Greetings, Cool Peeps:

So, tell me, do you think about food a lot? What to eat, what not to eat, what you want to eat, when you’re going to eat, what other people are eating?

Last night, I was out with friends at a local restaurant. As has happened on previous occasions, it was time to order dessert and I declined.

“Oh, Molly,” shewhoshallnotbenamed said. “You are so slender. What do you have to worry about?”

“Well, if I ate this carrot cake, I’d have 1575 calories and 84 grams of fat to worry about. That’s over six hours of walking just to burn off the calories. It takes me fifteen minutes twice a day to walk from my apartment to my job. According to my approximate calculations, it would take over two weeks of freakin’ perambulation just to get back to square one. So, please excuse me if I pass!”

I enjoy food as much as most people do, but, yeah, I watch what I eat. And I watch what I don’t eat. I watch people chowing down on all kinds of things on my verboten list. I eat vicariously if need be.

There are always occasions when I do treat myself. But I factor those treats in. Math wizard I’m not. I probably would have gotten better grades in high school math class if they had taught us how to count calories.

It is important to indulge from time to time. Never being allowed to have something makes us crave it all the more. But one thing I have learned is that while our job gives us vacation days, our body does not.

I have never known my body to say, “Hey, Molly, today’s your birthday, girlfriend. Enjoy that slab of barbecued ribs, that creamy coleslaw, and those humongoid steak fries. Have a piece of cake for a week until it’s all gone. They’re ‘birthday calories’ so they won’t count. Not only does your body not recognize your birthday, but it also does not recognize your friends’ and family’s birthdays, the holidays, your job promotion, or any other “special occasion.” You don’t get a pass. You just have to be cognizant of what you’re consuming and how you’re working it off. And that isn’t always easy.

Magic doesn’t work where food is concerned. Let me ask you, cool peeps: have you ever been hungry, gone to your fridge to find almost nothing, then returned to it numerous times in hopes that it would magically fill up with the desired sustenance? Guilty! Have you ever finished a bottle of wine and then turned it upside down in hopes that another glass worth would come pouring out? Guilty!

I love to eat. On most days, I brown bag it to work so I can eat what is good for me and be kind to my figure. Because my lifestyle has me going to local straunts a lot, I’ve had to become super calorie savvy. Seriously, have you ever Googled the calorie counts from your fave straunt or food? They’re eye-popping!

An order of chimichangas at your favorite Mexican eatery is in the neighborhood of 3,536 calories. Holy guacamole, Batman!

And last but not least, most of us who do count calories have had that precious moment when we say, “Ah, 400 calories, that’s not so bad.” Then, after we snarf down whatever it is, our eye catches one last bit of information: 10 servings! Egad!

Bon appétit!

See you next week.

Yours in pickiness,

Molly

Tags: calories, chimichangas, counting calories, eating out

Greetings, Cool Peeps:

Meet my boy, Captain Jack. Isn’t he beautiful? No, he’s not an aspiring flutist. Though he may appear to be in Pied Piper mode, perhaps attracting some rats to play with, he’s really just a boy with a stick. He’s solely an indoor cat, but this was his one outdoor adventure, taken about a year ago when we were visiting a friend’s estate.

Jack is fiercely loyal to me. He is very circumspect about the men in my life and will often hiss his displeasure to anyone who rubs him the wrong way or whom he perceives is trying to usurp his place in my heart.

We love watching TV together, especially old movies. I like the ones in full-screen format, while Jack prefers the “litter box” format. One thing on which we both agree is that black-and-white movies should be just that: black and white. In a colorized movie we watched recently, the heroine’s cat was kind of a dusty rose color with a tangerine face. That was the night Jack’s hackles went up and he put his paw down. No more fake color.

