Wednesday, August 17th, 2016



In the great blue room

There was an email server

And lots of pantsuits









And a picture of –

Yassar Arafat’s widow









And there were three more pantsuits

And two little kittens,

Who looked kind of like the Clinton’s cat, Socks, who they gave









away when they got their chocolate lab, Buddy,









Who they weren’t watching too carefully when the

Car ran him over and killed him….

And some expensive china









That was

pilfered from the White House

When the Clintons moved out in 2000

And a little house in Chappaqua

IMG_0950That was great for booty calls

According to the Secret Service….

And a young aide named Huma

Who was married to a man who

Had two names – Anthony Weiner when he was good

And “Carlos Danger” when he was a bad, bad boy.




And a bowlful of “charity” money

To be donated to The Clinton Foundation.

By the Clintons.

To their own foundation.   Am I the only one who

Finds this suspicious?


Attorney General Loretta Lynch does not.







A quiet old lady. In a pantsuit. Who wasn’t really quiet.

Or ladylike.  Who wanted to be president of the United States

Because it was her turn.

And a younger woman named Huma, who was very loyal and

Didn’t even leave Carlos Danger the second time he posted


his weiner on Twitter. Huma gave advice to the not-so-quiet

old lady and took advice too.

Don’t leave Carlos Danger. I didn’t leave Bill after that Monica

Lewinsky right-wing conspiracy. And now I’m going to be






Good night, Jew intern.

Good night, Vince Foster.


Good night, George Dubya

Good night, Benghazi Four

Good night, Carlos Danger — “Oooops-I-Did-It-Again…”





Good night, Omar Mateen-who-I-didn’t-know-was-seated-behind-me-at-rally

Good night, James McDougal

Good night, twelve Clinton bodyguards who died on our watch

Good night, Charles Ruff

Good night, John Ashe

Good night, Sean Lucas and all of the other people that had something to do with

Me and Bill and then just up and died

Good night, Rolling Stone reporter Michael Hastings

Good night, Sally Quinn

Good night, Dick Morris

Good night, Republicans-you-racist-religious-gun-toting-moonshine-

Drinking, sheet-wearing-ham-and-bean-supper-eating-Christians

Good night, Hispanic people – I am your “abuela”

Good night, Black people – you know that I’m one of you even though

The color of my skin means I get a better table at most restaurants and

Salespeople don’t watch me like I’m about to boost all their merch

Good night all you traitorous Dems who forsook me in 2008

Good night, Israel. I love the Jewish people.

Good night, Muslims – I just said that – I really love you more and

Burquas help de-objectify women – Huma told me to say that.

Goodnight, Claire McCaskill

Goodnight American women with shapely ankles who aren’t forced

To hide their unsightly cankles in pantsuits — in my first 100 days

In office I will sign an executive order outlawing skirts and dresses

Goodnight, John Kerry, Secretary of State and Heinz Ketchup heir – you may

Be an idiot but you’re our idiot


Good night, Obama and don’t think that just because you’re endorsing me

Now that I will ever forget your stealing the election from under me in 2008

Good night, Donald Trump who thinks that just because he has a prettier

Daughter people should vote for him









Good night, Bernie Sanders, you socialist with three homes – well done!

Good night, Iran and please remember when you detonate

Your nuclear bomb in ten years that I helped you get it so

Please let me know beforehand so I can hide in Greenland

Goodnight Huma

Goodnight Bill

Goodnight my grandchildren – yo soy su abuela – see? I speak Mexican!


Out, damned spot! out, I say!–One: two: why,
then, ’tis time to do’t.–Hell is murky!–Fie, my 40
lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we
fear who knows it, when none can call our power to
account?–Yet who would have thought the old man
to have had so much blood in him.


…what was that?  Another vast right-wing conspiracy – of that I am certain.

Goodnight all you Americans who have Obamacare – wait ’til I get my hands on it

Goodnight to my black brothers and sisters – I don’t feel noways tired 

Goodnight America that I will run into the ground




Good night world



Saturday, June 6th, 2015

President Obama was so invested in the Israeli election this year and Israel, I’m guessing, might be interested in the U.S. Presidential election, 2016.   First one out of the Democratic gate — Hillary “shoulda woulda coulda” Clinton.

Like most presidential wannabes, Hillary will need a campaign song. JFK had “High Hopes, “ FDR, “Happy Days Are Here Again,” But, sadly, her handlers have their hands full deflecting, avoiding and denying, so they might not have time for composing. Following John Kennedy’s edict to “ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country,” I have stepped in.

Here’s the thing, Hillary. I’m kind of tone-deaf, so I borrowed the melody from Paul Anka’s iconic “My Way,” one of Frank Sinatra’s biggest hits. But the lyrics? I wrote these just for you, Hillary…

(to the tune of MY WAY)

Hello, it’s Hil-la-ry

I’m back again, I want to serve you                                   

You might be sick of me

But Bill said “run!” and I deserve to                                                                           

To move back to DC                                                           

That’s all I want, to be your POTUS

Forget darned Benghazi!

I’ll tell it my way…


What difference does it make?                            

Those dudes are dead, why do they blame me?

