Some local love…new rings from GypsySoulRings go fabulously with my Tiffany Jazelle stack.

Get the look: “The Traveler” feather ring or “Karma Rings” –

“Onyx With Lucky Elephant” or “Amethyst With Starfish” bracelet –



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Tuesdays With Molly: Dick Pics & Headaches

Last week I somehow came into some pictures of a famous teen father. Don’t ask me how. Basically they were given to me by a friend of a friend who was cool with me blogging it. At first I was going to write everything about this girl’s (very QUICK) encounter with the guy, but then I got scared of lawsuits. Such is life these days. Everyone always is all “Freedom of speech, GURL! Preach it!”. I get that, but I just don’t want the headache. Plus I’ve *researched (*Googled) “Libel” and it scares me. I’ve had some close calls. Like, one time I Facebook statused about my friends receiving insanely bad service at a local bar and all of a sudden a “lawyer” was inboxing me. Was the guy really a lawyer or was he a coke addicted bouncer at the bar, ten points shy of an Associate’s degree in Criminal Justice? I don’t fucking know. But I do know that I don’t like headaches. Another headachy time I tried to start a jewelry business with my best friend and promote it on my blog UNTIL another jewelry business owner inboxed me saying I was copying her business by using one of the same materials to make the bracelet. It gave me an instant headache so I quit the business after putting a lot of time and effort and money and heart into it. Some would call it “giving up”, but I would call it “HATE headaches”. Luckily the blogging world isn’t quite as cut throat as the customer service/jewelry business so I took it as a sign that my real “place” is here, on the world wide web. With you. Whoever you are. Talking about dick pics. I just have to be careful what I say. Or delete what I say 5 minutes after posting it.

Anyways (TANGENTS!), I can’t blog the teen dad story. But I can blog about dick pics. Because they make me really angry.

Men: This is really important. NO WOMAN WANTS A PICTURE OF YOUR WANG. EVER. It’s really the most atrocious thing I can think of happening to my iphone. The only exception to this is when it’s an ass-clown “celebrity” and we can submit the pictures to TMZ for a profit. Do they really think that they can get away with sending them to a total stranger without some random blogger with an affinity for scandals getting her mitts on them?! Aside from the D-list celeb scenario, I promise all men that when girls receive a picture of it, they are laughing, feeling uncomfortable, showing their girlfriends, judging you, and wondering if you are a sexual deviant/offender. In no particular order. Don’t give me any of that “some people are visual and it turns them on!”. No. Actually, some people think you are doing weird things alone in your room with a fork and a gerbil. I also would assume that guys who send them are recycling these pictures on Craigslist to everyone and their dog (literally).

The worst thing about a dick pic is that whenever I hear about girls getting one, they are always a surprise. Like imagine going to look at your phone and BOOM: SURPRISE WANG TO YOUR FACE AT 3 IN THE AFTERNOON. Afternoon delight? Or afternoon TURKISH delight (Get it? Because Turkish Delight is fucking gross but kind of funny because of it’s reference in Narnia? I don’t get it either). So what did we learn? That unless it’s someone you know actually likes you (and I personally am even opposed to THAT), just stop. They’re all gonna laugh at you.  Or sell it to TMZ.

For now, keep it in your pants and see you next Tuesday!

xoxo MOLLY <3laugh

I Don’t Like Kids

Don’t worry you guys, the title to this blog was a ploy to lure you. So you’d be all like “What kind of bitch ass satan non-woman doesn’t like kids?!” then click the link to find a picture of the wretched creature who wants to beat up babies or whatever. I like kids. I have a niece. She’s great. Babysat her the other day. Triple dog dared her to watch Child’s Play in the dark with me. She wouldn’t. Hates murder. Still think she’s great, even if she did turn down a triple dog dare. I a have a sister-in-law who lectures me about the Rugrats characters like I was born in ’05. Rattles off info to me like I’m some kind of a fool: “Phil and Lil LOVE worms. Tommy is BRAVE! Chuckie is a SCAREDY CAT!“, so I throw her for a real loop and start singing tunes from Reptar on Ice (“Dinosaur, dinosaur, ancient enemy of MAN!“). I still think she’s great even though she thinks I don’t know shit about Stu Pickles’ flood jeans.

See? I love kids. But I still think it’s rude to ask someone “When are you getting pregnant?!” unless you are a family member or friend. I mean, I can relate. I get drunk and beg my friends to marry their boyfriends:

“PLEASE!!!! I’m the ONLY asshole!!!! Just DO IT! YOU LOVE HIM! I think!!! Forget the past!!!!!! LOOK PAST ALL THE REASONS NOT TO!!!! WE COULD DOUBLE DATE!!!! LET’S GO TO NEWBURYPORT THIS SUMMER!!!!? NO?!”

