone described as having “loads of personality” is never going to be a match.

Blind dates were just that: blind. Often, you would simply double date with the matchmaker and meet the unknown person in the presence of others. As if such a meeting weren’t awkward enough, both parties would have to contend with such nonsense such as: “Biff, did you know Buffy wants to learn to ski?” “Buffy, Biff is an excellent skier.” (*hint hint*) Did you know you both have really stupid names?

The blind date was born in an era where photos could not be emailed. If anything, you had no more to go on than the voice on the other end of the phone. You were often coerced into these dates, or at best, accepted an offer for one out of desperation. Ugh, what a ghastly notion.

Physical chemistry is huge. Not everyone wants the standard calendar pin-up person, but we want our version of him or her. ABC’s now-defunct summer series, “Dating in The Dark,” was very much based on this premise. Three men and three women met in the dark, dated, then chose who they wanted to see “revealed.” It was quite interesting to see how each contestant’s interest waned or increased once seeing their love interest in the light.

The blind date will be remembered by all of the people who pore over the profiles of others online, exchanging emails, hoping that there will be enough of a connection to make their own date. While the traditional blind date is dead, the shock and horror of meeting a person who is nothing like you expected is very much alive. “Your profile photo was taken when? 1996? Oh, I see.” “Well, we all gain sixty pounds over time.” “Oh, so that wasn’t your photo? Whatever made you think I wouldn’t like the real you?” “Oh, so you need a green card to stay in the country?” “How long have you been into taxidermy?” “No, to the contrary, I loved hearing about your ex.”

There will be no services for the blind date because too many reasonable facsimiles of it still exist.

Tell me, cool peeps, what do you think of blind and online dating?

See you next week.

Yours in pickiness,


Molly Hacker Is Too Picky! – A romantic comedy – Now on sale .99 on Kindle, BN, and all major ebook venues.

15 responses so far

May 08 2011


Published by under Humor

Greetings, Cool Peeps:

“You may please (or deceive) all of the people part of the time, and part of the people all of the time, but not all the people all of the time,” is a quote commonly attributed to Abe Lincoln, yet it has also been attributed to P.T. Barnum, the poet John Lydgate, and Mark Twain. I don’t think there is really any solid evidence to prove who said it.

But really, does it matter who said it? Not here and now. What does matter is that whichever of these men came up with it, if any, he was right. There is nothing that exists in this world that everyone will love, whether it be a person, a painting, a book, a movie, or someone’s sense of humor.

Humor is a funny thing, no pun intended. I find that the more I like a man, the more likely I am to laugh at his humor. Not always, but that’s just been my observation. In this blog, I’m going to tell you about the humor of some men I’ve known. And this time around, I’m not going to tell you what, if anything, was funny to me. I’ll see if you cool peeps can figure it out.

The first man on my list is John Doe. After several high school classmates found him on Facebook, John wondered about the other ones. After spending quite some time searching for more, he became frustrated with his poor results. So, what did John do? Well, for every classmate with a fairly common name whom he couldn’t find, he friended a stranger with the exact same name. In fact, he found twenty-three people who had the same name as his former classmates but who were not his classmates. When the classmates who were already on his page saw the new additions, a great number of them friended those they thought were their long-lost classmates, too. What ensued was great confusion, some actual new friendships made, and a great big belly laugh for John that still has him rolling in the aisles. John is planning a similar scenario for his former company of employment. Is this funny, peeps?

Let me tell you about Christopher. One day, while walking down the street, he passed a church. Looking up the steps, he saw the bride in her flowing white dress, waiting nervously for the ceremony to begin. Rushing up the steps, Christopher ran up to the bride-to-be, grabbed her shoulders, and said, “Oh, for the love of God, don’t do it! Don’t do it!” Then, with a smile, he walked down the steps and went on his merry way.

Then, there was a guy I’ll call Mr. Geography. He liked to talk about “phallic locations” and tell me interesting facts about them. What’s a phallic location? According to Mr. Geography, Norway, Florida, and Italy, to name three. Tell me, peeps, do you think this is a thigh slapper?

Lastly, there’s a guy I’ll call Mr. X. When we first met, he told me he loved phone sex. When I replied that I found such info to be totally TMI, he told me to check my email for some great photos of phone sex. Sure enough, here’s what he sent me.

So, tell me, peeps, what is funny to you? Does your idea of funny change, depending on who the comedian is?