It was just a video

Yet they continue to defame me

I lost a few emails

Thirty-three thou, or was it fifty…

I like to email Bill, my handsome hub – he thinks it’s nifty

To do it my way…


Yes there were times that I was blamed

For scandals we know I was framed

From Whitewater to Travelgate

Deny them all in triplicate

I bob and weave, and I deflect

There’s no one better to elect

And through the smears and all the lies

I spin it my way


I kissed Arafat’s wife

I didn’t know, she was in disguise

She wore a nice chador, I was confused,

Thought we were allies

I just want to step in, want to protect

our precious nation

And add a few more mil to the

Hill and Bill Clinton “Foundation”

And get rich my way…


The servers all have been wiped clean

Blame it on Huma Abedin

My senior aide betrayed me too

I’m quite surprised she’s not a Jew

But wait – I need the Jewish vote

I studied at the yeshivoth

I’m Jewish too, I’m sure I am

I’ll daven my way…


I’m named for Edmond Hillary

Although some doubt it, how that could be?

He climbed Everest after I was born

Who’s keeping track?

I could have sworn!

But I was born five years before

I’ll tell it my way…

When Bill and I moved from DC

We took some flatware and TVs

Some plates and cups, a few armoires

We didn’t know they weren’t ours

Yes there were chairs we took as well

Could not remove that darned doorbell

We needed stuff for Chappaqua

I’ll pack up my way…


I’m going to run, I’m going to win

And much to everyone’s chagrin

I won’t fight fair, that’s not my style

I’m quite the crafty white Gentile

Lewinsky who? We’ve got Carville

And George Souros – he thinks I’m swell

Stephanopolis– see? I can spell

I spell it my way


I’m here to stay, I’ll never leave

There’s nothing that I can’t achieve

And through it all, with nerve and gall

And though my ethics might appall

I’ll just blame Sidney Blumenthal

And do it my way.


Saturday, August 2nd, 2014

In the winter you have your big parkas and long wool coats to cover up whatever atrocities you might be hiding underneath.  But, alas, in the summer, each summer, on the streets of New York, my eyes must be assaulted because Vogue or Harper’s Bazaar or Selena Gomez told you what to wear.   It really doesn’t matter to me whether you are a size-six nineteen year old who’d look good in a potato sack, (um – no, you wouldn’t…), or you’re a 55-year old who hasn’t gained a pound since she was married 30 years ago and has convinced herself she can still rock a mini-skirt and Doc Martens.  You haven’t convinced me or anyone else on the street pointing at you and laughing.


So what follows is this summer’s list of mistakes you’ve already made…



Not even an iota more attractive than a Spandex Maxi Pad.  We wore maxi dresses in the late sixties/seventies.  For the most part, these dresses were 100% cotton and even if they were tie-dye atrocities, at least we were really, really high when we bought and wore them.  Today, I am visually assaulted by Spandex maxi dresses in revolting colors like bright orange and royal blue.  Orange may be the new black, but that’s at Riker’s, not Hudson River Park.  And then there are the maxis in a variety of offending striped patterns.  Even if these assaults-on-fabric don’t make you look like you’ve draped the Big Top around you and sewn in some elastic, they flatter no one.  “Oh, here comes a zebra,” is not a thought I want to have walking down Lexington Avenue.  An Escher lithograph is meant to be hung on a wall, not worn out for cocktails.  Here’s another bummer for large-breasted women– terry cloth is not a support fabric.




Along with Nazis, Limburger cheese and Lederhosen, this is a German product worth putting back the Berlin Wall back for.  Why are you wearing these?  Is it the “they’re-so-ugly-they’re-good-looking” myth?  That’s why they’re called “myths.” One word for Birkenstocks. No.  Not “comfortable.”  “Repulsive.”  “No, Mollie – you’re wrong – they’re so comfortable, it’s like I’m not wearing shoes at all.”  That’s because you’re not.  And, there’s only person concerned with your comfort. That would be you.  I’m concerned with aesthetics when I walk down the street, and seeing shoes only Fred Flintstone could have pulled off is not a pretty sight.  I’m sure shoeboxes would be equally comfortable, as would aluminum loaf pans or swimmers’ kickboards.  They’re great for hiking?  Then fill up your canteen, spray on the OFF!, and get the hell out of Manhattan.  Now.



Please tell me that the thought of the entire “L” train seeing your leopard bra under your gauzy sheer peasant blouse doesn’t make you feel “powerful.”  Where does this “need-to-wear-see-through-clothing-outside-the-bedroom” come from?  I certainly hope it’s not a “Daddy” issue.  Ewwwww. “  Your skirt is sheer but not completely see-through.  What’s that about?  “I want to expose myself but I don’t”?  I’m a little bit whore-ish and a little bit coquettish?  This is the fashion equivalent of the nectarine, (thanks Mel Brooks), – a “little bit peach, a little bit plum.”   How many Dumkinis did you throw back before you thought, “Oh, a maxi skirt that’s sheer from mid-thigh down – now there’s a good look!”   If you want to wear a mini skirt, wear a mini skirt.  Why would you wear one with a “curtain”?  Is this a show?  Are you going to pull it away and a lady will be sawed in half?  Six orphans from “Annie” going to run out singing, “It’s a Hard-Knock Life”?  Don’t tell me you’re a Libra – mini or maxi skirt.  Make a decision.  This is a schmata, not a DNR directive.



Cheaper and more honest to wear sign that says, “My upper arms are too heavy for sleeveless tops.”  You’re not fooling anyone.  Makes a bolero jacket look like a bathrobe.



Pssssssst…. It’s 2014.  You can finally get some frames you actually like because the secret’s out.  We already know you’re a hipster, (which, contrary to what your self-righteousness-in-a-beanie brain tells you, is not exactly an incentive to want to get to know you),  by the SXSW admission bracelet you still haven’t taken off.  It’s covering up your red thread Kabala bracelet, by the way.  Black plastic frames do not make you cool.  Nor do they make you smart or witty, especially the ones with no glass in the frames.  The point is to be as prolific and brilliant as Woody Allen, not to look like him.   I promise you —  If Woody Allen could both master the pithy punch line and look like George Clooney, I’m pretty sure he’d opt for that.