You know who asks a question like “When are you getting pregnant/married/WHATEVER milestone”? An overzealous psychopath with an affinity for Dancing with the Stars, Tyson chicken dinners because “they’re easy”, BOGO sales/over-excessive online couponing. They are people who talk about colors too much and are overenthusiastic about lavender, people in general who say “BOGO”, people who Google “free/fun things to do in the city in the Summer”, and finally: people who look up things to do with sea glass on Pinterest. You want to assume that I am sterile or a monster because I don’t have kids? Fine. I’ll assume that your pocketbook is fake. Bitch.

So anyways, don’t be rude. I could always be rude back and be like “I hate kids.” Have you ever noticed that saying “I don’t like kids” is the most horrifying response you could ever give? It’s pretty awesome. Wicked into myself, hate kids. Boom. Antichrist status for life. ACS4L! stu

Tuesdays With Molly: EX-hibitionists In The City

Lately, as I said roughly one blog ago, I have been trying to add some new elements to my blog. You know, other than trashy Facebook statuses and blatant egocentrism surrounding my lower-middle class life. My newest “blog thing” will be a blog section called “Tuesdays With Molly” (A WORDPLAY ON MITCH ALBOM’S CLASSIC!!!). Every “Tuesday” (it doesn’t have to be Tuesday, PER SE) I will tell you a real life story from my real life. It will never be a fake story from my fake life. The BEST part will occur at the end of the blog when I add a clever schtick. That schtick will be “See you next Tuesday!” (A WORDPLAY ON THE WORD “CUNT!!!!”).  I hate that I just typed that word =( But anyways, here is this Tuesday’s story…with MOLLY.

My sister, a world renowned nurse in the city of Quincy, was parked at Montclair school on her lunch break today. She likes the finer things in life, like enjoying the views of parking lots and fields in subsections of North Quincy. She was eating her vegan (she’s a vegan. Or vegetarian. Whatever) meal when suddenly she saw a heavy set man dressed as Alice in Wonderland prancing about, with a small Asian man following behind with a camera. I know what your thinking: PICS OR IT DIDN’T HAPPEN!! I don’t know what happened to having faith in people’s weird stories, but here is a grainy and unconvincing pic for all of you visual learners out there:



Like, what the fudge, right?

But that’s my sister’s story. It’s not mine. It reminded me of mine though. My story occurred when I was sleeping in Montclair. In a house, not in a park. So I wasn’t even really there. But my husband and his boyz were. They were smoking cigarettes AT 2AM like DEADBEATS in their early 20′s on a porch, while I was in a deep slumber. And walking up the street comes a heavy set man in a leopard print thong, smoking a cigarette, like a DEADBEAT in his 40′s. And they started to laugh pretty hard. And leopard thong man became suddenly aware that there were 20 year old’s looking at him, and laughing. So he began to heavy set sprint (he was wearing running sneakers). And my husband ran into the house to awaken me from my slumber and make me LOL. I don’t things are ever THAT funny so I fake laughed to humor him and went back to sleep.

I guess that’s not my story either. But my story is more of a question, that goes something like THIS:

Both of these men were heavy set weirdos from Montclair. Could this possibly be the same man?


See you next Tuesday!tuesdays


Photo credit to my sister, and Walmart.


So, like…this. Fucking…THIS.

I don’t know if you watched Girl Meets World tonight. But I know that I did. For the second time. It’s time for me to come “out” and admit that I downloaded the Disney app weeks ago for the sole purpose of catching the series premiere early. I don’t want to talk about it. No bullying on my own page!!!!  But I am relieved to know that I can finally discuss the elephant in the room: Cory Matthews blatant nose job. Is this some kind of a corny, sitcom joke? The kind without the laugh track?!  This kind of behavior I would expect of Rider Strong, but a Savage brother?! BLASPHEMY! I mean Shawn Hunter would cherry bomb his own vagina if it meant getting some attention. But Cory?!

Call me a sucker for a big nose, but I legit had a crush on Cory Matthews in all of his plaid 90′s glory. And now…his personality is going to have to be awesom-er than usual, because I’m pissed.

There is life before noticing…and life after. I see your nose job Cory Matthews. I see it loud and clear. We are in post Savage-geddon, you guys. And it’s not pretty.

Because Molly Said GO!

I am always trying to think of new ways to keep Because Molly Said So fresh and relevant to South Shore/Boston area locals. My husband always gives me new ideas, and honestly, they usually suck. But once in awhile he will come up with something cool. And by “once in awhile” I mean once. I love day trips, checking out fun places, and trying new restaurants (and bars…mostly bars). My husband suggested that I start a new feature and call it “Because Molly Said GO!”. It will basically be me, a non-expert, telling you to go somewhere for no other reason than me liking it. So that’s what I am going to do! I am open to people telling me where to go, so I would love it if you’d give me some suggestions! And the first place I demand you go to is:

Strawberry Fair Restaurant in Norwell, MA.

