Well, here it is in all it's glory! They misplaced a period for a comma, but I suppose I can live with it. But, honestly. Is it possible they are trying to drive me INSANE?!
And here's the pic they used. (Sorry, Constantine, you didn't make the cut...) Aaaw! Look at TGIM!
ETA: O. M. Geeeeeeeeee. No one told me we'd be on the FRONT PAGE of the Style section. Holy shmoly. This morning I opened the paper to this...
*THUD*link | posted by Cat at 7:02 AM
link | posted by Cat at 9:20 PM
And the American Idol herself, too, OF COURSE. Blove yer pipes, CareBear...
(Constantine is wearing The T-Shirt in this picture. Aaw!)
Okay. No more concert pix, I swear. Pinky Promise! Fin! The end! All done! A'ight?
From the front row...
I think this is right before some Betty fan girl threw her panties at him from the front row. Right onstage! Oh. Did I forget to mention that? PANTIES! I certainly hope she didn't get in an accident on her way home because EMBARRASSING.
Okay, okay, I'll stop now.
I mean NOW.
Shut up. It's a compulsion.
(Look at the guitarist in the white blazer! Seriously! Look at him just FEELING the music! What a geek.)
I seem to be suffering from a severe case of PBBELD (Post Best Birthday EVER Letdown Disorder).
Luckily I have the flippin' SWEET iPod TGIM gave me for my b-day (!!) on hand. Now I can listen to depressing music and really FEEL the blues. In my SOUL.
(Read Part I HERE)
(I am totally touching Constantine's boobs here, Kalki! And that's the Free Ticket Lady with me! LOVE. HER. I'm too shocked and embarrassed to say what SHE'S touching.)
("Hey, luhvah... 'sup? For the last time, NO! I cannot come backstage and 'adjust your mic' so stop asking!")
Where was I? Ah, yes. Intermission...
BUNS OF STEEL! Those Power Step classes at work are really starting to pay off, and good thing, too, as I had to sprint up the stairs from the floor to hit the restroom before the other ladies got the same idea. By the time I did my biz and left my stall, there was a line out the door and winding Disneyland-style through the corridors. Mwah ha ha! I totally beat EVERYBODY! I WIN! Admittedly, I may have taken out a few little A-Fed-lovin' tweenagers in my quest for first dibs, but they have young bones which I hear heal super fast, so no worries.
After the LONGEST intermission EVER, the show started up again. Oh, wait. This is funny! Well, it was to me. Damn. Now I've totally set it up to be NOT funny. Freak. Anywhos, during intermission we were treated to big-screen Pop Tart ads (?!) and clips of big name movie stars walking the Red Carpet. You know, Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise, George Clooney, Jude Law, Jennifer Aniston, Angelina Jolie, Selma Hayeck, and the like. Guess who got the most applause?! GUESS?! (No, not Constantine, sillies. No AI contestants were shown.) Simon Cowell! I kid you not! His picture was just thrown in the mix all hugger-mugger-like, so it was all Brad Pitt (woo!), George Clooney (aw!), Simon Cowell (SQEEEEEEEE!). Weird. But FUNNY! See?
Okay, okay, on with the show.
Freaking Anwar again? 'The hell?! Well, I must say, he did a mighty fine job with Stevie Wonder's "Superstition." He even played keyboard and everything! Hey. Have you ever seen Eddie Murphy do HIS Stevie Wonder impersonation? It is SPOT ON. Just sayin'. I like that Eddie Murphy. He cracks me right up.
Luckily, Vonzell came out at this point in a slinky yellow dress and saved us all from Anwar's cover of Whitney's "I Have Nothing." Hallelujah! Man. Vonzell is SO pretty. And she really commands the stage, too. I was impressed with "Best Of My Love" AND "I'm Every Woman." It was nothing new, really. But she's just fun to look at.
Hey! Who's that hot young thing?! What's that you say? It's Anthony?! A-FED?! NO. WAY. But for real! It totally was! Dude's been hitting the gym, that's all I'm saying. Now, apparently this was the precise moment the gaggle of 12-year-old girls in front of me had been waiting for, as they began jumping and screaming and waving their twiggy little prepubescent arms like freaking crazy people. I mean, honestly. Hello? It's Anthony? One girl literally began to hyperventilate and had to sit down during "Everytime You Go Away." Which is a great song, by the way. Even when A-Fed sings it. Did you know Anthony could samba? ME NEITHER!! But he totally can! Someone's been helping him with his dance moves, 'cuz, CUTE! The crowd seemed to enjoy the Latin flavor of Marc Anthony's "I've Got You." And A-Fed's tight jeans.
FINALLY! BO BICE! BOGART! BO! The crowd went WILD as he opened with Gavin DeGraw's "I Don't Want to Be" and we never really let up through "Grr! I'm your Vehicle, baby!", "Voodoo Child", and the requisite (but still entertaining) "Sweet Home Alabama." Oh! And during "Voodoo Child"? Bo did this awesomely complicated, completely kick-ass, admittedly lengthy guitar solo, in which he even used the mic-stand as a pick! I was all "Woo-hoo! ROCK ON!" (TGIM: "Meh. I don't care for guitar solos.") Gosh. Bo was all over the stage. That man really commands the audience, you know? And I believe he WAS wearing leather pants. Which is HOT. No, really. It was stifling in there. I would have been sweating like a PIG, I kid you not. He looked really good, and happy, he sounded FANTASTIC, and he was totally wearing his wedding ring. I sure like that guy.
Carrie, Carrie, Carrie... "Sin Wagon"? The Dixie Chicks? That unfortunate straw hat? *sigh* On the flip side, someone's learned a little stage presence! Woo-hoo! My Care Bear was all OVER that stage, skipping and jumping and emoting and stuff! And awesome jeans, girl. LOVE the big-A belt buckle! WAY stylin'! She lost the hat and broke into Heart's "Alone," which was one of the highlights of my evening. Girl's got PIPES and she really let 'em rip during this song, I tell you what. When she belted out, "'Til now I always got by on my own! I never really cared until I met you!" I got chills, y'all, I admit it. Mock me if you will, I don't care. CHILLS, I say! However, my stupid camera ran out of juice, so I couldn't get it for posterity. Grr. Argh. Of course she rocked the house with "Independence Day" (Again with the choreography and stage presence! You go, girl!), then ended with a heartfelt "Inside Your Heaven," during which all the Idols came back out and joined in at the second verse. It was beautiful. I swayed and waved my glowstick. Because that's what you DO at concerts. (TGIM: "I will stand, but I am NOT waving a glowstick.")
