Jiggety jig.link | posted by Cat at 6:30 AM
I am in AZ right now attending my youngest sister's high school graduation. Well, sister-in-law, but I claim her. She's THAT awesome. I wuv her. Because she lives in Podunky Small Town, AZ, with nary a stoplight to its name-- really, I'm not kidding, not even ONE-- I think the song she's singing here at her Senior Scholarship Honor Day is QUITE appropriate. Oh, yes it IS:
Grew up in a small town
And when the rain would fall down
I'd just stare out my window
Dreaming of what could be
And if I'd end up happy
I would pray
Yeppers. It's "Breakaway," by the original American Idol, Kelly Clarkson. You know it? Good song. But see? Appropriate. WAY. 'Cause, you know? She's heading out of the darkness and into the sun, but she totally won't forget the place she comes from. Gotta keep movin' on, movin' on, Candice. Fly away, girl. Break away.
Anywhos, check it. It's a teensy graduating class:
To be fair, there are approximately that many more seniors on the other side of the stage. Maybe 65 kids total? Maybe? No? More? Less? Whatev. I graduated with 500 kids, and I thougt I lived in a small town!...
(Ooooooh! Someday I want her to marry the boy in black sitting to the right. I used to teach him, and the boy is AWESOME! Seriously. Sparkling personality, fabulous looks... And look at him looking at her! Woo! He's giving her the eye, isn't he? Oh, he totally is! Woo!! Hear that, Candi-o? He LUUUUUUUUUVS you! Smoochy smoochy!)
And just to show you how seriously hip we are out here in Arizona, here is a SUPER cool motel you can stay in if you come to visit, which is situated in the picturesque Holbrook, Arizona, which just so happens to be right on the way to lovely Podunky Small Town, AZ! How lucky is that?! I mean, honestly:
Have YOU slept in a wigwam lately?
And, of course, no trip to visit family would be complete without the all-important trip to my mother's most favoritest store EVER!:
Good times, y'all. Good times.
Just LOOK at that awesome lilac bush behind me and my momma! It's, like, 65 years old! Maybe older! I don't know for sure! But it's OLD! Beauty, eh?
Hey. Thanks for putting me up, mamacita y padre. Or, really, shouldn't it be "for putting up with me"? Whatev. Luv you guys big lots! Mwah!
Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Woo-hoo! I didn't think I cared so much, but I did! Dear lord, how I DID!
The last half hour, in my humble opinion, was the only part of that two-hour American Idol love affair suck fest worth watching. OOOOOOHHHHH, was it good! So, SO good! I wish they would have done that last night, instead of the craptastical stuff that went on...
And I cried. Shamelessly. Like a BABY. And so did the winner. And there were sparklers, y'all! And flying (?) money (?) ! And confetti! Tons of it! HA! That's all I'm gonna say 'til the west coast catches up! But she totally deserves it!!
I know, I KNOW! Bo! Rocks! But I had to go with my heart, y'all, and my heart was all, "Go CareBear! GO! Love you Big Lots, girl!" So what could I do? I thought it would be Bo, I really, truly did. And Bo definitely kicked some major ass, as TPTB ABSOLUTELY wrote Inside Your Heaven for him, and heaven knows his In A Dream last week more than likely sealed the deal for him, but still... Carrie for me. That's called democracy. Hear that, big sis? Hee. Your mileage may vary.
Heh. Tonight, kalki said...
Constantine was there, tonight! Did you see him? Of course you saw him. I saw him too! It was Constantine!
Cat + Constantine sitting in a tree...
O! M! G! I KNOW! Kalki! I totally paused and "squeeeeeeeeed!" Did you see Constantine casting his bedroom eyes my way, sending messages of sexy Greek LUUUUUUV to me through the TV screen?! Did you? To ME!! His secret lovah! That's right, all y'all! All you Bettys out there better just step the hell off! Oh, Constantine! Oh! Oh! OH! And hey, SEXY shirt, lovah. Dead sexy. Call me. Mwah.
Anthony SOOOOO loves Carrie! Did you see it? Did you? I totally saw it. And they are so totally getting it on in the Red Room. Oh, yes. Hey. When did Anthony get hawt? 'Cuz HAWT he is! Dude became a man, right in front of our eyes... Buh-bye, Trach Boy (tm Kristine)! Hello, hottie! They would make the cutest babies, y'all. Aaaaaww...
Speaking of babies, is Jessica Sierra preggers? No, seriously? 'Cuz, if not? Damn girl.
Anwar! The Hair! Anwar! The HAIR! The hell?! ANWAR! THE HAAAAAIIIIRRRR! Good lord, man, what have you DONE?! I'm scared! Constantine, hold me.
Gosh. I would absolutely love to post a BAMF (tm Kristine) entry today about all the amazingly way cool thangs that are going on around me, but my life? BORING. Plus, I am very busy obsessing over tonight's American Idol: Season Four Rama Lama Bing Bang Finale! So very, VERY busy. Because this is Important Stuff, people. That's right. The stuff dreams are made of. No, really. Dead serious.
So, there's Carrie, with the smile and the beauty and the awkward dance moves and the amazing pipes. And then there's Bo, with the sunglasses and the scruff and the edginess and the Whipping Post mic stand acrobatics. WHO WILL IT BE? My vote will totally depend on the show tonight. Because I love them both. For me, it can go either way, y'all. Either way.
Uh-oh. I just thought of something. Is Mikalah going to be there tonight?! Is she going to sing?! She is totally going to be there! Singing! GAH! Why, God? WHY?!
