So, if after seriously, like, HOURS of kicking it at the Walmart Eye Center, where you have been waiting all sorts of patiently (aw, who am I kidding, right?) for Rudesby McSpitsalot, the gum-snapping, busywalking Walmart Vision Care Specialist, whose nametag declares (falsely, might I add), "Hi! You Are Important To Me!", an assertion you perhaps might have fallen for had it not been for the *snap* *snap* Oh No You DI'NT attitude thrown at you by the aforementioned VC Specialist McSpits, who for reasons unfathomable felt justified in freaking the hell out over the three whole seconds it took out of her busy, busy life to type your name into the computer and simply look up the elusive Tray Number for your youngest daughter's new glasses, a number that-- YES-- you should have been able to supply her had you NOT forgotten your sales slip at home because it was a spur of the moment decision to brave the pre-Christmas crowds at Walmart that day, and did I mention that your name was already in the computer anyway?! because it totally was?!...
*phew* Hold on a sec, mm'kay? I have figuratively run out of breath. Must! Breathe! Oxygen!... Wait. Was that all one sentence? It was?! Mercy me! I do run on at the mouth, don't I? Oh my goodness gracious!
Let me try again: So, if after all this wait-time, your nine-year-old son approaches you wearing the most hilarious pair of oversized, Napoleon Dynamite glasses-- the type that went out of style even for your grandpa at least a decade ago, the kind that make you wonder how in the world they expect to unload these monstrosities even on an unsuspecting, eyewear-challenged population-- and he says "Look! I'm Napoleon Dynamite!' and then hands you a pair, would you throw caution to the wind-- risking life, limb, devaluation of your street cred with the urban demo-- and just friggin' try those flippin' SWEET suckers on for size?
Like there was ever any doubt. Honestly.
Ryan Seacrest: Coming to you LIVE from Hollywood's Kodak Theatre, it's... me! Ryan Seacrest! I'm unseasonably tan and deceptively wee! I work out! And flat-iron my hair! Oh, it's also another music-filled night of American Idol. Now remember, America, every vote counts tonight. Seriously. If your favorite contestant goes home, it is on your head. I'm just saying.
Okay! Let's start the evening by-- Hmm? What? The season is over? I'm just supposed to read the teleprompter and introduce the judges? Huh?! Wait, so no hushed, introspective one-on-one with the camera? No catchy DUH-nuh-nuh-NUH-nuh-NUH musical intro? No MONTAGE?! Really?!
Oh. Well, this is awkward.
Er, so... moving on! Here are your Idol judges. First up, we have the swing voting, lexiconically-challenged keeper of the dawg pound, Randy Jackson! (woof! woof! woof!)
Next, the straight-up talented and lovely queen of insipidly positive comments, Paula Abdul! (wooooooo!) Ha! "Straight up"! That was a joke! Get it? Like, a pun! Funny!
Last, and definitely least, we have the arrogant, man-breasted, king of barrages of dead-on critical superlatives, Simon Cowell! (BOO.)
All right America, the moment you've been waiting for... Tonight Carrie Underwood makes her music video debut singing her breakout #1 country hit, Jesus, Take the Wheel, hot off the #2 album in the USA, Some Hearts, which is currently the highest charting album for a debut artist in 2005. Your American Idol judges have gathered to view the music video and weigh in.
But first a word from our sponsors. Remember, without these commercials no one would get paid and daddy needs some new highlights.
(Commercial: Drink Coca-Cola. Like, lots of it. And drive a Ford! Oh, and Cingular wireless phones rock the hizzouse. The end)
(View Video NOW)
Randy: Carrie, Carrie, Carrie. Yo, that was dope, dawg! Aiight?! You did your thing. I love your voice, man, you give me chills. I mean it, you got pipes! That was brilliant, dude. Not pitchy at ALL. Best. Vocals. Ever. I would buy that single. You are forever in my Dawg Pound now! You can do anything! Aiight?! Aiight.
Paula: Aaaaaw, girl... I'm speechless! Just speechless! I am so proud of you, Carrie. You had fun with this and you made it your own. And you look gorgeous in those blue jeans! Rawr! Radiant! I love you soooo much! You never cease to amaze me with your fantabulous vocals. That was haunting... No, really, you moved me, you really, really did (stands up and seal claps with her fingers pointing outward)... You deserve this! You do!
