"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.")