How's this for gooey?

You know what else I loved when I was a kid? Pound Puppies. Those stuffed canines, with the hearts on their butts for authenticity purposes, were awesome. I mean, how can you resist those floppy ears and googly eyes. Most of mine were hand-me-downs from my sister, but I remember I got a BIG pound puppy for my birthday one year. I'm a big timer, what can I say?

Along with the 10 - give or take - little puppies, and one big mama, I had the Pound Puppies official carrying case. I tried to find a picture, but google images search let me down this time. It was red, tan and flimsy. A puppy's dream.

I don't think my little mind wrapped around the premise of Pound Puppies. But the more I think of it, the more I support them. It promotes adopting puppies from the pound ... and that's commendable and just plain cute.

Let me tell you about what I liked as a kid, though, and now grosses me out. No warm fuzzy feelings from this Pound Puppy spawn. Puppy Surprise.

For those of you unfamiliar with this toy, here's a rundown, best told through the Puppy Surprise jingle:

"Surprise! Surprise! Puppy Surprise ... how many puppies are there inside? There could be three. Or four. Or FIVE!"

Yep, when you ask mommy and daddy to buy you Puppy Surprise, they're not just purchasing a stuffed dog. They're purchasing a dog stuffed with puppies. That's right, a pregnant dog. So the novelty is that you buy your prego pup without knowing how many puppies she's going to birth. I mean, there could be three or for or five! So you basically rip open the dogs velcro stomach to see how many new puppies she's bringing to your world.

Any girl - or guy ... hey, I'm not judging - who had this toy knows that no one got five puppies. Don't try to say that you did ... I'd ask for documented proof. Whatever, I'm just glad the puppies weren't drenched in placenta. Talk about traumatizing ...

If these dolls could talk

Some things are better left in the past. Green silk shirts in school pictures, high school/college drama, the four-year stint of having a boy haircut (yeah, I'm a girl) ... and the like. Some things should, by all means, be discussed as often as possible. Enter childhood toys.

So here's the deal. When I was a kid, we didn't have a lot of toys around the house. I'm not laying a sob story out here ... like we were too poor to have toys. We just didn't have a lot of them. And I was too busy crawling out of my crib and walking out the front door to cross our busy street without my mom noticing ... at least she didn't notice until she heard cars screeching to a halt and she knew immediately that ornery Molly was once again up to her usual shenanigans. So when I was asked what my favorite childhood toys were, the list wasn't long. But it was long enough for that gooey-warm reminiscent feeling, which warranted a blog. Not a good blog, but a new blog nonetheless.

Instead of including my list of five-or-so favorite toys, I'm going to go into great detail to appease my inner-child and talk about my longest lasting toy relationship.
In fact, this one still makes me doe-eyed and fond when speaking of it. American Girl dolls. (To my male readers, nice seeing you again. I'm guessing you'll be exiting here.)

I'm not sure when this collection of dolls was created, but I was probably pretty close to being in the founding era. They were higher-end dolls ... each with a detailed back-story and each belonged to a different historic time. Not only did each have a back-story, but you could purchase collection of books about your American Girl and a slew of clothing/accessories in accordance to each story. (Pish posh on "imagination.")

Back in my day, there were only four dolls to choose from. Samantha - the 1904 rich girl with really nice hair; Kirsten - the 1854 Swedish immigrant new the the U.S., complete with cute blonde hair; Felicity - the 1774 red head who's ahead of her time; and Molly - the 1944, glasses-wearing girl waiting for her father to return home from WWII. (Upon further research, there are something like 15 different dolls now. I'm partial to the Original Four. Yes, they deserve capitalization.)

My older sister reached her age of American Girl-dom and received Samantha for Christmas. So I knew I shouldn't hope for a repeat. So I decided I really wanted Kirsten. The blonde hair enticed me. So a few years later when time finally came when I was old enough to be able to handle the responsibility of owning an American Girl, which doll do I get? Molly. The last one on my list. I mean, I know my name is Molly but come on ... she wears glasses and braided pigtails. Nerd alert! I grew to love my Molly doll, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed when she was looking me in the face instead of Kirsten on that Christmas morning. (So what. I was a brat. Shutup about it.)

Anyway, I can't tell you how many birthdays and Christmas seasons were spent perusing the AG catalogue for additions to my "Wish List." From Molly's dance recital outfit, to her bedroom furniture set and lunch sack for school, it was scratched down. I rarely got something from the actual catalogue, but instead had things sewn by my mom/Grandma (including a matching outfit for me oftentimes) but I was so delighted for new additions that I wasn't ever bummed about the unauthentic stuff. And now that I'm older (hey, I'm 24 now!), I totally appreciate these home-sewn gifts rather than the overpriced catalogue accessories.

