link | posted by Cat at 9:45 AM
Sit right across the aisle from me aboard your very first airplane ride EVER, and during the four hours of your non-stop chatter, when we change altitude and your ears plug up, turn to me and in a loud, carrying, monotone voice tell me, "Momma, my voice! I sound like the radio! My voice is like the radio, Mom! La la la, twinkle, twinkle little star! La la la la la LA LA LA LA! MOM! MY VOICE IS LIKE A ROBOT ON THE RADIO!! HUH, MOM! HUH!!"
(Honestly. And don't even me started on what happened when I misguidedly attempted to stop the flow of chatter-- the diarrhea of the mouth, if you will-- by sticking my Sony noise-cancelling headphones on her...)
I have incurred the wrath of Kristine. Sorry! I am on my sister's computer and I should be packing, so this will be short, bittersweet and to the point. Well, as much as possible for me, that is.
Quick run down:
1. Fly to Phoenix with kids, leaving TGIM to hold down fort in VA.
2. TGIM calls to say he made offer on new home; offer accepted; gastrointestinal distress ensues.
3. Drive to Podunky Small Town, AZ.
4. Sign kiddos up for violin lessons and swimming passes, break their bikes out of storage, and head over to LaFevre's Hawaiian Snow for Super Large Shaved Ice Cups in assorted flavors and colors; good times with grandparents, old friends, and aunts/uncles ensue.
5. Sneak out of Dodge, leaving behind for Mom a detailed daily schedule for my deliriously happy/sad/nervous kids; more violining, swimming, and bicycling ensue.
6. Drive back to Phoenix with li'l sis Candice, meet up with old high school buddies, and get sketchy on the lake wake boarding and wake surfing (pictures to come!); spectacular wipe-outing, sunburning and guilt repressing ensues.
7. Head back to VA to sign papers for new home loan. Still repressing, y'all.
BUT THEY WILL BE FINE! This I know. And so will we.
Last day of school and the kids are Out of Control... Papers! Books! Report cards! Journals! Random drawings! Broken crayons! EVERYWHERE!
And there are suitcases! Froggy goggles and damp swimsuits! Clean clothes! Thrown about, I tell you! All willy-nilly-like! It's Madness!
Wow. I must say, the Guilt/Excitement/Guilty Excitement about shipping the kids off to the grandparents in Arizona for the WHOLE SUMMER? Totally kicking in.
Is my heart supposed to beat this fast? I don't think it is supposed to beat this fast. Maybe I'm dying. I'm probably totally dying, right?
Two. Whole. Months.
Whatever will I do with myself?
Whatever will I do without them?
Yesterday, during my WAH day (the day in which I work at my home), I decided to play Supermom and walk my li'l kiddos to school. Because I was home yesterday. You know, working? While at home? La la la la! I get to work at home! Only on Wednesdays! But still! Mwah ha ha!
So, anyhoosy, as we were walking along, my youngest daughter skipped up beside me and cheerfully shouted out, "Only three more days left of school!"
Okay. Here is where things get embarrassing. Not for the first time, mind you, I was slapped in the face with my very own self reflected in the form of my six-year-old daughter. She smiled saucily at me and stated in her best-- no, my best-- Lady Disdain voice, "Then I won't be in kindergarten anymore!" And, I kid you not, darned if she didn't throw the ol' air quotes around the word "kindergarten."
That's right... the cutest little upright Bunny Foo-Foo air quotes you ever did see! It was two little bunny-ear twitches, in rapid-fire succession, like, "kinder" (twitch), "garten" (twitch!). Okay, sure, she only used one hand, with no regard for proper air-quote form whatsoever (unlike me, an air quote purist, who uses both hands in a more angled, peace-sign approach, and wraps those suckers by the syllable, if you know what I'm saying), but her intentions? Pure.
Of course, after the initial incredulous stare (Oh, no she didn't... did she?... did my baby just use air quotes?! Nuh-uh! NUH-UH!), I burst out laughing. I know, I know! But, honestly. I couldn't help myself!
She just stared at me, puzzled, because of course "kindergarten" is totally air-quote worthy, right? I mean, obviously.
So, ever the educator, I took a moment and tried to explain it, tried to impress upon her the vital importance of irony and humor in this oh-so-clever form of verbal punctuation, and the subtle innuendo involved in wielding the air quote effectively, but her gorgeous baby blue eyes, they just glazed over, and she began to hum this super annoying song from Barbie in the Nutcracker (oh, THANKS, MOM, by the way!), which clued me in to the realization that I had completely lost her, and then I thought, "Oh no!" and I wondered whether or not she would be doing that air quote thingy again or did I totally ruin everything with my impromptu pop culture-slash-literary terms mini-lesson because dear God I totally want her to do it again because that was the CUTEST! THING! EVAH!
So, yeah, TGIM has officially added Excessive Use of the Air Quotes to the list of things I should refrain from doing in front of the children. Because, apparently, it is "annoying."
Sometimes? I'm just a bitch.
I hate the world today
You're so good to me, I know
But I can't change
Tried to tell you but you looked at me like maybe I'm an angel underneath
Innocent and sweet
Yesterday I cried
You must have been relieved to see the softer side
I can understand how you'd be so confused
I don't envy you
I'm a little bit of everything
All rolled into one
I'm a bitch
I'm a lover
I'm a child
I'm a mother
I'm a sinner
I'm a saint
I do not feel ashamed
I'm your hell
I'm you dream
I'm nothing in between
You know you wouldn't want it any other way.
This woman is quite possibly my soul-sister...