Simon: (Staring at Paula) You are completely insane. (Turning to Carrie) If I'm being totally honest, it would have been a shock if you couldn't have got that one right. (crowd boos, Simon turns around and faces audience) Would you people shut UP for a moment? I'm not finished! (Turning back to Carrie) Well, this has never happened before... I'm about to be nice. I predicted you would not only win, but sell more records than any other Idol in American Idol history. I'd like to congratulate America again for getting it exactly right. After several absolute losers were voted through strictly because of sympathy votes rather than talent, you raised the game.
Randy: Uh, Simon? You can't just be calling people losers. How's Scott supposed to feel, huh? And Whitey McWhiterson, er, A-Fed? Vonzell? What's wrong with you, man?
Simon: I can call them whatever I like.
Paula: No, you can't.
Simon: Yes, I can.
Paula: No, you can't.
Simon: Yes, I can.
Paula: I know you are, but what am I?
Randy: Well, then I have a problem with you, Simon.
Simon: We'll discuss it later.
Randy: No, now! This is crazy. This is America, man!
Simon: Oh, go take a happy pill and we'll discuss this later. (Turning back to Carrie) Where was I? Oh, yes. Congratulations, Carrie. Very, very well done, indeed. Oh, and one more thing... I BLOODY WELL TOLD YOU SO, AMERICA!
Ryan: Uh, okay. So... there you have it. Don't forget to check out Carrie's debut album Some Hearts, and also DO NOT forget to check out my star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. It's cool! And I absolutely did not pay to have it put there! It was a complete surprise to me! Scout's honor! Now I need to go before my child-sized ironic t-shirt and tight trendy blue jeans completely cut off my breath supply...
(ETA: Incidentally, if country music and/or Jesus ain't yer thang, her pop song Some Hearts is pretty dang good, too. I heard her sing it live on The Today Show and DAMN. Just... damn.)
Okay. For reals, y'all. This year for Thanksgiving? I am totally ordering Chinese take-out.
Okay, sure, so TGIM isn't totally sold on this whole Chinese take-out idea as of yet, but me? I do not despair! He will soon see things in a different light. Oh, yes he will. You see, I have WAYS... Secret ways. Ways that would knock your freaking socks off if only you knew about them! Oh, the ways that I have! Lots of 'em! Like that thing where I-- hmm? What? Too Much Information? Oh. Riiiiiiiight...
Well, this is awkward.
All I am saying is that there is absolutely no WAY I am knocking myself out this year by slaving all day over some HUGE Savory Stuffed Turkey, Creamy Mashed Potatoes, Homemade Dinner Rolls Like Mom Always Makes, Thanksgiving Meal thing just for my immediate family! This may sound harsh and totally un-American and I will probably burn in hell for spitting this metaphorical loogie in the eye of tradition, but seriously. Every year it is the same thing: my kids focus exclusively on the mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie and I'm stuck eating leftover turkey and stuffing for a month. A month, people! Sometime even longer! Do you think I am kidding?! Because I am NOT! Honestly. There are only so many ways you can serve turkey before you resort to Cranberry Turkey Loaf and Gobbler Cobbler, that's all I'm saying. It's madness. M-A-D-N-E-S-S!
Oh, now, settle down. It's not as if I'm suggesting we go vegan and eat a Tofurkey. (Because that? Would also be madness.) I briefly toyed with the idea of purchasing a Wegman's Complete Turkey Holiday Dinner Deluxe (with Baked Brie with Apples, Cinnamon & Brandy Candied Sweet Potatoes, and Classic Cheesecake-- YUM!), but the $70 price tag brought me crashing back to my cheap-ass senses.
Plus, truthfully? The whole Thanksgiving Day preparation and fuss makes me feel as if I should be dressed in a blue taffeta June Cleaver dress wearing pearls and a polka-dotted kitchen apron, busily serving hors d'oeuvres on china plates, and saying things like "Ward, I'm worried about the Beaver..." while cartoon birds braid my hair. Which is way freaky.
