Scott, Scott, Scott. You should have known The Smoking Gun would find you. 'Cause this? Uncool.link | posted by Cat at 4:23 PM
Uh-oh. It's official. I realize I have been treading a fine line, you know, on the cusp between American Idol Afficionado and Overinvested Freak. Then, last night, I think I may have crossed over. To the Dark Side of the Force. Alas, it is true. Oh my, this is embarrassing, y'all. The fact is, I actually cried when Jessica was booted off. I cried! Over a reality TV show!
In my defense, I had JUST watched an especially harrowing episode of Law & Order: SVU. So maybe it was residual grief. But still! As Mamaramma pointed out, the other contestants (who were absolute sobbing messes last week when Mikalah was THANKFULLY eliminated), they didn't even shed a tear for Jessica! It was all, "Ho-hum, la di da... buh-bye, now." Interesting... Maybe she was really a diva in actuality, so they felt no sadness. Could it be? I never really saw an indication of this, but whatev. Or maybe they got in trouble with the producers for acting like big freaking bawl babies last week! We may never know.
But me? I'm in my living room sniveling into a Kleenex, snorting out between sobs (to no one in particular), "It's... just so... sad... you... know?" And I'm not even having my period!
To any family or concerned friends reading this post, it may be time to stage an intervention.
Warning: Conspiracy Theory Alert! Do not attempt to decipher the following "logic" unless you have approximately 182 hours of American Idol viewership under your belt. Otherwise, your overburdened brain could explode. Abort! I repeat, DO NOT ATTEMPT! ABORT!
Oh, come ON! "Excruciating"? Wha'?! Anthony was actually GOOD last night, and all he got was a lousy "It was a'ight..." from Randy. Before the judges said a word, I was all up in TGIM's grill, shouting, "Oh, they'll have to give him props for THAT!" And, yes, I did in actuality use the word "props," which just goes to show you that too much television will indeed rot your brain and you may use my story as a cautionary tale for all your boob-tube-riveted friends and family if you wish. But I digress.
Alas! The aforementioned props were not in the cards for our European Idol. Oh no. No indeed. Um, hello? Constructive criticism? Heard of it? Honestly. Anwar gives a downright sucky performance and the judges at least FOCUS for a moment and tell him what they would like to see him fix. Oh. Well, except for Paula, who, while higher than Russia's Mir Space Station, was too busy slurring her effusive, unwarranted compliments, stealing Bo's hat, closing her eyes, swaying, and just feeling the music, yo. And by the way, why doesn't anyone mention that freaky wide-eyed thing Anwar keeps doing? That would be helpful. In an effort to, you know, keep it real, dawg.
Not that I want Anthony to win, for Pete's sake. I still really love Carrie. Vonzell may be finally showing up, if you know what I'm sayin', but Carrie's vocals are always solidly on. In essence, she rocks. Consistently. But Anthony certainly has not done as poorly as Simon lets on. I would just like to see Simon-- crackhead, puppet-master extraordinaire-- stop attempting to manipulate the voting AI public. But what is he REALLY trying to do? That is the question. Oh yes.
To wit: Does Simon legitimately dislike Anthony's vocal stylings and therefore would like to see him eliminated from the competition? Or does he secretly LIKE Anthony and is simply using reverse psychology in an effort to make people feel sorry for Anthony and vote for him, like, a gajillion times so he DOESN'T get eliminated? However, neither of these possible explanations shed any light on why the TPTB chose to stick the worst possible excerpt from Anthony's performance in the recaps at the end of the show.
It's a crazy, mixed up world, y'all. A world in which Bo makes bad pun jokes, severely damaging his street cred; Nadia quickly metamorphoses from edgy rocker to simply spunky; Constantine manages to smarm his way into my heart; Nikko continues to inappropriately grope himself on stage; Vonzell suddenly decides to make an appearance in the competition; Blinky (a.k.a.: Scott) appears to let nerves, bad song choices, and his biological father's rejection get to him; Anwar is exposed as a one-trick, big note, Moon River balladeer; Jessica chooses songs that are obscure and fail to showcase her talent; Anthony appears dazed and confused as to why he is continuously shat upon by the judges, and Carrie blows everyone away with her powerful, yet ever-so-slightly twangy, vocals.
Crazy, I tell you.
I am at work, just working along. Working, working, working... La di da di da di daaaaahhh... Ooooh, look! In the course of said work, I clippety jippety clacked out this sentence:
In general, when a female gypsy moth emerges from its pupal casing, it will mate and deposit eggs within 1 meter of that pupation site, which will then become an oviposition site for the emerging female gypsy moth.
Now, don't be hatin' on my mad writing skillz, or feel in any way inadequate or jealous that I write on a regular basis about such riveting topics as extending the reaccreditation testing intervals for tuberculosis in captive cervids, removing entire states from the oriental fruit fly list of quarantined areas, or imposing regulations on the collection and distribution of sheep semen, but we can't all have the glamorous jobs, right? I mean, people have to be responsible for building and maintaining our roads, collecting tolls, balancing the budget, and teaching the children, right? RIGHT?! Someone MUST TEACH THE CHILDREN!!
Heh. Wait. Pupation! That is a truly awesome word! Say it with me now: "pupation." See? Fun! Oh, those gypsy moth pupae and their crazy pupal casings and oviposition sites and all... Pupa! Hmmm... Ooooh, watch out! You almost stepped in that dog pupa! Heh-heh. How do I come up with this stuff?! Oh, it's killing me! GAH!