Well, back to dancing in my undies... (Duh! It's my Work At Home day! Obviously!)
Regarding Watergate, Tom Cruise-style:
For the record, I would have been colossally pissed off, too. I thought he handled himself well, under the circumstances. That was INCREDIBLY rude, crazy TomKat notwithstanding.
"Why would you do that?"
Punk!y Faux Cameraman shrugs.
"Why?! You're a jerk..."
Me? At this point, I would have had to break out some of my mad ninja skillz. Obviously.
Then again, I should probably mention that I do not take practical jokes particularly well. Ask TGIM. He has the scars to prove it. No, literally. Uh-oh. Better not go there...
Stupid Ashton Kutcher for stupidly Punk!ing celebrities, inspiring half-assed British wannabe Punk!ers to, um, er, stupidly attempt to Punk! celebrities... while said celebrities are trying to work...
Aw, forget it. You know what I mean.
(ETA: If you feel as if, gosh darn it all, you need just a tad more information to make a well-informed decision regarding your feelings about Watergate, Tom Cruise-style, feel free to click here. Okay. My work here is done.)
Against my better judgement, I finally saw Mean Girls this weekend. I've resisted like crazy, what with The Lohan and all, but since Amanda Seyfried is in it-- AKA: Lily Kane? on Veronica Mars? the murdered best friend? okay, why are you STARING?!-- I felt myself inexorably pulled to the Dark Side that IS the Lindsay Lohan flick.
But, like, oh my gawsh, y'all? This movie TOTALLY brought the funny. Tina Fey (SNL-Weekend Update) balances some admittedly cartoonish gags with plenty o' cleverness, so even the bit characters are surprisingly hilarious. Well, maybe not SO surprising as quite a few of them are actual comedians who work with Tina on SNL (Ana Gasteyer, Amy Poehler, and Tim Meadows).
Since I haven't had a good "Random Movie Quotes" post in a while, the following are some of my favorite quotes from this movie. Feel free to browse around. Or not. Whatev. I just had to share.
* * * * *
Homeschooled Boy: And on the third day, God created the Remington bolt-action rifle, so that Man could fight the dinosaurs... and the homosexuals.
His Homeschooled Brothers: Amen!
[Mr. Duvall is introducing Cady to the class]
Mr. Duvall: Her name is Cady. Cady Heron. Where are you, Cady?
Cady: That's me. It's pronounced like Katie.
Mr. Duvall: My apologies. I have a nephew named Anfernee, and I know how mad he gets when I call him Anthony. Almost as mad as I get when I think about the fact that my sister named him Anfernee.
Coach Carr: At your age, you're going to have a lot of urges. You're going to want to take off your clothes, and touch each other. But if you do touch each other, you will get Chlamydia... and die.
Karen: [suspiciously, to Cady] If you're from Africa, why are you white?
Gretchen: Oh my God, Karen, you can't just ask people why they're white.
Coach Carr: Don't have sex, because you will get pregnant and die! Don't have sex in the missionary position, don't have sex standing up, just don't do it, okay? Promise?! Okay, now everybody take some rubbers.
Karen: You know who's looking fine tonight? Seth Mosakowski.
Gretchen: Okay, you did not just say that.
Karen: What? He's a good kisser.
Gretchen: He's your cousin.
Karen: Yeah, but he's my first cousin.
Karen: So, you have your cousins, and then you have your first cousins, and then you have your second cousins...
Gretchen: No, honey, uh-uh.
Karen: That's not right, is it?
Gretchen: That is so not right.
Regina: Oh my God, I love your skirt! Where did you get it?
Lea Edwards: It was my mom's in the '80s.
Regina: Vintage, so adorable.
Lea Edwards: Thanks.
Regina: [after girl walks away] That is the ugliest effing skirt I've ever seen.
Oh, and the short, Middle Eastern, rap-obsessed Mathlete-slash-"Bad-Ass MC" at the Holiday Talent Show? Best. Rap. Ever.
Kevin Gnapoor: [rapping] Yo Yo Yo! All you sucka MCs ain't got nothin' on me! From my grades, to my lines you can't touch Kevin G! I'm a mathlete, so nerd is inferred, but forget what you heard I'm like James Bond the third, sh-sh-sh-shaken not stirred - I'm Kevin Gnapoor! The G's silent when I sneak through your door. And make love to your woman on the bathroom floor. I don't play it like Shaggy, you'll know it was me. Cause the next time you see her she'll be like, OOH! KEVIN G!
Mr. Duvall: Thank you Kevin, that's enough!
Kevin Gnapoor: Happy holidays everybody!
Wow. I cannot tell you how relieved and happy and grateful I am today that my Daddy is still around, you know? My heart goes out to any who have lost a father, that is for damn sure. I can't imagine what today would be like...Way to scare the crap out of us, Dad! Glad you're feeling better! Love ya!
Heh. My dad? Is such a cutie. Unfortunately, the only picture I have as proof of his utter cuteness is the camera phone ID picture I snapped last year. I wish I had my pictures... Wait. Can you believe everything I OWN is still in storage in Arizona?! Seriously, like, all my STUFF?! Everything?! Almost 2500 miles away?! No stuff here?! Nada?! It's all the way across the United States of Freaking America?! Are we INSANE?! Hmmm... It's quite possible we are, actually. Or WAY cheap. Okay. Fine. We're way cheap. *sigh* U-Haul is freaking expensive, yo?
But still... my Dad? CUTE! See?:
(And, yes, if you were wondering, that is TGIM making bunny ears in the background. GOSH. Dork! Happy Father's Day to you, too, you freak! Love ya!)
