Posts Tagged ‘molliesrulesforyou’


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?


Tuesday, January 1st, 2013

It’s the New Year.  Exciting.  Zzzzzzz.  Not everyone makes resolutions and even fewer keep them.  It’s way too presumptuous of me to offer appropriate resolutions for everyone.  So I’ll just make some suggestions for my generation, people born between 1945 and 1964.  Yes – you former filthy hippies who now own homes that cost more than the G.P.A. of many developing nations, aka third world countries, which is what I really want to say but I am prohibited from doing so thanks to P.C. Nation… But, I digress…



I’m sure you have your own resolutions.  Here are some that you might not break and will also make you a more pleasant person to be around.



*   I will replace “I’m a Baby Boomer” or “I’m a Boomer” with “I am old.”  It’s less obnoxious and more accurate.

Blame Baby Boomers For the Economy


*   I will tell my children the real reason their mom and I got divorced – “I was kinda bored and you

know, I was turning 40 and I’m kinda used to getting what I want because I’m pretty selfish and my parents

raised me to think I was too good for anyone.  So even though it really fucked up your head and I’m the reason

you’ll always have abandonment issues, will be on an eternal quest to find a daddy figure to marry,

and/or will get divorced four times yourself, I had to be true to myself – can you dig it?  If it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t have

blended families and half-siblings and step-siblings and you could enjoy your own wedding instead of worrying, “How do I make

sure my mom and her new husband and my dad and his third wife don’t kill each other while I’m taking my vows?” and

“How many people can, logistically walk me down the aisle?”  And now that I’m on my third set of kids,  I think I may have

finally gotten this “Dad” thing down.  Cool — right?”

*   I will stop referring to Viet Nam as “Nam,” particularly because the closest I’ve ever been to Vietnam was Waikiki Beach, and I got my Master’s degree in Art History  just to stay the hell out of ‘Nam.’


*   Instead of “I’m a DeadHead,” I will just say, “I’m 71.”  Same thing.


* I will keep working out because it may help me to live longer, but will refrain from approaching the 23-year-old with the six-pack to ask, “Want me to spot ya?”


* I will not try to Facebook “friend” the 16-year-old girl I had a crush on at sleep-away camp because unless she moved from Hewlitt to Brigadoon, I will be very disappointed when I see her.


Group photo - Sydney Theatre Group members.



*   I will not take out my guitar at family gatherings and play “Leavin’ On a Jet Plane.”  I will not take out my guitar at family gatherings.  I will not take out my guitar.


*  I will stop wearing my 35-year-old threadbare Ivy League t-shirt because the only people who it will still impress are my parents.  And they’re dead.


*  I know my grandchildren are the smartest, most gorgeous, funniest most gifted children ever born.  I do not have to share that information or that Instagram with anyone.


*Ditto my children.


*  The very next time a hipster even insinuates that his generation is cooler than mine, while I secretly wish I could fit into his skinny jeans or her skanky cardigan from the thrift shop, I will say, “Hendrix, Dylan, the Beatles, or Animal Collective, Arctic Monkeys, M.I.A?”  Game over.

The Beatles  Abbey Road  



*No PDA.  Ever. Under any circumstances.

Toe-curling ... public displays of affection couldn't save Al and Tipper Gore's marriage.




Wednesday, June 15th, 2011

There are families, love ‘em or hate ‘em, who are celebrated because they actually accomplished something. The Wright Brothers, the Marx Brothers, the Roosevelts and jeez – even the Kennedys. Each did something and then they became famous. After. Even if what they did was become a bootlegger, womanizer, anti-Semite and get dead people in Chicago to vote for their son for president, at least that required action verbs. When your only claims to fame are:

1) Your dead dad helped get O.J. Simpson off
2) Your mom married a former Olympic medal winner who, as he ages,
looks more and more like a mom
3) Sorry. Even when we look at the action verbs – “helped get” and
“married,” note that the subjects of these actions are “your mom”
and “your dead dad.”

But kudos to you kharasmatic Kardashians – you are the human equivalent of
alchemy. Klearly you don’t mind inviting kameras and strange kameramen into your private living space to watch you do and say things that are neither worth doing nor saying , and certainly not worth watching and listening to.

Harsh. You’re thinking, “Mollie– you’re just jealous that you’re not
young and tan and part of this Turkish harem. I’ll admit, youth is cool. Not always literate, but definitely cool. Whiter-than-white teeth are – well – they’re really really white. Especially against a really, really fake tan.