Mm-hmmmm... Looks as if Wacko Jacko is going DOWN, y'all. And not in a good way.
Clean the entire house with actual disinfectant rather than with the usual haphazard swiping at things with dry cloths and shoving stuff under and behind the couch and/or beds, so when I get home from work (where I SO did not want to be because I still feel like bleeeccccchhhhh and absolutely HATE blowing my nose in public), my house smells pine fresh and bleachy clean. Mmmmm-mmmmm.
When I am sick and fast asleep in bed, quietly sneak into my bedroom and leave little pictures you have drawn of me and you with gossamer wings, in pink ruffled fairy princess dresses and jeweled crowns, flying through an enchanted forest, with bouquets of flowers in our hands, and the words, "i lik mi mom" printed across the bottom in beautiful, painstaking, five-year-old scrawl.
Continue to claim me as your wife and best friend, even when you discover my unnatural obsession with all things show tuney, and the frighteningly selective cognitive recall I possess exhibited in my irritating ability to sing every single stinking song in such varied musicals as Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, Bye Bye Birdie, The King and I, and Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, but no freaking clue what I was supposed to buy at the supermarket.
Refrain from mocking me when you catch me in the bathroom practicing (with theatrical abandon!) my classical monologue audition piece from Much Ado About Nothing, even though I have never auditioned for a Shakespeare production and probably never will. Um, because I am a wussy.
Give me THAT LOOK when I finally get my voice back after a severe sore throat and I can finally ask you in my hoarse, cracked voice to clean your stinking room, by golly, or so help me you'll be sleeping in a cardboard box out at the corner with the other messy, ungrateful children, and you say in a sad, disappointed, seven-year-old, weary-woman-of-the-world voice, "Oh, Mom. Your voice is... loud again."
Ooooh, a challenge! The gauntlet has been thrown down. I have been asked to Justify My Love for Constantine, y'all! Spurious allegations which cite his performances as coming off "affected" are being bandied about in a willy-nilly, hugger-mugger fashion, so in defense of that Emperor of American Idol Antiquity, I WILL take up this gauntlet.
Okay, fine, I concede that Constantine's performances are somewhat affected, and a tad (a smidgen, a mere iota!) disingenuous. But I ask you: why is this a bad thing? Constantine isn't anymore affected than, say, Mick Jagger, Robert Plant, Steven Tyler, Bono, or any number of other musical geniuses/legends out there. Am I right? I mean, have you SEEN some of these guys perform? Whoo-wee! When Robert Plant was with Zeppelin, GOSH! He was freaking hilarious to watch! This is not to even mention the strategically tight rocker pants her wore, much to my teenaged maidenly embarrassment... Look away! Look away!
And then there is Bono, front man of U2, one of my personal faves. I have seen him perform up-close-and-personal and the dude is FUNKY. And he sweats like a mofo! But it's dead sexy, I tell you! And I generally don't care for sweaty. Ask anyone. They will tell you. Desperate Working Momma no likey the sweaty. But at the U2 Zoo Station TV Tour at Sun Devil Stadium in Tempe, Arizona, back in '92, during a performance of Mysterious Ways, Bono sweat RIGHT ON ME, I am SO not kidding, and I was all, "OH. MY. GAW..."
Wait. What was I talking about? Oh yes, Constantine. And I think the dude actually CAN sing, too. I hope he doesn't prove me wrong. And rocker attitude plus funky affectations plus distinctive, controlled singing voice equal entertainment for all.
For the record, I do NOT want him to win American Idol. No way. Right now Carrie and Bo are battling for that highly valued and important place in my heart. I would just like to see more of him in the future.
So there you have it. There's no accounting for taste, y'all.
Omygawsh! Before I start, I would just like to say I am both deeply honored and privileged to be given this Very Special Opportunity to share my cherished thoughts and deep-flowing feelings regarding the astonishing power of reading and literature in my life. I'd like to thank my mother, who instilled in me a love of reading and taught me that books are a gift. This is truly, truly a sign that you like me, you really like me! Thank you, mrtl, for this SO totally undeserved honor!
1. What book would I like to be?
Gosh! This is SO hard. Hmmm, what to be, what to be...? Wait. What kind of dumb-ass question is this? Be a book? What, literally? I mean, wouldn't that be a bit of step back in the whole evolutionary scheme of things, you know what I'm sayin'? I mean, hello?! Who's with me?! 'Cha!
Okay, fine. I'll play along. Ooooh, look at me, I'm a book! I'm the freaking Oxford-Duden German Dictionary: German/English, English/German!! I contain over 260,000 words and phrases and am acclaimed by language professionals the world over as the most comprehensive, accurate, and up-to-date dictionary of German and English! I get to travel and say things like "Guten Tag!" and "Wo ist die Toilette?" Woo-woo! Look at me!
2. Have I ever had a crush on a fictional character?
Oh, ho, ho! Why, yes I have! He was Gilbert Blythe of Anne of Green Gables lore, that roguish hunk of sensitive Canadian flesh. I was all, "Wassup, Anne with an 'e'? Why you be hatin' on my man Gil? Your hair IS red, dammit, so you better just step off, bizzyotch!!"... um, "Eh?"