I was creeping around on Instagram recently and saw somebody take a picture of their mimosa. I’m somewhat of a mimosa connoisseur, so my eyes immediately stopped on this photo. It looked so orange and sparkly and majestic. And it was placed on a table with the cutest setting. And the background had strawberry memorabilia in it. Being somewhat of a Strawberry Shortcake fan, I was very turnt up. Thankfully, the girl who had taken the picture of this beautiful cocktail had labeled her location. I demanded that my husband take me to this place immediately. So we got in the car and drove to Norwell. It is the cutest little place, with so many knick-knacks to look at. I felt like I was at a weird aunt’s farmhouse, if I had a weird aunt with an affinity for fruit. Cozy atmosphere and friendly vibes. I wanted to sit outside, but it was full at the time so we sat inside, which was fine. I got the cornbread french toast, and of course mimosas. Just enough OJ, just enough booze. Delicious! Perfect Sunday treat.

So yeah, get brunching this weekend…because Molly said GO!


STRAWBERRY1(I’m not wearing any makeup in that picture. Does that make me brave, or would it just be brave if I were a Kardashian? Because I read it makes you brave…)


Pharrell Williams in Adidas


Finn lamb friends 1st day out 11





You might be wondering what the above quoted things have in common. Let me enlighten you: they are all probably unique titles that Thought Catalog or Buzzfeed authors may or may not have once thought of when they were feeling creative.

Moving along…

We (as in humans things) always say shit like “I want to be happy” and “I’m not happy” and “I hate that song Happy” and “I remember when I was happy” and “Does anyone have any coke?”.  But what IS “happy”? How do we get to “happy”? Is “happy” a place? A pet? A clump of strategically placed neurotransmitters in the right moment? A Fleetwood Mac song? A powder? A perfectly shaved knee? The perfect accent pillow color combination? A person? The tan man on the wall at Nantasket beach? A crunchy leaf? A beautiful shade of yellow? Ripe avocados?

The truth is, I don’t fucking know.

But what I do know is that I was in a really bad mood today. People just WOULDN’T QUIT. Or maybe that was all in my head and my brain wouldn’t quit (probably the latter). I was on my way home from work, took a corner a little too quickly and there was this perfect moment in which the sun was shining in my face and GOD WAS GOOD BUT SATAN IN THE FORM OF A BMW DRIVING MAN HAD HIS VEHICLE IN PARK (RIGHT ON THE CORNER) CHATTING WITH SOME OTHER SATAN DUDE WHO WAS ON THE SIDEWALK AND BOOM! CRASH! LOUD NOISES! I crashed my car into SATAN’S BMW. I am totally joshing you. This guy was just sitting there in his car talking it up about ride along lawnmowers (probably?) and I didn’t see him and rear ended him. No satan present. Just a guy, that I hit. And he wasn’t mean.

It wasn’t a bad car accident: a fender bender is what our species would call it. Guy’s car had one of those scuffs on the back you can just buff out (in my genius opinion!), and my bumper was dented up. We were both okay. He was decent and didn’t rip my face off or reprimand me. I felt like I was going to have a teary meltdown spazz out session, so I wrote all my information onto an envelope, gave it to the guy, apologized twice, he asked if I wanted his information, I said (meekly): NOPE I’M SORRY BYE! then pulled up 20 feet into my parking lot (GO FUCKING FIGURE, AMIRIGHT?!) and cried hysterically for 3 minutes until my husband appeared at my window and the thought and sight of him alone made me sob even more in a comforting way that is beautiful as cute baby lambs. Then he opened my door. I shut it on him and sobbed. FOR ONE MINUTE. GIVE ME THIS ONE MINUTE! Then I stopped abruptly and looked around. Put my sunglasses on. Sniffled. Looked up at my husband, who had already inspected my damaged bumper, shrugged, and I decided my time was up. Who fucking cares? It’s a bumper and a “bad day”. Put it on the credit card, chalk it up as temporay psychosis and move on.

“HAPPY” isn’t a place or a person or BMW or a green piece of paper supposedly back up by gold with traces of cocaine probably on it. It’s nothing that can be found in a rainbow, or a being, or a favorite Wutang shirt, or in Stevie Nick’s vocals, or in shitty Hull MA, or in having a Tide pen at just the right moment involving red sauce, or EVEN from winning a game of SKI FREE (which is not actually possible, but you can imagine the ecstasy). Happiness is not dwelling on things that will pass (or won’t pass). HAPPINESS IS A CHOICE. We don’t need to list stuff that will make us happy. We can just BE happy. Bad things happen all the time. Some are in our control (at fault car crashes), some are not (non-at-fault car crashes, herpes, Sears, unprovoked dog attacks, creeps, the bee scene in My Girl,  Harrison Ford’s broken leg, etc.). Allow yourself to feel bad, sad, shitty, things. But then consciously say “THAT’S ENOUGH”. If you can’t move on after saying “THAT’S ENOUGH” then you might have depression, but don’t quote me on it, and there might be “drugs” for that, but don’t quote me on it.

I’m sure Maya Angelou would have said it much more eloquently. <3

NOTE: If that dude calls my insurance company, I take this ALL back.