(SIDENOTE: When I went to pick up my FREE tickets from the super-nicest girl EVER, I realized I was dealing with a FAN GIRL and her posse of FAN GIRLS! They were leaving a present for Constantine, so I tagged along. We made it past security into the venue and left the gift bag with a complete sweetheart of a security guard, who incidentally informed us it was Connie's 3rd gift bag so far. Inside the bag was, among other things, a black t-shirt with the words, "Deny Everything" across the chest. Flash forward to this moment at the concert: Guess what t-shirt Constantine was wearing?! GUESS?! That VERY SHIRT! Oh! I felt so CLOSE TO HIM! Awesome.)
The Idols did a scrumptrillescent job with the ending, waved, and exited the stage. We screamed and waved our glowsticks. Well, I screamed and waved my glowstick. TGIM did not. Did ya, TGIM? NO.
Just kidding! Encore! ENCORE!
Bo and Carrie came back out and sang a duet of "Bless the Broken Road" which was so fantabulous I would totally pay money to own a copy of it. Then all the Idols came out one by one singing parts of "Lean on Me," which is one of my all-time FAVORITE songs (TGIM: "Hey. If we leave now, we'll miss the crowd. C'mon. Wanna go? Seriously. Let's go.").
After giving TGIM the Look of Incredulity and Assured Imminent Death if He Did Not CUT IT OUT, I was treated to the final song of the evening, a flippin' sweet, cutely choreographed version of "R-O-C-K in the USA," to which TGIM finally stood up and kind of moved around. (TGIM: "I'm just stretching. No, really.") Then the Idols left the stage one by one, bowing and waving to the screaming crowd.
The End. Okay, seriously this time.
All in all? Even though I didn't get to make out with Constantine? Best. Birthday. EVAH.
(Check out my Flickr account for some more concert pix... I should be getting BETTER ones soon, from my friend who sat in the front row, the lucky biznitch. Yay!)
link | posted by Cat at 11:36 AM
Okay. So, if you actually watched American Idol, then you've pretty much seen the concert I went to last night, with the exception of it being, you know, LIVE, and that four of the Idols played instruments: Bo, Carrie, and Nadia on guitar, and Anwar on keyboard. Oh. And the giant Pop Tart energizing the crowds. I don't remember seeing a POP TART on AI! I was suddenly craving processed sugar and carbs, though...
But allow me to say one thing: Apparently? More than a week's worth of practice before performing? It makes kind of a big difference in the quality of entertainment. Okay, like, a HUGE difference.
Jessica opened the show. I think she sang "The Boys are Back in Town." Darn it! How come I already forgot her set?! How embarrassing. Oh, she sang Smokey Robinson's "Shop Around"! That was good. I may have danced a little. Just for warm-up. TGIM sat like a lump. *sigh* This will be a common theme throughout the evening.
Then came Anwar. He sang, like, FOREVER. To his credit, he did a decent job with "What a Wonderful World." I feel guilty saying I didn't truly enjoy "A House is Not a Home," what with Luther Vandross' recent passing and all, but DUDE. Come ON. Stay on pitch! You're a music teacher, for crying out loud! Sheesh.
Then, guys? Then?! Guess who came out?! Guess?! Constantine, that's who! Amidst the screams and squealing of, oh, I'd say 85% of the female audience, he burst onto the stage rockin' a sweet red leather jacket, belting out "Hard to Handle" and I was all, "Oh, yes you ARE hard to handle, you hawt little Secret Greek Idol Luvah, you! Rawr!" and then? He totally threw his jacket off and sang "My Funny Valentine" (TGIM: "What is THIS crap?!")! Yep! He was all smoldering and shizz. SO not kidding. And did I mention the mic-stand acrobatics?! AWESOME. He ended his too-short set with "Bohemian Rhapsody," which I of course tried to capture on video (1st & 2nd videos), until the stupid, hatin' security guard chased me back to my seat, damn her to hell. She's all, "Stop running in the aisles! It's against fire code! Hey! Get down off that chair! It's a safety hazard! Blah blah blah!" And I'm all, "BUT I'M SHORT!" and she just shrugged. Whatever. Beeyotch.
Then Constantine bowed offstage (Boo! Hiss!) and I was all, "OMG! TGIM! Lookit! Usher is here tonight!!!... No, no, my bad, that's just Nikko."
Seriously, y'all? Nikko was super good! And he definitely made somebody's night by throwing his St. Louis Cardinals ball cap into the crowd (TGIM: "Wait. Did he just throw his HAT?!"-- in his best what-a-waste-of-a-perfectly-good-hat voice) before singing "Incomplete." Then? I totally boogied to "Part-Time Lover." I don't know why. OH! And boy can dance, yo? He diverged from the same-old, same-old by singing Justin Timberlake's "Like I Love You" and breaking out the MOVES. Seriously impressive. Should have done that on Idol, dawg. But good on you, Ush... Nikko! Awesome job!
Then Scott came out and sang "Against All Odds" and no one really cared until he brought Jessica back out and they sang a duet of "Total Eclipse of the Heart." Which was FANfreakingTASTIC! Want proof? Click here (3rd video). I apologize in advance for the picture quality, as I am still saving for my BAMF camera (maybe I should take PayPal donations, a la Kristine? hmmm...), but the sound quality is quite decent.
Then Scott sang some more, and it was really good, but people still didn't really care and I felt kind of sad. But he did his thing. I was very proud of him [insert seal-clap of approval here].
Then Frolicious Nadia came out! And she was all growly and sexy in a tight black miniskirt and, like, ten-inch heels, and she kept doing these high kicks and I was all, "Oh, NO, girl!", you know, because of the skirt? It was distracting. (TGIM: "Hey, this is alright...") At one point she kicked the mic stand away from her and it flew into the audience. I couldn't see if there were any casualties. Which would have been sad. But kind of funny, too. Hey! And Nadia has some skillz with the electric guitar! Who knew? Her songs included "Power of Love," "You Don't Have To Say You Love Me," "Fire," and "Try A Little Tenderness" (during which I thought of Duckie Dale's rendition of this very same song in Pretty in Pink. And I smiled.)
Oh my goodness, y'all. I am only at intermission? Freak. Better stop here, right?!... hello? Is anybody there?
To be continued...
...is that gajillions of people watch Veronica Mars tonight (on UPN @ 9PM!) and get totally hooked like me because it's the bestest, smartest, mysteriousest show out there and the cast is hawt and tonight they totally dress 80's (see picture below) which is MY era so it's totally cool and then the show won't get cancelled and I'll get to watch it forever and EVAH!
And world peace.