Seriously, I must admit, when he finally professed his love to Anne, and she-- because of her completely misguided romantic sensibilities-- totally failed to see his worth and ruthlessly rejected him (See? Skank!), I absolutely ADORED him for spitting out this gem: "I hope he breaks your heart, whoever he is. Then, maybe you'll come to your senses." I cried like a baby when she DID come to her senses and they kissed. Oh, look at me, I'm all a-tingle.
*sigh* What a man.
3. What is the last book I bought?
Georgette Heyer's The Unknown Ajax. Good, solid, escapist, Regency-era novel of adventure and romance! What can I say? I'm a sucker for the woman's stories. She was a genius.
Disclaimer: Georgette Heyer's books are NOT, as TGIM calls it, girl porn. There are absolutely NO heaving breasts, smoldering glances, or throbbing members. Maybe, just maybe, a stolen kiss. On the hand. Fair warning.
4. What is the last book I read?
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon. It is the story of a fifteen-year-old autistic boy named Christopher John Francis Boone "who knows all the countries of the world and their capitals, and every prime number up to 7,057." After the sudden and shocking death of his dog, Christopher, who lives in London with his dad, sets out to discover the mutt's murderer. It's the most amazing book, y'all, and it's written from the autistic boy's perspective, which, as you can imagine, is at times jarring, at others enlightening, but ultimately poignant and moving. Is that redundant? Oh, whatev. Awesome book.
5. What book am I currently reading?
Does Glamour count? No? Crap. Wait. I'm reading Pippi in the South Seas by Astrid Lindgren with my girls, which is my absolute favorite of the Pippi series. Are there any Pippi virgins in the hizzouse?? (oooh, check out THAT big shout-out to Rory of Gilmore Girls!) I mean, Kurrekurredutt Island? Coconuts? Pirates? Sharks, for Pete's sake?! Good times.
6. What 5 books would I take with me if I were stranded on a desert island?
1. I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith: Lovely, lovely book to help me escape scary thoughts of cannibalism and flesh-eating animals.
2. The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis: I am counting all seven books as one, mm-kay? And I am reading them in the proper order, new-fangled publishers be damned. Hey! It's my stinking deserted island!
3. How to Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie: What?! "Fundamental Techniques in Handling People"? "Six Ways to Make People Like You"? Like THAT baby wouldn't come in handy when said sneaky little head-hunting cannibals come to eat me!
4. My son's Boy Scout Manual might come in handy. Secrets to tying kick-ass knots, how to build a sturdy shelter, what roots and berries I'm allowed to eat, how to build an igloo... you know, helpful survival tips. Definitely. And when I got rescued there would be merit badges!
5. My books of scriptures, duh! Like I wouldn't be praying like HELL for God to send someone to help me get the freak off the island!
7. What 3 people am I going to tag with these questions and why?
There was always one part of teaching I loved, and that was when my students would finally cut loose and spill their sincere actual opinions and thoughts into their otherwise affected, sometimes smarmy, all-too-often banal verbiage. I think these two ladies would definitely cut loose, spill, and be fun to read. And maybe, quite possibly, a tad less tongue-in-cheek than I can usually manage.
*sigh* It's a character flaw.
Then there's this dude. Kristine's significant other, correct? I chose him because he's freaking hilarious. "Flea Market Idol"? Genius.
Today's Topic: The Economics of Contest Voting Practices
In March of 2005, the FOX network's #1 Cash Cow, American Idol, in an effort to alleviate the effects of the... Anyone? Anyone?... the Great Phone Numbers Fiasco, re-aired the... Anyone? Anyone?... The same program? The exact same program? Which, anyone? Raised or lowered? Raised viewership, in an effort to mollify outraged national viewers' concerns regarding possible scheming and contest-rigging on the part of... Anyone? Anyone?... The Elusive Phone Numbers Guy? Did it work? Anyone? Anyone know the effects? Mom? Aaron? It did not work, and American Idol viewers sank deeper into the Great Phone Numbers Fiasco, questioning the validity of any voting system that would keep Frans/Babs/Micks in the singing competition.
A few decades ago we had a similar debate. Anyone know what this was? mrtl? Circus Kelli? Anyone? Anyone? Anyone seen this before? The Laffer Curve. Anyone know what this said? It said that at this point on the revenue curve, you will get exactly the same amount of revenue as at this point. This was very controversial. Sort of like cancelling all the votes on a "live" American Idol evening and trying again the next day, hoping for the same outcome. Does anyone know what we call this? Anyone? Something-d-o-o economics. "Voodoo" (contest voting) economics...
All right, all right! I'm finished now. Sorry. I simply could NOT resist one last play on a movie quote. But, c'mon! Who could let a little Ferris Bueller hilarity pass by?
At least, it's funny when I picture the classroom scene in the movie, and hear THAT VOICE, and see the students' dead, DEAD eyes, and that boy drooling all over his desk in his lecture-induced sleep/coma, and experience vivid flashbacks to several horrific lectures on the Medieval Period I presented to (read: inflicted upon) my British Lit students early in my teaching career.
Hee. See? Funny.
I will try to restrain my geekiness in the future. Pinky Promise.
Wow. Good times on AI last night.
SubduedBo stepped out of the box (loved it!), Carrie channeled Olivia Newton John with her slammin' Heart remix, and Mikalah is SOOO going home!