A lot of people think cats are color-blind, so you may not be so inclined to believe that Jack would care about such an issue as the colorizing of vintage films. Cats, however, do have an ability to distinguish shades of blue and green, or so I’m told. So there you have it. Moving right along…

Food. That’s something else Jack and I both love. He always wants what I eat, but I can’t (Ewwww!) say the same goes for me. The other day, I was telling my coworker/BFF Randy that Jack’s favorite canned food is the tuna with shrimp.

“And you know that how, Molly Rose?” Randy asked.

“He’s my boy, I just know it.”

“But how do you know it?” Randy persisted. “Does he eat it at a greater velocity than those other delightful flavors you serve him?”

“He snarfs everything at equal speed.”

“So, you are making this statement based solely on what is most palatable to you.” Randy observed.

“You’ve got a point,” I said. “But I think ‘least distasteful to me’ might be a better way of saying it.”

“Different words; same brilliant observation—of mine!” Randy said, snapping his finger victoriously.

He does have a point. As humans, we do tend to judge the tastiness of our pets’ meals by our own palate.

That evening, after talking with Randy, I decided I would photograph the next two meals that I served Jack. I wanted to see what you, dear readers, think of Jack’s beloved grub. Which dish (if either) looks better to you? Let me state right here that cats just love it when instead of placing their food on the floor, you get out your freakin’ camera and photograph it from different angles.

If you ever want to hear a cat meow “WTF?” try it.

Okay, so here’s Jackie’s liver and chicken meal. Not so appetizing.

Now take a look at his tuna with shrimp meal. Looks a tad bit more like “people food,” but I can’t say I’m going to be eating tuna or shrimp for quite a while. I don’t know why, I’ve just lost my taste for them.

See you next week.

Yours in pickiness,

Molly

Tags: appealing cat food, black and white movies, cats seeing color, colorizing films, letter box format, Pied Piper

Hello, Cool People!

Thanks for visiting me this week.

I’m the first to admit that I can turn things and people inside out trying to understand them. That’s not only the reporter in me, but also the student of human nature. I’m working toward my doctorate in understanding my fellow human beings, especially men, but so far, I don’t even have my bachelor’s. Yup, I think a whole lot about bachelors, especially eligible ones.

While I’m guilty of being overanalytical, and, yes, picky, to me, that also means I look carefully at everything. The world and the people in it provide much to critique, but there is often a positive side to everything. So, this week, I present you with Molly’s Top Five List for Making Lemonade Outta Lemons.

#5: It sux to have the flu.
Who wants to lie in bed sweating out a fever or sneezing your way through a box of Kleenex until you look like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer doped up on Theraflu? If you’re anything like me, and that would be ridiculously busy, you’re always feeling guilty for not doing something: working out, cleaning your home, or breaking your back getting through all the stuff on your desk. So, when I’m sick, I consider it a guilt-free ticket to being self-indulgent, enjoying some long-needed sleep, snuggling with my cat, and watching whatever I want on TV. It’s not a day at the spa, but I kick guilt in the butt and make the most out of it. Chillax, peeps!

#4: It sux to get a gift that you absolutely detest.
On a recent birthday, my great-aunt in New Hampshire sent me a two-sizes-too-large pair of lavender pajamas. Trust me, people, even if they had been tailor-made to fit me, I wouldn’t have wanted my sheets to see me dressed in this shiny ensemble. The large green buttons screamed “clown,” and the PJs were a frightful assault on my fashion sensibilities. But they were expensive. Someone liked them enough to design and manufacture them. And oddly enough, they were hot sellers.

What’s a girl to do? Regift, that’s what. The following weekend, I went to Swansea Memorial, told the nurses I had a super present for the right person, and was escorted to the room of a long-term patient in a ratty gown who was beyond ecstatic to meet me and receive the lavender ensemble. Had I never received that deplorable gift, I never would have thought to give joy to a stranger and receive even more in return.