So even though the price of these dolls are a little steep, if I ever have children and they happen to be female, it's safe to say their memories will be filled with American Girl goodness. Even if they do want the Molly doll ... If said children happen to be male and they still want an American Girl doll, that's another blog entirely.

(In order to prevent lame blogs as this one for future entries, topic suggestions will be taken and appreciated. And I thank you.)

I'll take a look at a Sealy, as long as we can cuddle afterward.

I'm taking leaps into the realm of adulthood, instead of tiny steps. I make my coffee at night and set it to brew right before I wake up. I don't vomit from a flouride treatment when visiting my dental hygienist. I'm satsfied after a single beer or glass of wine ... ok, maybe two. And I now spend money on things like a car, kitchen utensils and cloth napkins instead of sorority clothing, makeup and booze.

My latest Wilt Chamberlain-esque step into my newfound adultness was made at the mecca of anything home related in the Kansas City area ... Nebraska Furniture Mart. I walked in, made my way past the in-store coffee shop and Quizno's, climbed the winding stairs to the second level of mass bargain-hunting chaos and entered the world of pillow tops and coil springs. That's right, friends. I bought a mattress set.

So my new purchase was broken up into a two-trip decision. The first time I tested mattresses out, I soon realized the sale I had thought was going on had just ended. Color me disappointed. But since The Mart runs their "Biggest Sale Ever ... never going to happen again" every two weeks, I was in luck. So I returned the following weekend and found the salesman who helped me before. I felt like that was only fair. I'm not sure if they run on commission or just warm fuzzies from a sale, but either way I wanted to help the man out.

Now this was a whole new experience for me. And by "whole new", I mean "pretty damn awkward." Let's think about it. A bed is a pretty personal thing. It's where you sleep and have intimate relations ... with books, people! (You know I don't work the other way. Sickos.) But seriously. Any sort of proper "we've just met and we'll never see each other again after this sale" relationship has jumped over the comfort line the moment you lay your toosh on that first bed. Nay, that bubble is popped the second your salesman asks you what kind of bed you prefer. "Firm or soft?" ... "Excuse me?! Isn't that a little personal?!"

Anyway, so I'm testing out all these mattresses. Laying with my hands awkwardly folded over my pudgy tummy (Taco Bueno is across the shopping center. Shutup.) I have some stranger asking me how a bed feels and I'm thinking "Look buddy, you seem nice but I prefer 6'2" Jason's, not 5'4" bald dudes." (Insert vomits here if you like.) Aren't you even going to take me to dinner first?

But luckily my two-session shopping paid off, and awkwardness was kept to a minimum because it only took me about 15 minutes to drop $700 on something that's going to be covered up with chocolate brown sheets and a crushed velvet duvet.

Well whatever. It was a rewarding experience as a new member of the adult world. Now if I could only wake up at a normal time without an alarm clock and not sleep in until 11 ... oops.

Talent: you win some, you lose some.

There are many different types of talents. Ones you're naturally gifted with, like my ability to shoot water through the gap in my teeth to distances at least 10 feet away. Ones you've got a little natural ability in, but have to work on developing or getting back ... like my speedy baby-small fingers gracing the keys of my mama's baby grand. Then there are ones that just slowly fade away, and they're difficult to find again. As I grow older, I find these types of talents are also growing more frequent. That sucks.

One of these talents I've watched slip through my fingers is the ability to shop. For clothing, to be exact. I know what you're thinking ... it's a tragic loss. I used to torture my mother with trips to Westridge Mall. (She never acquired the talent of shopping. She's spent after approximately 23 minutes.) My shopping stamina was damn hard to beat. Now I'm not saying I had the best style because let's be honest, some of the clothes I wore in high school were entirely hideous. I had my moments of potential or glory, but they weren't frequent.

Point being, though, I could shop for hours. And find a lot of stuff. So let's talk about the decline in these abilities. In college, I was able to keep a steady shopping streak alive, relatively speaking. I didn't go shopping every weekend, which isn't a far exaggeration for my high school shopping career. But I was able to keep a steady flow of new clothing appearances in my closet. Sure, money deterred me from keeping the same shopping lifestyle, which why I threw in the "relatively speaking."