Anwar was self-consciously sexy, Blinky did Phil Collins proud and let it ALL hang out, and Nadia, well, she had a faux-hawk, y'all.
Anthony was safe, Constantine unequivocally proved he's totally making fun of EVERYBODY in this competition, and Jessica so totally redeemed herself (despite forgetting some words) and looked kind of hot, to boot.
Vonzell, she's a cutie, and she sang perty good, too. She's a black belt, did you know? Who the hell am I forgetting? Oh yeah, there was Nikko. He did a'ight.
Just when I think things couldn't possibly get any worse-- what with the feverish ick, and the lousey lice, and the jaw poppage and the Aunt Flo-- the heavens open up and God says, "I hate you, Cat."
How was I supposed to know that one little episode of vomiting and dry-heaving could burst all the teensy weensy capillaries surrounding my eyes? Huh?! It's just like a horror movie, you know, with the living dead oozing blood from their eyes and all! Except it's all over my eyelids, too! GAH! I'm Linda Blair! But without the levitating and devil possession and stuff. Just the vomiting. And the scary eyes. Can you picture it? Blood red! I look like a zombie crack ho and it's SCARING the CHILDREN!
HOW WAS I TO KNOW?!
Honestly. Just be thankful I didn't post the picture we took.
You'd have had nightmares for SURE.
I tell you, if it wasn't actually just a LITTLE bit funny that I sneezed so hard I popped my jaw out of its socket so now I can't eat solid food, and if it wasn't so hilarious that my sweet little children have successfully passed on to me their hacking coughs, hurricane-force sneezes, general achiness, severe chills, and 102 degree fevers, and if it wasn't so DAMN HYSTERICAL that I'm pretty sure the icky, pesky lice my daughter brought home from school penetrated my RID shampooed and coconut oiled head of hair, well, I would probably cry.
Oh, yes. Like a baby.
Wait. Did I mention Aunt Flo? No?
Damn. Pass a Kleenex, would ya?
Erin go braugh, y'all.
Tonight, the kids and I are making shamrock cookies and green cupcakes!! With sprinkles!! Mmmmm... Honestly. Screw corned beef and cabbage, we're going secular. (Sorry, Mommy!)
Fact: St. Patrick is the patron saint of Ireland, yet he wasn't really Irish at all.
Fact: Contrary to popular belief, St. Patrick DID NOT change the national color of Ireland to green.
Fact: A leprechaun is really a wee, elfish, Irish shoemaker with a reputation for being rich, but mean. Huh. Figures. I guess the Lucky Charms Leprechaun ain't looking so hot to you NOW, eh?
Fact: The Irish are responsible for all that oatmeal your parents used to force you to eat.
Fact: You know, St. Patrick did not LITERALY drive actual snakes out of Ireland, right?
Fact: Kissing the Blarney Stone, at Blarney castle in Ireland, gives you the "gift of gab."
Fact: In order to actually kiss the Blarney Stone, you have to lie on your back and bend your head waaay the freak down to even reach the stone. Even better, when you do, you will be kissing something that has been kissed by thousands of people a year for 500 years! Okay, ew. Two words, people: Antibacterial wipes.
Fact: Those sillies in Texas dye the San Antonio River green every March 17th. A whole river! Green! Take that, Moses.
Fact: Guinness beer is named after the dude who started keeping track of random, bizarre information. Wait. It is all starting to make sense now...
Fact: Green beer is NOT natural.
Fact: If you sneeze hard enough, you can pop your jaw right out of its socket. No, really.
Sorry, I threw the last one in as a cautionary tale. Must go drink my breakfast through a straw now.
After watching Ellen with me and learning to her giddy delight that Polish people call the buttocks a "dupa," I'm willing to bet good money-- cold, hard CASHOLA, folks!-- that my youngest, sassiest daughter will go to school today, give one of her friends this look:
OR this one:
and purr, "Hey, girlfriend, check out my supa dupa!"
See? You see? I KNEW Constanpated could sing! I just KNEW it, I tell you, and he proved it! It was very rock opera(ish), actually, which thrilled me to no end. Didn't I tell you he could rock the cynics if he tried?
And how cute was Bo, even though he did mess up and come in a measure too early? Good save, man! Good save! I didn't even notice until the third viewing! (What? Obsessed? Rude.) And, is it just me, or did he slap on a few Crest Whitestrips and deep condition his hair? Nice. You keep on keepin' on, Bo, ya hear?!
Nadia scared me silly with her menacing stare, ya'll. No, really. She was AMAZING, but her eyes? They're scary! Like the devil!
But what was up with the judges and the slamming of the Federov and the Carrie-bot? Rude, much? I suppose I will have to revisit my crackhead theory.
Best of Evening: Bo, Constantine, Nadia
Pretty Dang Good: Carrie (especially that last riff/note--whoa doggie!), Anthony, Jessica
Meh: Lindsey, Vonzell (although she looked perty), Scott (good singing, but he's dead inside. Dead.), Nikko, Anwar (BORING! Step it up, man!)
Ew: Mikalah! Mikalah! Can you say "trainwreck"?
Who Will Go: Mikalah SHOULD (I wish), but taking into account the Voting Teenybopper Factor, it will probably be Lindsey.
Mario, Mario, Mario... Why?