#3: It sux bad when friends are not who we thought they were.
Nobody goes through this life without losing a friend. Without losing several. No matter how freakin’ awesome we are, stuff just happens with people. Sometimes we walk away, sometimes it’s mutual, and sometimes people walk away on us. It hurts. But it’s difficult to comprehend when someone, whether male or female, turns out to be very different from the person we thought we knew.

Consider it a blessing. Revelations hurt, but they can also rock n’ roll. You learn from them; you save yourself from investing more of yourself with the person, and, most importantly, you save big buckaroonies on future birthday and holiday gifts.

#2: It sux when jealousy causes people to lash out or leave us.
Along these same lines, it’s sad when jealousy destroys people. Who hasn’t lost a friend because that person was jealous of our success, looks, dreams, desires, or other friends? What to do? Start by figuring out why that person was jealous of you. Take whatever positive quality you have, and know that even if it turned one person away for the wrong reasons, you can inspire and make another happy by gifting them with it. Hang with the peeps who appreciate you. Look around you; you’ll find them.

#1: It sux to have a hot prospect that doesn’t pan out.
Okay, so maybe my priorities are a bit out of whack. Maybe #2 and #3 are really more important in the bigger scheme of things. But at this stage of my life, I’m searching for the right man. And you, cool peeps, might be searching for the right man or woman of your dreams. If they don’t pan out, take it from me. Pass ‘em on (be nice now!). Just remember: every pot has a lid. And for those who are happily partnered, married, or significant-otherized, keep in mind that your special someone was probably once someone else’s bad date. Even me.

That’s a wrap. I’d love to hear your “lemonade” stories. Got a good one?

Yours in pickniness:

Molly

Tags: friends, friendships, jealousy, lemonade, lemons, regifting, unwanted gifts

Greetings Cool People:

This week I’m going to say a few words about those brave women of yore.

My grandmother used to tell me that life was a lot simpler in her day and in days of yore.

“How so?” I would challenge her.

“Molly, women didn’t have the worries of the world on their shoulders. They didn’t have to work. They led a simpler and more refined life that centered around raising their children and enjoying all that went with being a lady.”

“But Grams, isn’t maintaining a house and taking care of kids a whole lot of work? What’s ladylike about cleaning? And what if a woman wanted to have a job?”

That was usually about where the conversation would end. My grandmother and I loved one another and agreed we were from entirely different planets. The irony of this was that my grandmother used to have this old advertisement proudly hanging in her kitchen.

I ask you: Does this woman look happy? Do you see any joy radiating from her face? Does she represent the epitome of “a lady” to you? Could life get any more fun than standing by a wash basin with what appears to be a giant toilet plunger smushing the clothes? This poor woman looks positively catatonic. And she probably has a girdle squeezing her guts in.

And what is the name of this delightful contraption she is working? Why, it’s “The Little Joker.” It calls for “Mothers, Wives, and Daughters” to “take courage.” It was designed by MEN for “frail women” to use, thereby helping them to avoid “weary aching limbs, sickness, suffering, and death caused by over-work, exposure and colds.” Holy misogynist, Batman! If washing clothing did all that for women, why in the world didn’t the men lend a helping hand?

Really it’s tough enough being a woman of this generation.

This might be the perfect place to mention my theory about why men get down on one knee to propose. Mind you, this is only my opinion, but I believe that men began doing THIS:

Because it symbolically represented that their wives-to-be would spend the rest of their lives doing this:

Love you, guys! Just having fun.

Yours in pickiness,

Molly

Tags: old-fashioned women, washing basins, women of yore

Greetings Picky Ones:

I suppose there are women who really love to date. Considering the number of men I have met and dated, one would presume that I enjoy it as well. While, of course, it can be quite palatable at times, it can also suck up more precious time than any activity known to womankind. It is a means to an end. I love being in a relationship. Dating? Not so much.

My first experience with dating was when my Barbie dated my Ken. But as we all know, Ken has no genitals and so that was a pretty safe bet, for Barbie. I have had to be far more careful.