Oooooh, all this Daddy Cuteness reminds me of a story. Oh, yes it DOES. Maybe it's that innocent, cute little smile on his face. I'm not quite sure. Regardless, make yourselves comfy, y'all...
A Very Special Father's Day Story Time with Cat:
When I was 16 and used to cheerlead at the basketball games (Whatever. Like you hadn't already totally figured that out about me... Stop looking at me like that!), we had this SUPER cute call-back cheer we did, you know, to encourage crowd involvement and overall school spirit and shizz? We would turn to the crowd and shout out, "Hey, Badgers! How do you feel?!" and they would stand up and shout back, "We feel good! Oh! We feel so good! UH!" with an exuberant hip thrust thrown in. It was awesome. Because an enthusiastic and well-executed community hip thrust is the ultimate in school spirit, y'all. It's, like, cheerleading GOLD. No, seriously. A thing of beauty. And crowds of hyped-up teenagers LOVE that crap. Ask anyone.
Anywhos, my father, in all his cuteness, would sit in the crowd waiting anxiously for a lull. And when that lull inevitably came, as lulls inevitably DO, he would stand in the bleachers, cup his hands around his mouth, and shout out, "HEEEEEEEEEYYYY! CHEEEEEEEERRLEADEEERS! HOW! DO! YOU! FEEEEEEEEEL?!"
Well, of course, we had to turn to the crowd and shout back, "We feel good! Oh! We feel so good! UH!"-- hip thrust and all. It was required. I mean, we couldn't just ignore it. That would be sacrilege, right? And WAY rude.
My cheer friends would giggle as we turned back to the game and whisper to me, "You're dad is so cute!"
A moment later, a familiar voice would again echo across the courts, "HEEEEEEEEEYYYY! CHEEEEEEEERRLEADEEERS! HOW! DO! YOU! FEEEEEEEEEL?!"
We would look at each other and shrug. Well, I may have rolled my eyes. Perhaps.
"We feel good! Oh! We feel so good! UH!"
After the fifth time my lovely Pater would stand in the bleachers and shout, in, oh, say, a FIVE MINUTE TIME FRAME, my "Uh!" would be more like an "AAARRRGGGGHHH!" and my face would be burning as with the fiery hot flames of the damned and I would cheer-- oh yes, I would!-- whilst smilingly planning imminent retribution in the form of Chinese water torture or perhaps The Sneer.
Cute, Dad. REAL CUTE.
Thinking back, I guess I should just be thankful the man was not up on his pop culture and was therefore oblivious to the thrall of "We Will Rock You" or we'd have had him stomping in the stands screaming, "You got mud on yo' face! You big disgrace! Kickin' your can all over the place! We will, we will, ROCK YOU!!"
Funny thing is, my friends honestly thought it was cute. They would often tease me about how funny and cute they thought my dad was. And though I would not have admitted it for all the Aqua Net and hair crimping irons in Prescott, nay, nor for all the fluorescent gel-strapped Swatch watches in Switzerland (or as many as I could cram onto one, thin little wrist, anyway...), truthfully? Though I would not have breathed a word then, it always made me feel happy-- special-- that he was there, watching. Paying attention. Being my dad. And though I often sneered, and was all, "Daaaaaaaaad! STOOOOOOOOOOOOP!!!" and wished for the earth to swallow me up the frickin' TWELFTH time he would shout "Hey, Cheerleaders!" at us, I never loved him more.
So, Dad? When my children complain about me screaming, "Woo-hoo! You GO, girl! Drop it like it's HAWT!" at their ballet recitals, or "Oh, YES! He got GAME!" at chess club tournaments, I will make sure they know that I only do it because I love them and it is ALL YOUR FAULT.
Happy Father's Day, Dad.
My sister called me last night. Apparently my father had another heart attack, a mild one, while partying it up in Laughlin, Nevada, but he says the doctors at the hospital are "taking good care" of him. I am still trying to get a hold of my Mom, she being the more forthcoming parental unit, but she must be out gambling away my inheritance with Grandma. Damn slot machines and their alluring cha-ching wiles... TURN ON YOUR FREAKING CELL PHONE, MOM!
Worried, much? Me? Nah.
(ETA: Apparently, he is in SURGERY today! At this moment! At a hospital! In an operating room! Somewhere in AZ! And still no call from my mommy! Yikes. Well, hello there, gastrointestinal distress... where YOU been?)
(E again TA: Yay! He's out of surgery, got a brand spankin' new stint in there, and he's doing just fine. Thank God. And thank YOU guys for all your good vibes/prayers. I know my daddy felt them; he said as much. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you...)
In order to make life much more bearable this summer-- what with the swimming all day and the playing out in the wind and sun and and the sweating and the tendency their hair has to get all tangly and such, and the girls' subsequent proclivity towards shrieking and crying and utterly refusing to let me comb out said hair to get it under some semblance of freaking control-- Hannah Mack and Alli Tater grudgingly agreed to the dreaded "Summer Cut."
In the chairs:
Aaaaaaaw! The cuteness!:
Confession: I actually took a pair of scissors to Alli's head when we got home and attempted to cut it a TAD shorter. I don't know why. I may have been a bit overzealous in my attempt, as I slipped and sliced open my hand pretty early on (damn those SUPER sharp haircutting scissors! DAMN THEM!) and had to cut things short (woo! crazy pun lady! making funny puns! or not so funny! but clever! or not so clever! whatever!). So, um, crazy curly hair = good, if you have zero experience layering and cutting. Just so you know.