Mario of AI "fame." Genius, or Shmoozing Shmuck? I can't decide if I think he's mad brilliant for using American Idol as free exposure/publicity, or if I think he's an ass for playing with the hearts of American Idol viewers who wore their fingers to the bone dialing him into the Top 12 when he never intended on going through with the competition in the first place.
Not that I voted for him. My money's on Bo. Mario was way too Justin Timberlake/No, Guarini/N'Sinc/Soul Patch/Boy-Bandy for me, but it's the PRINCIPLE of the thing! That's all I'm sayin'!
I think I'm leaning toward Shmoozing Shmuck. I hate quitters.
No, not TGIM. This time.
No, I had to leave work early yesterday after I received a call from my daughter's elementary school nurse. The conversation went something like this:
Nurse: Hi. This is the nurse from your children's school. I have your daughter in my office. Okay, we found a louse so someone needs to come pick her up.
Nurse: A louse. In her hair. Someone needs to pick her up.
Momma: I don't understand.
Nurse: You daughter has lice.
Momma: No she doesn't.
Nurse: I'm afraid she does.
Nurse: Now, listen!
Momma: You are mistaken.
It went like that for a good while, until my scalp started to itch. Then my eyebrows. In a matter of minutes, after suddenly imagining other places those tricky cooties can take up residence (if you know what I mean), I went from normal Desperate Working Momma Mode to Full-on Panicked Desperate Working Momma with a FREAKING LOUSE IN THE HOUSE Hyper-mode! You know.
I thought about snuggling in bed with my daughter the night before as I put her to sleep. I thought of letting her crawl into bed with me in the middle of the night because she had a scary dream. Scary dream, nothing! I could NOT stop scratching. GAH! They were everywhere!
The nurse kindly assured me that several children in my daughter's class had lice, and that getting lice has NOTHING WHATSOEVER to do with cleanliness, but I could tell. She was JUDGING me.
I ran to my boss' office to let her know I had to leave early to pick up my daughter.
"She's got lice!" I shouted, ripping out my ponytail to get better access to my scalp.
My boss eyed me warily. "Please... go," she said with a tight smile, her hand absently scratching her head.
So I rushed to my daughter's school, ran to the nurse's office, and yelled, "Check me! Check me!" I pushed some random little kid out of the way and squeezed into the itty-bitty, kid-sized cootie chair. The kid nurse obliged me and informed me I was bug free.
Huh. Sympathy itch.
My daughter proudly showed me her louse, which the nurse had so thoughtfully placed in a Ziploc bag for her. Of course, I took a moment to admire it before I squished it mercilessly and threw it in the nearest trash can.
I assured her there would be plenty more where that came from, and by damn, if I wasn't right! You should see those things scamper to the surface when you put on the RID shampoo! It's just like an arcade game, I tell you! Squish the Louse! 20 points! Pick the Nit! 50 points!
My daughter has long hair. Honestly, I literally nit-picked for hours! Legitimately! Overall, I'd say I probably racked up well over 2000 points.
Unfortunately, the harsh chemicals in RID are more irritating to the skin than the bugs, so tonight we're going to try slathering her hair in olive oil, which I have since learned kills the lice more effectively. Then I'll nit-pick some more. Because I'm the momma. That's what I DO.
Okay, how 'bout we compromise? I'll list the source movies for Friday's movie quotes, in no particular order, and you match them up. Mmkay? Surely you wouldn't want me to just give it to you?! That's, like, cheating! Anyhoos, here you go, mrtl (and anyone else who found him/herself stymied):
The Princess Bride
Bringing Up Baby
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
The Big Lebowski
Monty Python's The Holy Grail
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
The 13th Warrior
What? It's an eclectic workplace environment.
Hmmm... The human memory is a strange, scary thing. Thing is, I asked my co-workers to supply me with their favorite movie quotes, if they were so inclined. Apparently, they were so inclined.
For your TGIF viewing pleasure, I have compiled the quotes I received courtesy of my co-workers, without any attribution whatsoever. It's up to all y'all to figger out from whence they came. Just for fun. There will be no prizes. Except, of course-- as my mother would say-- the pride in a job well done.
Okay, I say that. To my kids. But let's not quibble.
So now, without further ado, the quotes. Have at it.
"Nobody puts Baby in the corner."
"My name is Enigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die."
"She's quite mad."
"Ah, the perfect advisor!"
"Supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses, not from some farcical aquatic ceremony."
"She thinks my name's Bobby?"
"It's possible she thinks my name's Bobby."
"Now it isn't as though I don't like you, Susan, because, after all, in moments of quiet I'm strangely drawn toward you, but-- well, there haven't been any quiet moments."
"Well you look perfectly idiotic in those clothes."
"These aren't my clothes."
"Well, where are your clothes?"
"I've lost my clothes!"
"Well, why are you wearing these clothes?"
"Because I just went gay all of a sudden!"
"'He's three years old, gentle as a kitten, and he likes dogs.' I wonder whether Mark means that he eats dogs or is fond of them? Mark's so vague at times."
"You talkin' to me?"
"I couldn't do that. Could you do that? How can they do it? Who are those guys?"
"Goin' a little heavy on the pine tree perfume there kid? "
"No, it's an auto air freshener."
"Good, you've pinpointed it, now the next step is washin' it out."
"I'd like to make her look a little more attractive, how far can you pull back? "
"How do you feel about Cleveland?"
"All you have to do is kill me."
"Did you hear I graduated?"