(Di, lookit! Veronica's totally rocking the Like A Virgin vibe here! 'Member crimping our hair?! 'Member your Madonna Boy Toy black mini skirt?! You were smokin' HAWT in that baby! 'Member?! Do ya?! That was AWESOME.)
Seriously. I KNEW there was a reason I loved Pop Tarts so much!
Guess who is going to see American Idol LIVE at the MCI Center in DC?!
Guess who is going to see American Idol LIVE at the MCI Center in DC?!
So, a nice lady is giving me free tickets to the Pop Tarts Presents American Idol LIVE concert in DC tomorrow! Free tickets! Floor seats! Tickets for free! Tickets for which I do not have to pay money! Which I can freely take and use for free! Me! Going for FREE!
Gosh. How very Charlie and the Chocolate Factory this all is! I was willing to buy them from her, but she somehow got her hands on front row tickets and was obviously feeling generous; she didn't need mere floor tickets anymore...
OH MY GAWSH. I get to see Constantine ON MY BIRTHDAY. Oh, and Carrie, and Bo Bice, and A-Fed and Baby V and blah blah blahdy blah... and CONSTANTINE!
I shall, of course, be wearing the Constantine T-shirt of Hawtness. Joy. JOY!
Man oh man oh MAN!! I think I am having heart palpitations RIGHT NOW. Hold on a sec... Yep. Can you hear that? Palpitations.
I am meeting the free ticket lady tomorrow at the venue to pick them up. She told me that she's going early so she and her friends can hang out and wait for the tour bus to roll in. I'm totally tagging along! (She doesn't know this yet, but c'mon! Stalking the tour bus?! GOOD TIMES!)
Um, I think she loves Constantine-- no, like LUUUUUUUUUUUUVS him!-- so I refrained from mentioning to her that he is my Secret Greek Idol Luhvah. I mean, obviously. No use jeopardizing the freeness of the tickets!
I am SO VERY EXCITED, y'all! But TGIM? Meh. Not so much. Whatev. Birthday Girl ALWAYS gets her way. Am I right or am I right?! Right?! RIGHT?!
Free tickets? Rock... the... house!
(ETA: Totally unrelated, but I just found out my little Life is Short teensy weensy piece-slash-photo will be in the Sunday, July 31st edition of The Washington Post. Just thought I'd share.)
Lookit! Lookit! I am taking part in mrtl's Motif Monday, y'all! First time! Thank you! Happy to be here!
Anywhos, this week's "Goals" motif is actually quite simple: My goal is to be happy in the moment.
Not "When I Lose Ten Pounds" happy.
Not "When I Get My Ph.D" happy.
Not "When I Have A Pair Of Pink Alligator Slide Manolo Blahniks" happy.
Not "When My Hair Grows Out" happy.
Not "When I Get Me One 'A Them U2 Special Edition iPods" happy.
Not "When The Kids Learn To Freaking Clean Up After Themselves" happy.
Not even "If I Only Had Bigger Boobs I'd Be Happy!" happy.
No! None of those! I mean "Right Now" happy...
So, there's this SUPER hilarious story that certain members of my family absolutely LOVE to tell. Yep. Super cute. Allow me to share this little gem:
A rather largish family (five kids at the time, the "Oops" not due to arrive for another five or six years) left church together on a fine Sunday afternoon, piling into the old white car and settling in. On the drive home, the father and mother of this large brood sat enjoying the tranquility of the Sunday drive, taking in the scenery, reflecting on the spiritual experience they has just enjoyed, wondering at the blessed silence... Wait. The silence?
Brakes screeched as the car careened wildly to the side of the road. My father turned to my mother, their eyes met, and they both screamed, "WHERE'S CATHY?!" After a frantic search of the car-- "Is she hiding in the back?", "Check under the seats!"-- the parents realized the dreadful truth.
Yes. They left their poor, totally defenseless-- and might I add delightful?-- little daughter alone at church. Their middle child. Oh, yes. And the lovely little girl? That would be me.
This is where Dad, who of course is the father in the story, usually adds, you know, in case you somehow missed the point, "Yep. We knew Cathy wasn't in the car... it was TOO QUIET! Bwah ha ha ha! TOO QUIET!! Ha ha ha!"
No, really. I'm laughing on the inside, Dad.
Then multiple family members commence with the knee slapping and hysterical laughter, as I, the butt, sit and remember my 6-year-old self standing in the foyer of the church thinking, "Well, where the hell IS everybody?!"
See? I totally LOVE that story. And I have absolutely no feelings of residual anger towards my parents at ALL. Or self-consciousness about my boisterous nature. Or abandonment issues. Or, you know, self-loathing. None whatsoever. Seriously. SO over it.
Oh! I also thoroughly enjoy the story of the time my best friend's mother Sandy told me that I had "diarrhea of the mouth." I had no idea what this odd little colloquialism meant, being only 8 years old at the time, but it sure sounded disgusting. I was offended. I'm pretty sure I broke out the sneer.
My mother patiently explained to me later that what Sandy meant was that I had just walked into the house and interrupted their grown-up conversation to announce that I got 100% on my spelling test, which probably made Sandy upset, as her daughter was "not the sharpest tool in the shed."
Whatev. Still totally rude.
Oh! Oh! Then there's the story of my fourth grade teacher and the game of musical desks we played, but I'll save that for another day. It's a doozy.
Now, in the interest of full disclosure I must admit I have never actually outgrown this tendency towards talkativeness. Thankfully, I DO have much more control over it than I did as a child. Um, unless you get a little caffeine in my system. Me and Dr. Pepper? Bad news, y'all. BAD NEWS. Just ask TGIM.
(SIDENOTE: This is also why I never drink alcohol. Can you imagine me at parties? *shudder* I am warning you now: Do not ever, under ANY circumstances, loosen me up with liquor, people. You have been warned. That is all.)
To illustrate, here is just a snippet of the "conversation" I had with TGIM after consuming one teensy weensy little caffeinated beverage as we were remodeling our new place on Saturday:
"Oh my gosh, we should totally build a window seat right here, TGIM! See? Right here? With curtains! Doncha think? Doncha? That would be so cute. Oh! And I had the best idea for the colors in the kitchen! Yellow! Do you think yellow? I totally say yellow. With wainscoting. Can you install some wainscoting? Duh. Of course you can! What was it, like ten dollars a panel? I mean ten dollars?! That's nothing! Or crown molding! We could do crown molding! I am totally painting the girls' room pink. Hannah and Alli will LOVE pink. Maybe with green trim. Or a chair rail. Yeah. That would be so cute. Doncha think that would be... Oh my GOSH! I just had the best idea! Let's get some DONUTS! I TOTALLY need a donut! Want a donut? 'Cuz I totally do! TGIM? TGIM?"
