"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."