It's cheaper than coating your baby in whale blubber

In only seven months of parenting, already I have developed a can't-miss self-assessment for any occasion: (1) Is it safe? and (2) Is it potentially hilarious?

So far this has resulted in a series of entertaining events, from capturing Lindsay Lohan's return to rehab in the baby book ("What Happened the Day I Was Born? The Inevitable") to the Star Wars Build-a-Bear...ahem...incident.

Mercifully, my already-keen maternal instincts nixed the idea of dressing her as Jeffy, letting her wander the neighborhood, and painting little dashes in her wake.

HINT: The same person who doesn't think this is funny.

But my handy-dandy questionnaire came up short in the face of a weekend jaunt to the mall in sub-zero weather. I realized that it's missing one critical question: does doing this make me a douche? Y'see, I've been itching to buy the wee one a for-real-and-for-true cozy coat since she is over the bunting thing. I found the perfect, fuzzy, impenetrable solution. Cut to my kid wearing a North Face jacket.

It's too expensive [for someone who only recently attained neck control]. She doesn't run around with Richard Branson. She has no polar expeditions on the books. Plus, I told her, "No X Games until you stop being surprised by the sight of your own feet," so she doesn't need it. And while it's possible to rock a North Face without being incredibly annoying (I love mine...draw your own conclusions), it does happen. So I've done something entirely frivolous and possibly sealed her fate, all because a baby in a North Face jacket makes me giggle.

At least I have time to wash her brain with countless other mistakes. In the future, I'll try to spoil my daughter with poor judgment, not expensive jackets.

Infant Denali Jacket, $65 @ North Face

Awwwwwwwwwkward

"I'm sorry but that's very rude and irritating."

I could pretend my extended vacay from blogging was spurred by a hectic work-life. I could blame the ease of microblogging on Twitter or Facebook. I could probably blame restless leg syndrome if I so desired (because who among you has the time or interest to debunk it?). But, frankly, there's no exciting reason...I just stopped. And all it took to bring me back was a woman sitting with me at a conference leaning over to whisper-whip me, asking that I please stop tweeting--actually she said "texting"--because it was "rude and irritating."

So at 32-years-old, well-educated and 7+ months pregnant (with how many professional conferences under my belt?), I sheepishly banished my Blackberry to the center of the table...and all the extra blood straight to my face. Chastened and embarrassed, ready to counter with oh-so-relevant counter claims about my excellent track record with thank you notes and my otherworldly skill to apologizing to people who bump into ME in public. Never once did it occur to me to respond, "There is a dedicated back-channel for this conference and I'm simply sharing what we're learning from this session." It did, however, occur to me to run from the room and find the other kids at the nearest McDonald's Playplace.

After the session ended, I apologized again to my [in her defense] supremely polite, reasonable, warm chastiser and banished the thought of appealing to Mayor McCheese for McAmnesty. And then I got to thinking: at a conference for philanthropy professionals, where new ideas are currency, why are we having such a hard time integrating social media?

Tweeting at conferences is something I've started and ditched many times, usually because of sideways glances I get when I balance my PDA too close to the butter plate at the lunchtime plenary. Never afraid to chat up a stranger, I will occasionally ask others at my table if they mind if I tweet (the modern answer to the très 70's "mind if I smoke?" icebreaker). But most of the time I read the room and if the nearest PDA or laptop is more than 2 leagues away--difficult to gauge since my knowledge of leagues is limited to Disney movies with octopi--I scrap my plans.

In my braver moments, I consider but abandon the idea of clandestine tweeting:

"Why is that potted plant moving toward the podium? And what is that tapping sound?"
"Can you believe that guy in the sombrero and bushy mustache? Texting during the plenary session? And how did HE get pregnant?"

I'm always disappointed when I miss the opportunity to tweet valuable insights from a conference: 1) I find it to be a killer note-taking medium and 2) with the economy eating away at travel budgets, I enjoy using Twitter to make sure that the wisdom of an experienced crowd doesn't go unnoticed by all the talented folks whose organizations can't afford to send them to sit where I sit. And most of all it's a way to challenge myself to synthesize the insights of the Flipchart Maven at the front of any given session, as opposed to simply listen. For me, in a fast-paced environment, it can be even more beneficial to have to capture a lesson in 140 characters or less.

I try to remind myself that not everyone processes as I process: some need a legal pad, others can just sit and listen, some have to ask questions. Part of me often wonders who I think I am, assuming that my tap-dancing all over a Blackberry for 45 minutes trumps an effective learning environment for others.

