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.