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.