See you next week!

Yours in pickiness,


12 responses so far

May 01 2011


Published by under Lifestyle & Values

Greetings, Cool Peeps:

Aren’t sun umbrellas, or parasols if you will, lovely? They’re so feminine and quaint. Some are works of art in themselves, while some are painted in works of art. Like this famous painting by Georges Seurat.

I’m a big advocate of using sunscreen. My moisturizer has SPF in it, and I do not want the sun’s harmful rays causing damage to my skin, giving me skin cancer, or aging me prematurely.

Swansea, my hometown, is filled with over-tanned, deep-fried peeps who maintain their bronzy look all year round. When they’re not catching rays directly from the sun, they head over to the nearest salon to bake in those coffins with lights that some people call tanning beds. Of course, one of the most egregious offenders is Naomi Hall-Benchley, the She-Devil. She maintains her tan just to look good for the cameras that capture her image regularly for the society columns. She is always posing and always tanning, thus explaining why the girls at the salon call her the “glazed ham.” Oh, am I being catty? I hadn’t noticed. Anyway, I’m never sure what will crack first: her façade or her face. Moving right along . . .

I am a woman who wants to preserve her skin. I’ll do what is necessary. If I have to wear a sun hat, I’ll find a stylish one and put it on my head. (Yes, I’ll risk having hat hair later.) But peeps, are you listening? You will never see me walking down the streets with a sun umbrella. Are you freakin’ kidding me? The only umbrella I will ever use is the kind made to repel raindrops from fallin’ on my head.

If you use a sun umbrella, please forgive my rant. I know they’re perfectly accessible and utilitarian for some peeps, just not yours truly. Listen, I freak out if I see a parasol in my drink. But then again, I’m a wine drinker, so that assault to my sensibilities is a rarity. I’m just not into tiki tikis or mai tais. And, gosh, if a man is into those kinds of drinks, I’m probably not gonna be into him, either. Just sayin’.

Let me get back to Seurat’s painting. You don’t have to be an art expert to notice that the women are wearing bustles. Holy big butt, Batman! There’s a reason these nifty accessories turned at the corner of Obsolescence Lane and No Freakin’ Way, rarely to be seen again. For the same reason you never see advertisements for thigh enhancements. Duh.

Trust me, if there had been a McDonald’s back in the day, no one on the Seine River’s La Grande Jatte would have needed a bustle.

Just because something exists doesn’t mean we should use it. Let me whisper two words in your ear: pocket protector. No, make it three: FREAKIN’ POCKET PROTECTOR. Thought they were dead and buried?

So did I, until I saw three men in one month using them. Then I Googled them. They’re for sale everywhere, alive and well in the digital age.

Unless you’re a card-carrying (and proud of it) spazz, get rid of that stupid piece of plastic you’re putting in your shirt pocket to protect it from those cheap pens you use.

Just as I suggest that women find alternatives for sun umbrellas, I suggest men do the same for pocket protectors. Have you noticed that the men with the most expensive, tailor-made shirts are the least likely to ever wear a pocket protector? Ladies, when have you seen a really hot guy with a pocket protector? Probably the last time you saw oil and water mix.

So peeps, what do you think of sun umbrellas and pocket protectors? What other products in existence do you think should say goodbye to humanity?

See you next week.

Yours in pickiness,


12 responses so far

Apr 24 2011


Published by under Lifestyle & Values

Greetings, Cool Peeps:

While many people color me picky, I think of being picky as being aware of the world around me. I not only pay attention to the actions and habits of fellow human beings, especially those in my orbit, but also think a lot about this crazy kaleidoscopic world we live in and how color is such a part of our lives.

Take a look at these beautiful fabrics. What do they say to you? (Yeah, I know, cloth doesn’t talk, but humor me while I’ll appreciate the beauty around me.)

These pink-red colors (fuschia, magenta, and friends) would make super-hot cocktail dresses and gowns, don’t you think? Trust me, as much as I love clothing, I do have a brain capable of producing thoughts having nothing to do with fashion. These stunning fabrics boast the colors of raspberry sherbet, sunsets, valentines, bubblegum, flowers, passion, blood, and little girls dressed as princesses.

Holy freakin’ cornball, Batman. Has Molly gone totally Julie Andrews on us? What next? Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens? Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens?