Regardless, we are all pretty pleased with the end results.
Mack strutted around a bit and told me she thinks her hair is "super cute!" (TGIM has since asked me to stop using the word "Super!" around the children.) Alli thinks she looks like a boy. I assured her with a heartfelt, "But a CUTE little boy!"
After some posing and preening in front of the mirror, they had a joint epiphany and ran over to beg me to buy them some super cute matching clothes so they could be identical twins and confound all their friends and schoolmates. I freely admit that I vetoed this idea, much to their dismay. I mean, come on. We all know they were just fishing for new clothes. And matching pink flip-flops. Nice try, girlies. Nice try.
In related news, TD got a buzz cut. We like to rub his head and coo, "Fuuuuuuuuuzzzzzzzzzy!" Apparently, so do many of the girls in his class at school. So, as far as summer-cut satisfaction goes, it's all good in the TDosphere. Oh, yes.
Long live the summer cuts, y'all!
Okay, seriously?! WHO is dressing this girl?!
Is it possible Carrie's stylist is INSANE?! I mean, just LOOK.
Strange, overlong, tassled, completely unnecessary gaucho belt thingy? Check!
Super-duper long, mismatched beaded necklace? Check!
Fugly, frumpy, Birth of Venus clamshell print dress? Check!
Cheesy grin? of the craziness? Check, and CHECK!!!
(Out of love, I will not address The Hair. Dear God, The HAIR...)
On the other hand, those are some sweet shite-kickin' boots, yo? I wonder where I can get me some of them bad boys?
Right, then. Off to watch Veronica Mars. 'Cuz she rocks solid. Like Carrie. And Bo.
Insist on accompanying your Momma to the doctor, and once there embark wholeheartedly-- no, seriously, with ABANDON-- into a varied and seemingly endless repertoire of rooster calls, for some reason learned that very day in kindergarten, while announcing to the waiting room full of bored and/or sick people an engaging and insightful delineation of each individual call.
"...and this one? Is a SCARED rooster!"
Don't forget! Tonight! and tomorrow night! Best Show Ever! On UPN! 9PM ET/PT!
Seriously. Watch Veronica Mars, y'all. Do it. Do it. Do it. It's GOOOOOOOOOD stuff. Do it.
(picture swiped from UPN website)
Kristine! All y'all! Look at that BAMFer! Just LOOK!
And since UPN obviously can't fit in ALL the episodes this summer, if you find yourself hooked (and really, who wouldn't be? Kristen Bell? high school PI? carries a taser? in pursuit of her best friend's murderer? Rocks the Casbah?!), check out the awesome recaps of the shows you missed in the Veronica Mars section of Television Without Pity. They are almost as good as the real thing! But don't cheat. Read them in order. Pacing is key. It's a season-long MYSTERY after all.
Honestly. I don't know why I am plugging the TWoP site. They keep frickin' banning me from the boards, yo? I mean, honestly. Just because things MAY have gotten a little heated in the American Idol forum and I MAY have told some people on the message board to "suck it!"
Hello? Freedom of speech, much?! Geez!
Has anyone said "Holy shit!" yet?
If not, "Holy shit."
I know, I know... but there is a vast difference between a person being guilty of a crime, and proving beyond a reasonable doubt that a person is guilty of a crime.
Don't misunderstand. I believe in the jury system. I believe in our justice system. For the most part. But you will never convince me-- based on his past actions, the past allegations against him, and his tendency to seek out the companionship of young, troubled boys-- that Michael Jackson is not guilty of exactly what he was charged with. And kudos to him; he chose the perfect victim, as the good little pedophile invariably will. No credibility in that family whatsoever. Who's going to believe a family full of liars when they actually tell the truth? Especially when that truth involves the sexual misdeeds of a fabulously rich, much-lauded, international singing sensation?
I mean, come ON. Pet llamas? "Jesus Juice"? "Barber-pole penis"? "Get me some Vaseline, and I mean STAT!"? Who makes this stuff up? Hmmm?
Wow. Think I'll break out a can of Jesus Juice and toast this memorable day in history. Cheers.
Have been sucked into nostalgic orgy on classmates.com... Can't seem to find way out... Must compose and send rambling, incoherent emails to old friends... Pictures! Bios! Q & A's!
It's madness! Damn the free, 7-day trial package! I can't! stop! looking!
Uh, send help, mm'kay?
ETA: O! M! G! Okay, seriously... I just sent an old boyfriend an email that said (in part), and I quote, "You were my first kiss. (Thanks!) You knew that, right? Just thought I'd share. :)"
Okay... THAT IS OUT THERE! SOMEWHERE! BEING READ! BY THIS GUY!
Honestly. Somebody STOP me.
Alli recorded this a month ago during the "Mia ha ha!" craze, and has been harrassing me to post it ever since, so here you go, Tater! Now you're FAMOUS!
