Tonight's Dinnertime Pea-asco

No lie. No exaggeration. No kidding.

I just chased a man--a man born in the year 1974--around the house with a spoonful of peas. It was like a very lame, very tricky Homecoming relay. Despite my best efforts, Captain Nutrition gave me the slip, shutting himself in the bathroom yelping "I don't want anymore peas! I don't like peeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaas!"

Having managed to coax a spoonful into my husband's mouth when he turned to protest finishing his tablespoon-sized serving (when it counts, I have reflexes like Ralph freakin' Macchio), I wasn't willing to go down without a fight. I soon discovered, though, that peas don't fit under door jams. They just sort of spread out, mocking you.

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised by tonight's pea-lay: my first attempt to integrate colors outside of the beige family onto his dinner plate found him cajoling carrots into the disappointed yaps of our dogs. So now they have really sharp teeth. And night vision. It's terrifying.

Blowin' up Mom

[FAILED] AUTHOR'S NOTE: The best thing about a submission being rejected? Instant blog entry for busy weeks. Read said rejected submission below.


Dear Consumer Firework Dealers:

If it's true that in "spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love," then it so follows that in summer he reflects on how much s@#! he can blow up, either, within the confines of the law or within an easy sprint of his front door (once home, he can blame it on the damn neighbor kids if the cops show). For many—with Anthrax t-shirts and without—summer means fireworks. From wee red rockets set off on by beach vacationers to lopsided hearts splayed overhead at awkward outdoor symphony concerts where they play the 1812 Overture and confuse the locals ("What the Hell is this? I don't know this song…ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh."), everyone wants in on the explosives.

You, as the go-to guys for these opportunities for spontaneous amputation, keep American happy and finger-free all summer long. And I salute you for it. However, as a recent consumer-turned-smuggler of legal-turned-illegal-over-state-lines, I have a request. Please quit tippy-toeing around and just label one of the aisles in your Maul-Mart "Human Remain Disposal." Those of us who made a special trip just to find a vessel appropriate for shooting our mothers into the sky in the dead of night aren't just dazzled by detonators, we're wild about convenience. My father and I must have spent 30 minutes wandering the aisles of Captain Billy's Whiz Bang trying to gauge just how much of Mom would fit into the Rocket Assault 5000. And whom do you trust with the ashes of a loved one: Pyro Pete or Artillery Al? How many rockets would it take to send the 1/12 of her contained in just one souvenir mini-urn—we got a price break for buying in bulk—soaring across the Atlantic?

Not that we minded having to shop around. On this, the five-year anniversary of her death, we wanted to fulfill her wishes and we wanted to do it right. My baby brother, taking a cue from SCTV, observed that we needed to "blow her up good." Still, even if we were not in a hurry to hide 3-foot-high rockets under unseasonably long woolly overcoats and sneak them across state lines, some guidance might've been nice. Instead of Rockets Gibraltar, we found "Blow Osama's F@$#ing Head Off (PURPLE)." Instead of "To the Moon Alice" we found "Little Billy's Eye Socket Rockets." Is it too much to ask for just one niche product for a demographic that makes up, oh, 1/3 of the world's population (dead mothers)? I think not.

No thanks to you or your limited stock and guidance, Consumer Fireworks Dealer, we managed to purchase the appropriate make and model of explosive. We hoped for the best as we trudged to the shoreline, my brother looking oh-so-Boba-Fett-ish with a bag usually reserved for folding chairs slung over his shoulder, a half-dozen red rocket points peeking out. It all went so well, you'd never know Dad doesn't spend most Saturday nights shooting human remains into the night sky. In between cries of "we're going to be SO busted!" (my sister and me) and "look out!" (Dad Lebowski-ing the remaining ashes—did you know each firework holds only a thimble of Mom?—into the ocean and, inadvertently, into our eyes), we managed to say a lovely little farewell. The fact that we were setting off illegal fireworks loaded with human remains in front of someone else's rented vacation bungalow (the pyromaniac's answer to leaving a flaming bag of dog poop on someone's doorstep).…well, it just added to the wonderment.

After our victory over, both, the law and your poorly-labeled
merchandise, we took a moment to toast her memory with some champagne. "Here's Mom in your eye!" Dad proclaimed. Indeed.

Mom would have just loved her scorching send-off, Fireworks Sales Guy, and I'm sure other Moms would, too. I suggest that you adjust your business plan accordingly.

Sincerely,
Molly
Future Firework Display

Holy Lionel Jefferson, Batman! We've been re-cast!

Last night VH1 premiered it's second season of The World Series of Pop Culture. If you missed the first outing of this particular juggernaut of geekdom--and I say that with all fondness--you should definitely watch this season. I would join you, but I can't see the screen through the film of my tears.

(I should point out that, through anguish-y, misty eyes, everyone looks even better on TV...it's like watching nothing but Xanadu).

[Since I force most of my family and friends to read this blog] you, gentle readers, know that I was a contestant on last year's show. I landed on the show after doing well on an online test, not failing a phone interview, and--were I betting woman--by living in fly-over country (my dazzling and talented teammates, Kim & Larry, had each coast covered). Ours was the wildcard team; whereas the other sixteen teams had auditioned and tested together across the country, our little trio met for the first time about 16 hours before competing together. Long story short: we bonded; my teammates performed like superstars (I really should NOT have gone up for the gameshow category); we made the final four; it was grand.

But it's not the fact that we didn't win it all last year that gave me pause as I flipped over to this year's premiere. Instead, I felt like I was waiting at a middle school crosswalk--WOW! that sounds creepy--and having mega-flashbacks to every stupid thing I did/wore/said in junior high. Walking into the green room on the first day of taping for last year's show I actually saw my junior high cafeteria unfurl before my eyes (minus the "Go, Falcons!" painted on the wall in melodramatic 8th grade cursive...the accompanying falcon looking less regal, more Sam the Eagle).

11-year-old Molly took over and the thoughts came, rapid-fire: everyone was huddled into their respective groups, cafeteria-style. Everyone was better looking than I. Everyone already had friends. But, I assured myself, certainly junior high/a gameshow green room is like a box full of spiders: more afraid of you than you are of them. Then I overheard someone--in response to a handful of teams holding a real-live Michael McDonald "YahMoBeThere-alike" contest--mention McDonald's cameo in that Toto ballad. Wait just a damned minute. That's what I know. That's my thing that I know.

Suddenly, my senses were overwhelmed with perfect hair, razor wit, and an encyclopedic barrage of movie quotes. Dude, I thought, I am seriously outclassed. Like many folks in that room, my bizarre interest in/grasp of song lyrics or random movies or bad TV has always been my calling card. It was my "thing" in any peer group, in any social setting, at any Star Wars convention (not that I went...but if I did, it was held three blocks away from my office so did I really have a choice? Two words: Warwick Davis). But these people WERE me, but better. I was Geek Lite.

I suddenly felt myself trying WAY to hard to fit in (I had a perm in my 6th grade class picture, case closed). I nodded sagely as they traded trivia. I shared knowing, pitying glances with other players if someone committed the cardinal kill-or-be-killed sin of blurting out, "I didn't know that!" I even tried to throw in:

"DidyouknowthatGeraldowasKurtVonnegut'ssoninlawforawhile? AndthatthoseareStevenSpeilberg'shandspeelingthatguy'sfaceoffin
Poltergeist? AndthatBillPaxton'sdadplaysthebutlerinSpiderman? AndthatCrystalGayleisLorettaLynn'ssister? DoyouremembertherulestoCardShark?Highnumberhighnumber! Hahahahahahahahahahaha!"

Ta-dah! *kneeling, arms splayed and flapping like a mad vaudevillian*

It was just like the day my moonlighting-archaeologist-of-a-dad brought a human skull for me to share for show & tell. I felt a wave of fascinated horror and pity wash over me. "Now, Jenny will show us her Teddy Ruxpin doll!"

In short, I was the least cool person in gameshow green room. An outcast in the garden of geekdom. And keep in mind that these are people who pride themselves on their geek tendencies (most likely because, on top of it, they are all impossibly cool, witty, wacky, and, frankly, incredibly nice). Somehow, I thought I could hang with the best kind of uber-geeks, but I began to fear that I was wrong.

As fate would have it, though, by the end of our 49-1/2 hours together in a tiny room that we shared with rapidly warming cold cuts and a diminishing Diet Coke supply, I felt at home (if not on par). We boasted a decidedly bizarre shared history now. Only we would know how it felt to the be the WSOPC Class of '06. Only we would be the first to cringe during the Season One re-runs on the Game Show Network in 2525. Only we would be the pilgrim geeks.