Really?  (beat)  Really?  Because….because Kate Hudson wore one on a red carpet?  Because some drunk one-night stand told you, “Nice shoulders, babe.”?  It’s like complimenting you on your earlobes. You look like a five-piece board puzzle with two pieces missing.  Or like you have a second pair of ears.  I promise you – when you look back at a picture of yourself wearing one of these monstrosities ten years from now, you will deny being you.



This is the dress version of a mullet.  Business in the front and party in the back?  Nice message. Hope you still have the tags and the receipt.



What are you – four?  Whatever made you think you could pull this off?  “Well, Adrianna Lima wore one on the runway during Spring 2014 Fashion Week!”   Perhaps.  But Adrianna Lima could wear a ham-and-bean can on the runway, look great in it and get paid $100,000 for doing it.  Repeat after me.  “I am not Adrianna Lima.  I am not even a hand model, let alone a super model.  I look good in certain clothes and certain colors, as long as certain of my body parts are concealed and I’m not bloated or having a bad hair day.  I am not a fashion trendsetter.  I am a fashion trend follower and often a fashion victim.”   The “Lolita” look looked good on Lolita, and that’s only if you’re a deviant middle-aged man lusting after a twelve-year-old.

If you’re on a beach, I don’t care if you’ve rolled your body in Crustacean shells and salt-water taffy.  But in the middle of Manhattan?  Where the fuck are you romping to here?   Through the crowd of stinky, arrogant Brooklynites who won’t let you get on their crowded F train at West 4th Street?  Thanks to bike riders, pedestrian malls and Halal carts, there’s barely room to walk down the street in the city, let alone romp.  It’s not 1961 – you’re not at Brighton Beach with a bucket and shovel, waiting for the knish man to pass your blanket.  Take out the pigtails.  Wash off the Mercurochrome-and-Johnson’s Baby Oil suntan lotion.  Grow up and put some clothes on.



I know – they have been considered stylish for at least five years.  They’re like the herpes sore you thought was going to lie dormant.  But not only has it erupted – it’s grown exponentially.    Now, it’s not uncommon to see women wearing gladiator sandals that come up to their knees.  This is  visually offensive, even on women with great legs.  They look like the rope wall you have to climb in basic training, wrapped around your calves.  And, of course, because fashion is a choice, and you don’t need anyone’s permission to wear anything, I’ve seen too many chunky-legged women wearing these knee-high gladiators.    If anything is poking through the strips of leather, like, I don’t’ know – calf fat – there should be an internal neon sign in your head flashing, “FLIP-FLOPS!  FLIP-FLOPS!” “You might not mind the fact that your calves look like a trussed-up rump roast, think of the rest of us.  I have to hold myself back from running up to you and trying to pop each square of fat, as though your calves were human-flesh bubblewrap.



This blouse is fine under only two conditions – either you have one arm, or it started out as a two-sleeved blouse and somehow, one sleeve caught fire. Even then, I’d like to see something else on the other side – a hook, pincers, a clarinet, something.  Have you no idea what you look like as you’re walking toward me?  Would you wear pants with one side long and the other Daisy-Duked?  “Well, that’s how much you know, Mollie.  This was one of Olivia Palermo’s “Picks” on Piperlime!”  I’m guessing you’re over 18, I’m guessing you have the right to “reject” Olivia Palermo’s “Picks”.  Did she decide where you were vacationing this year?  Is she picking your breakfast cereal?  Your dish detergent?  While we’re on the subject, who the fuck is she?  I can’t distinguish her from Olivia Munn or Olivia Wilde or Olivia the Pig, for that matter.  I’m just guessing they’re all thinner than Olivia the Pig, which makes their opinions pretty important to you…






Monday, July 14th, 2014



J. Crew.  As if I didn’t have enough reasons to loathe you already.  Your jaunty, preppy clothes remind me of the jaunty, preppy YUPPIES who wear them.  Unless your name is “Brad” or “Todd,” “Lauren” or “Amanda,” you may not actually wear J. Crew clothes, but you’ve had their catalogues crammed into your mailbox, or worked with white people from Connecticut.  Redundant.  Wondering if J. Crew could be more pretentious is like wondering if Gwyneth Paltrow could be … well … more pretentious, making them quite the conscious coupling, come to think of it.


So now what, J. Crew?  In addition to the fact I don’t know what the “J” stands for, you makes clothes in colors so special you can’t even tell what color it is, like “Dark Cove,” and “Dusty Shale” and “Caribbean Sand.” A little arrogant – no? – to just toss together an adjective and a noun and let consumers figure out if your crew neck coordinates or clashes with their khakis.


There’s are some who believe  that all p.r. is good p.r.  Not so, J. Crew.  Not so.  Ask Anthony Weiner.

But clearly someone in your corporate office felt differently.  Because, when you should have been busy pleating your pants and pepluming your blouses, you instead spent your time creating TRIPLE 000, i.e., EXTRA-EXTRA-EXTRA SMALL jeans.  Many, many, many women are applauding you for inventing the size “triple zero,” as though “double zero” wasn’t an assault on every woman who eats.