Sharing made simple by JussPress.com
I especially love the detour into classical ballet towards the end of the performance. NICE. (Not quite up to her normal "UH!" hip thrust quality, but you get the picture...) link | posted by Cat at 7:56 AM
...your semi-hot, slightly arrogant co-worker-- who you are so totally NOT interested in, seriously, like, NOT AT ALL, 'cause, you know? not your type? happily married woman? yada yada yada?-- anywho, your co-worker stops by to chat and you suddenly realize you had a VUUURRRYY interesting boom chicka wow wow dream about him the night before, and you begin to blush as you remember the tricky things you did to each other in his cubicle after work hours (and in the fitness center showers, his bedroom, a jacuzzi, even!), but he just keeps going on and on about his stupid evening, and all the while you absolutely cannot seem to turn off the NC-17 pictures in your head, and still, he keeps talking-- blah, blahdy, blah!-- and you begin to perspire profusely as you relive the dream in all its smutty glory over and over and OVER in your mind, and your cheeks are burning a telltale fiery red color, and you begin to panic and hyperventilate, but he totally doesn't even notice because he is completely self-absorbed, and you are so freaking Un! Comfortable! that you cannot take another second, so you jump up, grab your purse, shout, "Meeting! Gotta go!" and make good your getaway by executing a near-perfect Charlie's Angels roll from your very own cubicle?
It doesn't? Really?
Obviously, I will have to do some research on Self-Portrait Thursday. 'Cause I am not exactly sure what it is all about, truthfully. Something about pictures? Of ourselves? Whatev. I have gathered there is a theme and all, but since I am just sitting here at my desk, playing with my snazzy lil' camera phone, there are limitations to my ingenuity. You know?
So, as a shout-out to the Shelton Clan, how's about a little trip down a scary, twisted road I like to call Memory Lane?
Ready? OKAY! Here we go: Hey, Sheltons! Who remembers THIS look?!
Eh?! EH?! Can't do THAT with Botox, no SIR! You hear me, Ryan Seacrest?! Are you listening, Nicole Kidman?! That is some serious emoting going on, right there! Oh, ho, ho, ho! Yes, it's The Sneer, y'all. The SNEER! Wow. I haven't broken that bad boy out in, oh, like, months! I mean, years, sillies. YEARS, of course! Sadly, my family was on the receiving end of that beauty, I'd say, hmmm, okay, like probably 95% of the time during my teenage years. Give or take 5%. You know, when everything sucked and was stupid and bugged me and made me want to vomit from its stupidness because, damn, everything was annoying. And stupid. You know?
But look, y'all!
It's all good! The Sneer, it is gone! Look at the sunshine in my face! SUNSHINE! Nary a Sneer to be seen! See?! SEE?! GONE! Honestly, it rarely if EVER comes out these days, The Sneer. Hmmm... Okay, TGIM may beg to differ, as I may break it out upon OCCASION, but only at him! (What? You think I want MY kids learning that one? Pshaw. I thank you, NO.) And rarely! Only when I am feeling particularly saucy. Or irritated, perhaps. Which means almost NEVER! Promise!
Okay. That's my story, and I'm sticking with it. It's just that sometimes? Sometimes? I just have no idea I am doing it, guys, I swear. That is the horror of The Sneer.
God help us all.
That was Then:
This is Now:
In honor of my little Tater Tot's 6th b-day today, with no further ado, I present Ten Absolutely Fabulous Reasons to Love Alli Tate:
10. Right as she wakes up, she does this little stretch-slash-yawn thing, where she scrunches up her nose, balls up her little fists, throws her arms above her head, arches (stiffening like a board, I tell you!) and yawns like a dazed little kitty waking after an afternoon of lazing in the sun... Aaaaaw! Cute! She has done this since the day she was born. Every stinkin' time the girl wakes up. It's inevitable. And impossible to check, or stop, once she starts... (we've tried, actually... you know. For fun?). Sttttrrreeeeetttttcchhhh...
9. She likes to shake her booty. With her momma. To Lady Marmalade. In the Naughty Zone (tm mrtl).
8. When she walks down the halls at school, everyone, from kindergarten to 6th grade, seems to know her name. Even most of the teachers. She's, like, the school's very own Hillary freakin' Duff, but more popular, I kid you not. It's "Hey, Allison!" and "Hi, Alli!" and "Allison! Over here!" and "It's Allison! Aaaaahhhhh! Alli!" all the way down the hallway. I would not be surprised if someone approached her for her autograph at this point, that's how excited these kids are to see her. She just smiles and waves and shouts "Hi!" back to every single one of her fans, and in between each "hi," she turns to me and says, all casual-like, "That's my friend (insert name here). Cool, huh?"
7. She gives AWESOME hugs. And sloppy wet kisses. On the lips. Or anywhere she can reach.
5. She loves Annie as much as I did (fine, still DO), and carries on the tradition of extremely loud, utterly annoying, and terrifyingly endearing solo virtuoso performances. Of every freaking song. Especially, You're Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile. ("You're never fully dressed... UH!!") Anywhere. And everywhere. And those "UH!" hip thrusts can be pretty hilarious, y'all. And a bit embarrassing, actually. Heh.
4. When I am sick and fast asleep in bed, she will quietly sneak into my bedroom and leave little pictures she has drawn of herself and me, 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.
3. After watching Ellen with me and learning to her giddy delight that Polish people call the buttocks a "dupa," (Thank you, Kristen Bell, AKA: Veronica Mars!) my youngest, sassiest daughter walked up to me, gave me this look:
and purred, "Hey, Momma! Check out my supa dupa!"
2. She is just... FUN. Always. The life of the party. HILARIOUS! She makes me laugh. My little clown. See?
No one can resist the natural charm of this "Cutie." I'm not kidding. No, no, and NO. It is futile to resist, folks. FUTILE.
(Huh. "Futile" is a weird word. Futile. Futilefutilefutile...)
1. She's my baby. 'Nuff said.
(Disclaimer: My 5-year-old daughter picked my Mood for me today. She liked the picture. That is all. Just so you know.)
In honor of my first official weekday of Work At Home (WAH) privilege, I have waxed poetic and composed a haiku:
Hark! Is that my phone?