Another part of me, though, would like to contact every conference planning chair in a 200-mile radius and ask them to call attention to the tweeting elephant in the room at the beginning of the conference. Then, at least, conference-goers who are less 2.0-inclined could be aware of what all the tapping's about. Or, at smaller meetings, attendees could agree whether or not PDAs and laptops are welcome during certain sessions. I also have fantasies of "Tweet Decks" where people who want to use laptops or PDAs to take notes or microblog during conference sessions can sit together so they won't disturb their colleagues. If someone would just throw us a fruit roll-up now and then, that would suffice (ROFEMFRU - Rolling on the Floor Enjoying My Fruit Roll-Up).

Regardless: I hope that, someday, you'll find me tweeting with abandon at conferences (ideally, without bothering the nice people around me). Until then, I'll likely stick to leaky hotel pens...and I'll take a Fruit Roll-Up if you have one handy.

OMG! Martin Van Buren makes me LOL!

The entire drive back from my vacation, I was sweating this blog. Knowing that I had only recently resumed the great "grow a pair and write every day" experiment meant I had better have plenty of topics on the line upon my return. So I took to texting myself ideas and quotes. What this didn't yield was any idea on which I could write more than one sentence. What it did yield was a moment of great pleasure when really weird phrases popped up on the screen of my Treo. Not to mention the even greater pleasure when I forgot I'd texted myself and stumbled across those messages later.

Anyway, since I think you're supposed to wait a week after returning from vacation and an hour after eating before blogging, I thought I'd better ease back in by, simply, sharing my most recent self-texts. I thought I'd build in some reader participation, too: see if you can identify which phrases were uttered by my husband and which were uttered by 80's glam rock outfit Faster Pussycat.

"So, Martin Van Buren...well HE had a very troubled presidency."

"There's no one home in my house of pain..."

"This Miller Chill reminds me of the story of Akbar the Great."

Beach Bound (& this time without human remains in tow)

Mollyblogger is less than 24 hours away from a lovely, lazy beach getaway with the fam. Last year's trip will be hard to beat (see "Blowin' up Mom" for all the details) but I'm still champing (I always thought it should be "chomping") at the bit to get going.

I plan to use the time to exfoliate my feet, let my siblings humiliate me on the Wii, read the new David Sedaris, worry the Democrats will somehow blow it in November (please no), and reflect on everything that was right about the recent Hulk movie (Bill Bixby shout-outs! Sad-walking-away-music from the TV show! William Hurt is never subtle!).

On my way home last night I saw on a carwarsh marquee that it's "National Detailing Month," hence all the sharing.

Happy 4th, all!

"So, this is Planet Houston."

For the two geeks--and I mean that in the nicest way possible--currently snickering at the blog title, I salute you. I think, though, that the three of us need to get some perspective.

Anyway: tonight the OBC (ol' ball and chain) and I went to see Get Smart. Not bad at all. Love Steve Carell, smell what The Rock is cooking, Anne Hathaway wore some fabulous clothes, quality cameos, etc. But what (or, I suppose, who) made the movie? Terence Stamp. Terence freaking Stamp plays the villain in Get Smart.

If you're unfamiliar with British actor Terence Stamp...well, first, I weep for you but next I direct you to think back to (or Netflix) Superman II and, the greatest villain to ever get trapped in a galactic hand mirror: General Zod. In Superman II, General Zod, his friendly giant and some ESP-happy chick who looked a little bit like Pat Benatar are Kryptonian criminals who Superman accidentally frees to run amok on Earth. Seriously. They toss people around, choke yokels, and chew scenery. Great stuff. And Terence Stamp (bless his clasically-trained, Oscar-nominated little heart) went the way of Alec Guinness in Star Wars and Donald Pleasence in Halloween. "I'm sure I can wear black rubbery tights and say 'Kneel before Zod' without Comic-Con bound devotees remembering me, only, for this little dalliance."

Not so fast, Terence.

Seriously, how do I explain my love for Terence Stamp and his hilarious awesomeness in Superman II? How do you quantify the geeked-out glee of Googling a man and getting results that begin with super-cool caveats like "With all due respect to Ian McKellan's Magneto?"

There are no words, only YouTube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UKDFop0aqYQ

The Fifth Dimension of Hell

So, my husband was paging through this trivia quiz book (the sort of gift people tend to give us a lot) and stumbled across a song title with which he was unfamiliar. So he decided to ferret out a clip of the song online.

THIS is why it pays to know your music trivia, people...so what happened to my beloved won't happen to you.

He clicked on the file and was treated to a synthesizer version of the Fifth Dimension's "Up, Up and Away." Why he didn't know better--didn't know this God-awful song--I'm not sure. But by the time I heard the first two notes from the adjoining room, I couldn't save him. I could name that tune in two notes, Bob, and that tune is "It's too late! Save yourselves!"

(If you're not familiar with the song, please take a moment check it out on YouTube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IXZDkkeSVBs or else you will be unable to grasp the horror of what happened next.)