Listen, cool tweeps. Every rose I’ve ever received has ended up in a vase in my apartment. Therefore, if there are any raindrops on my roses, there’s a hole in the roof of my freakin’ apartment and I am not happy. Warm woolen mittens? I think not. Who can answer a phone or text with a big woolly mitt on her hands? Or take a credit card out of her wallet? Or drink a cup of coffee? There is a reason your car has a glove compartment and not a mitten compartment.

And while I’m ranting, let me just say that if the dog bites, the bee stings, or I’m freakin’ bummed out about my love life, I promise you, mittens will not cheer me up. That said, I really do like Julie Andrews.

I’m rambling. Time to refocus. Back to colors.

I love yellow. These rich colors remind me of the moon on romantic nights, sunshine lighting up the world around me, bananas, daffodils in spring, and butter. Fattening, one-hundred-calories-a-tablespoon, thigh-building butter.

Moving right along. Here are some more colors to ponder.

Ah, green and blue. What could be more beautiful than the colors of the grass and the color of sky? While blue can mean a sad state of mind, blue skies indicate happiness and good fortune. Green. Seriously, what a cool color. It’s synonymous with money, environmental health, healing, inexperience, and salad. And yes, it is the color of jealousy. The green-eyed monster will disinvite you to a party because you are thinner than she is or gossip about you because you have something that she wants and can’t have. Being envious is being human, but jealousy is ugly. When a woman’s head revolves 360 degrees like Regan, Linda Blair’s character in The Exorcist, and she spews forth split pea soup, I’m telling you, she needs to find a new color. Green should be a fetching color, not a retching one.

And then there is white. The color of snow, vanilla ice cream, summer fashion, Santa’s beard, virginity (*clears throat*), and, most importantly, the stupendously perfect wedding dress I will someday wear as I walk down the aisle with a stupendously perfect (for me) man.

Color is everywhere. It defines our world. There are gazillions of colors, each one more beautiful than the next. Everywhere we look.

So, as I think about the colors that make Mother Nature the most talented artist ever, why with so many colors and hues to choose from, do so many of us seem to have the same favorite?

Basic freakin’ black.

What are your favorite colors, peeps, and more importantly, how do they define your world?

See you next week,

Yours in pickiness,


14 responses so far

Apr 17 2011


Published by under Lifestyle & Values

Greetings, Cool Peeps:

I like to tell it like it is. Of course, my truth might not be the next person’s truth, but I try to be true to myself and to humanity in general. Okay, you say. What is she freakin’ talking about?

Sorry, not trying to go philosophical on you. I’m just having one of those crazy overanalytical days. Today, I’m thinking about honesty. Is it a sin to tell a lie? Aren’t “white lies” a good thing in most cases?

Let me start with some simple stuff. Recently, I was on a shopping trip with one of my BFFs. We were in the department store when she asked me, “Molly, what do think about this dress?”

Take a look at it, peeps. What do you think of this dress? What do you think I think of this dress? There is a very good reason it was on the discount rack. While I have bought many cool items at a mega discount, this item in question would not be filed under “cool bargains.”

Since my friend was only considering the dress, I told her the truth. “Um, no. Not diggin’ it. Why don’t we keep looking for something a bit more fashion forward?”

Now, had we been at a party, had the dress been bought and hanging from her body, my answer to that question would have been different. I would not have claimed to adore it, but what would have been the point of being one hundred percent truthful in such a situation?

Little in life is black or white. I think we’re all enigmatic creatures with different rules for different occasions. Moi? Well, like most people, I do not like being lied to. Puh-leeze. Tell me the truth. Especially if you are a man and I am dating you. Moving right along.

Yes, there are occasions when I’ve actually gotten a bit tweaked when people have told me the truth. For example, one night I was meeting a gal pal for dinner at a local straunt. After forty-five minutes went by, she was a no-show. She wasn’t answering her phone. I was really freaking out about what might have happened to her. After being almost an hour late, she just strolled in and with a half-hearted apology, sat down and announced she needed a drink.

“I was so worried about you!” I told her. “You only live ten minutes from here. I couldn’t imagine what happened to you.”

“Oh, Molly,” shewhoshallnotbenamed said. “Jennifer called just as I was leaving home. She was so insistent that I hear all the dirt about her ex and his new paramour. You know Jen is a total motormouth. I couldn’t shut her up!”