No! Deafening silence reigns...
Work At Home? Hell yes!
I know, I know. I can't help it. It's just in me, you know?
Sometimes you just can't fight the muse.
Edited to Add:
Tight little booty--
Wither have you gone? Wither?
My junk in the trunk?
Woo! Somebody STOP me! I've got a fever, y'all! and the only prescription is more haiku!
Hey. Feel free to jump right in. I don't want to hog all the fun.
First of all, RUDE.
B of all, well, since it is TGIFriday and all, and toilet stories are SO, um, 600 minutes ago, I may as well list the top ten reasons WHY any sane person would be led to believe that I am, indeed, an Odd Duck.
Reason #1: I don't like chocolate milk. At all. It's icky. Hate it! But a Wendy's Frosty? Is a most chocolatey, desirable dairy treat, y'all! And I just can't drink enough Dunkin' Donuts foamaliciously tasty hot chocolate. Mmmmm! But chocolate milk? Just, NO.
Reason #2: I have a dangerously intense obsession with the best damn show on television: Veronica Mars. Veronica has got to be one of the best female characters on tv today, I kid you not. LOVE HER.
(wallpaper created by outoffashion @ TWOP)
And I may have a slight, itty-bitty crush on this gentleman right here:
Oh, ho, ho. He is Logan, the show's OPJ (Obligatory Psychotic Jackass). Psychotically Jackassy, he is. Mm-hmm!!
Looky! Aren't they so cute at their high school 80's dance! Oh, wait. They are not together here. They used to be friends, a long time ago. They hate each other now. But the best part, guys? The VERY BEST PART?! He is NOT WEARING PANTS! NONE! NADA! Totally PANTLESS! Hand to God! Exclamation! POINT! Way more impressive than that wacky Tom Cruise, I'll give him that. And-- don't get me wrong-- I liked Tom in Risky Business. You know. Before he got all crazy and shizz. Seriously. Did you SEE him on Oprah? Hey. How's this for a quirky twist of fate? This actor is also a Scientologist... Oh, hey. Don't hold it against him, mm'kay?! He's lovely.
Shameless Plug for my FAVORITEST Show: Reruns all summer starting with the Pilot episode on June 14 and another episode the next evening. And the resolution to the season-long murder mystery in the finale? Will KNOCK YOUR SOCKS OFF. This is UPN's critical darling, folks. (I KNOW! UPN! Who would have thunk it?!) Check it out! You'll be hooked.
Reason #3: I can tell you which episode of The Brady Bunch will be airing within the first five seconds of the show. Guaranteed. No, seriously. Try me.
Reason #4: I am, at this very moment, listening to a mixed musical playlist boasting both Jamie O'Neal's Billboard Country hit Trying To Find Atlantis and The Rolling Stones classic Sympathy for the Devil.
"Pleased to meet you! Hope you guessed my name! Woo, yeeeeaaaaahhh!"
Hey. What's puzzling you? The nature of my game?
I also have Coldplay singing a live cover of A-Ha's Hunting High and Low. Ooooooooh! Here comes Relient K's What to Bury; Us or the Hatchet. AWESOME.
Reason #5: I love this guy. A LOT.
Mmmm. 'Sup, luvah? How you doin'? That's right. Bring that pout right on over here. Mwah.
I miss American Idol.
What! Hey. Stop looking at me like that.
Reason #6: I find this vuuuuurrrrrrrry amusing.
I DO! Just look at Superman! He IS a dick! He's all, "Yeah, babe. Whatev." Heh. Tears. There are tears. I am SO getting fired. (Photo swiped from http://www.superdickery.com/)
Reason #7: I may have mentioned this before, but sometimes I like to daydream about running naked through a field of warm, glazed, fresh-off-the-conveyer-belt Krispy Kreme donuts. You know. Maybe with a rich chocolatey stream of steaming hot cocoa winding leisurely through it? Maybe a few marshmallows bobbing by? No? Just whipped cream then. Yum.
Reason #8: Sniffing bothers me. Like, so, SO much. Oh, DOES it. Ask anyone. They will tell you. In fact, there were times in school, during flu season, when I was stuck in a quiet classroom during a test or something and some random classmate with a headcold would be sniffing and I would try to plug my ears and write at the same time but it never worked, of course, because, you know, think about it, so I would eventually just flip the hell out, rush to the teacher's desk, grab a tissue, and throw it at the sniffer, yelling, "Just freaking blow it, already! GAH!" Truthfully, I am shocked I didn't have a nervous breakdown. Or get whooped up on.
I was a freaky little bugger in middle school, come to think of it... Huh.
Reason #9: Sometimes I dream that I am on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno. You know, as a guest? And I am VERY witty. Then Jay tells me how good I look and I playfully swat my hand at his arm and say, "Oh, you! Stop!" And I blush.
Reason #10: Um, duh. I make lists like this. Naturally.
link | posted by Cat at 8:09 PM
Man. You totally cannot see my Princess Leia slash Padme slash Queen Amidala cinnamon buns, worn in honor of the release of Episode III: Revenge of the Sith, the dark, final installment in the spectacular Star Wars saga. Oh... a sight, they were.
Actually, this is probably fortunate, as they were whipped into a most wild and frenzied state by our (Candice and my) speedy quick cruise up and down Main Street (after her high school graduation, in Podunky Small Town, AZ) on my daddy's brand spankin' new four-wheeler. His baby! I had to use my Jedi mind tricks to convince him to let me ride: "You WANT me to ride your most awesome of all four-wheelers, Father..." It totally worked. Because I am THAT good. Oh, yes. Of course, the hair helped. And I have seen ALL the Star Wars films! Okay, except Episode III, but tomorrow night I'm all over it! Pinky Promise!