So, he listened to the impossibly bad Muzak version of the impossibly bad song for 20 seconds, decided he had no clue what it was and clicked out. Or tried. He couldn't close the file. He couldn't pause the file He couldn't turn down the file. He couldn't CTRL + ALT + DELETE. He couldn't do anything but sit there and take it.

Listening to this festival of sound, I was reminded of watching this really disturbing sixth grade graduation video featuring two of my friends (who are still dear friends, one of whom is probably reading this and having a mega-flashback). As memory serves, the video was a loop of disembodied sixth grade heads floating up-screen, each head superimposed on a red balloon, while "Up, Up and Away" played again and again.

I was shaken from my flashback to realize that the song was STILL playing and that my husband was STILL calling for help. Eventually I proposed that he just power-off, damn the consequences. But I enjoyed the view--and the song--for awhile before I did it. The Fifth Dimension would have wanted it that way.

The five words you shouldn't be allowed to say on television

"Comedian George Carlin has died."

Seriously, universe...did I tick you off? Russert and Carlin in just over one week? I feel like I should call Bob Newhart and warn him.

R.I.P., George.

"Morning, Ralph"

Y'see, the nice thing about that blog title is that I could take it in a number of different directions. In fact, in retrospect, it sounds as if I'm planning an entry on morning sickness (which I do NOT have any reason to have, gun-jumpers). Another nice thing about this title is that, once you've read the blogs, only the one-time Looney Tunes viewers among us will giggle. Even as a relatively inexperienced blogger, I know that you're supposed to make obscure references that alienate 3 out of 4 readers.

The best thing about this entry is though is that, for reasons I cannot explain, I'm blogging in the dark--in my defense, 'twas dusky when I sat down to type--so my first attempt at the opening line came out, "U'see the mice things."

Now, down to the matter at hand. Driving home late-ish last night, I tuned in to the local ABC affiliate on my car radio [because I'm 80 years old, I guess, and can't stomach the rock 'n' roll on the other stations]. Before long, I found myself listening to Nightline (I miss you, Ted Koppel). I was only half-listening to the story when I heard a frustrated male voice say five magic words:

"Pollyanna view of wolf management."

How Nightline knew about the name I had pegged for my metal band, I'll never know.

Crazy Train

Last night I attended a community meeting about mass transit plans for the city. The part of me that's slavishly devoted to the wee blue donkey--not to mention the part of me that was scared witless courtesy of Al Gore--is pleased. The part of me that sleeps 30 feet from the historic train tracks where they want to put said mass transit wants to get the Hell out of Dodge. Convenient, since I can train-hop from my deck.

I was mostly there to listen. I was also there to be made wildly uncomfortable by all the tension in the room (not to mention the sartorial decisions made by several audience members...did that woman in the corner check herself in the mirror before going out and say, "I am victorious! I finally look like Eunice from Mama's Family!"). So, imagine my delight when I discovered that there was bonus fun to be had. I got to sit in front of Bartles and James, minus the charm.

When the planning commission started to speak, Bartles actually said, "Boo." He did not in fact boo, he did not even say "Boooooooooooooooo!" He just said "boo." Then, rather, that listen to anyone--even those on his side--he and James chattered on about the problems facing the country today. What I heard alarmed me. Ladies and gents, according to Persnickety Pete, this country is facing a threat we scarcely appreciate.

"You know who I blame? The Spanish."

Ay de mi.

I took a break from imagining how I'm going to set up my very own one-woman hobo town when they lay the tracks through my begonias to imagine the Spanish advancing on Indianapolis in pointy, shiny conquistador helmets. Cool.

Bartles and James were apparently thinking the same thing because they were painfully quiet for a long time. Until someone in the audience asked the planning commission-types, "Which would you rather have running through your backyard? A diesel train or a light rail?" When the suit answered with a chuckle that he'd prefer the one that works, Bartles could scarcely contain himself:

"Communist bastard."

I'd reflect on this further but the Spanish are coming, so I'd better not.

Darling, let me take you to the Casbah

So I'm trudging down-slope in my parking garage this morning, surveying my shoes and debating "elevator day or face-plant-in-the-stairwell day?" when I glance across the street at my office building and see romance blossoming before my eyes. I didn't see compromised conventioneers or junior executives locked in some icky, forbidden embrace. I saw a trash can and a recycling bin, side-by-side, pressed against a fourth floor window in an otherwise empty conference room.

It looked as if they were enjoying the last of the sunrise (which happened, oh, hours ago but trash bins don't have legs so I find it entirely believable that they would still be sitting there) before the day fell on a cold, unfeeling world. A world that does not understand their love.

"But we can never be together," whispered one to the other.