So, this year? I will be ringing up the local Speedy Chopstix or Dragon Sky Dim Sum or whoever else delivers on Thanksgiving, and I will give thanks for the wonton soup and orange chicken and moo goo gai pan and shrimp eggs rolls. Maybe even some tasty chow mein. And my family shall eat it and call it GOOD. Because no mammoth pile of dirty pots, roasting pans, scary cutlery, and dishes to clean? No twenty-five pounds of leftover turkey to store away? No TGIM sprawled on the living room couch in front of football game after football game after football game in an L-Trytophan-induced coma? No Gobbler Cobbler with a side of Cranberry Turkey Loaf?! Well, hallefreakinglujah! Thank you, LORD! Can I hear a big, "Hell, yeah!"?!
After literally tens of minutes of meticulously sectioning, strategically clipping, and severely manhandling my hair just as the stylists in the Glamour article suggest; after several more minutes of attempting to wield a curly brush in one hand, a hot-as-freaking-fire blow dryer in the other, while spinning to untangle myself from the stupid twisty cord which keeps mysteriously wrapping itself around my waist; after yet more minutes of painfully straining my whiplashed neck beyond sensible, nay, beyond advisable limits with the hope of glimpsing at least a teensy section of the back of my head in the much-too-small bathroom mirror; and immediately after I finish smoothing several different types of anti-frizz cremes and serums onto my perfectly coiffed head, yes, right at the exact moment when I emerge triumphantly from the bathroom sweating like a mofo (but a mofo with perfectly blown out hair!) just walk right up to me and say, "Wow!... Um, Mom? Why is your hair so poofy?"
(::bitter tangent::) Don't get used to it. It's pouring outside. Good LORD, it never fails, I kid you not! Rain not in the forecast? No problem! Wishing for a little moisture, you know, for the lawn and the plants or whatnot? Have I got a deal for you! Forget the whole Wash Your Car trick. No need for a ceremonial rain dance. Just ask me to blow out my hair! GOSH. That's, like, TENS of minutes I'll never get back! For reals, y'all. For friggin' reals. (::end bitter tangent::)
Gosh. I feel all ready to kick some boo-tay and shizz. DUDE! I love my new Double H biker boots! link | posted by Cat at 10:31 AM
At five o'clock this morning, as I lay in a crumpled, disoriented heap at the foot of my living room stairs, gasping for breath-- you know, due to the whole slipped, missed the last step, landed flat on my back, and cracked my head on the stairs thing?-- after tiptoeing down the darkened stairway in my bare socks in a misguided, not to mention foolhardy, attempt to avoid waking TGIM and the kiddos by turning on the light, I remember thinking to myself, "Wow, so that's what whiplash feels like!" and "GREAT. Now I'll never know who killed Felix and a busload of kids on Veronica Mars! And did Duncan have sex with Kendall? And, hey, are my neck and upper torso supposed to be all tingly like that? It is very likely I have suffered a concussion. And will Logan and Veronica ever work it out? HUH?! And, whoa, I hope I don't spew, because urgh!"
Which seems like an awfully long thought to think when one is sprawled on one's ass struggling to breathe, ears still ringing from head meeting stair, backpack tossed and lost somewhere in the darkness, coat and shoes strewn all willy-nilly, wondering if one has broken one's neck and will be dying forthwith and posthaste. I mean, shouldn't I have been thinking of my CHILDREN? And TGIM?! Honestly. What kind of heartless mother and wife AM I?! Huh? Right?! GOSH!
Whatever. Thinking of them is what got me into the whole mess in the first place.
That being said, I have a headache, y'all.
link | posted by Cat at 10:50 AM
She's getting shout-outs from the comics!
Wow. That's big, y'all. BIG.
Favorite quotes of the evening
Gia (to Sex Ed teacher): (holding up a card that reads 'chlamydia')"Isn't this a flower? I think it grows on the trellis outside my beach house."
Veronica: "Your trellis is a whore!"
Kendall: "Doesn't this mean anything to you?"
Logan: "It does. It means I'm getting laid and I owe your village a goat.... I'm sorry-- did that hurt your feeling?"
Hee. And the singular "feeling" is not a typo, y'all.
Oh, how much do I heart THIS SHOW?!
So, SO much, that's how... much!
When my youngest brother was five, he really liked Mr. Rogers. No, really, REALLY liked him. A lot. Pure, simple like. He liked him as only a misguided five-year-old can. I mean, this is a kid who sat riveted to the TV when Mr. Rogers came onscreen, and was once heard remarking to my mother, "Mom, doesn't Mr. Roger's look especially nice today?" Oh, ho, ho! Yes he DID. And as he was way little and my sister Jenny and I were your average, run-of-the-mill teenagers, we did our best to cure him of this like.