Sadly, I almost gave my poor father a heart attack with my mad crazy four-wheeling skillz, but that is a story for another time...
Let me just say, you have not experienced life until you have grabbed your best girlfriend, parked your big ol' butts on a Honda Rancher 4x4, and cruised your sweet selves up and down the busy streets, catcalling at the thrasher boys getting sketchy in the skate park, waving at the jealous, wishful gawkers flying past you in their boring old Dodge trucks, grinning maniacally as you feel the sting of the wind whipping your hair into your mouth and eyes, and spitting out the bugs which are totally splatting against your teeth (note to self: keep mouth SHUT while driving Dad's four-wheeler!) as you are wildly screaming and giggling like the crazy mofos you are. NOT. JOKING.
Oh. Hey. If you decide to try this at home, don't forget to put on some sunglasses, y'all. 'Cause those gnats? Can be nasty little buggers when they hit your eyeball at 50 MPH. Just so you know.
THIS IS LIVING.
O! M! G!
I just peed for, like, three minutes STRAIGHT.
Okay. Just thought I'd share.
Okay. This is craziness. People, please! Stop leaving your cell phones in the company restroom! Why in the name of all that is good and holy would you even put the damn thing down in the first place?! Huh?! Don't you people have pockets? Purses? Underarms? I mean, it is bad enough that you feel the need to be accessible even when you are-- ahem-- dropping trou, if you will, but come ON!... You are bringing your personal phone-- which you press against your face-- into a place with toilets! Lots of toilets! And all that goes along with toilets! Do you see where I am going with this? Do you?! Must I spell it out? Am I not being clear?
A good idea, as a matter of fact, would be for y'all to stop bringing your phones into the bathroom in the FIRST PLACE. All righty? Sound good? Because, besides the obvious grossness factor of bringing an electronic device into an enclosed space used for the express purpose of expelling-- often gutturally, punctuated by staccato explosions of gas from the nether parts, I might add-- and flushing bodily wastes, I am sick to death of the company-wide unsolicited e-mails I receive when you carelessly leave your electronics behind. (Pun? What pun?)
"Lost cell phone found in men's 6th floor restroom!"
"Forget your phone in the 3rd floor ladies' room? Call your number to claim it."
"Sidekick phone found in 1st floor women's restroom."
"Some disgusting moron left his Blackberry on top of the freaking urinal in the 4th floor men's toilet. Ew! I totally threw it away!"
This only makes borrowing a cell phone in an emergency situation all the more difficult for me due to my ever-increasing Public Restroom Cell Phone User phobia. Thanks a WHOLE LOT, you freaks! What if I am in an ACCIDENT?! I could DIE!
Honestly. It's a frickin' toilet room, people. Toilets! Everywhere! Did I already mention the toilets? Because, if not? TOILETS! Let me tell you, I am sure as shootin' not going to pick up some random cell phone that has been sitting unattended in a PUBLIC RESTROOM. Hell, no. As far as I am concerned, you've just lost yourself a cell phone. Dang straight. Call me a germaphobe if you must, but hey. Whatev. I mean, hello? Cooties and all that? Cooties!
A final warning to Public Restroom Cell Phone Users: I am telling you, if you happen to sneak that cell phone into the bathroom and you decide to take a call while using the stall next to me, hand to God, I WILL flush. Don't think I won't! I will DO IT! I will! Maybe twice! I don't care if it is your ailing 90-year-old grandma calling! I! WILL! FLUSH!
I am ornery that way.
The cutest little boy EVER was on the flight home with me from Podunky Small Town, AZ. Cutest. Kid. EVER! He was all of three years old, and cute as a button. A very cute little BUTTON! Aaaaw! Cute little man! I fell in love at first sight; he was THAT cute.
Okay, he was a little squirrelly, but nothing major. I mean, my kids would have been seriously bouncing off the cockpit walls, so I admired his restraint. It was a late flight, and you could tell he was a tad tired, obviously excited, and way overstimulated by the sights and sounds of his first flight ever. 'Cause it was a plane ride, y'all! On a plane! Which makes loud noises at takeoff! And obviously scares the bejeebies out of him! 'Cause it's a big, scary plane!
Or maybe it was the M&M's he was popping like, uh... well, like candy. I don't know! Who can say, really?! But squirrelly he was! All over the place!
So I am watching this kid. You know, 'cause he's cute. And I missed my own kiddos. And what suddenly struck me was the fact that the little boy's dad was sitting in the window seat. Okay. Squirrelly kid sits next to Mom, who is on the aisle. I can live with that. My children would have been climbing all over me, kicking and screaming for the window seat, but whatev. To each his own, I always say. I am open-minded that way. No, really.
But this dad, he's like, leaning, totally hogging the window! I mean, not even a teensy tiny sliver of the plane's takeoff could ANYONE see, especially not the little boy who was desperately craning his neck to see around his big ol' daddy's Sputnik-like head, which was blocking the entire freaking window. COMPLETELY. I'm SO not kidding! The boy HAD to be thinking, "Head! Move that melon of yours if you can! I don't know how you haul that gargantuan cranium about!"
Huh. That's way funnier when Mike Myers says it.