"Shhhhhhhhh...don't think about that now," chided her mate.


As the elevator banged opened--I am unconvinced that walking down the stairs is real exercise--it was hard to tell where the blue self-righteous rubber of the recycler stopped and the permissive, sticky confines of the trash bin began. So close, these two from different worlds, I sighed as I promptly got my heel stuck in the wee holes of the rubber mat they use to trap low-level professionals.

When I exited on the ground floor, I looked up to check on the refused refuse romantics and saw that the trash bin was gone. I hope he went out in a big way. Maybe he threw himself down an elevator shaft or faked his own death with the help of a friendly monk...but I doubt it. I guess some unfeeling office worker decided to pass judgment and separate the two lovebins. I guess it just wasn't meant to be. The world can be so cruel.

(Okay, seriously: I once had an employer tell me that, because I was so prone to weirdo mental images like those above, I should get a PhD. Someone should forward this blog so he understands that he should never, ever have validated me. Happy Tuesday.)

The Killer Isn't the Only Thing in this Movie that Blows

Sometimes you overhear or are told something so funny that you have to share it for that person, lest the originator be too modest or be trampled by wildebeests or something equally prohibitive.

Last night we went to see M. Night Shyamalan's latest movie, "The Happening." I'd go into why it was so painful (Did she just say, "What color is love?") and why it wasted so much talent (Betty Buckley, did you really need this paycheck? John Leguizamo, when you heard that Marky Mark signed on were you so blinded by his Oscar nomination that you didn't read past the first three pages of the script?), but I'm afraid I'd ruin the movie for you. Oh wait: M. Night did that for me. How considerate.

But my fury at being suckered into trusting M. Night again is not why, after almost a year, I've restarted my self-indulgent little blog. I'm here to share what might be the most brilliant reaction to having just sat through 90-minutes of George Lucas-worthy awkward speech. As we were walking up the aisle, giggling over the movie's final moments, the guy behind his turned to his date and said, "I wish I had the Sixth Sense to not see his movies."

Maybe this is a recycled comment, maybe it's not. Either way: y'hear that, M. Night. Now THAT'S how you time dialogue.

PS: Before you think I'm too pretentious, know that I liked "The Village." A lot. So there.

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.

Mr. Wizard Is Dead

Remember that clueless Asian kid who used to hang out in his lab? Can you imagine how hard he's taking this?!?! That kid used to get emotional learning about dry ice...

Here in my blog, boy, I'm gonna shake you down

I know, I know. Eight-days-in, yet this is the first blog of June. Well, it's been a whirlwind week at work so LAY OFF! (I don't know why more people aren't catching on to my blog...I'm such a gentle, charming soul.)

So, as I said, it's been an ass-kicker of a week at work, for me and the ol' ball & chain. My husband had a killer week, too.

*ahem*

Anyway, having been roughed up by life, yesterday evening we decided we needed a pick-me-up so we hit the gym (behold me, for I am a ethereal and saintly). Continuing our fit of responsible adulthood we followed our cardio with a White Castle run. Under dusky skies, no less (I personally feel that White Castle, like any bar with black walls, should never be seen by the light of day). Every item we shouted through the White Castle speaker--dented within an inch of caving in from numerous "nudges" by 3am drunks--was preceded by terms like "sack" and "mounds." (Must be the metric system.) Once our car smelled like the stuff they dump out of grease traps in college towns after closing time, we headed for home, noshing away.

We switched on the XM to set the mood for eating a week's worth of calories in 15 minutes. Before long, we were singing along to fuzzy 80's soft-pop in gluttonous glory, earning stares from passersby (because that's what you get when you do silly things in convertibles). It went a little something like this:

"Almost para..." *munch, munch, swallow* "DIIIIIIIIIIIISE. We're knockin' on heaven's..." *gulping crinkle fries whole* "...door. Almost paradise! How could we ask for more. I swear that I can see forever..." *cramming teeny-tiny burger* "...iiiiiiiin your eeeeeyeeees. Paaaaaaaaaaaaaaaradise." *swallow*

When the song first came on, we agreed to toss the pop ballad establishment on its ear: I'd sing Mike Reno's part while he sang Ann Wilson's. It was magic. Our harmonies soared, hand-in-hand, with our cholesterol.

By the time we pulled into the driveway, half-devoured sacks in hand, I was showing my hubby that I do, in fact, know every word and nuance of Gregory Abbott's sultry seductive "Shake You Down" ("Eeenie, Meenie, Minie, Mo...c'mon girl let's start the show!") and we had totally forgotten our lousy weeks. Until this morning, that is, when we made the day less-than-stellar by starting it out by sweating tiny onion slivers in the shower. Oh well. It was blissful while it lasted.

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.