Ooooooh... You know who will also probably be there tonight, don't you? Well, don't you?! If you are thinking Constantine, then we are, like, on the totally same wavelength! Connie! Tonight! Or possibly tomorrow night! Probably tomorrow night! Definitely tomorrow night! But it's all good! My Greek God Idol, y'all! MY SWEET CONSTANTINE!! Oh! How I have missed your dead sexy bedroom eyes, lovah... Come on over here! Mwah! Mmmmmmm.
Phew. My fantasies keep me SO busy...
Here is the breakdown for the show tonight, according to my sources. (What?! I know people.)
1. Inside Your Heaven (AI original single)
2. Long Long Road (AI original single)
3. Vehicle (by Ides of March) -- Ooooh! Remember AngryBo? "Grrrr! I'm your vehicle baby! Don't try to stop me! Rawr!"
1. Inside Your Heaven (AI original single)
2. Angel Brought Me Here (AI original single)
3. Independence Day (by Martina McBride) -- Does she know this song is about domestic violence and vigilantism? So, Carrie? No smiling and winking tonight, girl. It's SAD! But empowering! And way SAD!
I don't know how I feel about Carrie and Bo singing the EXACT SAME song. In AI: Season One, TPTB so totally wrote A Moment Like This specifically for Kelly. Justin G. of the Big Hair could not hold a teeny little candle next to her on that one, ya know? Ya know?! It would be so easy to write a song that showcases Bo over Carrie, or vice versa, and I want them each to have a fair shot, without 19e manipulations... I know, I know, but a gal can dream, can't she?
Oooooh, I am SO excited, in a Jessie Spano kind of way! SO EXCITED! And I just can't hide it!
Seriously, Carrie will really have to keep it together to win this one. Simon knows she falls apart with the least bit of criticism, so that crackhead can make or break her tonight, yo? Don't do it, Simon! Don't do it! Ya hear?!
I am so looking forward to the results show, as well, as Carrie will be representin' and singing the bee-yoooo-tiful Bless the Broken Road again, accompanied by the original artists, Rascal Flatts. Coolness. Awesome song. I am excited to hear it again.
And Bo? Will desperately attempt to hold his shit together (sorry Mom) while performing Sweet Home Alabama LIVE with Lynyrd Skynyrd! LYNYRD SKYNYRD! Breathe, Bo. Breathe. We love you, even if you do get overexcited and poop your pants a little and start crying. It's Lynyrd freakin' Skynyrd. We understand. You're the man. GO! BO!
Huh. I guess I had time for a BAMF post after all...
1. Stack dauntingly thick folders in a prominent place next to the computer. Stare at them thoughtfully.
2. Read the Fashion Police and Watch With Kristin chat transcripts on E!Online (Keeping abreast of current events = key).
3. Check my email. Check in with my Peeps. (Apparent industriousness is key.)
4. Hone my busy-walking skillz by taking three power laps around the cubicles, remembering to walk especially briskly as I pass boss's office. Maybe should carry a few legal pads. Oh, and a highlighter.
5. Work diligently on one of my dockets for a minimum of ten minutes, but no longer than forty-five minutes. (Pacing? Is key!)
7. Attempt to beat current high score of 1800 playing Jawbreaker on my HP iPAQ while daydreaming about how awesome the finale of American Idol will be and wondering if Bo will shave and if there will be gospel singers like in Season Two and whether my sweet Constantine will get to sing and what sorts of awesome outfits Carrie will be wearing and do these pants make me look fat because I totally think they make me look fat. This is called multitasking. (Challenging myself mentally is WAY key.)
8. Run downstairs to the fitness center for Power Step class. (Buns of Steel? Key.)
9. Eat some almonds and chocolate chips to keep up my energy.
10. Update my Weekly Activity Report (Remember, creativity is key!)
(Disclaimer: Of COURSE, this post is completely fictitious, bearing absolutely no resemblance to my actual daily work habits whatsoever. No, really. It is so utterly untrue. Absolutely false. Embellished for Artistic Purposes only. Except the Jawbreaker part. Oh, and the part about Buns of Steel. Really. I'm not kidding. LIES! ALL LIES!)
Every so often a parent is lucky enough to have the opportunity to impart world-wise pearls of wisdom to his or her children. Especially when said parent has a captive audience. Say, in the car, for instance. Totally. So yesterday, while taking a drive, there was just such an impromptu life-lesson opportunity, and I totally grabbed it. Oh, yes I DID. It went a little something like this...
Momma: You are all smart kiddos. And you can be anything you want to be, you know that, right?
Hannah (7): Yeah!... Oh. Except circus people. I don't care for circus people.
(OKAY... Who can argue with that? All three children bob their heads in complete agreement in the back seat. I try not to giggle. I mean, honestly. "I don't care for circus people"?)
Hannah: (suddenly) I want to be a mouth doctor!
(Okay, THIS we can work with...)
TGIM: You could do that. Wait, do you mean a dentist or an orthodontist?
Momma: Ooooooh, orthodontists make good money. People pay a whole lot of cash for orthodontia.
Tanner (9): (eyes glued to his GameBoy, not missing a beat) "Orthodontia"? "Orthodontia"?! That's weird. Shouldn't it be, like, "orthodonticism"? Yeah, definitely "orthodonticism."
(Oh, ho ho! Someone's a word geek like his momma! Smart-aleck.)
Momma: What about you, Alli?
Allison (5): Oh, I want to be a dentist. Wait. Or an astronaut ballerina. Actually, yeah, I want to be an astronaut ballerina!
Momma: What exactly does an astronaut ballerina do?
Allison: Um, they dance in outer space.
Tanner: (disgusted) Well, what's the point of getting paid for that?! I mean, what? Will people come and watch them?
Alli: Sure. Yeah! Of course!
Tanner: No! No! People can't just go into outer space to watch ballet! Only astronauts can do that!
Allison: Well, I will dance for them.
(Hey. You go, girl. You go.)