"Yeah and just a shade under a decade. All right."
"You know a lot of people go to college for seven years."
"I know, they're called doctors."
"Go get 'em, Tiger."
"The Chinaman is not the issue."
"How am I funny? Like funny in a clown?"
"Umm, well, if you could just get your TPS forms in, that would be great."
Please, for the love of Pete, will you stop with the sighing, groaning, yawning, and rapid-fire sneezing, not to mention the incessant hacking cough that I can actually HEAR launching a million icky germs my way? Right over the cubicle? Right at me? Itty bitty guided missiles of ICK? How about using a tissue, a handkerchief, your sleeve? Or, I know: you could GO HOME.
Because, you see, as a momma, I already have three little mouth-breathers of my very own, coughing and snotting all over me as they look for the motherly sympathy I am contractually obligated to give them when they are feeling tired, grumpy, and downright icky. Consequently, I do not need you Compounding the Problem.
Oh no! Great. Now I feel a tickle in my throat. A tickle! In my throat!
Man, when I am the boss, or the President, or God, I will totally send people home who drag their sorry, sick, hacking, sniffling, sighing, sneezing carcasses into work simply to prove they are troopers by damn and live by a never-say-die work ethic, even when they are sickeningly sick and insist on coughing all over everyone and everything within a five-mile radius, and apparently delight in telling people on the telephone that they just visited the bathroom and oh boy maybe should reconsider eating lunch "if you know what I mean, wink, wink."
Yay! Twelve finalists have been chosen, folks. After much hemming, hawing, and general BS-ing from that tricksy wee Ryan, Amanda I Feel Pretty Avila, Janay FREAK It's The Camera Must Not Cry Castine, Travis Ridiculous Beat-Boxing Newsies Wannabe Bobby Brown Tucker, and poor Ozzie's kid, Nikko Dammit Why Did I Pick the Ray Slash Jamie Foxx Song Why Lord WHY Smith, were given the boot.
Okay, so Blinky maybe should not have beat out Nikko, but in all fairness, the boy held the pity card. Am I right? Check it: Hmmmm, who should I vote for? Slightly creepy Blinky boy who is getting up all over his deadbeat dad, proving to the masses with his frankly startlingly amazing voice that he CAN make something of himself and DOES have something special to offer; or should I vote for Nikko, good-looking son of a famous, well-loved father who can more than likely afford to produce his own record and sell it based on his good looks and decent voice, not to mention his father's fame?
Hey, I'm not saying it's RIGHT, I'm just saying it could have been a factor. Geez. Tough crowd. Anyhoos, so we've got us our twelve contestants! YAY! The other twelve may now gently slide into oblivion. Sorry, um, Judd and, um, er, Aloha, was it? I can't remember, actually, and their hopeful, smiling faces have already been obliterated from the American Idol website. Sorry guys. Dylan Thomas be damned: go ahead and go gentle into that good night, 'kay? Oh!, but keep the dream alive!!
Wait! Do you know what this means? This means now my family gets Monday nights back! Well! How about THAT?! That's something, all right! The choices, y'all, the choices? They are endless.
Huh. Maybe I should read a book or something?
Freak. I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired.
I'm pretty sure someone said something like that about something important at some time, but honestly, I'm too busy being sick and tired of being sick and tired to care. Much.
Because I'm SICK. And tired.
1. This weekend I paid actual money to watch Raise Your Voice, starring one Miss Hilary Duff. Yes. The Duffster. And I cried. Twice.
2. Ironically, I think UGGs are super cute. Especially the pink UGG Coquette slippers. But, um, not the furry ones, mmkay? Those remind me of Muppets. Bad ones. Eating people's feet.
3. I still have to sleep with lights on if I watch a scary movie. I had nightmares just from the commercials for The Grudge. Say what you will, that cat boy looks FREAKY, y'all!
4. I am the hyper girl in the car next to you, flying down the Capital Beltway, shrieking and commencing to rock the freak out when Billy Idol's Rebel Yell comes on the radio.
5. I am That Mother who thinks her children are the most talented, gifted, beautiful creatures ever to ever grace God's green earth. Um, I think yours are okay, too, I guess. But seriously, have you seen my kids?
I know I have mentioned this before, but when I was a young, theatrically-minded child I used to listen to my Annie 8-track, big honkin' headphones in place, you remember, the ones with the self-adjusting headband and those squashy earpads as big as saucers that made your ears sweat and your head ache but you didn't care, by golly, because you had the music cranked so loud you could feel it in your soul, belting out such classics as "Maybe", "Little Girls", and-- of course-- "Tomorrow." Not to mention the occasional Donna Summers hit. And every kick-ass, pseudo-disco-punk song from Xanadu. With feeling.
Yesterday, that past, in the form of my youngest daughter, came back to bite me right in the patootie.
From the privacy of my bedroom I could hear this pint-sized musical wonder serenading the neighborhood with various songs the evil creators of Barbie.com have available for our children's viewing and listening pleasure. Apparently, these wicked, obnoxious web designers have taken American Idol to a new low, asking children to vote on the performances of various animated Barbie dolls singing "current" pop songs.
I came to investigate and learned to my horror that my five-year-old daughter's favorite performance was the one in which Barbie was singing an enthusiastic cover of Britney Spears' "Oops, I Did It Again." Complete with head mic. And attitude. And vaguely skanky dance moves. And gestures. (::SHUDDER::) Thankfully, no snake was involved in the making of this video.