Did you hear what the anorexics  — that’s right, I said it – are saying about this new faux-size?  “Well, I am rather petite,” said one woman.  ‘You know,” said another, “We’re supposed to be ‘sensitive’ to fat women,”  (and you certainly are, size 2s!),  “but no one knows the real pain one feels when a size zero is just too, too big.”   Oh, but you’re wrong, Human Wire Hanger Lady – I feel your pain, so much so that if I could get my hands around you without you slipping away, I’d tie you down and force-feed you beef tallow and a can or six of Duncan Hines Double-Chocolate Buttercream frosting.

“Wah, wah – I can never find jeans that fit me.”  I’d like to be more sympathetic but finding jeans that fit you perfectly doesn’t count as a real problem.  If this is something you find so distressing, clearly you haven’t had enough bad shit happen to you.  Here’s some:


1)   Your kid has Turette’s, ADHD, and you have no medical insurance.

2)   Your other kid is David Blaine.

3)   Your husband has a girlfriend.

4)   Your boyfriend has a wife.

5)   That freckle on your leg isn’t a freckle.

6)   Your neighborhood’s been gentrified and you have to move to another state.

7)   That other state is Montana.

8)   You just ate a protein bar and you think it had peanuts in it and you’re allergic to peanuts and your eye is all swollen and you can’t really breathe and – oh shit! – you left your EpiPen home!

9)   Your old boyfriend, the one who stalked you from middle school through college, is on the FBI’s “Ten Most Wanted” list for killing his old girlfriends. And someone’s knocking on your door…

10)                 Your father has Alzheimer’s and he’s moved in with you, but he keeps forgetting.


There.  Now you have some real problems.  Size “zero” still too big?  Buy a fucking belt.  Eat a fucking corn flake, half a pecan.  Stop puking your food up.  Stop running 5Ks before work every day. What’s the matter?  Am I making anorexics and/or naturally thin women feel bad?  First, as I am not a calorie, that’s doubtful.  Second, maybe when women who wear a size six stop feeling like it’s time for a gastric bypass, I’ll make an attempt to be more sensitive.


“Wah, wah – I can never find jeans that fit me.”  Yes you can.  Mattel makes them.  And now so does J. Crew.    I’m sorry but finding jeans that fit perfectly just isn’t up there with real problems.   If this is something you find so distressing, clearly you haven’t had enough bad shit happen to you.  Size zero too big?  Buy a fucking belt. Eat a fucking corn flake, half a pecan, stop puking your food up.  What’s the matter?  Am I making anorexics feel bad?  First, as I’m not a calorie, that’s doubtful and second, when size 6 women stop feeling like it’s time for a gastric bypass, maybe I’ll re-think my words and be more sensitive.

You know, everyone is so sensitive to fat people,” they cry, “but they think it’s easy being this thin!”   Did you get your hands on Anna Wintour’s diary?   You’re telling me that the same people whose goal it is, is to get as small as you, to have their collar bones protrude so much you could hang a coat on it, these same people who want to look like you and can’t because they don’t have your metabolism or genes or they enjoy a grape every now and then?  Those people?  The people who want to be you insult you?  “Move it, Skinny,” isn’t a term I’ve heard shouted at anyone on a subway.  In fact, if there ever were a group under-represented in terms of being insulted and discriminated against, it would have to be women who wear a size four or under.  But you know, passive-aggressively “complaining” how hard it is to be so thin just makes anyone else with keen observation skills and a bit of wit want to even things out just a tad…


1)   Heidi Fleiss laughs at you.

2)   Nicole Richie envies you.

3)   There was a lime in your Diet Coke – that means 90 minutes on the elliptical machine tomorrow!

4)   When you stand sideways, I can’t see you.

5)   When you stand straight ahead, I can’t see you.

6)   Bettheny Frankel thinks you could use a little meat on your bones.

7)   A soup bone thinks you could use a little more meat on your bones.

8)   Why is my forearm bigger than your upper thigh?

9)   Why is it when you wear jeans and an over-sized sweater, from far away you look like you have only one leg?

10)                   It must feel swell to wear a Honey Nut Cheerio as a ring.

Maybe it’s time to celebrate our differences.  How about a Cronut?


Saturday, June 14th, 2014


      In a city that boasts more panic attacks than cockroaches, I’m certain those of you who live here don’t need me to advise you on anxiety attack catalysts.  But for the truly calm among you – Namaste, nice yoga mat, LoulouLemon rules –switching it up now and then isn’t a bad idea.   And so, as a service, I’ve taken the liberty of listing the absolutely finest places in New York City to get your panic attack on…


      I am one of the few native New Yorkers who remembers SoHo when real read – poor artists lived there among the  factories and the warehouses.  The dopey, trendy stores were few and far between, Spring Street Natural Restaurant was still on Spring Street and there were a few actual bodegas.  But you can’t stop progress, and by the late 80s, the lofts were being bought up by investment bankers who referred to their lofts as “their space,” and rich parents from rich towns in Connecticut and Westchester and Long Island, who purchased them for their trust fund kids, in an effort to fool everyone into thinking that an editorial assistant making $18,000 a year could easily afford a million dollar loft.

            It has devolved further over the decades, becoming a neighborhood occupied by people who could buy Zucotti Park, Mergers and Acquisitions Ivy Leaguers who love to say, “I live in SoHo,” thinking that you’re thinking, “I wonder what kind of painter he is,” or “Gee – he’s like Alan Bates in An Unmarried Woman!”  Attention, investment bankers and hedge fund managers – we know you don’t know the difference between a Manet and a Monet, a Calder mobile and a mobile phone, an impressionist painter and an impressionist.