As I graduated college, moved to Kansas City and found a job, the shopping was consistent enough. New paycheck, more clothes. Sweet. But the luster of the paycheck wore off after a couple months when I started the whole car payment thing. Then I moved out of my parents' house, so rent/utilities hindered things considerably. Sure, these occurences are common. But my back seat was just begging for shiny new Banana Republic bags! Once I got on my feet from the monthly payment shock, I budgeted out some money for clothes. Now this is where things get sad.

I'd go shopping every once in a while with this newly set budget, but I found it more difficult to find anything worthy of my hard-earned money. A pit of distress began formation in the belly. I was losing confidence ... fast.

So I began a period of shopping celibacy. I decided I was a new type of shopping gal. Purchases would be kept to a minimum in order to save money ... believe me, this was a foreign concept, so it wasn't an easy decision or execution. I didn't make any major clothing purchases for almost a year.

Well, winter finally made it's way around again, and after a few morning temper tantrums following the trying on of multiple outfits, I realized I was going to have to break my shopping vow in order to keep warm and keep my boyfriend sane. So I ventured out to buy some sweaters. The process wasn't pretty. I had lost all ability to scout out a deal. No longer could I buy a shirt without trying it on first ... annoying. Initially I thought it was the fast-paced holiday season that was turning me off from shopping. But sure enough, after attempts to spend gift cards received for Christmas, I stumbled upon a startling realization: I am no longer a talented shopper.

But worry not, I'm slowly learning the skill of online shopping. I went on an internet shopping binge for a while, returning a few things out of pure guilt, but it's slowed down a bit. I'm just going to have to get used to the fact that I now type "www" to shop instead of getting in the car to visit my clothing destination.

My lip gloss is poppin'

Let's get straight to the point. At Kansas City Royals games - or probably any other professional baseball games - each player gets to choose songs to play over the P.A. while they walk up to the batter's box. We'll call these "walk-up songs." (I know. Clever.) So each player chooses two songs, and said songs are alternated between at-bats. I'm not for certain the exact "science" of it, but I'm guessing the players can pretty much change their walk-up song selections whenever they darn well please.

Many of the selections are just songs that get you pumped up - though I can't understand for the life of me why someone would choose to listen to Creed. Ever. (Second baseman Mark Grudzielanek's song.)

Then there's catcher Jason Larue. I go comatose whenever he comes up to bat, because his stinking song is some lame-o country song about "what I like about Sundays." There's a reason you're batting a .146 average, buddy ... because any ounce of motivation to smack the ball out of the park evaporates the moment your country crooner comes on the P.A. Boo that man!

There was about a three-week span in which I thought outfielder Emil Brown was either lamer than I thought he was, or he lost a bet. I'm actually leaning towards the latter. Before the All-Star Break, he had some sort of rap song on - pretty standard, really. Upon returning, though, and continuing for approximately three weeks, the dude walks up to bat and "I'm not ready to make nice" by the Dixie Chicks is ringing in my ears. Words can't describe the look of confusion that plastered my face. I'm not going to lie, the prospect of him losing a bet was pretty funny, but novelty wore off quickly.

Now to my favorite player. Right fielder Mark Teahen. Not only can this guy throw a runner out from the parking lot, he's just plain funny. His sense of humor is about as dry as Subway's "bread." (Zing! ... ?) For the majority of the season, his walk-up songs were these Mexican salsa songs ... that consequently made me boogie and shimmy in my seat. Yeah, I get weird looks. Whatever. Little did I know that Teahen's latest walk-up song change would delight me to an unknown degree. Now is the time in which my blog title ties in. That's right. His new song is "Lip Gloss" by "Lil' Mama." Lil' Mama is an 18-year-old rapper. Unlike many seemingly innocent songs that are actually sexual euphemisms, "Lip Gloss" is really just about lip gloss. Genius. For those of you unfamiliar, here are some of the song's lyrics - which illustrate the pure humor in the fact that it's someone's walk-up song:

"They say my lip gloss is cool
My lip gloss be poppin
I'm standing at my locker
and all the boys keep stoppin"

...

"They say my lip gloss is poppin
My lip gloss is cool
All the boys be jockin
They chase me after school"

The lyrics continue, but that's about as far as they get when Teahen comes to bat. Uh. Maze. Ing. Seriously ... I love that he doesn't take himself so seriously, and that he's secure enough to choose a song purely for comic value, no matter what the lyrics/content.