After each performance my daughter would turn to my mother (who was visiting and was more than likely experiencing terrifying flashbacks of the 70's which, dear God, she thought she had successfully repressed long ago), and my little one would ask excitedly, "THAT WAS A GOOD ONE! HUH, GRANDMA?! HUH?!" because, of course, she had those darn big honkin' Sony noise-cancelling headphones in place and could not control the modulation of her voice to save her life. Not that she would have controlled it if she could have heard herself, actually. Just being honest. She's kind of loud that way. I don't know where she gets that. Honestly.
But my mom just laughed as I finally grabbed the headphones, kicked my daughter off the computer, and told her to go read a culturally relevant book or something, for heaven's sake; she just laughed as my daughter pranced around the house shouting "I'm not that INNOCENT!" at random intervals for, like, three hours. That's right. She just laughed and kept doing her puzzle book and I felt as if I were in the Twilight Zone because when I was a kid she sure as hellfire wasn't laughing, I tell you WHAT, but then I realized that, of course, my mother was experiencing first-hand the culmination of that curse she invoked upon my head of me having children just like me someday, so help her God. And she was loving it.
But most importantly I realized that 1) my daughter needs vocal lessons, and QUICK; and 2) that moms? Well, moms just mellow with age. So there is hope for me yet.
Martha Stewart! Out.
Is it natural for me to be somewhat attracted to Constantine Moroulis' butt-chin and screeching vocal stylings? I can SO see him in Jesus Christ Superstar... Rawr! ("What's the buzz? Tell me what's a happenin'...") But please, don't misunderstand: Bo Bice is THE MAN. If my brother Jon could sing, he'd be Bo Bice. Except, he'd sing Elvis. And Metallica. And maybe a little Pink Floyd. D'oh!
The tights I'm wearing today are a bit large(ish), and are sagging a tad at the ankles... So, are they still, you know, technically "tights"?
(WARNING: TANGENT ALERT! JUST SAYIN'!) Come to think of it, I hope they do a rock opera evening this year on American Idol. Jesus Christ Superstar would be AWESOME! Oooooh, Mikalah could sing a mean "King Herod's Song (Try It and See)." Let's see, then Constantine as Jesus, as he could definitely rock the cynics if he tried. Plus he's got the Ted Neely sound, you know what I'm sayin'? And Bo as Judas, as he is perfect for those hot soul vocals. Uh-Huh! Hmmmm, okay, Mario? Maybe he'd work as Pontius Pilate, or possibly Caiaphas. It's a conundrum, that's what it is. Clean-cut Anthony would obviously have to be one of the Apostles. Nadia and Lindsey could be Pharisees, you know, tapping on their scaffolding perches like crows (Low voices? Check. Look good in black? Check!). Obviously, Carrie would ROCK as Mary Magdalene singing "I Don't Know How To Love Him." The rest could dance and sing backup. There. It's settled. (::frantically searches internet for FOX Network Executive's cell number::)
Is one container of yogurt supposed to fill me up? Because I'm hungry. NOW. Must find snackage...
link | posted by Cat at 7:08 PM
In celebration of Dr. Seuss' 101 birthday, Hannah made thematic crowns for the school Seussapalooza Parade.
Hey! Let's play a game! Okay? Okay!
Guess which one inherited her grandmother's artistic flair?
Guess which one inherited her mother's ofttimes annoying, yet mostly endearing, dramatic tendencies?
Can you guess? Can you?!
Yep, they're keepers.
"I am your father, Luke. Give in to the dark side of the force, you knob."
"I don't want to talk to you, no more, you empty-headed animal, food trough wiper. I fart in your general direction. Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries."
"What's a liger? It's pretty much my favorite animal. It's like a lion and a tiger mixed... bred for its skills in magic."
"Listen, strange women lying in ponds and handing out swords is no basis for a system of government."
"Does the word 'duh' mean anything to you?"
"What are you gonna do today, Napoleon?"
"Whatever I feel like I wanna do, gosh!"
My brother and I used to say that drownin' in beer was like heaven, eh? Now he's not here, and I've got two soakers... this isn't heaven, this sucks!
Grandma Helen: Oh Sam, let me take a look at you. Fred, she's gotten her boobies!
Grandpa Fred: I better get my magnifying glass! Ha Ha Ha.
Grandma Helen: Oh, and they are so PERKY!
"Help! Help! I'm being oppressed!"
Yes, I know. I need to get out more.
Aloha? Really?! Come on America, did Janay rack up some sympathy votes or WHAT?! Because Aloha? REALLY?!
You know, truthfully, the person I felt most sorry for last night on AI was my wee Ryan. I'm seriously worried. He didn't even say "Seacrest out." That's not representin'! That's not keepin' it real! How am I supposed to know the show is over? Huh? Has the world come to an end? Has the imminent cosmic cataclysm in which God destroys the ruling powers of evil and raises the righteous to life come to pass? Because Ryan? He just sort of turned his back on the cameras (I kid you not!), TURNED HIS BACK and joined the group hug going on behind him.