        SoHo 2014 = outdoors Short Hills mall.  You want an art  gallery?  Go to Chelsea.  You want Warby Parker sunglasses, a new case for your new iPad Air, want to calculate how many years you’ll have to work before you could afford a button at the Chloe Boutique on Greene Street?  This is your place.  It’s like a reverse Calcutta – thousands and thousands of people on the street, moving forward for no apparent reason, wandering aimlessly from block to block, wanting, desperately, to buy anything.  It’s the bald man in his sixties, arm-in-arm with the Swedish model who’s carrying enough high-end shopping bags to stock Rodeo Drive, the group of suburban teenage girls flash-mobbing Victoria’s Secret,  grandparents buying infant onesies from vendors who look like they haven’t bathed since they were in onesies. 

       There are no museums in SoHo.  There are no monuments, cathedrals, landmarks.   Don’t they sell Vuitton in Paris?  Then why are French tourists asking me, “Où est le Louis Vuitton shop?”  Why is there an entire store that sells nothing but Nespresso coffee makers? 

How many people come to SoHo to buy a $500 Espresso maker, made, by the way, not by some Italian coffee dynasty but by Nestle, the same company that makes the Crunch bar and Hot Pockets. I secretly think the coffee stuff is just a front and that they sell pot in the back, because with rent that’s almost $1,000 a square foot, really, how many trays of Hazelino coffee pods can they move in a day? Maui-Wowwie and Acapulco Gold pods – a whole other story…



      On the other end of the spectrum is Old Navy.  Now kudos for selling cheap crap and pricing it accordingly.  Do I want to spend five bucks on a pair of flip-flops, which is probably 4 bucks more than they cost to make, or must I have Havianas on my feet, which probably cost 2.4 Brazilian reals ($1 USD), and can pretty much look like flip-flops they sell at CVS.   Yes, I know the Havianas are supposed to be better for my feet but I’m not on “Survivor: The Galapagos” – I’m walking from my apartment to the laundry room, a boardwalk to the beach, the laundry room back to my apartment.  

It’s hard to believe that there are so many people who want, for the most part, really icky clothes made from cheap material that seem to come in sizes from “American Girl” to “American Buffalo.” Elastic.  Yay.   I know that it’s cheaper to buy a cartful of turquoise faux-wrap jersey dresses and hideous cap-sleeve chiffon blouses than a sandwich at Dean & DeLuca.  But from the moment you enter and are greeted by the hopped-up employees offering you a parachute-sized sack to stuff your logo-zip hoodies and cropped-drapey Capris into,  to the time you look at the other shoppers and think, “Ewwww – but I know when I wear that stone-washed mini, it will look like it’s from Bergdorf’s,” it’s a sartorial and five-sense invasive nightmare.  Even the name of the store makes me nervous because I don’t know what it means.  “Old Navy”?  Is  there a “new” Navy or a “young” Navy?  Is it the branch of the military or is it the color?  Or maybe it’s the bean.  There’s no “Old” Macy’s.  There’s “Old Spice,” but that’s a cheap after-shave.  Cheap after-shave, cheap crop-tops – see the connection?  Me neither.  Just stay away from the Old Navy 4th of July t-shirts.  They’re pilling.  Already. (more…)


Thursday, May 1st, 2014

Are you too old to be a dad?  Yes, I know – you may have been blessed with super-sperm but hey you – with the osteoarthritis and reading glasses – is your young “trophy wife” that much of a “trophy” if you have to start listening to Brahm’s Lullaby again?  You broke the mobile thirty years ago.  On purpose.  Are you sure?




“Not me,” you think.  I’m young at heart and virile and I’m a New Yorker and New Yorkers can do anything they set their minds to. If you think I’m going to marry a woman who has to take bioidentical hormones and has chin-whiskers, you’re nuts!” Perhaps so.  You are  so special. Just like your grandchildren from your first marriage. You are a new species, grand-daddy-new dads – I dub thee Elderdad Annoyingus.


 One can often spot Elderdad Annoyingus walking the streets of trendy-only neighborhood of any major city.   He is usually accompanied by his tall, lithe, often WASP, always blonde third wife and their children whom, more often than not, are named “Ava,” or “Sophie,” “Griffith,” or “Maxmillian,” and whom you will always mistake for his grandchildren.

Elderdad also has“practice” children from his previous marriages, parental “PSATS” if you will and, after an Amstel or six, he will confide, with a weather-worn smile and hail-fellow-well-met crinkle in his eye, that his current kids “are profiting from all the mistakes I made with my older kids!”  That’s peachy, Elderdad  Perhaps when your older kids get out of Hazelden or the Betty Ford Clinic, little Zelda or Trey will tell them what a fab dad you are now!


         Like many species, Elderdad is most comfortable among his own, which explains why you can usually find him either wandering aimlessly through Whole Foods, eager to spend as much for a pound of organic red grapes as he would on an area rug, or at his kids’ softball or soccer games, attempting to bond with the younger dads.   Behind his back, the younger dads will refer to him as either “the old guy,” or “PopPop. ”  That is, unless, Elderdad suggests that they all go “shoot some hoops,” at which point they will just call him “asshole” to his face.


         Other distinguishing features of Elderdad include his always unappealing head of hair, gray, graying or white, and either severely receding or pathetically pony-tailed. 


When it comes to outerwear, Elderdad prefers either a baseball jacket with either the “Law and Order” or “Tribeca Film Festival” logo on the back, or three-quarter length, obscenely expensive black leather coat, preferably from Paul Smith.