And, actually, in a convoluted way THAT'S what rattled me about Season Two. My fellow geeks/junior high comrades/box of spiders has been replaced. Looking at a picture of this year's wildcard team--currently contained in a candlelit, closet-bound shrine where I drink PBR, cry, and tell my rag doll that "I used to be somebody"--makes me feel like an actor in a TV pilot that didn't pass muster with test audiences. "I'm sorry, Molly...we've decided that people prefer redheads."

Cast-off feelings aside, this year's show is getting great press and I'm really excited for the Class of 2007 (especially for El Chupacabra, returning Season One champs). At this rate, the geek shall inherit the Earth.

Jonathan Quayle Higgins & the End of Days

Okay, so I've been mum for a long time now, courtesy of work, family vacation, and a complete and utter absence of ideas. But you have to give the people what they want and I've heard from not ONE but TWO people that they want me to start blogging again. TWO people. That's exactly twice the number of people who care what happened to the guy who played Higgins on Magnum P.I. You can't ignore your public...nor can you fake the funk on a nasty dunk, but that's a different blog.

En route to work this morning, I merged onto I-69 *snort, giggle* and felt my spine ice over. Something wasn't right. I flipped off BBC World Service News, wondering if I was having some weird episode of post-Independence Day jingoist rage (British news people are bossy). Didn't work...still felt weird. Then I looked around--and I mean actually, physically rotated my body to check beside and behind my moving car since the rearview mirror keeps falling off of my windshield--and I realized what was so strange. There were no other cars. Nada. 8:45am on what is [according to my crack 20-second bout of Internet research] the worst interchange in the city. The traffic in this 3-exit stretch is usually bad enough to commute my 20-minute drive to a 45-minute @#!-fest. But this morning? No one. In four lanes. And then it hit me. I knew why I was alone.

Armageddon.

Angels had just poured seven bowls of the wrath of God all over the 12th largest city in America and I ducked it, simply, by rethinking my shoe selection and going back inside to change. Today just said "kitten heels." And kitten heels, it seems, say "end-of-days repellent." I always knew, deep down, that my rabid insecurities would end up saving my life. When the rivers run red, I mused, I will be sitting, safe and sound, in a parking garage wondering if I made enough eye contact with the parking attendant or if he thought I was rude.

Feeling rather proud of myself--you know, for being one of the last people on Earth and all--I continued on to work. Sure, I noticed a proliferation of cars once I got on the parkway, but I didn't waver. Low self-esteem is surely our national disease. Perhaps all of these people thought twice about what they packed for lunch or whether or not a black cardigan plays in July. I'm by no means a religious woman but even I know that the meek shall inherit the Earth.

But as I neared my office, I grew increasingly unsettled. There were people EVERYWHERE. And many of them swaggered in such a way that you knew they never second-guessed anything (even when it might behoove them to do so...I'm talking to YOU, Acid Wash Wally). Why are they still here? What are all of these people doing in my post-Apocalyptic playground?

My heart beat in my throat as I trudged up the stairs. If the saintly folks who work down the hall from me aren't around, I thought, then my fate was sealed. Finding the south wing of the 4th floor full of little more than empty recycling bins and tumbleweeds, I felt faint. I hadn't missed Armageddon. I'd missed the Rapture. Kirk Cameron and all of his friends have been saved and here I sit. On the upside: from what I can tell from my XM, all of the on-air talent at E! was also left behind. At least I won't get lonely.

Mr. Wizard Is Dead

Remember that clueless Asian kid who used to hang out in his lab? Can you imagine how hard he's taking this?!?! That kid used to get emotional learning about dry ice...

Here in my blog, boy, I'm gonna shake you down

I know, I know. Eight-days-in, yet this is the first blog of June. Well, it's been a whirlwind week at work so LAY OFF! (I don't know why more people aren't catching on to my blog...I'm such a gentle, charming soul.)

So, as I said, it's been an ass-kicker of a week at work, for me and the ol' ball & chain. My husband had a killer week, too.

*ahem*

Anyway, having been roughed up by life, yesterday evening we decided we needed a pick-me-up so we hit the gym (behold me, for I am a ethereal and saintly). Continuing our fit of responsible adulthood we followed our cardio with a White Castle run. Under dusky skies, no less (I personally feel that White Castle, like any bar with black walls, should never be seen by the light of day). Every item we shouted through the White Castle speaker--dented within an inch of caving in from numerous "nudges" by 3am drunks--was preceded by terms like "sack" and "mounds." (Must be the metric system.) Once our car smelled like the stuff they dump out of grease traps in college towns after closing time, we headed for home, noshing away.

We switched on the XM to set the mood for eating a week's worth of calories in 15 minutes. Before long, we were singing along to fuzzy 80's soft-pop in gluttonous glory, earning stares from passersby (because that's what you get when you do silly things in convertibles). It went a little something like this:

"Almost para..." *munch, munch, swallow* "DIIIIIIIIIIIISE. We're knockin' on heaven's..." *gulping crinkle fries whole* "...door. Almost paradise! How could we ask for more. I swear that I can see forever..." *cramming teeny-tiny burger* "...iiiiiiiin your eeeeeyeeees. Paaaaaaaaaaaaaaaradise." *swallow*

When the song first came on, we agreed to toss the pop ballad establishment on its ear: I'd sing Mike Reno's part while he sang Ann Wilson's. It was magic. Our harmonies soared, hand-in-hand, with our cholesterol.

By the time we pulled into the driveway, half-devoured sacks in hand, I was showing my hubby that I do, in fact, know every word and nuance of Gregory Abbott's sultry seductive "Shake You Down" ("Eeenie, Meenie, Minie, Mo...c'mon girl let's start the show!") and we had totally forgotten our lousy weeks. Until this morning, that is, when we made the day less-than-stellar by starting it out by sweating tiny onion slivers in the shower. Oh well. It was blissful while it lasted.

Hangin' Chad Tapped the Phone in My Basement

I've never been fond of people who bitch about paying taxes to support schools and social programs from which they don't personally benefit. It's called citizenship or did you miss that day in 4th grade?

Anyway, a chilling phone call from my sister almost makes me reconsider my position...because if there's one thing I might hate more than Team Every Man for Himself, it's a big, big idiot. My sister works her freakishly small fingers to the bone teaching orchestral music in public schools. *Pause and pay your silent homage.* Today she called to tell me about an e-mail her colleague sent out reminding everyone to vote for the much-needed levy (schools - funding = hooliganism). Concerned that vacationers might miss the important election, this woman asked everyone to pick up an "absent-T ballot." Shocking (especially considering that Absent-T has been implicated in the death of Biggie Smalls...but I won't hate)!

I've urged my sister to write back and ask her learned associate if she's down with the feud between the other election riff-raff: Hangin' Chad, Demokra C, and the rest.

*sigh* In spite of the aforementioned idiot--or, maybe, even because of her--please support your public schools.

Peace out.

"Some Huh?"

On Today this morning Ann Curry had this to say from the news desk about Bush's planned sanctions against those connected to/doing business with those connected to the genocide in Darfur:

"President Bush says the Sudanese people have been crying out for help and they deserve it."

Now, I know what they meant, but--maybe because I'm not used to W doing the right thing--I heard something different ("Hear that, Sudan? Stop crying or I'll give you something to cry about!") I think my ears are getting cynical. Further evidence? The local CBS affiliate runs spots asking me to start my day with Daybreak. Every single time I hear it, I wonder "why oh why do they want me to start my day with date rape?"

Pack Up, We're for Parting for Palau!

I'm a raging insomniac and late-night TV has taught me a thing or two. The most important lesson? We should all move the Republic of Palau. Their currency is way cooler than ours. Considering the sorry state of a certain administration in a certain country (*COUGH* ours), cool currency is reason enough to move to greener pastures.

I just learned that the latest coin released in Palau [whose primary export would appear to be crap to eBay, as I'm fairly sure they also make collectible plates there, too] is a coin emblazoned with a Corvette and headlights that actually light up. This coin LIGHTS UP. Take a moment to picture this. Take another moment to picture me trying to convince some poor Palauan clerk to let me lay for my tuna salad sandwich in Corvetties (well, what would YOU call them?). I envision myself demanding to see the manager, thinking aloud about the lousy exchange rate ("It was $39.95, but at least it's down to $19.95."), and threatening to take my collectible-coin-spending business to Liberia. I hope Liberia still takes five-color Pope John Paul II pennies.

Mrs. Huxtable's Revenge

Okay, so a close friend of mine was, in the recent past, slightly mistreated by her pseudo-boyfriend. Let's be frank: she was totally d@#%ed over. For months we've all been racking our brain for the perfect gesture of not-so-goodwill from her (we'll call her "Claire") to him (we'll call him "Cliff").