I had to pause, rewind, and look again, because I thought I had seen a look... And yes, wee Ryan was not his usual, maniacally cheerful self. Not even his sometimes somber, disaffected self. No, last night he actually looked incredibly angry or incredibly sad, I am not quite sure which. Both, perhaps? Maybe four years of doing the nasty work for Simon, Paula, Randy, and FOX by essentially ripping the hearts out of the eliminated contestants' chests and stomping said hearts to itty, bitty, bloody pieces for our viewing pleasure has finally gotten to him. Because I don't think he is THAT good an actor. Wait. He's not an actor at all, is he? Duh, me.
And hopefully they will permanently eliminate the "sing-outs," because good lord, those are cruel and unusual and about break my heart. Not because I'm a rude, weirdo fangirl who is overly invested in the contestants (Suck it, TWoP!), but because I am no stranger to disappointment and heartache myself. To see a person's almost-realized dream annihilated on national television, then asking said person to sing through tears, anger, and humiliation, well, it is simply asking WAY too much.
Am I alone here? Am I?
Honestly. I'd totally phone it in like Sarah Mather did. Absofreakinglutely, I would.
Oh, my wee, wee Ryan... Buck up, little camper! I know, go treat your metrosexual self to a facial, manicure, pedicure, brow wax, oooooh, and throw in a deep tissue massage for good measure; I hear they are all the rage in Hollywood. Better yet, make FOX treat you. Because you'll be doing quite a bit more heart-stomping before all is said and done.
I know there is a sad, strange little commentary on our society here somewhere, but I don't think I need to spell it out, do I?
Is it possible? Has the AI judging panel gone completely insane?! I mean, honestly. They were absolutely BRUTAL last night, and it was completely arbitrary. I kid you not. COMPLETELY. Is it a conspiracy? If so, do I need a theory? No, it has to be the crack. Lay off the junk before going live, you crackheads!
On a different note, how cute is Ryan Seacrest? Woo-whee! He IS! I don't care! I don't care! Say what you will, but wee Ryan is my hot little honey-pie and I will love him, and squeeze him, and call him George.
Carrie? A wooden performance? What show were THEY watching? Carrie rocked her "Piece of My Heart" Janis Joplin tune, and I'm not just saying that because JJ is my homegirl. Dude. Maybe she should have busted "Bobby McGee." Oooooh, or "Son of a Preacher Man"!
On a different note, God, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz? That'd be awesome.
Mikalah was riveting, in a Babs/The Nanny/Jaaaanice amalgamy way. It's good to know she CAN actually sing, even though I felt as if her adenoids were maybe playing too big a role in the actual execution of the song. Perhaps a good Breathe-Right strip would alleviate the problem. Do they come in "drama queen"? I mean "nude"?
The bitch-slap, slam-down of Lindsey and Nadia versus the pimp daddy macpimping of Jessica Sierra? Puh-leez. Crack. Only explanation.
Amanda surprised me. But Gloria Estefan? Heck, I'll say it: NOT a fan.
Poor Aloha. I bet she needed a donut after last night. Dunkin' Donuts has a mean Bavarian Creme, girl! You go!
The rest I have forgotten. Stupid Alicia Keys for belting out tunes that inspire half-assed belter-outers to, um, er, belt 'em out... Inconsequential performances, all.
Constantine = hilarious. And dude is TALL.
Scott is still Blinky but homeboy stepped it up with some cool shades.
Travis is a legend in his own mind. Go. Away.
Mario wears fugly hats.
Anwar is REPRESENTIN'! (A teacher who knows his stuff... who knew?)
Um, the rest I have forgotten already. Hmph. I pick my nose in their general direction.
I miss Judd.
On the way to pick up my mother from BWI Airport, I fell asleep on the Metro bus to Baltimore. Dead asleep. During a blizzard! I have honestly never done this before. I mean, I'm telling you, I would prop my eyeballs open with toothpicks if I had to in order to stay awake (I LOVED that Tom and Jerry episode! Gosh. What happened to good cartoons? Have you seen what they're doing to Bug Bunny and Looney Tunes? Have you? Huh? HUH?! It's sacrilege, that's what it is, I am SO not kidding...)
What? Oh yes, I would prop my eyeballs open with TOOTHPICKS, I tell you, rather than fall asleep while commuting by rail or bus, as I am deathly afraid of something terrible happening, such as being mugged in my sleep. Or missing my stop. Or farting.
As it were, very few people were on board, (I mentioned the blizzard, right?) so it was almost as if I were a little caterpillar encased in my very own winter cocoon. Or a momma bear hibernating away in her deep, dark cave. Or, you know, a tired, stressed-out woman in a super comfy bus on a horribly congested highway which I was smart enough to avoid having to navigate, nanny, nanny, nanny!
But the windows were partially fogged, the temperature was in that soothing, happy place, you know, the one situated smack dab between tranquilly warm and too warm, and the seats-- although upholstered in an unfortunate, worn navy blue and orange checkered pattern-- were surprisingly soft and comfy-cozy, and the combined effect lulled me to sleep. Lulled me, I say! Right into that neck drooping, head bobbing, drool inducing, awesome sleep of babes. That's right. Just like a cranky, overtired baby in her carseat, y'all. Bliss.
So, I didn't get mugged, and I didn't miss my stop, but judging from my fellow passengers' faces when I jerked awake outside the airport-- looking around in that wide-eyed, "I'm AWAKE!" frenzy of the nearly awake, but not quite there yet-- yes, judging from their faces... I'm pretty sure I let one.
Would you believe me if I told you it was totally worth it?