Then TGIM got this totally HUNTED look in his eyes, like, "Dear lord, make her STOP!" and I could totally see it, but I just couldn't turn it off because, you know, the caffeine! And the sugar!
"Oh! Freak. Sorry! Am I talking too much? I am totally talking too much, aren't I? Ha ha ha! Talk, talk, talk! That's what I do! Woo! Crazy talking lady! Remember when my mom came to visit? and she drank all that Diet Pepsi on the trip? and she totally came walking into our house talk, talk, talking like crazy?! Blah, blah, blah! That was hilarious! And I was all, 'Oh my gosh, Mom, were you drinking soda?!' and she was all, 'Yes, why? Am I talking too much?' and we were like, "Uh, yeah!' and we all laughed? Because she totally was? Remember, TGIM? Do you? Huh? TGIM? That was hilarious! Ha ha ha!"
Honestly. It's a wonder I haven't been murdered in my sleep.
A point? Oh. Am I supposed to have one of those? Just kidding! The point is, people, I have passed on the talking gene. In a BIG WAY, apparently.
On a drive with Grandma to the neighboring town of Show Low (which is a good 50 miles away from Podunky Small Town, AZ), my youngest kiddo, my Alli-girl, apparently contracted a bad case of diarrhea of the mouth. After a solid half-hour of talk, talk, talking her way through Barbies, outdoor swimming pools, the scenery, the shapes of clouds, Pioneer Day parades, Pokemon, and what she would be buying with her allowance at Walmart, she announced to everybody in the car (Grandma, Aunt Kim, and her Game-Boy engrossed bro and sis), "I'm tired. Everybody be quiet so I can sleep."
She then proceeded to bitterly complain about the noise level in the car for the next ten minutes until they arrived at their destination.
My youngest? She's a keeper.
My sister told me this story last night on the phone and I about peed myself laughing. Oh, yes I did! In fact I am laughing as I type this. (My cube neighbors? I scare them.) I can only assume my mother and sister were THIS CLOSE to their breaking points by the time they rolled into Show Low, what with the vivid flashbacks and whatnot. They likely had to medicate when they got home.
I am of course grateful that it was my sister and not my dear father relating this story or I would have surely heard, "Hey! Remember that time we left you at church?!" and I would have been forced to respond, "No, Dad, I've repressed that memory. Why don't you share? Wait. Let me get a Xanax... Okay, go."
Oh man, oh man, oh MAN! I miss my kiddos!
Because the silence, y'all? The silence?
Aaron (AKA: TGIM) here: Just got done getting our picture taken for The Washington Post thing. I must hand it to the photographer; she posed us in uncomfortable positions, shoved curious neighborhood kids out of the way, and even jumped once to get a different angle. Oh, and she laughed at Catherine's "funny" comments and didn't mock her t-shirt one bit. You know the one. By the way, thanks mrtl. Cat hasn't changed clothes in two weeks. How will I ever get her out of it? Reminds me of her U2 Zoo Station tour shirt that I finally had to burn. Constantine is close to going down in flames...
Hey! Have too changed clothes! Nyah! Looky! This one came a SUPER close second to my Greek Idol Secret Luvah of Hawtness t-shirt. See?! Cats, y'all! (because it relates to the piece I wrote...)
Almost, Andrew Lloyd Webber. Almost.
I totally wore it, mrtl. Just for YOU, babe. I mean, it's not like I'll ever have my picture in the Post again! I thought it would be fun to really make an impact, you know? Make it memorable.
Truthfully, the way cool photographer was pretty much just shooting our faces. Sorry, Connie. I tried. (Seriously. Call me.)
(Sorry. GRAINY pic. Not diggin' the Blogger photo upload quality...)
when you accidentally notice a colleague viewing streamed hardcore porn videos at her desk, in her cubicle, in the workplace, right there in the open, for any innocent person to busy-walk by and see, seriously, in front of God and EVERBODY, y'all! (I so, SO badly wish I were kidding, but sadly I am not), is it wrong of me to have a fiery, passionate, "What do you want?! I'm 12!" desire to seek out her supervisor and totally tell on her? Yes, "HER"! (I know, right?!) These are your tax dollars at work, people!
No? Just me then? Anyone?
Seriously. I thought I was mistaken; my friend E assured me I had to be mistaken, as we are filtered like crazy here. Well, never one to back down from a challenge, I went all covert ops and discovered that this naughty little habit of hers is a daily occurrence. As in, ALL DAY LONG. Some how, some way, she is GETTING TO THE PORN through her company-issued, totally Big-Brother-Networked computer. Can you say, "freaking insane"?
GAH! Just a moment ago I nonchalantly busy-walked by her cube, executing a near-perfect head swivel, but she sensed me, guys, she SENSED ME. She attempted the notorious Quick-Click, but her skillz, they were rusty, as she had apparently forgotten about the super large picture of a PENIS she left prominently erected-- er, I mean, displayed on her desktop!
MY EYES! They burn.
Good lord, woman. Keep it at home, wouldja?! Huh?! Freak.
That's it. I don't care. I'm telling. So serious. I don't care.
ETA: Now she's watching clips from Cops-- SANS HEADPHONES-- and muttering, "Mmm, mmm, mm!"
A thought: MAYBE she's actually watching "Undercover Cops"! You know! Undercover?! Cops!
(I know. Weak effort. I'd better bone up on my pornographic innuendos. My moral erectitude-- wait, whoops! rectitude, is showing... Gosh! This is fun! Good times, y'all. Good times.)
Critics call Veronica Mars "the best show you're not watching!" (TV Guide)
She's young! She's hot! She fights crime! She delivers the snark!
Mars vs. Mars: In tonight's episode, Veronica and Keith face off over a teacher accused of sexual misconduct with a student. Ooooooh! Exciting!
Favorite Veronica Mars Quip of the Week (from last week's episode, Lord of the Bling):
(Bone Hamilton, the "gangsta rap impresario beside whom all gangsta rap impresarios measure themselves," walks into Mars Investigations)
Wallace: You know who that is?
Veronica: Should I know who that is?
Wallace: If you're serious about your cred with the urban demographic.
Veronica: I am absolutely serious about my cred with the urban demo.
What can I say? It's just the way she DELIVERED it.
FYI: ALL-TIME Favorite Veronica Mars Quips:
A tie, both from the Pilot episode:
Weevil (leader of local motorcycle gang): Sister, the only time I care what a woman has to say is when she's riding my big old hog. But even then, it's not so much words-just a bunch of 'oohs' and 'aahs,' you know?