Okay, peeps, here’s where yours truly has a little bitty teeny weenie HUGE freakin’ problem! Don’t leave someone waiting for an hour, worrying about you, just to find out that you were on the horn with Ms. Gabbermouth. Tell me that Ms. Gabbermouth was ready to jump off a cliff and you had to save her. Tell me something so I’m not totally pissed that you kept me waiting and didn’t think I mattered. But more than that, tell whoever it might be that you have got to go. Remind me to write an obituary on bad manners.
Am I ranting? I’ll try to calm myself down.

Lastly today, I want to give a brief mention to those situations where a white lie is kind, but yet being too kind can backfire on you. When my parents started dating, my mom took my dad home to meet her parents. Wanting to impress, my dad was not about to express his extreme dislike for the asparagus casserole with creamed mushroom soup and cornflakes that my grandma served on their first meeting. A firm believer in the white lie, my dad raved like freakin’ crazy about my grandma’s dish. He could have just politely eaten as little as possible, but no, he had to wax rhapsodic to the BS degree.

And if you haven’t already figured it out, that was the first of hundreds of goopy asparagus casseroles that my dad has been eating for thirty-five years.

This is only a blog, so I’m not going to dissertate, though the subject of truth and lies is one close to my heart. I’d love to hear your stories about lies, white lies, and everything else inbetween.

See you next week.

Yours in pickiness,


14 responses so far

Apr 10 2011


Published by under Out and About With Molly

Greetings, cool peeps:

Most people don’t wake up thinking to themselves, “Today I’m going to think about signs.” Unless you’re a sign maker, an astrologer, or a person getting ready to test for your driver’s license, it’s doubtful you’d have that thought.

Signs are a huge part of our everyday lives, both the tangible and the intangible ones. Those of us looking for love don’t like to acknowledge the signs that our potential soul mate is not really into us, such as: forgetting our name, forgetting our date, and forgetting our existence. Those are the duh-you-moron-get-it-now signs, but there are more subtle signs, like those we pick up with a faraway glance, a change in voice inflection, or an apathetic response to a loving gesture.

There are, of course, astrological signs. I used to dig astrology until I graduated from high school and began meeting men in public haunts. “What’s your sign?” unless expressly relevant in a conversation, is a sign in itself that you need to run to the nearest EXIT, or better yet, point the asker in the direction of one. Anyone who uses that as an opening line has nothing to say and I promise, doesn’t know squat about astrology, anyway. After meeting my fill of whats-your-signers, my sign became STOP. Just stop.

I always love it when I’m traveling on the interstate and see this one.

Every time I see the SOFT SHOULDER sign, I expect to see some poor soul sitting along the side of the road with someone sobbing heavily onto his or her very wet shoulder.

And every time I see this sign, I have the same reaction.

Yeah, I slow down my car, but still I expect to see my last bad date standing on the road ahead.

Signs are everywhere. Sometimes it’s important to double up on them in case you don’t get the idea the first time around. Like right here. I’m wondering why there isn’t a third sign: “NO, WE REALLY DO NOT WANT YOU TO GO LEFT.”

Then there are signs that leave you scratching your head. Like this one I saw in a parking garage.

What do they mean by MONTHLY EXIT? I’m serious, peeps, who stays in a freakin’ parking garage for a month?

Here’s a masterpiece from the pharmacy.

Get a flu shot and get a chance to win a gift. I’m guessing that getting a flu shot one place is as good as another. But let’s get real: I’m not going to get mine in the pharmacy just to “get a chance to win a gift.” Whose brilliant brainchild was this? WTF do I “get a chance” to win? Do I care? Do flu shots and gifts even go together? I think not!

Here’s a charming sign.

BAIL BONDS. ANY JAIL. ANY TIME. Chances are that if you are really in need of this service, you’re probably not going to see this sign at the optimal time. But it’s good to know places like this exist. Any jail, any time. That certainly gives me comfort.

I love this charming sign.

Why is this sign in the middle of BFE? This important warning should be mass-produced and hung on every establishment where people meet one another. I’m guessing this sign isn’t about the same kinds of snakes and serpents I meet at happy hour. But that would be a totally rad idea!

And last, I’ll leave you with this sign, and a warning to read carefully. If you don’t, you might be very disappointed.

So tell me, cool peeps, what are your favorite signs?

See you next week.

Yours in pickiness,


17 responses so far

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