After dismissing a number of oldies-but-goodies--toilet paper, plastic forks prong-down in his front yard, giving his business card to some door-to-door Mormons--we settled on the high road: living well, moving on, blah, blah, blah. But, for all its virtue, that approach lacked sparkle. Maturity, I've learned, often leaves you cold. Then today the perfect gesture of bubbly spite came to me in a flash.

Claire, I have a plan.

As with all of the world's weightiest questions, the answer came from my iPod ("Hello, iPod! Am I a geek?" "Why, yes, Molly: you've listened to "Girl" by Davy Jones six times this month.") and an episode of Kate & Allie. We have to sing our revenge. In public. Preferably at a soda shop or talent show.

You see, take any sitcom in which a teen girl get seriously shafted and *POW* sing-along time. The girl always feels better. The cad--to whom she is inevitably singing as he may be the emcee of the talent show, former band-mate, or manager of the malt shop--always looks ashamed. The band whose song gets covered slinks into oblivion. The formula never fails. Skeptical?

Exhibit A: Kids, Incorporated - Martika gets misled and bellows "Gloria" to the culprit. Laura Brannigan dies of shame a decade later [after catching a rerun].

Exhibit B: Kate & Allie - Less interesting blond daughter gets passed over by a Levi-clad Lothario and croaks out "Goodbye to You." Warrior's musical career is declared over.

Exhibit C: Family Ties - Jennifer Keaton's boyfriend tires of her moody poems and baggy sweaters and gives her her walking papers. I'm pretty sure she sang him into oblivion, but I was too busy looking at her giant hair. Regardless, read the papers: little Andy Keaton eventually went bad...very bad.

Exhibit D: Fat Albert - A neighborhood girl gets Lyme Disease and the gang bangs out a song on an old refrigerator. Kenmore sales plummet.

Okay, Claire, now that you're a believer, we can arrange a public serenade of Cliff--singing a song by his all-time favorite band, no less--and kill two birds with one stone. DEAD BIRD #1: our heart-wrenching rendition of "Maneater" will fill him with shame and regret. He may even have to move to another city. DEAD BIRD #2: Hall & Oates' reign of feel-good terror is over.

Or you could just carry on with that great new guy you met. But that wouldn't be nearly as cool.

My dog has an Oedipal Complex

But only in that she continues to gouge out eyes. I think the pics I've posted say it all.




Note the progression:
Sleepy Wiggles -- Fierce Wiggles -- Unfortunate Baby Seal (note the eyes laid out to the side) -- Creepy Faceless Baby Seal -- Exhausted Wiggles.

Style on a Stick

I recently read about a handbag design contest, sponsored by a favorite chick mag. Not since That's Incredible! went off the air have I been so sure of my destiny. I have hands. I like bags. I must enter this contest.

I have a shoe and bag "problem." This is not to say I walk around with strappy sandals hanging off my ears or wearing a jeweled clutch as a sporty hat. I just REALLY like them. It's the old adage, I suppose, about shoes and purses always fitting. Or I've just become really vapid and like my feet to look purty. Anyway: I love purses AND my dad's an artist. Surely I should be able to scratch out a passable purse pic.

So I hunkered down with a pack of mini-colored pencils someone passed out at work last month. The pencils--in 16 brilliant shades (what CAN'T I do with this rainbow of possibility???)--are approximately 2 inches long and my genius literally gushes from their teeny-tiny tips. Before too long I have committed to paper the world's most gorgeous...ducky.

*crumple*
*over-the-shoulder toss*

I return to my scribbles, confident that my father's genes are about to kick in, guiding my hand to victory. How many times did Diane Von Furstenberg have to return to the drawing board? Millions, I'm sure. And did she, I wondered as I surveyed Sketch #2, ever draw such a beautiful moo cow?

*crumple*
*over-the-shoulder toss*

Hours passed but I finally got a sketch down and waded through snow drifts of waste paper--now, I know why Bert & Ernie kept that wire wastebasket close to their typewriter--to scan it and e-mail it. When I win the design contest, I'll auction off the prototype to one of you lucky readers. Be careful, though, when you carry it: the stick you hoist over your shoulder might give you splinters. And the bandanna tied to the end of said stick? Not colorfast.

WOOOOORRRRRRRRRRRYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!

DISCLAIMER: I've not written in a week+ because, after directing some strangers to my blog, I was advised to hold off in the interest of preventing any mediocre entries from appearing at the top of the page until said strangers got to see some decent stuff. But enough time has passed and it's high time to aim low again.

I'm a worrier. Strike that. I'm a champion worrier. In that picture they take of all babies in the hospital nursery when they're all still pointy and sticky, my brow was already furrowed into the "OHNO!" position. My little fists were also pressed to either side of my chin. Either some bored nurse said, "Let's pose this kid to look like Linus leaning on that brick wall" or I was primed to fret.

In my family, they like to call it the "Hawkins Curse" after for my grandmother's family, never ones to dodge mental illness, obsessive concern, or sorrowful thoughts (they were born to mourn, if you will). Call me cursed. I was born with the mark of the Hawkins: a widow's peak and a knack for irrational thought. If I drive by a kid walking down the street with an ice cream cone, I worry for the next three blocks. If I see a kid walking her new puppy, I think, first, of how sad they'd be if it ran away. If I see a kid walking his puppy, digging on ice cream, and leading a bobbing blue balloon NOT tied safely to his wrist...well, forget about it. I'm barely functional the rest of the day.

It usually surprises people to learn I'm such a Debbie Downer. AUTHOR'S NOTE: Okay, it's only a surprise to people who barely know me (my husband's favorite impression of me is to run in circles with his hands above his head, squealing "WOORRRRRRRRRY!"). But anyway...I have been told countless times that I'm, perhaps, a little to smiley. I guess they think I'm some sort of alien-infested Molly-pod or escapee from the Village of the Damned (can I help it if I have lovely blue eyes and like to bleach my hair blonde?). If only they knew that, behind that toothy grin beats the heart of someone who's spent the last hour thinking about her 8th grade picture--niiiiiiiiiiice, dew rag--and worrying that some long-lost classmate is also thinking back on it, scribbling "Bad Person" across her face with a Sharpie.

(Wait a sec. Am I a worrier or just incredibly self-absorbed? Oh, good. Something else to worry about...I was running low.)

Extra! Extra!

I like naming things (I have billions of band names ready, including "1001 White Women and the Streetwise Hercules"...now I just need a band). And I love coming up with headlines and titles, occasionally damn good ones. Someone on Cleveland's NewsNet5 website, though, has usurped me for good. Check out this headline:

"Hospital: We Shouldn't Have Kept Girl Small"

Yeah, well, she shouldn't have hit that bottle, even if it DID say "Drink Me."

"Operation...you're the doctor! Operation...you're the doctor...collecting all your pay!"

In my never-ending quest to be a real looker, I sometimes have to sleep with one of those clear plastic mouthpieces. I'm a world-class teeth-grinder/jaw-clencher/crown-breaker who likes to drive her husband wild making sucking sounds through a plastic mound of hotness.

So last night, on the verge of a major headache, I popped it in and slurped off to dreamland. I awoke in the night to a horrifying feeling. The feeling of a rough little tongue slapping my nose. The feeling of a wet little nose bracing itself against my cheek, trying to drag out my mouth-guard.

Ew.

I jumped three feet in the air and Wigglepuppy ran off, her thievery thwarted. After rinsing and retiring the mouthpiece for the rest of night, I got to thinking: was my squeal the equivalent of Cavity Sam's buzzing red nose? Am I the marauding dachshund's answer to an Operation game? If my funny bone goes missing, I'll let you know.

Everybody's a Critic

Our wedding photographer (Jessica Strickland, a genius and all-around fun gal) used a third-party website to organize prints, let us preview albums, etc. As we got hitched only six months back, the site frequently tries to sell us commemorative plates, DVDs, Molly & Neal Halloween masks, cyborgs, etc. When special offers are nearing expiration, we get e-mails begging us to reconsider passing up those Groom-y Neal Action Figures and the like. But when a message popped up last week, I snorted Diet Coke right into my sinuses. Is someone watching us? Do they know something we don't?

"Neal & Molly: You've Got Just a Little More Time."

I guess it really is a full-service website...it's trying to warn us. Well, listen here, spooky website oracle: my marriage is not going the way of so many statistics. You're just saying that because we didn't order any Molly Mousepads.

I overuse commas

And, occasionally, misuse them, to boot.

Egregiously.

I just wanted to point it out before someone else did.