So, to close, I'd like to provide the song in which I would walk up to should I somehow turn male and ripped enough to be a professional baseball player. A little song called "Jump on it" - the version done by Sir Mix-a-Lot. Why? Because I'd like to think that at least one person in the crowd would do this dance to accompany the song:



Yep.

If I had a million dollars ... I'd be rich.

I know, I'm still bad at this blogging thing. One of these days I'll get better. Gimme a break, though. Sometimes I'm lazy. Most of the time I'm too lazy to put my headphones back on when I get back to my desk from going to the bathroom. And then I'm bored because I'm not listening to music to pass the time. But I'm still too lazy to put the headphones on. Tell me that's not some kind of disease.

Anyway, I read somewhere that one of the co-founders of Nike donated $100 million bucks to the University of Oregon. I'm quite certain there are better organizations to donate to than an athletic department whose mascot is a freaking duck. How about donating that to my bank account? Cool.

Here are just a few examples of what I'd do with a large sum of money. Keep in mind that I'm not going to list the obvious ones, like getting out of debt and making sure my parents/siblings are good to go for the remainder of their lives. I'd totally do that - I'm not a selfish brat - but I feel like those should be staples in everyone's "What I'd do with $100 million dollar checklists." If not, they should undergo some severe punishment, like being locked in a room with Pauly Shore or something. Here's my partial list:

1.)I'd set aside enough money in order for me to get allergy shots for the rest of my life. Particularly shots for my dog allergy. That way I can have fifty million puppies and not feel like my head/chest will explode.

2.)I'd buy fifty million puppies. Obviously.

3.)I'd buy a house. Yeah, so this isn't that uncommon. But I wouldn't go crazy. I wouldn't buy some ridiculous mansion. I'd buy a house with a big kitchen so I can go crazy on my Sandra Lee recipes and tablescapes. It would have a wraparound porch, because let's be honest - they're adorable. A decent sized bedroom, obviously with a sizeable walk-in closet, and a few extra rooms. One for an office, the others for guest purposes - since I'm so popular - and future children. Very future children.

4.)I wouldn't buy a new car. I'd just pay mine off. Trusty Rhonda.

5.)I'd keep working. Lord knows if I didn't work I'd either drive myself to insanity or become a crafting nazi. I guess those are both one in the same. Anyway, I would obviously set enough money aside so in the case of belligerantly annoying job/clients, and no other agency would take me, I could have a little thing we call peace-of-mind.

6.)I'd buy some organ lessons. I will play the organ for the Royals when I'm Oldy McOlderson.

7.)Lots of fancy food at lots of fancy restaurants. Enough said. And I'll probably franchise a Tortilla Jack's and station it on the same block as my house. Not right next to it, though. Because then I'd be fat with burrito goodness.

8.)A vacation or two every year for the rest of my life. Some destinations may include, but are not limited to, Australia, Italy, England, South Africa, Hawaii and Kalamazoo. I don't even know where Kalamazoo is, but I want to say that I've been there.


That's all I've got for now. Now all I've got to do is meet this Nike guy, and I'll be set. My charismatic ways will do the rest. (No prostitute jokes, please.)

My running shoes are sad

Ok, they're actually probably not sad. I know you're probably thinking, "Yeah Molly, they're not sad because they're not alive." Nope. They're not sad because they're enjoying the time off. Duh.

It's been three and a half weeks since I've slipped on the silver and orange 8 1/2 Nike Air Max tennis shoes. (Nothing like a little product placement.) You see, I sprained my ankle. Really bad. It resembled what I imagine a dead person's foot might look like. You can call it Dead Foot for short.

Anyway, it truly is amazing what exercise can do for your life. Don't get me wrong, some days I want nothing more than to veg out on my cozy futon - shutup, I like my futon - and watch Full House reruns. (Last night I watched the episode in which DJ was having a "mega-crisis" because some butt munch kid was spreading rumors that she was the worst kisser in school. She threatened him with a mustard bottle. Problem solved.)

But when I actually get the motivation to run, I feel so much better. Both mentally and physically. Know how I know? Because I'm feeling the transverse effect of it. I haven't run for almost a month, and I feel about as attractive as Britney Spears circa NOW.

Plus, I couldn't wear high heels that whole time, and sometimes, you just need a little heel action to feel good about yourself. Tragic, I know. My life is so hard. But I've worn heels the last two days - with minimal struggle - so I've decided the running will begin again on Monday. Nevermind the fact that I'll pretty much be starting over from an endurance factor, but if Kirstie Alley can do it twenty times over, so can I!