Veronica: So it's big, huh?
Veronica: Well, let's see it. I mean, if it's as big as you say, I'll be your girlfriend. (gasps) We could go to prom together!
Wallace: I suddenly feel like I'm in a scene from The Outsiders.
Veronica: Be cool, Soda Pop.
Okay, that last one HAS to up my street cred with the literary demo... right?!
Anywhos, watch tonight's episode, y'all! You'll see!
The photographer from The Washington Post called last night. She indicated that she would like to include TGIM in the picture accompanying my teensy-- no, really, quite smallish-- piece which will be published-- PUBLISHED!-- in their newspaper some Friday early next month.
I was all, "WHAT?! WHAT?! What's that you say?! Just because I wrote about him?! He gets to be in the paper, TOO?!" and she was like, "Yeah, I mean, if you don't mind," and I was all, "Whatever."
I mean, honestly. Steal my thunder, much, TGIM? Gosh.
We are officially and quite happily house-poor. That's right. We DID it! Oh, yes we did.
Yesterday afternoon we drove on down to the lawyers' office, grabbed hold of the elegant, high quality, rubber-gripped, oh-so-smooth black pens they were holding out to us, and went to work signing paper after paper after paper after paper after paper. Seriously! Just anything they put in front of us! It was AWESOME! And then? We totally handed over all our money!
And though we may now well be the absolute poorest of the poor house-poor people in the entire DC metropolitan area-- nay, in the entire known universe-- (and we are pretty sure we owe someone somewhere our Harry Potter book collection, our TiVo, and our firstborn son) well, all I have to say is this: Peterson, Noll, and Goodman? Don't even THINK you're getting your pen back.
link | posted by Cat at 12:05 PM
WAY busy, a'ight?
Until further notice...
ETA: O! M! G! This is SOOOOOOO gloriously exciting! Go, Harry! Go, Harry!
EATA: Man. Oh. MAN. Now that's just plain MEAN, J.K. Rowling. A cliffhanger?! After THAT roller coaster ride?! MEAN, I say! Just... mean.
(You've GOT to read this book, y'all. You will DIE.)
"Good dreams please come in... good dreams PLEASE come in..."
I'm tired, but I can't sleep.
Top Five Reasons Why the Desperate Working Momma Can't Seem to Get any Shut-Eye:
1. Spent better part of the morning being frightened out of my wits at the Subcommittee on Prevention of Nuclear and Biological Attack Hearing aptly entitled: "Engineering Bio-Terror Agents: Lessons from the Offensive U.S. and Russian Biological Weapons Program," in which three expert witnesses testified before the House Homeland Security Committee regarding terrorists' ability to develop and use catastrophic biological weapons.
Plain English? Two words: SUICIDE COUGHERS. As if I wasn't enough of a germaphobe! Need I say more?
2. Senator Hilary Clinton, up close and personal, on the floor of the Senate, in-- I kid you not-- the brightest, pinkest, fugliest blazer ever. EVER! Hmmm. She is not quite as... horsey as I had always imagined, but it was frightening enough. My eyes? They burn. Need I say more?
3. And, hello? These pictures sure didn't help things much. Thanks a WHOLE LOT, mrtl! Freaking hell! Gosh!
Honestly, woman. Need I say more?
4. Frantically submitting paper after paper after paper after paper in the hopes of getting everything together so we can close on our new home by Monday! MONDAY! Whose brilliant ideas was this anyway, huh?! HUH?! Fine! I KNOW, RIGHT?! IT WAS TOTALLY MINE!! Boo.
Need I...? Aaaw, forget it.5. My Secret Greek Idol Luvah hasn't called me yet. And I totally wore the t-shirt and EVERYTHING!
Luvah?! 'Sup? Why you gotta be like that, Connie? What, you're all busy with the AI Pop Tarts Tour, hangin' with Baby V and CareBear and Bo Bice and the A-Fed and shizz, and can't take the time to just pick up the freaking phone? Huh? Is that how you're gonna play it, luvah?
Whatev. I'm so over it.
(Call me.) link | posted by Cat at 11:47 PM
Okay, I don't want to jinx this, but I needed some exciting news after enduring an entire day at the Capitol participating in a Staff Officer Training Public Policy Seminar, where I learned all about the secret inner workings of Congress (woo!), and how much of an uphill climb the congressional minority members have (wah!), and how bills become law (even though I already knew all that because, duh! I totally grew up watching School House Rock during Saturday morning cartoons, hello!), and oh, how things are going to hell in a frickin' handbasket, yo? Good times. Tomorrow I get to go back and observe an actual committee meeting. On Capitol Hill. With actual Congressman. Homeland Security Committee, I think. Dudes. I'm stoked. Maybe I'll see a filibuster! No? They don't do that in committee? Well, damn it.
Oooooh! Did you know that Strom Thurmond once filibustered a civil rights bill for 24 hours and 18 minutes, stopping only when the Senate physician threatened to drag him from the floor? Longest filibuster in Senate history. I know, right?! I totally didn't either! I hear he hit the sauna the day before to flush out ALL his fluids, you know what I'm sayin'? TMI? Whatev. I could take him. Just give me a microphone and a quorum, baby.
Hmmm. I should mention that ol' Strom later DID walk away from his opposition to civil rights. Just so you know.
But anywho, the exciting news I don't want to jinx:
Something I wrote-- me, Cat, ME!-- has been selected for publication in The Washington Post! And they are going to PAY ME! Actual MONEY! And they want my PICTURE! Which, hey, is scary, but whatev. It's their readership at stake.
I'm totally wearing my Constantine t-shirt.
Imagine. Being paid for THIS.
Now I'll just sit on back here, knock on wood, and wait for my blog buddy Shaun to tell me he's playing a practical joke...
I was talking to my youngest daughter the other night, and I was all, "Oh, I miss you guys so much! Every time I walk by your room I feel sad! Blahdy blah blah! Do you miss us?"
"What? I was watching TV."
So... no. Not so much.
I think this is all the excerpts I will be posting from The Book for awhile...
'Cuz, of course, that ain't why I started this blog, yo? Dawgs?
(cont'd from here)
I tell myself that all this free time I am enjoying is good for my psyche, and that at any moment I will have an epiphany-- a brain fart, if you will-- regarding the weird-ass dreams I've been having lately. So I concentrate and try to conjure the images that haunt my dreams: the forbidding, dense forest; the creepy little animals; the suspicious grove. Unfortunately, the more my mind's eye sees the dark shadows of the forest, with the peculiar little critters standing around totally staring at me all Pet Cemetery-like from the clearing, the more dark and, ugh, tight this freaking cabinet seems.