The first man to ever make my hormones rage was Tony. Beautiful dark-haired, athletic, sensitive, gorgeous Tony. But when he married the school’s prettiest cheerleader, Victoria, right after high school, I forced myself to move ahead. That’s when I met Mr. Charisma, Jim: the player. I busted him on our third date when he showed up an hour and a half late with “bed hair.” I wasn’t terribly familiar with “bed hair” at nineteen, but when I saw his shirt was buttoned incorrectly and smudged with honey beige foundation, I kind of knew he had been somewhere first. (Yes, I’m wickedly observant. Duh!)

On the flip side, I briefly dated a guy in college named Buddy (the most common dog name in the country, I think), and he was the opposite of Jim. Buddy wanted me to think that women everywhere were clamoring for him. On our second and last date, he purposely made sure I overheard his end of a phone conversation in which he was telling a woman that he just had to let her go, he had found his soul mate in me. He blathered on for a good ten minutes and I would have almost believed it had his phone not rang when he was fake talking on it. He looked mortified and told his mother he’d have to call her back.

Ah, and then there was Chuck. Boyishly charming and the son of a family friend. While going through a desperate-to-be-domestic stage, I invited the Chuckster for a gourmet dinner using my grandmother’s brass candelabrum as the centerpiece on my finely dressed table.

When Chuck “forgot” to bring the wine, I graciously excused myself and ran down to the liquor store, leaving Chuck alone with my precious Jack, who in his feline mastery, was always able to suss out whether or not I had made a good choice.

Upon my return, with two bottles of Columbia Crest Cabernet, I found Chuck sitting on the couch, cringing, as Jack sat in front of him, on the floor, hissing.

“Molly, your cat hates me. I thought ‘bright-eyed and bushy-tailed’ meant alert, not that a cat with bright eyes and a bushy tail wants to kill you.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing, Molly. But I don’t like your cat.”

I counted to three and took a deep breath. Nobody insults my Jack. “You can go now, Chuck.”

“Oh, I’ll be glad to leave you and your savage orange beast,” he said. “Just one more thing, Molly. I don’t know who you’re buying your weed from, but it’s being cut with some real crap.”

I picked my jaw up off the ground and closed the door I was freakin’ gobsmacked. My weed dealer? Never smoked the stuff.

And then I saw it. The half-smoked joint lying on the counter. Right next to the plastic container of Jack’s catnip.

That’s all for this week, folks!

Yours in pickiness,

Molly

Tags: Barbie, bed hair, cats, dating, Ken, men, relationships, weed

Greetings Cool People,

For this week’s blog, I had a mad desire to write an obituary for public restrooms. But let’s be realistic. We need them. So, in my picky fashion, I’ll just vent.

If you’re anything like me, then you know the awkwardness of being in a single-occupancy restroom and having someone knock on the door or jiggle the handle while you are using it. We’ve all had to yell out, “I’m in here,” or “Just a moment!” to a total stranger, and it’s not high on the fun list of life.

Being a person who tries to follow the golden rule, I never enjoy inflicting this kind of awkwardness on anyone else. I’m a “waiter.” No, not the food-serving kind — the person who politely waits outside the door only to watch someone else step right up to it, turn the handle, and go in. Isn’t that one of the most self-deprecating duh-you-moron moments you can have?

Why can’t all doors simply have signs like this? You know, just like those delightful little “Vacant” signs we’ve come to love on airplanes. I believe they are one of the reasons the skies are so friendly.

And this lovely door actually flashes when someone is inside, providing that someone remembers to properly secure the door. But my favorite part (not!) about this door is you need a code to get inside. Hello? I need to use the Ladies’ Room. Now. I don’t have the “password.” Will “911” open the freakin’ door?

One Sad Reason Ladies’ Rooms Are Messier Than Men’s Rooms:

When women see THIS:

Instead of THIS:

They will improvise and use toilet paper to create their own seat cover.