That's an acronym, y'all, an acronym that the simply brrrrrrrilliant mrtl came up with over lattes and scrumdiddlyumptious pastries (Ooooooooh, Johnny Depp in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory! Coming soon! With some crazy teeth! And Oompa Loompas! Did you know?! Wooooo!)... Um, right, yes, P.E.B.B.L.E.S., and I cannot remember... for... the life... of me...
Something about Pastry Eating Blogger Bitches... something something... HELP ME OUT, mrtl or Kalki!
So much to talk about!... Pull My Finger penis pens! Mrtl's mad dancing skillz and her love affair with eclairs (mmmmmmm)! Kalki's awesomely tweezed eyebrows and SUPER CUTE highlighted hair! Ex-teacher horror stories! Stalker hubbies! But I must regroup. And feed my chilluns. More later. But I concur with mrtl, that Kelly the Klogger must tell her OTHER eyebrow story. GOOD LORD! It will FREAK! YOU! OUT!
Before our slightly frightening Charlie's Angels pix hit the Blogosphere, and my seriously scary orange(ish), poofy, curly hair is revealed in all its frizzy glory-- in striking contrast to the the stylin', perfectly tweezed ladies I was with-- I would just like to say, "Lookee, ladies, I got me my high and low lights!" And I look WAY more mature! Eh? Yes? Yes? Huh? No?
Oops, I was waiting for TGIM to stop fiddling with the camera settings there... Ah-ha! Here we are:
And don't y'all be hatin' on me Lucky Charms shirt. It was a GIFT, okay?! My kiddos think I'm quite the stylin' momma now, oh, yes they DO.
YOU know how it is... their mouths are moving, but all I hear is "Blah, blah, BLAH."
However, I did just score a personal best of 1454 (Edited: 1800! Take THAT, TGIM!) while covertly playing Jawbreaker on my PDA! Woo!
Seriously. Is it 3:00 yet?
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I would just like to say,... SHE ASKED FOR IT!!!
(Cat "singing" Dragostea din tei) link | posted by Cat at 4:41 PM
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Sorry. Blurry. I need a BAMF camera. For now, this will have to DO.
And thanks a whole LOT, Jen! I can't get the "Mia ha!" song out of my head! (Haven't seen it? Click here if you want to laugh so hard you will likely vomit a little.) link | posted by Cat at 4:17 PM
Surprise #1: Hey! Simon was all happy and smiling and shizz!
Surprise #2: Hey! Bo looks wicked creepy in the dark!
Surprise #3: Hey! This is the best American Idol Top Three EVER!!
Vonzell, Baby Vonz, sweetie, you are just the CUTEST thing! And man, you have some POWER to your voice! I just wish you could be in tune more often. I do. But you rocked "Chain of Fools" so kisses! Mwah! But Vonzell, even Clive freakin' Davis had to speak sharply to you regarding your tendency to giggle and smile during performances, now didn't he? Well, you can't say I didn't warn you. Stop acting so HAPPY all the time! Geez! But seriously, I'm sorry about your daddy.
Bo, Bo, Bo... You were always a bit behind Carrie in this competition, for me anyway, but dawg, you are forever in MY dawg pound, now! "In a Dream" was ASTOUNDING. A bit creepy, but ASTOUNDING nevertheless. DAMN. Gave me some chills, that did. Oh, and I am so sorry to hear that you can't get no satisfaction. Can I help? Please? No, really. Let me help. And, for the record, "Don't Let the Sun Go Down" is no longer a Clay song. Sorry, 'Mates.
Carrie, you brought out the closet Air Supply lovah in me. Damn you. Now TGIM will mock me forever. Anywhos, I absolutely loved your rendition of "Crying", and was pleased to see that you were much more animated tonight than usual. FINALLY! Was Anthony in the crowd? Were you singing to him? Were you? Were you? I bet you were. That would be AWESOME. Sucks that you had to follow Bo, though. You know, with Air Supply. Sha! Hey?! Did anyone else suddenly realize how much "Making Love Out of Nothing At All" sounds just like "Total Eclipse of the Heart"? I KNOW. Weird, huh?
Best part of the evening? When Ryan Seacrest looked into the camera and shouted "Seacrest!" I mean, what WAS that? I laughed! Right out loud! All through commercials. Oh, how I love my wee Ryan...
Buh-bye, Joan of Arcadia. I will miss you.link | posted by Cat at 6:00 AM
Hey, you guys? Did anyone else bust a tear or two as Carrie tearfully signed out "I love YOU!" to A-Fed last week? You know, during his sing-out? Huh?! No? Really? Not even a little one? Oh. Just kidding. To be honest, I found that little hand-claspy thing they did after singing "Islands in the Stream" just a teensy bit too risque for a show purportedly promoting family values, you know what I'm saying? Oh, yes. SASSY!
Of course, I almost missed the whole thing, as I was busy deflecting all the completely inapproriate jokes TGIM was flinging around regarding Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers. You know, singing in the bathtub? Together? About islands in the stream? Hee. Islands in the stream. Heh. Get it? Islands? In the stream? SO NOT FUNNY, TGIM! Aw, shoot. What was I saying? Oh, right! Anthony and Carrie are so totally getting it on in the Red Room, y'all. Boom chicka wow wow... TOTALLY.
Aaaaaw! CUTE!! I love YOU, Carrie and A-Fed! I love YOU!
Oh, and guess what?! My sources tell me that one of the songs each contestant will be singing tonight will be picked specifically for him or her by the judges! GAH! 'The hell? They are giving Paula and Randy supreme, unchecked, executive song-selection power? Oh my. Yo, producers? Bad idea. Very bad idea. Although, wouldn't it be awesome if Bo had to sing, "Forever Your Girl"? Come on, Paula. You know you want him to. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it.