Instead, I find it comforting to close my eyes and think of what havoc I will wreak on my sister when I finally get home.
My sister. (Heavy sigh.) Last month my big sister Laura (I call her "big" to annoy her-- she's very thin and extremely vain; I just turned sixteen and she's a year older than me) stole my pink cashmere sweater for a date and it ended up with someone else's vomit all over it. Let me just say, vomit and cashmere? Don't mix. Instead of telling me, she made a lame attempt to eradicate the stain, and upon failure, shoved it under my bed (we share a room) and went her merry way. By the time I finally found it during "Sommers Family Spring Cleaning" last week (it is actually the end of summer, but Dad occasionally whips himself into a veritable cleaning frenzy and whisks me and Laura along with him), it was ruined beyond repair. Hello? Pee-yew! After the usual rounds of "you suck" and "bite me," I made a vow to get her back or die trying, so help me God. I don't know that God really cares about taking part in my vengeance pacts (Old Testament smitings notwithstanding), but it never hurts to invoke whatever Higher Powers are at your disposal, I always say.
My sister. Gah. My sister is a beauty, with a capital B. No, really. She has been modeling professionally since she was discovered by her agent at the tender age of four at a McDonald's in Bethesda, Maryland. Although I am obviously used to her, I know she is beautiful, with her wide green eyes, her wavy auburn hair, her toothy smile that could launch a thousand ships. Where she is wavy ringlets and curves and sex appeal, I am blonde and thin and as flat as God made me. We have the same eyes, though. Whatever. I'm not jealous... usually. Did I mention that I definitely got the brains in the family? And let's just say I also know Laura is something else with a capital B, but I am too delicate in principle to call her nasty names in my oh-so-public memoirs, although if I am too be both emotionally honest AND brave, my sister's innate bitchiness should probably come up at some point in these pages. Instead I simply invoke, as a lesson to all who read this, the old tried but true maxim, "Beauty is only skin deep, y'all." Amen, sister. Or brother.
Upon reflection I am beginning to think this memoir thing may not be such a bad idea. My father is always getting after me to expand my writing skills. I suppose I got his hopes up when at the tender age of seven I wrote an eighty-page romance novel. My second grade teacher was appalled; apparently I was exceptionally graphic. Dad, who is himself a professor of British literature and an author, was thrilled. He had visions of me following in his footsteps, perhaps as the next Mary Shelley. Unhappily for Dad, there is absolutely no Frankenstein lurking inside me; I lean toward journalistic writing, and as assistant editor of the school newspaper I get many opportunities to hone my craft. But this? This memoir? Feels different. Good different. So we'll see. I can't help thinking that maybe, just maybe, all this emoting and crap will help me remember something. About That Day.
The day my mother disappeared.
We were living in Bethesda at the time. My father had just returned from a business trip to Boston, the last leg of a country-wide lecture tour for his new book. Something to do with Chaucer's pilgrims, I think it was. Anyway, he and Mom got into it, and the usual noisy arguing ensued, until Mom finally threw a potholder at Dad's face and shouted as she stormed out of the kitchen, "Fine! Make your own damn dinner then! I'm going to bed!"
I distinctly remember Laura elbowing me as I covered a smile behind my hand at Mom's theatrics and Dad's bemused, "I just asked if we were having garlic bread with the lasagna..." I remember the smell of Mom's perfume as she brushed by me and I remember the pictures on the wall shaking as she slammed her bedroom door. I remember laughing over our lasagna at some silly story Dad told us about a large woman in a dashiki he met on the subway. I remember everything about that evening. Everything except Mom leaving.
We never saw her again.
The FBI hauled my father in for questioning a few days later. Despite their accusations, Dad persistently denied any wrongdoing on his part.
He explained over and over that when he got into bed, she was there, right there next to him. When he woke up the next morning, she was gone. Simple as that. No note, no suitcases missing, no sign of foul play, but no clue as to where she had gone. And no body has ever been recovered.
Up until six months ago my father was the FBI's prime suspect, but now they say my mom is either dead, possibly by her own hand, or she doesn't want to be found. Dad says nothing at all. About any of it. But he did conceive the brilliant idea of moving us all the way across the United States of frickin' America to live with my strange paternal grandmother in Dad's hometown of podunky St. James, Arizona. Population: 4000. Yay, Dad. My junior year of high school is going to ROCK. As if that is not enough, he acts for all the world as if Mom's on an extended vacation and she'll be back any minute. And to top it all off, and tie it with a pretty little bow, he has become the quintessential absentminded professor.
"She'll be home soon, girls. I'll get her back. Trust me," he tells us periodically, his eyes staring into the distance, but focused on nothing in particular. Dreamy. Then he grabs a bottle of scotch and holes himself up in his cluttered, book-littered office, door locked against us, and all we can do is wait until morning when he inevitably emerges disheveled and bleary-eyed looking for a glass of water and some ibuprofen.
But me? I'm not buying it. No, sir. I will not stand idly by. I will not drown myself in scotch (Dad), or throw myself into some small town, half-assed high school production of "Bye, Bye Birdie" (Laura). Or simply pretend that Mom never existed (Grandma). No. I will not rest until I find her. And maybe me writing about it all will help me figure out the clues.
Who knows? Maybe my freaky dreams are trying to tell me something. Weirder things have happened, right?
I thought some more about my dreams just now as I rested my fingers, but nothing of importance came to me.
I just tried to wrest my cell phone from my jeans pocket, but I am too scrunched up in here to maneuver it out. I think my left butt cheek is asleep. Nice.
I listen, but no tell-tale car alarm is going off in the distance. That's good, I hope. It actually seems almost too quiet. Huh. It is comforting to know, however, as I squat here in this dark, rather damp, smallish space that reeks of fetal pig and formaldehyde, that the expose the school newspaper ran last year regarding the inappropriate and ineffective ventilation in the SJHS science lab supposedly led to extensive remodeling in here, including cabinets with vents, one of which I am pressing my nose to every so often. Ah, oxygen! Sweet, sweet oxygen, sweet Pine Sol and soap...
Wait. Pine Sol? Yes! The custodians must be mopping, which means the classroom is empty-- well, except for me, of course-- which must mean the Dudes are no longer roaming the halls hissing, "Sammie... My bitch... Come out and play..." Hallelujah.
That's enough emotional honesty for now, Miss L.