Using all of that paper to cover a seat results in this:

And a big mess on the floor.

I am never one to condone slobvitity. I’m a huge advocate of carrying one’s own supplies and respecting the space that we all must use.

I really appreciate stalls with broken locks. I enjoy having to extend my arm of choice and twisting myself into a soft pretzel just to hold the door shut. With that approach, when I am ready to stand, I love the challenge of having to quickly head butt the door to keep it shut because I need two hands free. As if that weren’t enough, I’m usually trying to hold onto my purse because there is no freakin’ hook! And sometimes, I’m treated the charming sound of automatic toilets continuously flushing because I’m not exiting the stall quickly enough.

In fancier restrooms, there are often attendants. These are the people who have a small storefront on the counter: gum, candy, mints, hairspray, etc. You don’t buy these items; you just leave a bigger tip when you take something. I always feel weird taking stuff.  To me, it feels like: “Hey, I just spent two dollars in the Ladies’ Room for a mint.”

But restroom attendants will make sure the bathroom is clean. That’s important. Not so important is the grand, hand-sweeping gesture they make to indicate the secret location of the sink when you emerge from the stall. After you have washed, the attendant will hand you two towels as if you are royalty, often with a nod of the head. With a polite smile, you lay a dollar in the tray, and hope that you don’t have to purchase any more towels that evening.

Truthfully, I can deal with public restrooms when I must. I cannot deal with Turkish toilets.

Don’t even get me started!

Yours in pickiness,

Molly

Tags: ladies rooms, occupied, public restrooms, restroom attendants, toilet paper, toilet seat covers

Greetings Everyone:

Thanks for stopping by to help me launch my new blog Too Picky?… (I think not!) My book, MOLLY HACKER IS TOO PICKY!,  is scheduled for publication in the fall of 2011. But let’s face it: I’m far too restless, snarky, crazy, chatalicious, and, of course, picky to wait that long to share my woes, worries, and general all-around wacky (but on-the-money) opinions about life. I am Molly the Observer.

Let me get the essentials out of the way. I’m thirty-two years old, and I work as a reporter for The Swansea Herald. I was offered an additional gig as the society reporter, but I just couldn’t bear hearing about other people’s weddings until I have my own. I managed to pop some eyeballs when I tacked the title “Obituary Writer” onto my job description. But I did so because dead people don’t get on my nerves the way brides-to-be do. This new job title is fitting as I tend to obituate things that piss me off. I’m also overly analytic, but it’s part of my charm.

For the record, Swansea is a bedroom community of New York City. There are some radical and amazing people who live here, like my coworker BFF Randy Goodrich, who is the Herald’s arts and entertainment editor. I’d be lost without his guidance and wisdom, and he, of course, would be groping in the dark without my wise and magnanimous counsel. (Oh, Randy, you so know I’m right.)

Living in a small town, especially when one can escape easily to New York City, is wonderful. But it has its drawbacks. The first that springs to mind is named Naomi Hall-Benchley. She’s a conniving, matchmaking, effete socialite. Her expiration date is long past, but someone forgot to take her off the shelf. At every turn, she is aiming to be the one to set up “Picky Molly Hacker,” but I will never succumb to this she-devil’s trifling efforts. She spends her days manipulating everyone so that she can please her husband and hold on to his millions. You will hear her name again, and unfortunately, so will I.

Sometimes, this town is too small, like a favorite piece of clothing you’ve outgrown by a size — or two. (Who wants to think about that?) Swansea is like a glamorous BFE on some days, a quaint and charming hamlet on others. But I’m happy: as long as I can vent about that which perturbs, I’m just fine.

I’ll be venting every Monday on this blog and have lots of opinions to express. Hope you’ll come see me again.

Yours in pickiness,
Molly

Tags: introduction, Molly Hacker, obituary writer, picky, reporter, she-devil, snarky