         Elderdad’s environment is excruciatingly important, in fact key to the continued existence of his species.  He is happiest on land anywhere in SoHo, Tribeca and Park Slope, and characteristically does better in a loft, which he will always refer to as his “space.”   Though he wouldn’t think of living anywhere else, Elderdad and his family need to get out of New York, (which he always refers to as “the city,”), often.  In fact, he thrive on vacations, which Wife Number Three, in an attempt to sound European, will refer to as “holiday.”  And, while Elderdad’s politics lean notoriously to the left,  he’ll always opt to “holiday” in Vail, South Hampton or Jackson Hole, Wyoming, places where’d you have an easier time finding a Hyundai Elantra than you would a person of color.



Tuesday, February 11th, 2014

Those of you who know me may be thinking I’m so cynical, this is one holiday I  could never embrace.  And you’d be right.  But not because I’m against romance.  I love romance.  I just don’t find love and predictability and crazy expectations compatible.  Or romantic.


            Romance, like art and fashion taste, is subjective.  I cry every time I watch Brief Encounter or read Anna Karenina and I will believe in the love of Meggie and Father Ralph ‘til the day I die.  I think it’s romantic to endlessly browse in a bookstore on a Sunday afternoon or to step out onto a New York street right after it snows and hasn’t yet been slushified.  Cape Cod is romantic.  The Parisian cemetery Pere La Chaise is one of the most romantic places on earth.  Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get It On” is romantic.  Anything sung by James Taylor oozes romance.  Sinatra’s One For My Baby” is the romantic equivalent of orange juice concentrate.


            Now, for you, walking around with an amusement park stuffed bear the size of a loveseat that your date just won for you, might do the trick.  Or eating spaghetti like “Lady and the Tramp, or sipping those alcoholic neon-colored drinks with more fruit garnish than your Weight Watchers points for a month floating in them – these might spell romance for you.  Clearly, one person’s romance is another person’s laugh-riot.


      Maybe you find it romantic to buy pounds of chocolate or Shari’s Berries or gold chains or teensy diamond chips glued around a sterling silver heart on the same day as 20 million other people.  Perhaps you enjoy the “romance” of your spouse, your girlfriend, your mom, your kid, all having their hands out like Oliver Twist at the orphanage/workhouse, only gruel’s the furthest thing from their minds?


            If you do the math, few of you actually wind up feeling good on Valentine’s Day because:


1)   You’re alone and you don’t want to be

2)   You just dumped someone

3)   You just got dumped

4)   You just got dumped by text

5)   You just got dumped by text and emoticons

6)   You’re with someone and you don’t want to be.

7)   You’re married and you’re pretty sure you settled.

8)   You’re married and you’re positive you settled.

9)   You’re married and you’re positive you settled and the rest of us know it.

10)                 You’re still in love with that girl or guy from camp or college.

11)                 You delusionally think this first love feels the same way and is pining for you on Valentine’s Day.

12)                 You still remember how it felt in third grade when you got two Valentine’s Day cards when the class average was eleven.

13)                 That jerk from Accounting puts red and pink foil chocolate hearts on everyone’s desk, “just because…”

14)                 Your last girlfriend wanted yellow roses and you got her red ones.  Or carnations.

15)                 Your lover expected a box of Vosges chocolates, not a Whitman’s Sampler, you cheap bastard.

16)                 You got her jewelry instead of chocolate because “you think I’m fat—right?  Right?  Just say it!”

17)                 Last year your boyfriend got you that Jane Seymour fugly double-heart atrocity necklace and now you just shudder at the mere thought of the word “Jared.”



So, Happy Valentine’s Day to the believers among you, but just remember….


·      A chocolate rose wrapped in red tin foil is just stupid and you will wind up eating teeny bits of foil along with the low-grade chocolate-flavored lard that thing is made of.



·            *      Valentine’s Day cards that say, “I Love You Thhhisssssss Much” with paper arms popping out when you open them are not romantic  — they’re cumbersome, clichéd and there is no   such word as “Thhhhissssss.”


*    Anyone who gives you a single rose couldn’t afford the whole dozen. 



·                  *If you’re over 12, homemade Valentine’s Day cards are not romantic.  They’re an Arts & Crafts project, made by  the same people responsible for turning the words “craft” and “scrapbook” into verbs.  Those who say they really prefer giving and getting homemade gifts are like the people who say Brooklyn’s a better place to live in than Manhattan. Liars.  Unless you need to borrow some Scotch tape or a glitter glue gun, develop some self-esteem.



·      Any day that ‘s good for the Hallmark Channel has nothing to do with nostalgia or romance.  It has to do with money.  A huge and annoying offshoot of  Hallmark Cards, whose CEO is still sad they can’t come up with cards and paper tablecloths and “World’s Best Memorial Day Celebrator!” statuettes, will flood its television channel with films like “Destiny’s In Love,” “Love Is Destiny,” “A Dozen Roses for Rose,” “Will You Marry Me?”, “Love Will Keep Us Together, “Love Has Torn Us Apart,” “Love Has Torn Us Apart and Now We’re Together.”  All of these will star Lisa Hartman-Black, Kelly Williams-Presley, or Alexa Bledel.  Don’t believe in happy endings?  Hallmark does.  Cha-ching.


·      And while we’re on the subject of Hallmark, how about the Valentine’s Day cards that are “from the dog,” or “from the cat”?  Really?  Really?  I’m kinda thinking that if my cat or dog were granted opposable thumbs, a MetroCard and the chance to do something human, mailing a greeting card would be pretty low down on the list.  “And guess who else has a card for you?”  If you’re going to anthropomorphize your puppy or kitty, why not have them pretend-pick up the dinner check or clean the apartment.  Or better yet, mine.