Anywhos, the unofficial word is that Bo will be exponentially increasing MY satisfaction by performing "Satisfaction (I Can't Get No)"; Carrie will wow us when she takes on Shania's "Man! I Feel Like a Woman"; and Baby V (or The Vonz, or what have you) will whip the crowd into a Saturday Night Fever frenzy when she belts out Donna Summer's classic disco hit "On the Radio."
Oh. BOY. Y'all? Tonight's gonna be GOOOOOD.
Guess who made her very first granny-shot basket?! Into a regulation height basket, I might add! Just guess! Okay, here is a hint:
I captured her sporty granny form and mad b-balling skillz with this money shot:
Way to go, Mack!
And for the very first time, after a slight adjustment to the height of her bike seat, Alli pedaled solo! Our BABY! As soon as I figure out how to post the digital stream recording, I'm all over it.
I have no desire to be enigmatic.
But it is a scary place, my mind. Crowded with jumbled imagery and intricate stories and trivial pop culture references, with nowhere to go. All of the craziness shuffles and scuffles to be forefront in my mind, to be most important. To be first. "Let me out!" it all screams, because it has got to go somewhere, right?
Sometimes, when I read a book or I see a movie, I catch the mood of the piece, and I cannot shake it. I am there, and woe unto any who try to break in, to find me. I am in it, and only I can find my way back out. I am not even sure if that makes sense, but it is most definitely the case.
I mean, I know other people can read a book and put it down. Me? I read the fifth Harry Potter book in one night. ONE NIGHT! That freaking book is over 800 pages long! Honestly. It can take me literally hours to stop worrying about the characters in which I have invested my time. I feel their pain, their joy, their despair, their triumphs. If the book is particularly well-done, if the characters are alive, if the mood is fully realized, then it can take me hours to stop feeling the book. To let go of it.
Other people can watch a particularly riveting television show or movie and walk away thinking, "Huh. Good show! What's for dinner?" Me? I become emotionally invested in the characters. I will obsess about their lives and the "what if's" for days on end. Weeks, even. Now do not misunderstand. This is not to say I cannot separate the fictional characters from reality. No worries. I absolutely can. What I cannot do, not right away, anyway, is to stop thinking about their stories. Taking them in new directions. I will spend hours weaving new stories for them. Sometimes I even dream new stories. But Leonardo da Vinci said, The eye sees a thing more clearly in dreams than the imagination awake. Dude was a wise Renaissance man, yo?
Which leads me to this: when I write stories? Oh BOY. I am SO living them. And it is so exciting! I get to be someone else! Well, for a little while, anyway. I become Goddess of the Story Universe! Bow to me! Then, inevitably, my characters begin growing and acting out in ways I had not intended, and I just get to go with it, and it is GOOD. Of course, I think this is why I enjoy happy ending so much, formulaic cliche be damned. I need them, or I am lost. Then again, my endings are not always happy. And I absolutely hate that, because I ache for my characters. But I love it, too.
For a long time I thought this craziness had a name. I HAD to give it a name. I was surely bipolar. Manically depressed. Obviously. It was the only explanation for the mood swings, the black days, the deep-rooted dark despair that settled into my mind and would not let go. Right? And what sane, happy person loses herself in television and books? Huh? Normal people with three beautiful kids and TGIM don't act this way, right? Am I RIGHT?! I hated my career choice, my living situation, my life, and I could not shake the feeling that something was terribly, terribly WRONG with me, because everyone I knew insisted I should be happy, that I should be thankful, that I should just STOP wallowing and get on with living. And I wanted to. I WANTED TO. But I was stuck. So I turned to the happy pills. But the drugs? They did not help. Dispassionateness, for me, was not a cure. It was a bandage.
"You are just like my ex-husband," my sister said to me. "You can be anything you want to be. Anything but happy."
Oh, no she DIDN'T.
So I ripped it off that bandage. And I made CHANGES.
I found a job writing and quit my teaching job. I packed up and moved all the way across the United States, not sure when and if TGIM would follow, but sure it was the right thing to do. I began expressing the jumbled imagery, intricate ideas, and trivial pop culture references swirling about in my mind through the magical world of blogging. I made new friends. I discovered the words "job satisfaction" were not mutually exclusive. I pulled myself out of the rut of complacency and fear in which I was trapped and made some personally earth-shattering decisions regarding what I wanted out of life. And, yes, I hurt TGIM and others close to me in the process and, yes, almost lost everything. I know that. I OWN that. But these days? I'm starting to feel as if despite the excruciating pain I caused myself and others, I have gained everything.
TGIM thinks this is The Crazy in me. Sometimes he loves me for it, sometimes... not so much. Me? I am starting to believe The Crazy is simply the artistic temperament in me. And, slowly, oh so slowly, I am learning to embrace it. I am learning how to USE it, to hone it, to bend it to my infinite megalomaniacal will, mwah ha ha ha!...
The other day I stumbled across a quote by Edvard Munch, the artist formerly known as the man who painted The Scream. Okay, he is still known as that, I just like the allusion to Prince. Because Prince ROCKS. Anywhos, Munch wrote of the experience he had which triggered the creation of this masterpiece:
I was out walking with two friends - the sun began to set - suddenly the sky turned blood red - I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence - there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city - my friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety - and I sensed an endless scream passing through nature.
As I read this I realized, hey, sometimes I sense that Endless Scream, too. I hear it! I KNOW it. And, slowly, I am learning to embrace it. I am learning how to USE it. I know, I know. Inscrutable, much? Talk to my family. But, then again, if I did not see the world this way, if I did not feel the world this way, how could I write? And writing? Makes me feel complete. Utterly, dizzyingly complete.
Well, writing, and a big ol' donut. Yummmmmm.