Here’s what I find most disturbing – Mark Twain was dead for 100 years before his autobiography was published and that got about eleven minutes of media attention. Yet unless you are in a coma, an isolation tank, or cryonically frozen, you can’t get away from these Khardashians. They’re reality television stars, actresses, models, retailers and “authors.” (Mark Twain called – he wants his autobiography back). And oh yes – they’re perfumers. As if the French didn’t feel superior enough…

And here’s what else…

* Your parents klearly placed a higher priority on making sure all of their daughters’ names started with the same letter than they did on teaching them to maintain a scintilla of privacy, dignity and/or modesty. Clearly they thought it would be kute if all their daughters’ names, like mom’s, started with the letter “K.” Not very klassy. But if you are going to do this, at least choose names that really begin with “K.” Kelley or Kendra of Karen or Kate. Stop highjacking other letters of the alphabet! And although you, mom Kris, have as much chance of conceiving another child as Madame Curie, here are some other names you kould consider:

Kansas City, (Kansas or Missouri)
Kafka (influential German novelist)
Kanye (not-so-much)
Khartoum (place AND name of horse in The Godfather – 2 for price of one ☺)
Krypton (will kill Superman)
Kidney (will not kill Superman)
Killer (you know, as in O.J.)

* Another thing, mom Kardashian – there is nothing kool about a 50+ year old woman being friends with her kids. It’s Kreepy. Word.

* Um – not for nothing but if my dad helped acquit one of the most brutal, vile and notorious killers of the 20th century, I would stay under the very expensive rock daddy provided for me. And – if I crawled out, I wouldn’t keep throwing his easily identifiable name in the face of the civilized world.

* Bruce Jenner. Ewwww. But I will admit – the transition from Olympic triathlete to June Cleaver is positively kaptivating. Yet icky.

* Putting your daughters to work and then giving yourself the title of “business manager,” when in fact you are living off of 15% of their earnings is pretty Kalculating, Krafty and Kalifornian. Kongrats!

* More kudos, ladies, for making smart, capable, hard-working educated women feel like “what’s the point?” – fat lips, fat butt, fat wallet.

* What is the likelihood that all of your middle names begin with the letter “K”? Because that would be oh-so-offensive yet oh-so-funny and oh-so-probable, all at the same time!

* As your reality TV “cousin,” Kountess Lu Anne de Lesseps sings poorly, “Money kan’t buy you klaa-assssss.” But maybe it kould buy you the ability to be embarrassed. You kould share.

* Here’s what seems to make your family happy: the letter “K,” athlete boyfriends and black athlete boyfriends. When it comes to love it’s often hard to find the whole package but I think I’ve solved that for you – Kobe Bryant, Ken Griffey, Jr., Kareem Abdul Jabaar. Sort of like buy-one, get two for free.

* Kim Kardashian broke up with Reggie Bush and is now engaged to Kris Humphries. KRIS Humprhies. Konfidentially, kwite a koincidence…


Tuesday, June 8th, 2010

Helen Thomas.   Revered White House journalist for decades.  And today the Hearst Corporation announces that she “retired.”   And so many journalists and websites, but particularly journalists are tip-toeing around saying exactly why, on this particular day, she “retired.”  They are writing tribute pieces.  They are excusing her behavior because of her age.  Yet her reportage, up until today, didn’t have a scintilla of a sign that Helen Thomas was suffering from dementia or Alzheimer’s.  Is it mere coincidence that she is retiring within a week of making virulent anti-Semitic remarks?  Hmmmmm…  you decide.  I am going to go out on a limb and guess that she was fired.

“You’re fired/I quit” –  in the end, she’s out of a job. It’s a bad economy and what’s a four’ 9” Jew-hating woman to do?  Here are some suggestions:

1.    Garden gnome

2.    White supremacist – oh darn – I’m not sure if those high-top Doc Maartens shit-kicking boots come in come in size 2 Toddler.

3.  The Eighth Dwarf…..Nazi

4.  Weeble

5.     All-purpose “before” picture

6.   Oompa-Loompa

7.    Could a Helen Thomas piñata be on the drawing boards by now?

8.    Mel Gibson may be looking for someone to settle down with.  Or  maybe his dad is…

9.   If  her head came to a point, she’d make a super dreidel.

10.  Universal Symbol for “meiskeit.”