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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.")

A teeny-tiny observation about marriage

Marriage is a journey. Marriage is an adventure. Marriage can be a beautiful thing, challenging you and opening your eyes. As I'm fond of saying to my husband (or rather, shrieking to him over moody emo-rock when he turns up the radio after he says he's fine yet I continue to grill him) "marriage is share-age." My favorite part of marriage, though, are those moments when I find myself saying things that Wee Molly never envisioned saying to her life partner.

"Be careful...you don't want to get jelly all over your Greatest American Hero shirt."