Take that, big sister. I CAN be happy.
So, you guys? Like, this morning? When my boss poked his head into my cubicle and asked if I could come and visit with him for a few minutes? I admit to a few moments of intense apprehension. Like, gonna find out if breakfast is tasty the second time around apprehension. Seriously! I hadn't done anything... as far as I knew... So why did I suddenly feel so panicky? Hmmm... Guilty conscience? Not that I should feel guilty about anything. I just always seem to. Feel guilty, that is. Ask anyone. They will tell you. They will say, "Oh yes! Cat always feels guilty." (I would blame my religious upbringing, but then I'd just feel guilty.) It's a burden, I'll admit it, but what can you do?
Anywhos, my boss collared another co-worker along the way, and we both sort of did the eyebrow raise, shrug our shoulders thing, and followed him. As any who suffer from a chronic guilty conscience will realize, my stomach at this point was veering into dangerous territory. Yep. Not feeling so hot. It was The Walk of Shame.
Then, as we rounded the corner to his office, I saw the rest of the staff standing around, many shuffling their feet, looking at least as confused as us, if not more.
Wait. Was I getting fired? In front of everyone? Were we all getting fired? Or was this a surprise party? Did I miss the email again?! Would there be donuts?
A colleague approached me and was able to get out, "So, was it the Quick Walk or the Fun Ru--?" before my boss "Ssssssshhhhhed!" her.
At this moment, the organizer of the Big Event yesterday (at which I seized a seemingly empty victory, "personal best" be damned!) popped out of his office and made a small speech about So and So going down in history as the official winner of yesterday's race, yada yada yada, something about me being the True Winner, blah, blahdy, blah, and then do you know what he did? Huh?! Do you?! HUH?! Oh, yes. He handed me a TROPHY.
OMG, y'all. O! M! G!
And then, guess what? There was applause! And the cute little trophy! And back slapping! Even high fiving! And THE TROPHY! Did I mention the cute little trophy? I did? Yes?
Oh. Okay. But it's way cute. The trophy. SUPER cute, even. And it's mine.
Aaaaw, SNAP, guys!! I honestly work with the nicest people. And doggone it, people like me.
So yo, yo, yo, dawgs, check it out. Here I am with my brand spankin' new Federal Fitness Day 1st Place Runner trophy. WINNAH!
In honor of Federal Fitness Day, I JUST participated in our annual 2.5 mile Fun Run.
The fact that I haven't run in, oh, say, two months didn't faze me at all. No sir. I joked around with other runners, who had all been training and were properly signed up, I might add, and I assured them I would be the one huffing and puffing at the back of the pack, due to my general out-of-shapiness. Because my friend/coworker convinced me to sign up 2 minutes before the race started, I wouldn't be eligible to earn group points toward my department, but I was all, "No biggie. I'll just run for fun, right?"
Okay, any of you in the mighty Blogosphere who know me personally will see the Catch-22 inherent in this plan. BIG TIME.
Because I am SO not kidding when I say I am one competitive mofo. By the time any other woman (and many of the men) caught up with me, I had already crossed the finish line amidst cheers of "Go Cat!" and "Woo! GIRL, GO!!", breaking the tape across my chest triumphantly (I've ALWAYS wanted to break the tape!), the Chariots of Fire score blaring in my head.
Na, naaaaaaa (ch-CH-ch-ch-ch, ch-CH-ch-ch-ch) Nuh NUH nuh nuh NUUUUUUH nuh...
Now, don't get me wrong. Even though my victory was meaningless as far as points for my department go, I was obviously full of pride for a job well-done.
Because I totally won first place in the women's category. FIRST PLACE! I am a TOTAL Federal Fitness Day 2.5 Mile Fun Run champion! Bow to my glory! Because, seriously, I kicked some major ass, people. I may have felt like vomiting for two full hours afterward, but I WON! But seriously, even though it was all for naught, it was fine. I was FINE. SUPER fine. SERIOUSLY.
Until they whipped out the trophies.
TROPHIES?! Come on! No one said ANYTHING about freaking TROPHIES!!!! I mean, really, people. A little head's up would have been nice.
When I saw the woman who came in a full minute and a half after me walk up and grab her "Fitness Day 2005 Fun Run First Place Winner" trophy, and there was no mention made of my glorious personal victory, I think I may have died a little inside. Oh, yes. Just DEAD. Because I am a shocking Glory 'Ho, y'all.
Oh, sure, she dedicated it to me, shouting, "Cat really deserves this!", and even offered to share it with me, but I nobly rejected her suggestion. On account of my general coolness and whatnot. And I DID get to break the tape, and she totally didn't. Nanny, nanny, nyah!! IN! YOUR! FACE! SUCKAH!
But, seriously. Why didn't SOMEONE mention the trophies? Huh? WHY?!
I want my trophy. What a gyp.
'The hell?! I've been tag-teamed by Circus Kelli and Kristine! (Edited to Add: and apparently by SillyNessa, too! I don't know whether to feel popular or violated...) No! Fair! THREE on one! Gosh. I feel so used...
I think Gavin DeGraw said it best when he said, "I don't want to be anything other than what I've been trying to be lately." A truckload of WORD, Gavin, my man. Wordy McWord. Seriously. 'Cause, you know what? I'm tired of looking 'round rooms wondering what I've got to do, or who I'm supposed to be. I don't want to be anything other than me! He-ey-EY!
Buuuuuuuut, in the interest of maintaining Absolute Karmic Harmony in the Blogosphere, I will muse on longings heretofore unplumbed by my shallow, entertainment-obsessed mind, and speculate on the What If's of my life, by choosing five of the following scenarios and waxing eloquent. Um, or not.
Deep breath, and here we go...