The Silliest Catch

So there we were--Wigglepuppy, Chewie, and I--enjoying a sun-dappled May afternoon, walking down by the duck pond. Now, my fearless hunter of a wiener dog is usually mildly interested in duckies, but this afternoon both she and her aloof sister nearly pulled us all into the water when they saw a wee little duckling hanging out just offshore. Before I knew what was happening I became a marionette-ist of death, the mastermind at the end of two strings holding furry little menaces who were, literally, licking the duckling. To the duckling's credit, he held his own. He held very still while they licked and I wrestled them away, then turned and said "Eep." I believe that's duck for "kiss my downy ass."

I was about to take Duck Bullies One and Two home, when I realized that while the duckling was getting a tongue bath, he'd gotten separated from his mom and sibs. We were responsible for the disintegration of a duck family. We orphaned a duckie. I'm pretty sure that's a cardinal sin [being that it involves a bird and all]. I decided I had to right this wrong and rescue the duckling. So, in a fit of genius, I looped Wiggles' and Chewie's leashes around a nearby tree and went to scoop up the duckling and return it to its brood (passel? murder? unkindness? pack?...what is a bunch of ducks called?).

It only took a minute and three rounds of "heeeeeere, duckie, duckie, duckie!" before I had a handful of duck. I stopped to giggle about having a bird in the hand and made a beeline for the Mama Duck. I felt like a hero one minute and a beast the next; I started to wonder if I'd made a terrible mistake. Would the duckling smell all person-y and be rejected by its family? Would I have to take the duckling home and raise him as a dog? Would he ask me one day why he looked different from the other kids and, upon hearing my sheepish confession, scream "You're not my real mom!" and leave me behind, shattered and duck-free? And what do ducks eat, anyway? I hope it's weight control oatmeal, because that's all I have in the house right now.

I was so wrapped up in my duck-fretting that I walked right past the duckling's anxious family. Ever heard a half-dozen ducks shriek before? It's totally creepy. So, I about-faced and set the duckling down in the water, murmured an apology to it and the mother and ran like Hell (ducks bite, you know, and Ma Duck looked none too pleased). Once I got to a safe distance I watched him paddle away with his family. I will be a legend in Duckland, I mused. A hero of the fowl-est ilk.

Feeling like a nature show bad-ass, I turned back to my puppies. Chewie--normally deadpan and bemused--was jumping up and down by the tree, pointing to the pond. Wiggles...where the f@#& was Wiggles?!?!

Naturally, she was swimming out to visit the duckies, still tethered to the sugar maple.

I tried to reel Wiggles back to shore--freaking retractable leashes--but I realized I was pulling on the wrong string. I'd managed to wrap Chewie around my ankles, but my wiener dog was still bobbing in the pond like a ridiculous little buoy (although she's a girl *rim shot*). I went all Kris Kristofferson in Blade 2--"You're not gonna die on me!!!"--and started tying the leashes in a big unintentional knot. Finally, I found the right string and began to slowly pull Wiggles ashore. All the while, my genius puppy was straining to visit the duckies. When I finally wrestled her out of the pond, she turned to me, slick and happy, and licked my nose.

"Call me Ishmael," I said.
"You're a self-important dork," Wiggles replied.

And then we all went home, duck-less and soaked. I have since mounted Wiggles on a wooden plaque above my mantle.

Bears Hate 'Em

A preamble: I need to explain the title of this blog. It's probably a bad title if you have to explain it, but this is my show. So there. One of the all-time greats among Sesame Street clips was a little cartoon explaining the word "surprise." One of the traits of a surprise, the narrator explained, was that "bears hate 'em." I grin all day every time I think of that. Okay, on with the show...

A stranger reading this blog (actually, is there anything stranger than someone taking the time to read this stuff [and how do you spell "drek"]?) might come away with the misconception that Mr. Molly and I aren't a terribly harmonious couple. Au contraire. Besides making me laugh harder than most anyone--I'll out him as the anonymous poster who commented earlier in this blog that "your husband sounds awesome"--he's the Sultan of Surprises. The Ambassador of Astonishment. The Lord of "Look-Wow-I-Didn't-Expect-That." And last night he topped, even, himself.

About two months ago, I picked up the phone at my office--unfortunately, you can tell how long I've worked there by cutting the receiver open and counting tinted moisturizer rings (ew)--and there he was.

"What are we doing May 2nd?"
"Um, nothing I know of. What are YOU doing May 2nd?"
"Save the date. We may be gone overnight."

(In retrospect, I'd be stunned if he actually said "save the date." "Book it," maybe. )

Since that day I've entertained a maelstrom of ideas. Priceline-d hotel with a minibar? Amateur wrestling function? A 9:30pm MST discount showing of Disturbia? Poison-Slaughter-Skid Row concert (been there, done that, married him anyway)? Divorce court? But I couldn't get a peep out of him.

Even as we pulled out of the driveway yesterday, I was clueless. Close-ish Chicago was a good bet and a usual suspect. So I guessed where, but the question remained as to what.

We drove all the way to downtown Chicago, pulled into the Radisson ("Is my surprise great value???"), and, still, no tells. We window-shopped, jaywalked, grabbed a beer. Nothing. All I had were my marching orders: don anything but jeans and get in the cab by 5:30.

Even as we walked into the Second City building, I was confused. That building is packed with stuff: some theaters, a coffee shop, a gym...maybe this was his way of telling me I need to work out more? Even as we fell behind a line of five anxious-looking hipster-types at a place called "The Black Orchid," no dice. He held out until the last possible moment and produced two concert tickets to see Colin Hay.

If you watch Scrubs or can suffer Zach Braff-isms long enough to see his movies, you've heard Colin Hay...fabulous lyrics, great acoustic stuff. Moreover, if you watched MTV at all in its early days, you know him as the lead singer of Men at Work. I heart him. And I had no idea he ever made it out this way to play shows. My husband is a genius. We sat right up front--the closest in proximity I will ever be to someone who was actually IN the "Who Can It Be Now?" video--and that show became an all-time great (Number Two with a bullet...I once saw Elvis Costello and nothing will ever top it).

So, there I was, wrapped up in Colin, when I felt my husband reach for my hand in the dark during "Beautiful World." I teared up like I haven't since the first time I saw that pet store commercial where the dachshund has to replace his favorite toy. And as Mr. Molly rested his chin on my shoulder and I felt his jaw shift while he mouthed the lyrics, I thought about how lucky I am. Then I punched myself square in the face for being such a sap and took a swig of Heineken.

God, I love surprises.

"I'm the king of rock, there ain't none higher"

I just realized I tend to overuse the *needle on the record* bit in this blog. I have a hook. I'm a Sucker MC and I didn't even know it.

Dart, Trip, and Gogol

This morning I was thinking aloud to my husband about the inordinate number of Ingrids with whom I work. In fact, just today, I exchanged e-mails with not one but two different Ingrids. I'm like a very specialized Marine: I interact with more Ingrids before 8am than civilians do all day.

Anyhoo, one thing led to another and we had our monthly debate over baby names. *screeching needle on a record* NO, we're not having a baby anytime in the foreseeable future (as my friend Gayle once wisely said about babies, "Call me when they invent a self-cleaning one.")...this is, simply, one more needling point. Gentle readers, he wants to name a child Genevieve. Assuming I'm not about to alienate the Genevieve market, I just can't get down with that. In my mind, we might as well call the poor thing Gladys and hang a cowbell around her neck. *stop to picture a wee child wearing a huge cowbell and giggle*

I vote for Delilah (Lilah for short). This was not summarily dismissed, but Dear Hubby thinks it should be spelled Lyla. Now, I signed more than a few junior high yearbooks in my day and folded a lifetime-worth of football-shaped notes: Lyla is way too close to LYLAS. My child does NOT "Love Ya Like a Sister" and she never will. Again: no dice.

As for boy names--and for us, arguing this much about baby names is tantamount to walking into a Boise BW-3s and starting a rousing debate about cricket--I like Max. He's the most kid you can have. He's the Max. My husband's pick? D'artagnan. I hope he's kidding. Dart? At least we'd know our child would have job security...but they canceled Passions so you never know. I pointed out to Dart Sr. that he, himself, is a Junior...maybe a son could have his name and, since he'd be the third, we could call him "Trip." Beyond the cartoon chirping crickets, I could almost hear the divorce papers crackling.

So, we compromised because, alas, that's what marriage is all about. If we do have kids someday, we're getting my womb all souped up to have triplets: Dart, Trip, and Gogol. ("Gogol" because I recently read The Namesake. The kid's lucky...he could've ended up named "Hoponpop.")

Leapin' lizards

A few years ago I started doing creative writing workshops for 4th- and 5th-graders. I take them off the teachers' hands for an afternoon or, most recently, an hour each Monday. We write stories, we draw pictures, and I field 30,000 questions about how old I am (usually tailed by squeals of "You're older than MY MOM!"). This weekend I flipped through a pile of stories from various kidlets and stumbled upon my favorite souvenir.

