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.")