If I could be a scientist
If I could be a farmer
If I could be a musician
If I could be a doctor
If I could be a painter
If I could be a gardener
If I could be a missionary
If I could be a chef
If I could be an architect
If I could be a linguist - I would travel the world as a translator for major players in the entertainment industry. At fancy dinner parties I would smile sweetly and tell deliciously salacious jokes and make decidedly lewd propositions for and in behalf of my clients in the course of my translating duties. Completely unbeknownst to said clients. Because I think that would be funny.
If I could be a psychologist - I would TOTALLY mess with my clients' minds, so it is for the better that I am solitarily confined to a cubicle for most of the day. Because I am a horrible, HORRIBLE person.
If I could be a librarian
If I could be an athlete
If I could be a lawyer
If I could be an inn-keeper
If I could be a professor - I would buck the trend and only initiate affairs with my OLDER students. I mean, that's just good, common sense, right?
If I could be a writer - I would be a tortured artist, shlupping around the house all day in my ladybug pajamas and pink fluffy slippers, pulling at my tousled, bed-heady hair, gnashing my teeth, and shouting to no one in particular, "Is the phrase 'debauched libertine' redundant?!"
If I could be a llama-rider
If I could be a bonnie pirate
If I could be an astronaut
If I could be a world famous blogger
If I could be a justice on any one court in the world
If I could be married to any current famous political figure - I would absolutely hook up with Al Gore. 'Cause he totally invented the internet, right? So I think he must be really rich.
I tag Shaun, The Fonz, and Dashababy. Cuz they family, yo? Well, not mine, of course, but family nonetheless.
Carrie, I'm with Simon: It was totally the band's fault! Can we vote them off? No, seriously. Could that first arrangement have sucked any harder? Huh? Could it?! I think not.
Whoa. Did I just see Mikalah Gordon in the audience? Yikes. Who let her in? Security!
Bogart, Bogart, Boooooooogart... love the shades, dude. LOVE! THEM! You are already a star, my man. Already. Honestly. Leave the freaking show and cut your album already so I can rush to the store all willy-nilly-like and snatch it up. Cuz it'll be HAWT!
Oh! Baby V, don't cry! It's okay!! Really! No one cares that your brothers are a bit... dim. They're cute! Promise! Aaaaw, girl, you're making me cry too! It's all--
Holy shnikes! Is that Harry Hamlin and Lisa Rinna (AKA: The Echolls) in the audience?! PoorLogan's parents from the under-the-radar hit series Veronica Mars?! Wait?! Isn't Mrs. Echoll's dead?! Oh NO! Don't spoil the ending! Don't spoil the ending! I'm not listening! La la la la! GAH!
-- um, it's all good, Vonzell. We all have been there. Hang tough. That last performance was a bit... manic, but we love you anyway. Kisses.
Anthony? You fiiiiiiine! The 80's chic should SO not be coming back, but what can you do? I mean, remember pegged pants, people? Your first outfit tonight is a cautionary tale if ever I saw one, my friends. Mark my words. Regardless, way to nail your songs and mesmerize your key demographic! Old chicks LOVE you, A-Fed. LOVE YOU! Oh, and teenage chicks. AND some middle-aged chicks. The guys? Not so much.
Overall, I think Baby V may be OUT. Carrie could be a surprise ousting, however. As for me, I don't care who wins at this point. I love 'em all. Yes, even A-Fed. He has grown on me. But he must never, ever, NEVER attempt to "sing" Poison Ivy again. Oh, I am DEADLY serious, Anthony. NEVER. Ever.
Rob Thomas, you are an evil, EVIL man.
After all the excruciating trauma of that toturous season finale you put me through (Veronica Mars, duh), I have to wait ALL SUMMER to find out who is at Veronica's door? All SUMMER?!
Rob Thomas, you are an evil, EVIL man.
That is all.
Who killed Lilly Kane? WHO?! Freak. I'm dying here! Rob Thomas, he is evil. Is it 9 o'clock in the p.m. yet? No?!
Because I am In The Know, I have recently seen the super-secret trailers for "The Goblet of Fire" (Harry Potter) and "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe" (The Chronicles of Narnia) and DAMN! is it November yet? Because those movies look good, y'all. Good, I say! SUPER good. Must go watch them again...
Veronica Mars. It's just fun to say. You'll see.
Thong underwear? Un. Comfortable. And so Pamela Anderson With Tommy Lee ago. Anyone who says different is a liar and masochist. And quite possibly high. Gimme my supercompfy Supergirl boy-cut briefs any day.
If loving Constantine Maroulis' scruffy butt-chin is wrong, baby, then I don't want to be right. You know what I'm sayin'? Oh, I think you DO. But Bo IS workin' the scruff now, so... I'm conflicted. Conflicted and ambiguous. Because Carrie is droppin' it HAWT, a'ight? And I have no idea what that means. Oh, and they both sing purty, too. I hate American Idol. I really do.
I am having heart palpitations regarding tonight's shocking season finale of Veronica Mars. Seriously. My heart hurts. I will be purchasing Depends Undergarments after work, in case of accidental piddlage during said shocking season finale. What?! It's just that good. And shocking.
I like donuts. A LOT. They are mighty tasty. And lickety licious. I wish I had a donut. I would eat it all up and call it good. Mm-hmm, dooooooooonuuuuuts...
Um... Veronica Mars.
Aaaaw! Look who was picked to be Student of the Week! Look who gets to bring to school a poster All About Hannah! With cool pictures! And fancy stickers! A poster which she says looks "VERY good!"
Hooray for Yay!
Congrats, little Mack.
We're SO proud.
Hannah: I get to be second in line!
Momma: Not first?
Hannah: Um, Mrs. Ennis chooses another person for first. I don't know why.
Momma: What a gyp.
This I know: I am blessed.