My very first time out, I was doing an afternoon workshop for my friend Nancy's 4th graders. The big finish? I posted a picture of a lizard riding a bike and asked them to write a story about the picture. In return, we got the usual stuff: kids stood to read stories about shopaholic lizards hitting the mall, newts racing older brothers, robbers wearing lizard costumes, canyon-jumping chameleons (I almost made a Fonzie joke to them, but realized I was, oh, 2 decades late), etc. Good stuff. Then this lanky blond kid stood, shot me a grin, explained that he was *this close* to being finished, and cleared his throat to read: "The Race for Grandmother's Soul."

*needle on the record*

His was a tale of a scrappy little lizard who, upon watching this grandma get mowed down by a Schwinn-mounted gang, became consumed by his quest for revenge. I kid you not. I wanted to look at Nancy, perched in the back of the room biting through her lip, but I knew I'd lose my grip. While the students clapped in that stuttered way people do when they're not sure the play's over, he handed me his booklet. Would you believe me if I told you that the illustrations for "The Race for Grandmother's Soul" were a series of frames of the lizard smiling and waving at the reader and then, finally, standing in a pool of red? The way I see it, that young man is going to be famous or infamous. When that happens, remember that you heard it here first.

Little Billy in the Study with the Lead Pipe...

My good friend, Jessye, is a grade-school teacher. She's one of those otherworldly people who's always sweet, even-handed, pro-underdog, and unbelievably calm. If she weren't so incredibly genuine, you'd never buy it. It's a good thing she's such a cool customer, too, for Jessye once faced down one of the world's shortest super-villains...and won.

When she's not sussing out illegal porn-surfing in the grade school computer lab [and managing not to bang her own head against the wall when the perp exclaims in wide-eyed surprise, "How did THAT get there?"], Jess helps run a summer camp. One day, two of her campers started some snack-time scrapping and when she went to break it up, the smaller boy explained, "Billy poisoned me!" Now, knowing that school violence is no laughing matter, Jess decided not to smirk and looked to the accused (in my brain, he's a tiny little thing wearing a propeller beanie and licking a lollipop with a skull and crossbones on it). He copped to it, explaining that he simply offered his pal a cookie...and the minute he sank his teeth in, pointed and cried, "AH-HA! I've poisoned you!"

I don't know what I would've done in this situation. Certainly in the days of Columbine and Virginia Tech, you don't want to be the insensitive jerk who brushes it off, but I fear I wouldn't have shown half of Jess' composure: carefully taking each child aside, talking about why poisoned Oreos aren't comic genius and, then, having the "victim" checked out at the hospital. I mean, I guess I would've done these things but I would've HAD to add another step. Confronting the Lilliputian Lex Luthor and demanding to know WHY he'd decided to joke about poisoning someone. Poison. In the days of automatic weapon-soaked video games, this child chose to make an inappropriate joke about arsenic. Who does he think he is? Snidley Whiplash?!?! When other kids are reading" Worlds of WarCraft" cheat guides, is this kid thumbing through his dog-eared Agatha Christie collection? "I poisoned you?" This kid is old school...any day, now, I expect him to show up at camp in a top hat, twisting his pencil-thin moustache.

Jess, keep us posted...and hire a taster.

Cubs in 2008

I am a Mets fan. Nowadays that's not too shabby, but it wasn't so long ago (oh, like, 1987-last year) when that admission earned a tongue cluck and a shoulder pat from total strangers. But I can't even peek in the windows of the pity party that is being a Cubs fan. Seriously: in 2000 I had a "Bill Bradley for President"decal AND a "Let's Go Mets!" sticker plastered to the back of an '88 Civic with no muffler and mildewed seats and I didn't have the room to complain that Cubbie fans have. Catching a Friday night screening of Chasing October (visit http://www.cubsmovie.com/index/)just drove that point home like a bat to the brain.

This movie--made by the dear friends of a dear friend--was fueled by credit card debt, watered down beer, and despair. And it was magical. Not only is it a funny, nail-biting doc of the infamous (thanks for fielding the ball, Bartman!!!) Cubs 2003 season, it is an example that--yes, sports fans--people you've actually met (kinda, sorta, once or twice) DO make movies. Good movies. Great movies about having your heart trounced once a year every year just because (a) they're your Cubs and (b) it feels so good when you stop. And as a person who lives and breathes movies, nothing tops that. The envy and excitement churning in my stomach while we watched this movie was nearly painful. Why couldn't I work up the gumption (who says "gumption???") to make a real, live movie? Maybe it takes genuine trauma, genuine pain. Maybe it takes being a Cubs fan.

My belly-aching (again, with the weird expressions...is it 1940?) aside: visit the Chasing October website, catch a screening near you, and support these guys. The only thing sweeter than being part of a grass-roots movement to promote a cool project is laughing your ass off at some yahoos enjoying the hell out of themselves on the streets of Chicago. Well, the Mets winning the series this Fall just might be sweeter....and not entirely unlikely. Sorry Cubs fans: maybe next year.

"It has feet like a duck, but it's furry!"

Okay, so I've been way remiss in my blogging. I admit it. My "let's grow some discipline" experiment fell flat on its face. Yes, last week was crazy-busy at work. Yes, I was fresh out of topics. Yes, no one reads this anyway. But, still: I swore I'd flex the ol' writing muscles and I haven't. But, tonight I learned something that's yanked me out of blog-tirement. Something so Earth-shattering, so life-changing, so core-rattling...well, I just had to blog.

Platypus are deadly.

Platypus (platypuses? platypie? more-than-one-platypus?) have poisonous spikes on their wee little platy-toes. A platypus could kill you, if it had half a mind to do so. Your number could be up...and it could be painted on the furry little belly of a platypus.

Now, I know yesterday was Earth Day and I should be in an "oooooooooh, nature" state of mind, but f#@! Poisonous platypus? Not cool. I recycle, I wash my clothes in cold water, I glare sideways at SUVs...but I draw the line at a freakin' poisonous platypus.

I suppose I'm not entirely surprised by the idea of random-death-by-platypus, I just always figured I'd encounter a platypus and would laugh so hard I'd choke on my Drumstik (the ice cream kind, not the chicken kind). Or maybe--more likely--I'd develop a relationship with said platypus and then one day, turn to him and say, "Hey...I thought you were a duck." And he'd freeze his gaze on the horizon and reply stonily, "Nope." Then I'd die of betrayal. But, poison? I totally didn't see that coming. Weird.

Rise of the Machines

I'm afraid I have some shocking news: androids are planning a hostile takeover of Indianapolis. The Crossroads of America is (are?) poised to become the wasteland of the artificially-intelligent. (Currently, said Crossroads are inexplicably overrun with people who like to watch cars drive in circles...that's a different kind of intelligence.)

I was driving under an overpass today--I was underpassing--when I almost wrecked the car. "DROIDS" was scrawled across the cement. I had just seen the same drippy, ominous message on an abandoned building 10 minutes before. And yesterday, while stopped at an intersection, I saw "OBEY DROID" carved into a toppling pile of plastic and metal that I suspect was once a phone booth. Dude. They're coming.

And this is NOT like the time I saw all the people waiting in line in downtown Indy for the Star Wars Convention and warned everyone that we were being taken over by Storm Troopers (before I got in line and went inside to look for Warwick Davis). This is real, man. The only upside will be being able to routinely geek out and say "These aren't the droids we're looking for." Aside from that, this promises to be terrifying.

My body is rebelling from the nose up

Okay, so I'm getting ready for work this morning and make a startling discovery. Still squirming from watching James Carville and Jesse Jackson almost-fight on the Today Show--it's like watching your parents argue--I leaned in to groom the ol' eyebrows. But my pluck turned to "f@#!" when I tweezed (twoze???) a long, silver eyebrow hair. Silver. Nearly white. All bad.

My eyebrows are going silver at 29. Hell, I could have Betty White's hair on my head and I'd never know...I haven't seen my natural hair color since '96. But my EYEBROWS? This is entirely unfair. And this isn't the first sign of aging body rebellion: all the years of making "Ohhhhh, nooooooooooooo!" faces started catching up with me in my early twenties, furrowing my little forehead into crease-a-palooza. That was infuriating enough. Sunscreen and over-priced face creams twice a day for nine years--NINE YEARS--and I have the lower face of a 29-year-old and the brow-area of Sam Waterston? Beauty Myth, indeed.

Okay, so the way I figure it, I have a month until I look like Doc from Back to the Future. Within that same month, Nanette--this brave, cool soul I know--will trek back to Burkina Faso where she's serving in the Peace Corps. This sort of parallel reminds to me to get my priorities in order...but worrying about it is just making my forehead wrinkles worse.