·      You don’t know me, and, chances are you wouldn’t like me if you did.  So when I walk into your Walgreen’s or Gap, unless your greeting comes with a Cartier tank watch or Botega Veneta Napa Tote, please – no “Happy Valentine’s Day!”  Can I get an “amen”?


·      “Love” is not all you need.  Just ask anyone whose healthcare premiums have just quadrupled.


·      Please – for the sake of every sane person in New York who is not your child’s parents, (think about that for a minute), don’t dress your ten-month old with the Michelin tire-thighs up as Cupid on Valentine’s Day.  We don’t think it’s cute.  We don’t think your child is cute.  In fact, we think you and your partner should have used a condom.  Thanks in advance.


·      Why are you wearing red to work on Valentine’s Day?  If you’re at work, then it isn’t a real holiday because – well – you’re at work.  Also, it’s so predictable.  It reminds us that in four weeks you’ll be wearing that “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” t-shirt and stinking from green-beer-breath.  This year, why not try a “Kiss Me, I’m Bill Gates” t-shirt, which I’m certain would be both unique and more effective.


·      Don’t put giant red hearts on your front door.  No one’s trick-or-treating.  No one’s stopping by for egg nog.  If you and your partner are so in love, why, when I’m waiting for the elevator, must I listen to the two of you shout, “Why did I marry you – you’re a pig!” and “Hitting you would be worth the night in jail – at least you wouldn’t be there!”  Just because the holiday’s a charade, it doesn’t mean you have to be one, too. 


Tuesday, December 31st, 2013







 If you think and therefore you are, why is there no evidence of this in your tweets?

Does the word “hashtag” make you feel cool?  “In”?  “With it”?  Did you know the symbol “#” means “number,” not “hashtag”?  If someone started calling “&” (ampersand) “fingerling potato,” would you follow suit?  Why don’t we just re-name all symbols and then really go to hell with ourselves and give all words and symbols different meanings from what they have now?  That would really fool the Germans.  Let’s have  a really secret language.  And then you couldn’t talk to anyone because no one would understand you.  And that  would make you cooler than Bob Dylan and Patti Smith and Johnny Cash and T Bone Burnett, who you’ll be quoting right after you see the new Coen Brothers film. And then you could tweet about that and people will understand those tweets about as much as they do your current tweets. Hashtag.


 Your “Woke up this morning and really craved bacon,” tweet, is yet another reason the only “friends” you have are on Facebook.




You have stooped so low in your conquest of information on Justin Beiber, Taylor Swift and Joe Jonas that even the lobsters and mussels must look down to see you.




If you identify yourself as a literary agent and then are smarmy enough to say, “no submissions through Twitter,” then why the fuck do you identify what you do?  So that crackheads feel bad?  So that your middle school English class can say, “Of course – she was the only one who understood ‘Silas Marner?” 

Or the poor English teacher who’s been trying to get his novel published since 1986 and had the nerve to give you an A- one semester, now feels bad?  Believe me – he remembers prime numbers more than he remembers you.  Why not identify yourself as “millner”? or “cotswain” or a “pickler.”  Or how about what you really are – “ an arrogant a-hole.”






Why do you think it’s any less horrid to tweet that you “love YA fantasy books, hot cocoa, micro-brewed beer and kettle corn, cat curled at my feet,” than to tweet, “smelled my belly lint, chews tin foil, stalks tow-headed children, snorts paprika, eats uncooked chicken fat”?




 I only care about the weather if I live in your city or plan to travel there.  So for the tweeter who consistently tweets, “Another beautiful day in Okinawa…”  Really?   Why?  Is it up for hosting the Olympic Summer Games 2020?  Do I need the coordinates to make me feel bad about Pearl Harbor?  “It’s hailing here in Okinawa,” would be interesting once in a while.  Or, “Tasmanian Devil Loose in Okinawa.”  Or “Wow – they sure sell a lot of 100% coral calcium here in Okinawa.”




If you don’t lack the skill to tweet something even minimally amusing, (and you don’t), then why are you re-tweeting someone else’s words?  It’s like having your mom do your term papers for you.  You remember that.




We can see who you follow on your Twitter account. People followed Jesus, people followed Buddha, people followed the Beatles.  You are following Bettheny Frankel and we know it and when we run into you we feel all skeevey and embarrassed and, at the same time, we are laughing at you.  Not with you.  At you.  Now go have a Skinny Girl Margharita.




8)   We both know that 9/10ths of the people who “follow” you on Twitter are those you followed first and they just returned the favor.  They couldn’t pick you out of a police line-up.  Nor would they want to.




9)  I am, however, impressed that you have 140 characters’ worth of something to say.  Note that I did not say 140 characters’ worth of intelligent or witty or awe-inspiring to say.  And sometimes, nothing is better than something.






 Now you’re tweeting and using photographs.  That’s like going on the “It’s A Small World” ride at Disneyland and singing along.  Out loud.




When did you become so interesting?  If you do a mental check through the decades of your life, you’ll come up with the same answer I’ve done it for you –  never.  You weren’t fun in middle school.  In camp, you were the one whose sheets we’d short and candy we’d steal.  In college, we’d tell you we were studying at the library when in fact we were going to a kegger and didn’t want you to bring the room down.  You’ve spent most of your life nodding, saying, “Uh-huh,” and “good idea.”  Now you think you’re Oscar Wilde.  No, no  -you’re the one who inspired Oscar Wilde to say,   “either you or that wallpaper will have to go.  And it’s not the wallpaper.”