My baby. Seriously. How can I resist that face?
How can she be such a tomboy and a girlie-girl at the same time?
My buddy. I can't imagine a smarter, sweeter little boy. Ever.
Oh, yes. I am blessed. Blessed, indeed.
My son and daughters have been sneaking home strangely shaped bags from school. And by "sneaking" I mean "waving them around under my very nose while commanding 'Don't look, Momma! Don't look!'" Then they wander around asking for tissue paper and pipe-cleaners, saying ominous things like, "Mom, did you know you could make ANYTHING out of old soda bottles?!" and asking, "Momma? Where are the scissors? My bag needs some holes in it."
HOLES?! In the bag holding my gift?! I am afraid. Very, VERY afraid.
Aaah, Mother's Day. Sweet, sweet Mother's Day. That special Hallmark-sponsored day each year when a mother is honored with the chance to sleep in, enjoy breakfast in bed, and receive sweet, heartfelt homemade cards emblazoned with "I luv you, momma!" Oh. Not to mention be the recipient of the end-product of some elementary school teacher's failure of imagination, or, more realistically, his or her idea of a sick practical joke.
One year, a few weeks before Mother's Day, my daughter's kindergarten teacher asked us to send "one shoe" for a Very Special Project they were working on in class. Well, of course, if I was only sending one shoe, rendering the other shoe pointless, I obviously was not about to send a nice new shoe, now was I? Because that? Would be stupid. Conceive of my surprise, then, when I received from my daughter for Mother's Day an old, dirty, ratty tennis shoe-- laces and all!-- which had been spray-painted a sketchy bronze color and mounted on a block of wood. Oh, yes. SPRAY-PAINTED. I mean, what kind of freaky nut-job thinks of something like this? Huh? Is it possible the woman is insane? Because as far as nostalgia goes, she quite missed the mark.
I mean, do you see? She had my daughter bronze garbage and give it to me as a gift, knowing full well this... this... this (finger quotes) expression of my daughter's love would be on proud, prominent display somewhere in my home for as long as I could stand it before it "accidentally" got caught in the garbage disposal in a freak cleaning incident.
It is obviously a tribute to my fabulous natural acting abilities that I was able to convince my daughter I was as thrilled to receive this gift as she was to give it to me. I dabble in Method, you see. As I laughed incredulously in private over this monstrosity, TGIM lectured me as to how I should have been more genuinely happy to receive such a treasure from my daughter. Wha'?! I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. This IS the man who bought me the Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me DVD for my first Mother's Day, after all. I mean, honestly. Methinks TGIM won't be receiving any more MP3 players or cordless drill sets for his special day, you know what I'm sayin'?
Now don't get me wrong. I love the homemade cards and the attention. But the crazy, wacked out school gift projects? Must. Be. Stopped.
This year, all those Mother's Day Gift Ideas lists left lying casually about the house, and the several broad hints to TGIM that "there are only a few more shopping days 'til Mother's Day, dammit!" have gone woefully unnoticed. And my oooohings and aaaaaawings over a pair of simply stunning diamond earrings that every good mother should obviously have in her possession? Well, these studied expressions of rapturous delight have fallen on selectively deaf ears, folks.
Oh. Wait. That is not entirely true. At one point, they did elicit this response from my seven-year-old daughter, "Right, Mom. You think I have that kind of money? Those probably cost, like, twenty dollars!" My bad.
So I'm getting my game face ready, y'all. Sunday is just around the corner.
Holes?! In the gift bag?!
Yo, yo, yo, dawgs, here it is. You know I like you, a'ight? It's just, I'm not feelin' the whole expose thing going on, dig it? So I choose not to pander to any sister-beating, publicity-whoring, gossip-mongering Has-Been who is searching for 15 more minutes of fame by attempting to bring down my beloved show.
So, yeah. Basically, I didn't watch the show. SORRY! But I wuv American Idol too much, y'all! And I HATE tattletales, and from what I have read/heard, I firmly believe Corey Clark is simply manipulating the facts, twising them all up to surf on the edges of the massive wave of AI popularity with the hope of selling his album and book. Which will be crappy. And tawdry. And obviously STUPID.
Because "Paula Ticks"? Really? Dirty bastard.
Don't get me wrong, I think Paula is one muffed up ex-choreographer/pop singing sensation/Laker Girl, but listen. I admit I still have a soft spot in my heart for the gal that brought that saucy "Cold-Hearted Snake" MTV video into my world (BOOyah! Scaffolding! Legs and bodies everywhere! Nasty!). Certainly, Paula has issues. She needs massive doses of therapy/rehab, like, yesterday. But I don't think she is necessarily a cheater.
But even if she were a cheater, which she isn't (That's my story! Not listening! La la la la la la!) she's a freaking BAD one, yo?! 'Cuz look around! It certainly didn't help Corey (or Justin!) any in the long run, now did it? Eh? EH?! I didn't think so. Take that, Corey, you big Mrs. Robinson-bonking baby.
So yeah. Expose, shmexpose. Unless something truly tasty is going on, oh, such as Simon bonking Carrie, or Ryan making the moves on Bo, or Randy and Vonzell engaging in illicit sex acts in the Red Room during commercial breaks, I say ignore that swill-spewing wannabe mofo and bring on the FABULOUSLY spectacular vocal stylings of Carrie, Bo, and Vonzell! (Sorry Anthony. You are SO going home next week.)
I can sleep easy tonight.
That being said, who felt the Simon and Garfunkel love?! Eh? EH?! What's all this nonsense about crediting Michael W. Smith with singing Bridge Over Troubled Waters? The hell? Michael W. Smith?! Please. SIMON AND GARFUNKEL are the ONLY true singers of this song, wee Ryan. And hello? Clay? Gospel singers? Hello?! Season Two finale? The season in which Clay knocked this song out of the park and was totally robbed? HELLO?!