(If some bored, wayward member of a future civilization happens upon this blog, I hope I don't forever sully her image of our people. But I bet I do.)

Bison, Show Choir, Hostages, & Pirates

Who knew that so many (okay, two people...but they're very important people) were so deeply affected by the most famous of all creepy bison-saving-juvenile-delinquent movies: Bless the Beasts and Children. On the heels of my last blog, two brave readers owned up to painful memories of having had to play or sing the love theme to Bless in middle and high school concerts. Now, I did my time in show choir--six years in white character shoes, lightning bolt belts, sequined green dresses, tied-dyed shirts, and poodle skirts (not all at once, but that would've been a solid costume)--and, yet, I was never subjected to this punishment. Having to sing Bless the Beasts and Children? That tops every show choir story I have...a few of which I will share with you now [in the interest of taking up space]:

(1) Singing Proud Mary and doing a soulful choo-choo dance with seven other tone-challenged white Appalachian teenagers.

(2) Learning the Roger Rabbit from my future-optometrist and then-show-choir coach, Mr. French. We did it during our show-stopping Paula Abdul medley ("Co-co-co-cold-hearted! Ooo-Ah-Ah! Co-co-co-cold-hearted...sssssssssssssssssssnake!").

(3) Making a long, loud, death-smelling boa out of garbage bags to swing around during a passable cover of "Hey, Big Spender." (The minute you walked in the joint, I could tell you were thinking "My God, what IS that smell?!?!")

(4) Learning the sign-language for the lyrics to "Let There Be Peace on Earth" and finding out later that we just kept signing "bird, bird, ground, love, eyes, me" over and over again.

But enough of show choir prattle...there are enough other blogs for that. Let's give a little love to Blog Commentator Larry--which is now his official title--or reminding us of two other celluloid gems that HBO showed when they weren't looping Bless the Beasts and Children: Savannah Smiles and The Pirate Movie. When I read Larry's comments...well, the shock of remembrance was like standing up after having your legs crossed for a week straight.

Savannah freaking Smiles?!?!? I can't remember a slumber party between the years of 1983 and 1987 when we didn't watch that movie. And when you break it down to its core plot points, it strikes me as a kind of creepy choice for kiddie viewing. If you've never seen the movie, here's the long & short: a poor-little-rich-girl is kidnapped for ransom. Her captors appear to have been sidelined on their way to join the law enforcement community in Hazzard County and their bumbling ways immediately endear them to their bratty little hostage. We eventually learn that she's better off with and better loved by Smokey and the Bandit or whoever they are. So it's, basically, Stockholm Syndrome for the second-grade set.

As for The Pirate Movie, I don't recall being force fed it at slumber parties. I do, however, remember being dazzled by the daily airings of the swashbuckling love story. I also recall Pirate star Kristy MacNicol lending her sweet pipes to a song about drowning deep-sea divers. Or it might have been a love song. I guess I was never clear on that.

I've lost my sense of direction as to where, exactly, this blog was headed. I think it might be best to end it here. But I don't know how. Wow. [Rocking on heels, hands in pocket] This is awkward. [Whistling Off-Key] Sooooooo...time to end the blog... [Slowly backing out of the room and then turning and breaking into a mad dash]

We're gonna score-ore-ore tonight...

You know what movie really stands the test of time? Grease 2. Even though I backed out of the front door and double-checked the house number upon coming home last night and finding my husband watching it , I still sat down to watch it and had a blast. Mind you, what technically sucked about it 20+ years ago still sucks, if not more. And, yeah, that means most of the movie. In its defense, though, its incoherence and sex ed advocacy (those of who of a certain age will remember the song "Reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeproduction") were cutting edge. And I like seeing the parade of B-listers (Adrian Zmed, anybody? Those eerie twins from "Double Trouble?") strut around Michelle Pfeiffer like she, the no-name, had no business stealing their thunder. You can almost see the sneering thought bubble over Adrian Zmed's head : "'T.J. Hooker.' Ever heard of it, BITCH?!"

Again, I fall into the lame and obscure trap: Adrian Zmed references aren't going to win me any blog fans. Unless Ma Zmed happens to be reading. And she might. It's not like her son's doing anything ELSE these days that she can watch. Ooooooooooooooo! BURN, Zmed. Burn.

Anyway, Grease 2 is one of only six movies HBO ran when I was growing up. Just seeing it last night made me want to spray myself in the eye trying to open my Capri Sun while waiting with baited breath for the fifth showing of Bustin' Loose or Six Pack or some movie about an unlikely father figure with a bunch of kids on a bus/in an RV/and so on. If SuperFuzz was on? Forget about it. I was glued. (BLOGGER'S NOTE: you don't know you remember SuperFuzz, but you do...he was a superhero whose only weakness was the color red.)

There are only two movies that were in serious '80's HBO rotation that still make my blood run cold: Dot the Kangaroo (there was a cartoon monster named the Bunyip...eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! don't even get me started...just by typing 'Bunyip,' I've denied myself sleep for a month) and Bless the Beasts and Children. My memory is seriously fuzzy on the latter, but according to IMDB it's a 1971 drama in which "a group of adolescent boys, placed in a summer camp by their otherwise too busy parents, find themselves unable to fit in...after their counselor exposes them to what they perceive as a cruel slaughter of corralled bison, these misfits are soon drawn to a common purpose to break free of their camp and free the bison." (Thank you, Patrick, for summing it up just so...just so I'll never be free of this freakin' movie.)

Now, this movie--let's pretend we're incredibly busy and important and call it Bless for short-- came out six years before I was even born. I remember about three minutes in all. But, I promise you, I see it when I close my eyes. Seventies hair, a little ringleader who--in my brain--looks like Tattoo from "Fantasy Island," and dead kids. Oh, and buffalo. Oh, and a maudlin little ditty that I'm fairly certain would be listed on the singer's resume as "Love Theme from that Creepy Buffalo Movie."

*sigh* Okay, now I'm all freaked out. I'm going to go watch Grease 2 to get the taste out of my brain. I suggest you do the same.

A Banner Moment for Grown-Up Molly

It's been a rough week, indulgence-wise. I've found myself in a variety of ill-advised scenarios: a college town bar crawl for someone's 30th birthday (yes, 30th...we almost had to crawl, because we're too freaking old for this), somehow equating the amount of beer consumed with Butler's chances of making it past the NCAA Men's Sweet Sixteen, etc. At long last, my week of bad ideas and blurry evenings culminated in last night's smoky, bleary concert at the Vogue.

If you're my one regular reader, you know that I've been gearing up to see The Feeling live (again: The Feeling is a kicky little Brit-pop-rock band, not a Christian rock opera) and last night was THE night. And this morning was THE pits. So I did something this morning that I haven't done since I was 22 (we call that The Lost Year: the seven months three of my closest friends and I lived in our hometown and incessantly pre-partied for the first peer group wedding). I woke up, took one gander in the mirror, and put new make-up over the spots on my face where I had slept, danced, or boozed yesterday's make-up off. I busted the second coat. Class-AY. And it wasn't as if this was Working Girl make-up...this was working girl make-up (IF you catch my drift). Nothing screams professionalism like the smoky eye--unless you work at Hot Topic--and Febreze-d hair.

Now, I'm detoxing with green tea, reflecting on my wild week, and considering a 9:00pm bedtime. But I won't lie: I'd do it all again, Febreze and all.

BLOGGER'S NOTE: Febrezing your hair was just one of many genius ideas introduced during The Lost Year. My friend was in her first grown-up job (as a controller...an unassailably amusing title, no matter how you cut it) and routinely had to decide between tardiness and not sporting happy hour sights and smells to work. Tardiness is no laughing matter and as the woman in question is now a well-adjusted, high-powered financial type, I think we can all agree she made the right choice.

Old-Timey Wiggles

On my way to drop off a friend at her place we passed some happy neighbors walking a pair of dachshund. Naturally, my response was measured and safe: I squealed and swerved, nearly missing a sign for SteelCankers Seashore Mill or whichever development it is. Now, a pair of wiener dogs--*giggle* the first three times I typed that it came out "wiener gods"--is enough to stop me in my tracks, but this was so much more. One of the puppies looked just like my wiener dog, Wiggles--same spots, same disoriented swagger, same curly ears--except without her rusty, golden brown coloring. This doppelwiener was black and white. It was the old timey version of my wiener dog.