Last night, TGIM and I saw a special Sneak Preview screening of The Island. Since I couldn't think of anything more intelligent to write on the survey than "Wow! A sizzling summer blockbuster that blows all other summer films out of the water!" (Hey! Performance anxiety can happen to anyone, okay?!), I will attempt to redeem myself by writing my very first "official" Movie Review by a Desperate Working Momma.
Oh. And no worries. This review contains absolutely no spoilers.
MOVIE: The Island
(Oh my GAWSH! Look at her BOOBS in this poster! That shite ain't right!)
I mean, honestly. Who wouldn't want to be chosen in the lottery for an all-expense paid trip to The Island, reportedly the last uncontaminated spot on the planet? Well, as Lincoln Six-Echo and Jordan Two-Delta learn, certainly not them, that's who.
If you see this movie-- and dudes, you totally should-- be sure to pack the Depends, y'all, because there are so many jolts and exciting twists in this summer hit, you will more than likely piddle your pants a bit. Ewan McGregor (Lincoln Six-Echo) and Scarlett Johansson (Jordan Two-Delta) sizzle-- SIZZLE, I say!-- as a pair of human clones who don't know that every memory they have of their existence in their seemingly utopian society is a lie. Director Michael Bay (The Rock, Armageddon, Bad Boys) practically begs the audience for a willing suspension of disbelief, filling the screen with more explosions and miraculously close calls than a room full of prepubescent boys at Neverland, but you will find that you are more than happy to oblige him. The movie moves along at a breakneck pace, with a script chock full of heart-pounding action amidst clever jokes and quotable one-liners, not to mention the amazing musical score and jaw-dropping special effects, as Lincoln and Jordan each desperately race to meet their maker. No, literally.
All this makes the movie not only a brutal yet sexy action-adventure film, but a genuine summer blockbuster you will not want to miss.
Seriously. Just looking at them is worth the price of admission, you know what I'm sayin'? Oh, I think you DO.
A mysterious package, addressed to Cat Maroulis, arrived in the mail today, y'all!
I am the happiest gal alive.
My Secret Greek Idol Luvah!
Mrtl, you ROCK.
Oh yes! The Smoldering Idol! "Let's rock this!"
"Rawr! This is how you remind me of what I really am! Ki-YAH!" (TGIM missed my classic Connie crouch-landing. Freak.)
Why not write my book? I have the whole summer, right?
As I mentioned yesterday, a young girl cranked out over 800 pages of her own Harry Potter, Book 6. Which, by the way, is scary fanfiction obsession to the max, I tell you what. Of course, we can assume that unless she is a child prodigy, though there may be an abundance of verbiage, well, the QUALITY may not be there, you know what I'm sayin'? I mean, she's frickin' 15! Although that was about the age of S.E. Hinton when she wrote The Ousiders. So you never know. But I digress.
Thing is, I had a brain fart a few years ago and wrote a young adult mystery novel, but have you ever looked back at something you wrote a while ago and thought, "Holy shnikes! What was I thinking?!" Well, that is totally this book. I still love the story idea, but I need to do some major revamping.
Oh MY! I better get crackin' on my new story board! And drafting a catchy logline! And setting up bio sheets on each character! Booyah!
I can't believe how cramped your foot can get when you've been scrunched in a science lab cabinet for almost an hour. I mean, I'm not a big girl, by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, my mother always used to call me "petite." Which was her nice, politically-correct way of saying, "Sam, girl, you equal el shrimpo poquito." So, whatever. But my foot? Totally asleep. And my laptop is wedged tightly between my stomach and knees as I type, so the comfort level is not high. But my story, it must be told. Oh, yes. Even if I suffocate on these nasty sulphuric fumes mingled with the faint stench of formaldehyde, so help me God.
Okay, fine. I have AP English fifth period and Miss L is insisting we write our memoirs. She calls it-- now how did she put it?-- "a therapeutic and beneficial experience, demanding both emotional honesty and bravery." Gag. I blame Benjamin Franklin. And Frank McCourt. Damn you, Angela's Ashes. I stalled, I griped, I claimed this assignment was nothing but an exercise in narrative tyranny, but Miss L simply laughed that hideous horse-laugh of hers and said, "Shush, you. Just try it." And my first chapter is due tomorrow.
But none of this explains why I am crammed like a pretzel into a science lab cabinet, huh? Hmmm. A question for the ages. Fact is, I'm dodging a crew of desperate St. James High School banditos who are out for blood. What? You don't buy that? Well, then you have obviously never "accidentally" ratted out the head of your local dirthead skate crew-- who incidentally, call themselves (wait for it...) the "Dudes"-- to the police for questioning in a skate-by mailbox clubbing incident.
You know what? I don't think I want to talk about it. Especially since this will be--
-- Oh my God! Is that a cockroach in my hair?! Get it OUT! Get it--
Oh. Piece of fuzz. False alarm.
Drips from the faucet are falling in the sink above my head. From where I sit, it is like the eerie, watery echo in the desert caverns I like to explore on the outskirts of St. James. Plop. Plop. Plop. I am fairly certain, judging by the twenty whole minutes of silence I've endured, that the Dudes have left the building. They are probably staking out my car as I write this. Hopefully, that car alarm Dad installed last weekend-- after someone left a dead rat in the driver's seat and scratched "Bitch!" into my dashboard-- is worth the two hundred bucks we spent on it.
link | posted by Cat at 10:09 AM
Oh, ho ho. I am inspired. This is gonna be FUN!
That's right, people!
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, coming to a bookstore near you! Or, if you are a diehard Muggle such as I, it will be delivered STRAIGHT TO YOUR DOOR for hours of orgasmic reading pleasure! HOURS!
Wait. Did I say "orgasmic"? I meant "bombastic." No. "Fantastic"?
Seriously. I'm taking the day off. Don't call me. Or stop by. I will ignore you. A'ight?
That being said, I must mention that this girl? She frightens me. I'm not joking. Who's the crazed girly-fan NOW, eh? EH?!
Hold me, TGIM. Hold me tight.
Of course, in the wake of today's terrorist attacks in London, this becomes somewhat trivial news. But still. Totally worth mentioning.
Just watch the video. Meet the "criminal."
Let's see... Obey the cops? Or save a guy's life?
Which would YOU choose?
With a little bit of thread!
I just had my eyebrows "threaded"! No, seriously! Heard of it? Being a total eyebrow-shaping virgin, I carefully and thoughtfully considered having them shaped via The Wax, but after hearing Kalki's hair-raising eyebrow waxing experience (get it?! do you?! "hair-raising"?! heh heh!! get it?! hee!!), well, let's just say that me waxing ANYTHING any time soon is not freaking likely!