Michael W. Smith? Honestly.
Yo. Nice job with your rendition, Idols. Some weird harmonies, but overall, you really worked it! I was feelin' it, dawgs. You're all in the Dawg Pound tonight! A'ight?!
See? See how that never gets old?
Yup. Good times.
Because Veronica Mars? Is the best damn show on television.
Hell yes it is.
Carrie and Bo make all the others look like amateurs. That is all I have to say about that.
Okay, FINE. Lying.
Anthony: Damn you. Damn you for being so sucky last night! I mean, "Poison Ivy"? I would rather roll NAKED in poison ivy than listen to you "sing" that song again. I am SO not kidding. Yech. The shmoopy ballad was a smidge better, obviously, as that is your thang, but overall? SUCK! And now Scott will stay EVEN LONGER! Damn you to hell.
Scott: Fine. You did a decent job on the first song. It was good, dawg. I was feelin' you. But the second, not so much. And hello? Ego? (Did anyone else envision him pulling out a gun and going all Full Metal Jacket on Simon? I can totally see this scenario playing out. Dude doesn't like the criticism much, does he?) GOSH! PLEASE GO HOME NOW! Incidentally, I thought I hated your weird facial hair, but it was SOOOO much better than smooth-faced Scotty! EECH! I'm skerred! Hold me!
Speaking of facial hair,
Bo: Dude. You ROCK. LOVE the scruff! The soul patch was WAY gay. You had me hooked at the first line of "Lean on Me." Way to rock a simple song, dude. Even JPL was impressed. Did you see him in the crowd? Heh. JPL. What a dork. And "Heaven" was perfection as well. I wuv you big lots, Bogart! Stay clean, bro!
Vonzell: GAH! You did the giggling thing again! We talked about this, Vonzell. Stop it. Stop it now. I'm serious. Truthfully, I fast-forwarded through the Elvis song, but your solo of "When You Tell Me That You Love Me" was pretty spectacular. You better be number three.
Carrie: Wow, girl. "Trouble" was AMAZING. (Take that, Carrie naysayers! In your face! Woo! Girl's got pipes AND personality! Told you so! Nyah nyah nyah NYAH nyah!) Seriously, what's with the "robotic" comments, Simon? Ignore him, sister-friend... "Bless the Broken Road" was beautiful. BEE-YOOOOO-TEE-FULL. But the prairie skirt? Fugly. Get thee to a stylist, STAT.
Truthfully, I am conflicted here. Bo or Carrie? Carrie or Bo? Actually, you know what? Scratch that. Either way. They both deserve it.
I guess if it just so happens that TGIM is in the mood to watch American Idol tonight, and I just happen to be in the room, oh, let's say reading a book or something, and I just happen to catch some glimpses of I Don't 'Member the 90's Much Bo and I'm a Little Bit Country Carrie rockin' the hizzouse, and it just so happens that I'm right there next to the phone anyway, well, what's the harm in maybe calling a few dozen, uh, hundred times? Huh? I mean it's not like I'M the one watching it, right? No sir. Not me! Nuh-UH! It's totally all on TGIM. And who am I to ruin TGIM's evening of television viewing pleasure? Huh?!
I'm sorry, Constantine. I guess I'm moving on.
Story Time with Cat
Once upon a time, there was a 17-year-old high school senior named Cat. She was at a friend's house, where a party was going on. Oh, not THAT kind of party. More of a coed social gathering, if you will. Parents were home, so there was much food, dancing, and playing of volleyball in the backyard. There may have been some eager groping going on in the dark corners of the house, but who can really say? It (unfortunately) wasn't the heroine of our story, in any case, so whatev.
Anyhoosy, Cat and a mixed group of friends were sitting around embarrassedly telling each other embarrassing stories about embarrassing situations which had embarrassed them. To figuratively crown the biggest loser, of course. Because that is what bored, sober teenagers do for fun, in case you didn't know.
So Cat's friend, let's call him Mike, shall we? began to recount the story of a phone conversation with a friend gone terribly wrong. Apparently, a good guy friend of Mike's was quizzing him about a girl he was dating.
"So. Dude. You guys had oral sex, yet?" the friend asked him, because teenaged boys are horrible, awful people who gossip and lie incessantly and should never be trusted in ANY WAY to keep secret any type of information about sexual exploits with girlfriends or others. Just so you know. Because they suck.
Mike told those assembled that he thought about it for a minute. "And I was all, 'Hell yeah, we've had oral sex! All the time, actually. Practically every night!'" He told us that his friend was suitably impressed. Mike went on to explain that really, he had gotten it all wrong. You see in his mind, oral sex was like an oral report. So because he and his girlfriend got a little steamy in their conversations with each other, they were obviously having oral sex.
"Get it?" he had told us, laughing at his stupidity. "Like oral reports? Talking about it? Get it! Oral sex?!" He laughed about how stupid he felt when another friend laughingly told him what it all really meant. Then he suddenly remembered how his girlfriend had dumped his sorry, naive, kiss-and-tell ass soon thereafter.
"Ooooooooh," he ended the story, thoughtfully.
Everybody laughed, oh yes they did! Cat laughed too, but here is the kicker. Sadly, if you guessed that Cat still didn't get it, then kudos. In fact, throughout the night she kept thinking to herself, "What?! Then what the hell IS oral sex?!" And she wondered, "And does it really involve blowing? because, WEIRD! and UN. COMFORTABLE."
So even though Mike (obviously!) was named the biggest loser of the night-- and subsequently lost out on several potential dates as all the girls in the room knew what a freaking gossip he was!-- Cat should have won the crown hands down. Because she was married before she figured THAT one out. GOSH!