I envisioned my puppy's low-riding ancestor trotting back to a house in that exaggerated Steamboat Willy-way leaping through saloon-style dog doors. In Old Timey Wiggles' house, a player piano runs non-stop and men in fedoras roll barrels of liquor past scarlet women. Somehow, in my brain, the doppelwiener lives in a bizarre hybrid of Capone's Chicago and the Old West. I see her as the kid in the news cap who pushes pencils during the day and keeps watch for illegal craps rings at night. I'm just grateful that my own Technicolor Wiggles never took the road to perdition that her ancestors did.

BLOGGER'S NOTE: Many of you (okay, one) have called me on my spelling of wiener, preferring the more attractive "weiner." I looked it up, though, and mine is the original spelling...your (okay, her) spelling is the lazy man's answer. It's similar to people getting so sick of people refusing to use the proper, awkward-sounding past tenses like hanged or sneaked...now "hung" and "snuck" are acceptable. Where does it stop, people?!?!

F@#$ing Blogtastic

The whole idea of this blog was to write every day (well, at least every week day). I thought that by simply forcing myself to crank out a paragraph or two each day, I'd suddenly be swimming in ideas AND discipline.

Guess what hasn't been the plan it was cracked up to be?

This is exactly why I was never good at journaling: that feel-good lynchpin of educated, artsy womanhood. I sit down with some cutesy blank book (with a pressed flower glued to the front cover or reproduced Lichtenstein print or something) and I it sounds awkward, contrived, and self-conscious. Now, I sit down to blog and it sounds awkward, contrived, and self-conscious...but I can't throw it out or bury it in my bottom drawer under this afghan my grandmother made me, affectionately known as the "Black Power Blanket" (red, yellow, green, and black yarn; I think she was trying to make a statement about the apartheid...it was the '80's after all). Now the world can read it. Well, two people can read it. Fine. My brother-in-law can read it. And my husband and sister when I whine enough...or refuse to hang up the phone, leave the room, or stop poking him/her in the spine until he/she does.

All week I've had this little thought bubble hovering over my head, "I really should blog." But then I decide I've nothing to say and the thought bubble turns to floating cartoon question mark. Then I silently chastise myself and get fed up with myself for doing so...just who in the Hell do I think I am? And the question mark is replaced by a little swirling funnel cloud.

I repeat: *sigh*

Then I remember everything going on in the world and feel stupid for having blog fatigue. There's famine, sexism, Darfur, exploding meth labs, Sanjaya on Idol, and stupid amendments about defining marriage as between a man and a woman (one of these failed this morning in the Indiana Assembly...a much more pleasant surprise than the fact that it was 78 degrees yesterday and is currently snowing). Mind you, the fact that I'm worried about the proverbial bigger fish doesn't mean I feel any better about being a blog failure. But I don't want to write about anything important, I guess...I want to come up with some more self-involved crap.

So, I'm going to go brainstorm some and get back to you.

"I took my lucky break and I broke it"

Good God (no pun intended), run right out and rent The Devil & Daniel Johnston. The last documentary that knocked the wind out of me (Capturing the Friedmans) made me an instant pest/bully to everyone I know: "See it. See it now. Seriously. Now. Have you seen it yet?" Commencing pestering. This documentary is freaking unreal.

If you don't know much about him--and aside from his track on the Schoolhouse Rock Rocks tribute CD I didn't-- Johnston is a singer-songwriter-cum-cartoonist from New Cumberland, WV who's seriously manic depressive. Not in an "I'm an art school drop-out who needs some cache" way. This is an apparently sweet guy tangled in a real, violent, dark knot. The documentary tracks Johnston's weirdness and the wonder it inspires in everyone around him, from the runaway success of his handmade tapes in Austin, TX to being chased all over NYC by Sonic Youth to stays in state hospitals. It shows Johnston, with his tiny voice--the kiddie-ness of Adam Sandler with a little lispy alt-folk whine--doing everything from appearing on MTV to being strapped down by the State Police. SPIN magazine interviews him while he's on a break from wiping down McTables.

I can't describe, even, one of Johnston's breakdowns because it would rob you of all the hang jaw moments in this film. I can't even quote any of his better diatribes (Johnston captured his decline on audio cassettes and Super 8) because you might write it off as self-indulgent, manufactured crap. You have to hear this stuff from the horse's mouth to believe it. I don't know if Daniel Johnston is a real genius or just a nice guy with a horrible illness and some clever lyrics in his pocket. I just know that his life story makes for one Hell of a moving, funny, upsetting, important movie. We should all be so [un]lucky.

Love Lost

I love Lost. Never miss it (or, rather, my DVR never misses it). But, lately, my mind has been wandering. Something was missing in my favorite show and I couldn't quite pin it down. Then, last night, those cliffhanger-hawking geniuses at ABC answered my secret prayer and, finally, plugged in the missing piece of the show--and my heart--with three little words: Billy. Dee. Williams.

That's when you know you have a hugely successful hour of TV on your hands, when the Mayor of Cloud City can take even one minute away from his busy awesome-ing schedule to be on your show. Billy Dee appeared, as if a vision from God, only in the first two minutes of the show but I only stopped squealing about twenty minutes ago.

I don't know what it is about the Velvet Olivier (like that? spread it around) that affects me the way it does. Maybe it was the embarrassment of riches at my childhood home that first sold me on Billy Dee: Lando was the free action figure you got by mailing in Kenner proofs-of-purchase, so we had a gaggle of them. But those little figures of pose-able cool weren't free after all....they cost me my heart. I've just never gotten over that Lando stride, that Cloud City voice ("Why you slimy, double-crossing, no-good, swindler!")...the way he calls people "pirate" even though they dwell in the sky. *sigh*

But if it wasn't Lando that hooked me on Billy Dee it may have been a chance encounter on a remote island a few hours outside of Seattle. My sister and I were at this rustic little island hotel, killing time for a day or two until our cousin's wedding. The rain, the polite chit-chat with total strangers, and a little PMS drove us inside for half-days at a time. While holed-up, we discovered that the hotel TV got only two channels: 24-hour Bollywood and a channel that seemed to, inexplicably, show Mahogany on a constant loop. Guess which one we picked. The more I watched, the angrier I was that I didn't come up with the "all-Mahogany, all the time" idea myself. I mean, the marketing potential is infinite: "Do YOU know where you're going to? WBDW Portland 45!"

Whoa. I just realized. I was trapped on an island and there was Billy Dee Williams. The people on Lost are trapped on an island and there was Billy Dee Williams.

Dude. That's so eerie. (Ya pirates.)

Death Pants

So I have these two pairs of pants, one light gray with a nearly-invisible houndstooth and the other brown with a faint rust stripe. (Let me go ahead and say it for you: "Greeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaat. Now she's blogging about her pants.") They look harmless enough and, every once in awhile, when I flip past them in my closet I think to myself: "I should wear those more often." This morning I bent to the guilt, broke out the gray pants and now, here I sit, trapped in my office when I should be walking to my 1:30 meeting.

For these are The Pants of Death: Volume One.

Both pairs of the pants in question are what I call my Hepburn pants: normal, wide-leg, hip-sitting pants with even wider cuffs. When I wear them I feel like I should be chasing some guy in a fedora with a "PRESS" card in the brim through a black and white comedy, talking a mile-a-minute, and saying things like "swell." What I usually end up doing in these pants is catching my heel in the cuff and falling over.

So far, in this pair (Volume One), I've fallen down courthouse stairs, rug-burned my palms in the hallway, and landed at the feet of some frightened looking exchange students trying to walk to the 2nd floor bathroom. And I always forget about their deadly ways (the pants, not the foreign exchange students) until it's too late. For instance, I was almost to my office door this morning before I went flying into the wall, with my foot still tangled in my fashion statement. And now I'm here on the fourth floor, terrified to walk down the stairs to my office.

As if the gods themselves are shaking their sensible pants at me, the elevators in my building are out of service this afternoon. I don't know when I'll see any of you again. I'm hungry, frightened, and seriously considering sawing my pants off at the knee and tossing the offending fabric out the window.

Honey, if you read this, come get me. And bring a change of clothes. Just don't succumb to the siren song of The Pants of Death: Volume of Two. A nice pair of pedal pushers would be just lovely.

A teeny-tiny observation about marriage

Marriage is a journey. Marriage is an adventure. Marriage can be a beautiful thing, challenging you and opening your eyes. As I'm fond of saying to my husband (or rather, shrieking to him over moody emo-rock when he turns up the radio after he says he's fine yet I continue to grill him) "marriage is share-age." My favorite part of marriage, though, are those moments when I find myself saying things that Wee Molly never envisioned saying to her life partner.

"Be careful...you don't want to get jelly all over your Greatest American Hero shirt."

Dinner & a Disease: ¿Qué le pasa a Helen?

Thursday night I grabbed dinner with one of my favorite people. In the interest of protecting the not-so-innocent, we'll call him "Dirk."