So naturally the little boy tried to get out of his seatbelt. This is when I realized the enormity of the situation. I was sitting next to a rare breed of parent, y'all. Yes. They are difficult to find in nature, but looky! There they were, right in front of me! How fortuitous. That's right, folks. A matching set of Parents with Mad Crazy Conflict Avoidance Issues.
Intrigued, I studied them, taking copious mental notes for posterity.
Mom with Mad Crazy Conflict Avoidance Issues: Jordan! Sit down! Get back in your seatbelt! You are going to get in trouble! You! Will! Get! In! Trouble! The mean stewardess is going to come by and yell at you! Look! Ooooh, here she comes!
Cutest Little Boy EVER: (worriedly struggles back into seatbelt) She will yell at me?
Mom with Mad Crazy Conflict Avoidance Issues: That's right! You're going to get in trouble! She will yell at you if you don't sit down!
Dad with Mad Crazy Conflict Avoidance Issues: Uh-oh! She's coming! She's coming!
The boy wiggled back into his seatbelt and eyed the flight attendant warily. Dude. He practically jumped out of his skin when she came by with drinks.
Obnoxious Busybody Next to Me: (in loud stage whisper to her equally obnoxious busybody husband, who spent ten freaking minutes moaning about preboarding etiquette and how he was in line before those elderly people in wheelchairs and the women with children, dammit! ) Oh. That is awful the way she is doing that to her own child. Blaming the stewardess like that. Or, should I say, "flight attendant"? They don't call them "stewardess" any more, you know.
A little while later, after a desperate shift in my seat-- as I attempted to get as far away as humanly possible from the Obnoxious Busybody Coupling going on next to me (EW! No PDA! On a Plane! When you are NOT CUTE! And Obnoxious Busybodies! GAH!)-- the little boy's mother let him walk around in the aisle to stretch his legs. Needless to say, he did NOT want to sit back down again.
It was adorable. He giggled and ran to the front of the plane and stood by the bathroom door, grinning like crazy. I would have been snapping pictures until the flight attendant yelled at me and I had to get jiggy and bust a cap in her a... wait. What?
Oh, right. I digress.
Of course, I tried to shield the innocent little boy from the gagoliciously inappropriate groping going on in the seats next to me. Vomit. Not kidding. Even now I am feeling a bit queasy, actually. Hold on a sec...
Back now. Where was I? Oh, yes.
Dad with Mad Crazy Conflict Avoidance Issues: You need to sit down! The stewardess is coming! Get back here! She's coming and she will yell at you!
The little boy paused, uncertain.
Mom with Mad Crazy Conflict Avoidance Issues: (stomping to the front of the plane) You're not allowed to stand there! You will get in trouble! (to the "mean" flight attendant) He's not allowed to stand here, right?
The flight attendant shook her head "no," but she cushioned the blow with a smile.
Mom with Mad Crazy Conflict Avoidance Issues: See? You are going to get in trouble. The mean stewardess said you better go sit down!
Obnoxious Busybody Next to Me: (disengaging her thin little fish lips from her lovah's neck. Ew! Ew!) Tsk, tsk, tsk... I would never treat MY child like that. That is so bad, the way they are manipulating him... It is a darn shame.
The boy sat down.
I have to admit, it was killing me that I pretty much agreed with Obnoxious Busybody Next to Me. Seriously. Dying a little inside, here. Sure. Obnoxious Busybody Next to Me was still gross. And obnoxious. And seriously stinky. And next to me. But I still agreed with her about the Good Cop, Bad Cop manipulation going on. But, good lord! Can you blame me? CAN YOU?! I know, I KNOW, judgmental, much? Oh! The SHAME! I feel so DIRTY!
Anywhos, I did the only thing I could do in this situation. I leaned over and gave the little boy a wink and a smile.
Cutest Little Boy EVER: (to me) Hi!
Me: Hi, cutie!
His mother smiled wearily at me and sighed gustily.
Mom with Mad Crazy Conflict Avoidance Issues: (to me) God. Kids are so hard, emotionally, you know?
And I softened, y'all. Because, you know, she was TRYING. Feeling her way in this crazy world of parenting. I may not be comfortable with her mad crazy conflict avoidance issues, but I felt her pain. A motherly kinship, if you will. And who am I to judge?
Mom with Mad Crazy Conflict Avoidance Issues: (smiling lovingly at her little boy) So, SO hard. But totally worth it, huh?
Aaaaaw. Word, Mom with Mad Crazy Conflict Avoidance Issues. A truckload of word.
Ooooooh, y'all? 'Member when your parents visited your classroom and you were all proud and excited and shizz? Before you realized your parents were an absolute embarrassment to you? And seriously weird? And out-of-touch with all things cool? Complete losers? 'Member? Do ya?
Thankfully, little Mack was absofreakinglutely THRILLED to have both her parents attend as the illustrious "Mystery Readers" in her 1st grade class. Honestly. Can you blame her? I mean, we ARE pretty awesome. I'm just sayin'.
Anywhos, TGIM captivated the wee children with his heartfelt reading of Pippi Longstocking, while the Momma worked it behind the scenes, taking pictures.
Okay, admittedly, not the greatest pictures, mind you, but pictures nonetheless. Dammit. I need that BAMF camera, I'm telling you. Like, NOW. There were some technical difficulties, y'all. It's not my fault! But I persevered.
So here is the pictorial essay of our trip to Mack's classroom. Oh, and our subsequent trip to the school cafeteria for lunch. Oh, yes. Yum. RAVIOLI. The pictures may not have turned out as scrumptrillescently fabulous as I wanted them to, but the look of utter joy and adoration on my daughter's face as her daddy read to the class? Priceless.