But, wow! My eyebrows are all shapey now! SHAPEY! No tweezers, no wax! Just thread! Twisty, hair-pulling thread. Rad, y'all. Totally.
Coolness unto me and my deflowered eyebrows!
Gosh! I tell you, Work at Home day rocks. Because of course, I am totally working. Um, right now. Because I always work on my WAH day. Because that's what I'm supposed to do. You know, work. While at home. So I totally do. I mean, why wouldn't I? Huh?! Why would anyone think I'm NOT working?! Just because I had time to get shapey eyebrows and do some Tae Bo and go out for donuts doesn't mean I'm not working, okay?! I have my computer on and files opened up and everything! I DO! I swear! I pinky promise!
Okay. Just thought I'd share.
TGIM will tell you. If for some crazy reason you have a preference for tomb-like silence during the featured attraction, don't ever sit next to me at a movie. Seriously. Just don't. I admit it. I am a unrepentant Movie Talker and there is just no reforming me. Hate me if you want to, but, y'all? I just can't help myself.
Now, admittedly, there are several different varieties of the Movie Talker breed, and thankfully for my friends and family, I believe I fall in the least offensive category(s). Let me give you a quick run-down on a few of the most prominent types of Movie Talkers:
1) The Obnoxious Question-Asker:
Okay. When writing the script for a movie, the writer may introduce several characters, plot points, locations, and mysteries whose importance only becomes apparent after a certain amount of time has passed. This is called dramatic tension.
The Obnoxious Question-Asker, however, is all about instant gratification. This Movie Talker JUST CAN'T WAIT for exposition-- no sir-- and generally asks his/her friends, spouse, child, and/or strangers unanswerable questions during the first moments of the movie, such as "Who is that guy?!," "What city is that?!," What the freak is he doing with that gun?!," or "How the hell'd she get in there, huh?!" Which is really annoying, apparently.
This person may also ask his/her neighbors, "What movie was that chick in? Huh? Spiderman? Was it totally Spiderman? No? Napoleon Dynamite? Freak! What was it?!" Which is also pretty annoying, apparently.
2) The Short-Attention Spanner:
At the movies, it is generally expected of you, the moviegoer, to PAY ATTENTION. You know. To the plot and stuff? And characters, too. Even if they resemble each other a little bit. Amazingly, you, the moviegoer, are fully expected to keep 'em straight. And to refrain from pestering with questions the people around you who have a brain larger than a gnat fly.
This movie talker is the one whispering, "Who is that dude?," "Wait. Is that her brother or something?," and "Is that the same chick from the night before?" This movie talker may also tap your shoulder and whisper frantically, "Wait! What just happened?!"
3) The Wit-Meister:
Some people believe themselves to be quite witty, and must therefore share their wit with the general population. During movies. Because they are attention whores. And cannot help themselves. This breed of movie talker will go ahead and make that witty comment, either under the breath, or to neighboring moviegoers. During the movie. Because they are freaking hilarious, right?! HILARIOUS!
4) The Mimic:
This rare brand of movie talker is known to repeat funny lines several times after they have been initially uttered by the actors, usually accompanied with a resounding knee-slap, a crack of wild laughter, and ofttimes some frighteningly violent arm slapping or elbow jabbing.
"Did ya hear that? She said, 'That is the ugliest effing skirt I've ever seen.' Bwah ha ha! 'That is the UGLIEST EFFING SKIRT I'VE EVER SEEN!!' BWAH HA HA!" Slap, slap! Jab, jab! Thwack!
5) The One-Sided Conversationalist:
The people up on screen? Um, they aren't real. And thus? Cannot hear moviegoers in the theater, nor are they able to heed their advice, no matter how well-intentioned. Because they aren't real.
This fact obviously does not deter the One-Sided Conversationalist from trying. You will frequently hear this Movie Talker offering up such gems as, "Girl! Do NOT go in there!," "Oh, no she di'nt!," "Did you see THAT?!," "Why would you do that, you freaking moron?" and my personal favorite, "GAAAAAAH! He's behind the door! LOOK BEHIND THE DOOR!"
Persistent little buggers, the One-Sided Conversationalists. Not much fun at parties, either. Just so you know.
6) The Jerkwad Movie Wrecker
This person has seen the movie before. Maybe once, maybe several times. And throughout the duration of the movie, this Movie Talker will make sure the entire audience knows it.
"OMG! Watch this! That man has a gun! See?! SEE?!," and "Oh! I LOVE this part! He's totally been dead the whole time, and we just didn't know it!," and "Oh my gosh, I hate this part when he totally gets blown up!"
I will never forget as a small child sitting right behind a Jerkwad Movie Wrecker during my first ever screening of the cult classic Xanadu. Woman sang along with Olivia Newton-John during every single stinking song in the movie, I kid you not. EVERY. SINGLE. SONG. And LOUDLY, to boot. Could have kicked her ass, and I was only eight! Good thing for her. Freak.
Oh. Dear Lord. I must admit to possibly exhibiting SOME behaviors of Movie Talkers 1, 4, and 5. GAH! Don't hate me! I can't help it! It's genetic! It's my mother's fault! Or my dad's! I don't know! But SOMEONE IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS!!
Aw, hell. Just stay away from me at the movies, yo?
Oh, WOW. I just slept in 'til 9:30, y'all!
Is that even legal?
ETA: And my kids could get used to THIS!!
Honestly. Who makes stuff that decadent and pretty for breakfast, huh?! Not me, that's who!
I mean, come ON, Grandma!
The bar, people. The BAR!!! Why must she raise it?
For just how long will I find it hilarious when my youngest daughter sings-- in full-on soul-sistah abandon-- "Give it to me baby! Uh-huh, UH-HUH! Give it to me baby! Uh-huh, UH-HUH! Give it to me baby! Uh-huh, UH-HUH! And all the girlies say I'm pretty fly for a white guy!" along with The Offspring?
Oh, forever, I imagine.
Especially when her older sister joins in with, "He's getting a tattoo, yeah, he's getting ink done! He asked for a 13 but they drew a 31!" And she does that little head-bob thingy to the beat...
What?! Hey, it's not as if I don't turn down the music when they sing, "Now cruising in his Pinto, he sees homies as he pass, but if he looks twice, they're gonna kick his lilly (Good Momma turns down volume here)...!"
Which, okay, thinking about it, only inspires my son to shake his head at me and say disgustedly, "Right. It's not like we don't know what rhymes there, Mom."
But I'm all, "Whatever. You're nine."
See? So it's all good.