Per usual, our hot, platonic date had good times written all over it, much like a bathroom wall. Greek food and geek chat. Top Model vs. Idol, Steve Carrell: genius or no (he actually says "no," if you can believe it...NO?!?!), how to pronounce Chuck Palahniuk's last name, musical theater, horror movies, and our hair. After dinner we fell all over ourselves via e-mail, talking about what a great time we had and wondering aloud why we don't do it more often. We rattle off lists of slasher flicks to swap and books to trade, of restaurants to hit and soundtracks to rip. It is the sort of love-fest usually reserved for new friends but that you also break out when you only see someone a time or two a year. It's like the Thanksgiving china.

So I logged off that night after dinner, awash in New Friend Smell. I was cursing myself for not making more dinner dates with my dashing, darling, dear Dirk--Hell, every gal needs a gay boyfriend--when it hit me. I suddenly remembered why we only have dinner once a year.

Every time I meet up with Dirk, he gives me a disease.

There, I said it. He can no longer strut around, infecting anyone he pleases. Dirk, I can't take it. Please, please, please, stop putting that f@#!ing song in my head.

The first time we ever hung out Dirk and I chatted up a storm about the worst (READ: best) horror movies we'd ever seen. I mentioned my good fortune in having gotten a double-sided, bloat-a-rific Shelly Winters DVD from my then-boyfriend-now-husband featuring the (and I quote from the box) "musical-horror-melodrama-satire-love-story" What's the Matter with Helen? (Christmas is truly the most wonderful time of year.) Anyway, I was certain I was alone in having seen this movie, but as I paused to consider how to take the "in" out of "inexplicable" and explain the plot, Dirk's face lit up. Sending ripples across our cheap wine, he started to sing:

"Da-da-da-da-da-da-dada-dadada-da-da...GOODY, GOODY!"

There's no good way to explain this without forcing you to rent What's the Matter with Helen?* but I'll try to sum up: tap-dancing "Goody, Goody"-singing Debbie Reynolds + jealous creepy piano-playing Shelley Winters = a very strung-up & corpse-y Debbie Reynolds.

*International Readers May Wish to Refer to: ¿Qué le pasa a Helen?, Kauhun vangitsemat, Raptus segreti di Helen, I, Vad hände med Helen?, Obsessão Sinistra, Was ist denn bloß mit Helen los?

"Goody, Goody"--or rather, two or three bars of its refrain, are plunked out on the piano over-and-over-and-over-and-over during a few key scenes of this movie. See this film and you'll understand. Aside from a slightly unclean feeling, "da-da-da-da-da-da-dada-dadada-da-da...GOODY, GOODY!" and a keen appreciation for Shelley Winters in The Poseidon Adventure is all you'll take away. (I'm serious: go to iTunes right now and sample this song. I did the legwork for you...you can look it up under Frankie Lymon. Listen. You'll get it. And then you'll really get it.)

So, there I was. I'd seen What's the Matter with Helen? a year earlier, I'd FINALLY gotten "Goody, Goody" out of my head. Now, my new so-called friend stirs it all back up. I soft-shoed around the house for days: ""da-da-da-da-da-da-dada-dadada-da-da..." I was like some sad, past-her-prime tap-dancer. I WAS Debbie Reynolds. (Oh, snap! Debbie Reynolds BURN!)

*References like this are why my husband says I'm the oldest 29-year-old he knows. I guess to up the hip quotient of the blog I should sub in Brit-Brit for Debbie Reynolds...something tells me she's tap-danced once or twice in her day.

And here we are, nearly a year later, and it all comes rushing out. I can't work, I can't sleep...I can only drink, hum, and shuffle-off-to-Buffalo.

Dirk, if you're out there: let's not wait another year to get together. Life and friendship are too precious. In fact, you might say I'm really, really jazzed to get together again. I might even say "GOODY, GOODY!"

Tag, Dirk. You're it.


EPILOGUE: Once again, a lukewarm review--blank stare--from my beloved hubby on this, my latest entry. Whatever happened to "love, honor, obey, and gush blindly about my navel-gazing?" Rattling on about stuff nobody cares about is harder than it looks.

Red Wiener

No, no one has an STD. (By the way: I think we should reinvigorate the term "a social disease." Who's with me???)

I now have further evidence that my wiggly, giggly, bright-eyed dachshund is harboring dark secrets. Making my umpteenth caffeine run to the fridge, I came across something shiny on the floor. After leaping a foot before concluding it wasn't a spider--not that that would bother me--I figured it was a button. But when I picked it up, my blood ran cold. It was an eye.

If you're a bean bag, plush, or otherwise innocent toy within a 100-mile radius of our house and you're missing an eye, chances are we have it. In fact, had I started a plastic eye jar when Wigglepuppy's reign of terror began, I'm confident I would have six times as many eyes as Wiggles has ever had toys. But here's the creepy icing on the creepy cake: the eyes never, ever have a mate.

When Wiggles gets a toy that toy is hemorrhaging poly-puff filling within a day. Two days if she wants it to suffer. She chews and digs and plucks, ignoring any squeaks for help. Then she spits one eye out for me to find/step on/get freaked out by and keeps the other in some dastardly dachshund lair. Maybe she's worried her own eyes will fail her and she'll need a spare. Maybe she's been sneaking my Thomas Harris paperbacks and fancies herself the Red Dragon. Or maybe, just maybe, she doesn't know what to do with second eyes...yet. And that gives me the heebiest-of-jeebies of all.

Just to be safe, I sleep in goggles. Maybe you should, too.

I can't drive 35

En route to work this morning, I passed a speed limit sign that had detached, halfway, from its post. Maybe my adrenaline was still pumping from being busted wailing along to "Surrender" just moments before*, I don't know. But the upside-down '35' blew my mind wide open.

*An Aside: I find that, when singing along to Cheap Trick, you have no choice but to contort and over-enunciate and, basically, look like someone in Scanners, pre-head-explosion.

Neo-Wiener: My Dog Has Unlocked The Matrix

I have a long-haired, dappled, mini-Dachshund named Wigglepuppy. She loves people, Doritos, and socks. Oh, and she may "lead the humans to overthrow the machines and reclaim the Earth."

I have reason to believe that my wiener dog is the key to The Matrix.

We have a fenced-in backyard and when Wiggles was wee she could pull a Grinch, flattening herself to the point where she could slither underneath the fence. If we turned our backs for a minute, there'd be a knock at the door and an amused-looking neighbor would hand over the wriggling fugitive. Before long, though, Wiggles grew up, eventually topping out at a gargantuan 9-1/2 pounds. A few nose-pokes through the slats and she concluded she was now too big to squeeze through. So she ditched the Houdini bit and life went on. We could even leave the patio door cracked so she could run around during the day. Ours was a relationship of trust and freedom.

Then one day, after pulling in to the driveway after work, I opened the car door and a furry little creature lept into my lap. After calming down--it wasn't a renegade, monstrous squirrel after all--I asked Wiggles how in the world she got out of the backyard. Looking two-parts Max from The Grinch Who Stole Christmas and one part Odie, she simply tilted her head, licked my nose, and told me I wouldn't understand.

I, then, confronted her older sister, a reserved Ewok-alike Lhasa Apso named Chewie. I demanded answers, but Wiggles had obviously already gotten to her. No dice.

So I pointedly marched out to the backyard and blocked any area where the ground sloped even slightly under the fence. I filled in a few gaps with dirt and gave Wiggles a satisfied look. She wagged, tongue lolling with delight. And deceit. Because she escaped the very next day.

My husband and I scoured the backyard. There was no way she was getting through or under any part of that fence. We concluded that gate must've blown open and shut. There was no other explanation.

Until the day Wigglepuppy tore a hole in the space-time continuum and busted out yet again. We were leaving the house one lazy Saturday and our sweet, elderly neighbors told us that Wiggles had escaped the day before. It had been balmy that afternoon and I was coming right back, so I'd left the patio door open. I mean, the yard is totally fenced in, after all.

Apparently, when our neighbors saw a wiener dog dart across their backyard, they tried to coax her back home. Wiggles' greatest pleasure in life is flattening herself--hiding in plain sight--waiting until you get *this* close to her and taking off like she's on fire. So, they chased her for awhile and she ran in tiny circles, laughing all the way. Then she was gone. When our neighbors went to our front door to let us know we had a dog on the run, they were greeted by a beaming, fuzzy face on the other side of the glass. Wigglepuppy was back in the living room, nary a hair out of place. No panting. No mercy.

I checked the backyard one last time. No open gates, no broken slats, no holes, no tunnels. My wiener dog can trot through wrinkles in time. My wiener dog is The One.

I can only hope that Chewie doesn't turn out to be a Highlander.