Molly: Mildly derogatory term referring to a woman of my particular faith who tends to go overboard with home-dec, cooking, crafts, and anything else domestically-oriented. Generally wears pastel floral prints, Alice bands, and poofy hair.
Not Molly: May do all the Molly Stuff, but doesn’t wear the pastel florals or poofy hair.
Not Molly Blog: A handy spot to stash all the Molly Flotsam that sloshes around. Full of opinionated stumping on topics domestic and otherwise, some projects with only minimal twee content, and the things that keep me (mostly) out of mischief.
I’ve always loved to buck a trend. If something can be done, but slightly off-kilter, it’s going to appeal to me.
So, yeah, I got married young–but I married a kilt-wearing, pipes-playing, tall, dark, and slightly-Neanderthal guy, and, since I made wedding dresses for other people, I eloped instead.
I go places and use a fake accent just for fun. I ground my kids from speaking when they’re cranky–unless they can do it in rhyme.
I got dragged into the cultish clan that is Scrapbooking, and the grammarian in me cringes at turning perfectly good nouns into verbs. I end up doing crafts, but insist I’m not a crafty person.
I am, in general, a practical Luddite, but I love, love, love the internets and all they provide.
I love to bake and cook, but won’t make casseroles as a general rule, or use elbow macaroni.
I’m late to the blogging world, too. And, with blogging, it’s really hard to buck a trend… there are too many variations possible to pin down just one or two things against which to rebel.
So, Not Molly is my little corner of things, and you’re more than welcome to visit. Be forewarned: I have a terrible penchant for really, really dreadful puns.
Here’s a quick rundown on the people you’ll see discussed at NotMolly.
Quite obviously, this is not a current picture. I assiduously avoid those, because I’m terribly vain and terribly camera-shy. It’s genetic. Having nekkid dolls is also genetic, apparently, which explains a lot about my little girls’ closet and the modesty of their dollies.
Taken before I married him, when he was but a babe in his early 20s, but still: who can resist a guy with a gorgeous, non-scratchy beard, and manly enough to wear a kilt? Not me, that’s for sure. I don’t recall even trying to pretend to resist. He’s just that cute. Add in a deep baritone voice, awesome Dad traits, good decorating sense, and the skills to build just about anything I desire, and he’s pretty much perfect.
Spiral-sliced and honey-cured, she’s our Eldest, shown here at age 5, giving tours of the playground. She’s now nearly 15, a fantastic baker, wonderful Mini-Mom to the little girls, growing daily as an artist, and still possesses her very own sense of style. I applaud this–she’s well on her way to being quite NotMolly herself.
This poor lad swims in a deep estrogen sea, accompanied only by his brave father. He’s my gadget boy, my build-it boy… most recently, he replaced all the plugs in my bedroom with three-prongers so I can use the laptop whilst propped up comfortably in bed if I wish. With those sorts of Accommodate the Woman skills, he’s well on his way to being a Tall, Blonde, and Slightly Neanderthal fellow one day. He opens doors, starts fires, and grins wickedly when proposing dreadful puns. (That part is also genetic. From both sides. Poor boy.)
The Spicy Child & Lefty, The Tagger
Both are strong willed and not about to let anyone overlook them. Spicy is our bendy kid, and runs laps in the house if she cannot go outside. She knows every single button her brother owns, and precisely how to push them for maximum adventure and diversion. She is also his most ardent fan.
Lefty sings all the time (songs from the Wicked soundtrack, various theme songs, and a goodly serving of the Andrews Sisters), and tries to do everything her big sisters do. She insists she is five years old and we cannot swerve her from this belief. She will also raid and swipe clothes from any drawer, basket, or bin she can get hold of, up to and including the doll-clothes, which mostly serve to honk her off in a righteous way, since they don’t fit over her head very well. The poofy rock-star hair is entirely natural, and there’s nothing we can do about it.
And there’s one of those genetically nekkid doll-babies again. She’s wearing a shirt at least. That’s got to count positively in some way. It’s progress. Rare, but progress.