Stop your goddamned hipster tweeting about trending foods because you are the reason the trend ends.  Wonder what happened to artesenal cheese, kale chips, salty caramel, tapas?  Check your fridge. Wine-pairing makes bedazzling sound like fun.


Your cat.  Stop.  If  your cat could talk, he would say, “stop tweeting about me or I’ll sue you for all the cat cookies and rainbow trout in the world.”  “Prudence at my feet, mulled cider and a Madelaine in my hand, 

(wow- not only are we not impressed that you read Proust, knowing what this cookie is is not proof-positive anyway),  down-alternative comforter swaths my body.  Nothing better.” Yes there is.  Syrup of Ipacac.  Bad Chinese food on a 102-degree day immediately followed by a nasty roller coaster ride.




Tuesday, August 27th, 2013




       As distasteful as I find E! and any awards show that isn’t giving me an award, I’m not ashamed to admit that I know who Guiliana and Bill Rancic are.  She was E! reporter Guiliana DePandi and he won the first season of Donald Trump’s “The Apprentice.”  He was supposed to get out there and become the next Trump and, although she played a massage girl in “Malibu’s Most Wanted,”  went to school to be a “serious” journalist.

       Alas, the twists and turns life takes.  Today, they are best known as “Guliana and Bill,” just your average 7-figure income couple who have their own reality show, conveniently called “Guliana and Bill.”  Bill claims to know a lot about building huge Donald Trump buildings and, according to Wikipedia, (which means it’s true or his mommy wrote it), he is also a humanitarian and motivational speaker.  Wikipedia also said he owned a condo and sold it, and he owned house and sold it, which I guess, means I’m in real estate too. Motivational speakers are creepy.  Bill Rancic is creepy.  Guliana DePandi Rancic is skinny. Jack Skellington skinny. 

She has the eyes of a pug and the body of a greyhound, which makes her creepier than a motivational speaker.  You’re thinking it.  I’m saying it…

*    Guliana – right now the smallest woman’s dress sizes are XX-small and 00.  The only dresses Mattel make that might work on the red carpet belong to Barbie.  Eat a cashew.

*     Just because Donald Trump named his kid “Baron,” doesn’t mean you had to name your son “Duke.”  Donald Trump could have named his child “Downton Abbey” – he’s that rich.  You may be rich enough to be part of the Hollywood 1% who’ll never share your wealth with anyone but your heirs, but you’re not rich enough to choose a popular dog’s name for your first-born.

*   Fertility problems are not funny.  The fact that you changed the term “surrogate pregnancy” to “gestational carrier” is.

*     There are people who live in mud huts, so when you decide your multi-bedroom fancy L.A. neighborhood, infinity pool mansion isn’t big enough for the two of you and a seven-pound baby, you remind us why the storming of the Bastille couldn’t have happened soon enough.

*     I’ve been trying to figure whose teeth are bigger, Bill’s or Gary Busey’s.  Bill’s are definitely whiter, which I’m sure is important for a motivational speaker and humanitarian like Bill.  By the way, Bill – what kind of motivational speaker are you?  What exactly do you motivate people to do? Floss more often?   Turn a reality show win into a reality show into a reality show?  Prefer Omorosa?  It’s working.

*   I don’t want to say that it’s cloying to listen to you and your wife debate over and over and over again whether to live in Los Angeles or Chicago.  Personally, I’m just glad it’s not New York.

*    Guliana – you need some perspective.  You’re not on a “real” news show.  The cancellation of Kris Jenner’s talk show is not news.  Miley Cyrus’s new haircut is not news.  Stop the “serious news anchor look” as you throw it back to your co-host. He’s not Walter Cronkite.  He’s Ryan Seacrest.

*     I don’t know why you, Joan Rivers, the Osborne girl  with the scan code tattoo and that guy whose name I can never pronounce or remember, feel comfortable being fashion “Police.”  At what point do you get humiliated?  When do you and/or your husband say, “Um, that’s okay – I’m already on half a dozen mediocre, mind-numbing, specious cable shows.  I’ll pass.”?


Wednesday, June 26th, 2013


Mollie’s Rules for Casual Fridays

1.   Even if HR sends newsletters reminding you about Casual Fridays, don’t.  You’re barely presentable in your Hart, Schappner & Marx suit and Edward Green lace-ups.  Don’t completely kill the illusion with Dockers and a Members Only jacket.

2.  Most serious employees divide the week into “work-week” and “weekend.”  The rest of you need names for each day, apparently.  You’ve got your Casual Fridays, Wednesday is now Hump Day. 

The days of the week already have names.   If you live in NYC, why not start re-naming the streets or all types of available pasta?   That should keep you busy ‘til you die.


3.  Look at the attorney in the next office, who’s billing $600 an hour.  He’s wearing a suit and tie.  Look at his feet.  Those aren’t TopSiders.  Or Crocs.  Or Tevas.  Or

4.  An oh-so-thin line between “casual” and “skank.”  There’s a reason they call that store “Easy Pickins.”  And if slut isn’t your thing, 60s folksingers shouldn’t be either.  Dress Barn. Dress Barn?  If it’s flannel or plaid or Berkenstockish – save it for  your Clearwater Festival or Mcgarrigle Sisters concert.

5.  On more formal Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday-Thursdays no one at work needs to look at your bunions or hammer-toe.   Don’t grant us this “privilege on Fridays.  Your French pedicure just looks silly, and unless you possess  the power, the allure and the beauty of Lucrezia Borgia, no need for those gladiator sandals.  Yo Athena – your Hamptons Jitney Chariot awaits.  Be gone.