"Joshua, Mr. Rogers is a geek."
"No, he's not! Mr. Rogers is my friend!"
"He's a geek."
"Shut-up! He's my neighbor!"
"He's a geek! He's a geek! He's a GEEK!"
My mother would usually put a kibosh on the fun, which was so unfair, as we had a valid point. I mean, come on. Clearly, any grown man who plays with puppets and owns a ginormous ding-dinging Neighborhood Trolley set which carries him and his puppet friends with names like King Friday XIII, Henrietta Pussycat, and Lady Elaine Fairchilde (although I always liked that name; it's fun to SAY!) to and from the Neighborhood of Make-believe via his window seat can legitimately be labeled an unequivocal geek. The Geek Master. Geek-O-Rama. There's no way around it. Am I right?
And this is not even to mention the inherent weirdness of his shoe-toss and sweater ritual. What was that about? I still can't look at a zippered cardigan without thinking of Mr. Rogers singing, "Would you be mine, could you be mine, won't you be my neighbor?" Brr! KUH-REEPY.
Which reminds me of my point. Because I totally have one. You were wondering, weren't you? I tend to ramble on and on without a point at times, which is what TGIM tells me anyways, which is rude, as it is just because my mouth is going so fast that my mind can't keep up-- or is it that my mind is whirling so fast that my mouth can't keep up?-- which you would totally think would be alleviated with the act of typing but it's NOT, but whatever, I just wanted to make sure it is clear that I SOOOO have a point.
Oh! "Won't you be my neighbor?''! Right! Just kidding! I totally didn't forget what I was going to say, causing me to ramble on and on and on until I remembered! Duh! As if!
Okay, so I come from a pretty big family by today's standards. Two older sisters, three younger brothers. My youngest sib, the one feeling the Mr. Rogers' luuuuuuv in his youth, came along when I was twelve. On Halloween. Let me tell you, a little thing like Mom giving birth wasn't going to stop us kids from Trick-or-Treating! Oh, hell no! And just between you and me? I think five children ranging in age from 16 down to 6 showing up at the hospital in full costume, yelling and waving and pounding on the glass between us and our new little brother, may have permanently scarred the boy. Perhaps. Well, how else can a person explain his inexplicable love for Mr. Rogers, huh? That's all I'm saying.
Wait. Did I mention that he also admired and emulated the vocal stylings and funky dance moves of one Mr. Michael Jackson? And what about his obsession with The Phantom of the Opera? Yep. I'm telling you. Scarred. For LIFE.
Anyhoos, as we were a family of modest means, and as my two older sisters shared a room, and my two younger brothers shared a room, guess who got to share a room with Joshua? If you guessed "Cat did!" you are so totally correct. Well done! Yep, he had the bottom bunk in my bedroom until he was almost five years old, which was cool, since he went to bed early and didn't wake up when I snuck in late from parties and dates. (Not that I ever snuck in late from parties and dates, Mom. That would have been wrong.)
I honestly didn't mind. I mean, sure, he broke the antennas off of every single stereo and television I ever owned, and often could be found playing in my underwear drawer, but it was all good. Honestly. Well, until THAT night. The night he freaked me out beyond belief. The night that marked the end of our peaceful coexistence.
Let me set the stage: so there I was coming in late from a part-- I mean, coming in totally within the reasonable boundaries of my specified curfew. I flipped on my closet light rather than the main light as I always did, out of consideration for my wee roomie. It cast a soft, gentle glow across the bedroom, which was all I needed to get undressed and ready for bed. Now Josh was usually a heavy sleeper, mind you, so when I heard him stirring that fateful night, I turned toward him in surprise and put my hand on the light switch, ready to snuff it out if it looked as if he were going to wake.
And then it happened. To my mounting horror, slowly, oh-so-slowly, Josh sat up in bed, his eyes wide open and unblinking, his arm outstretched, his face blank and lifeless, and his little five-year-old finger pointing straight at me. I couldn't move, y'all. I was frozen with terror.
Then-- in a creepy, redrum-like, Children of the Corn, singsongy voice that I will never forget, NEVAH!, no, not as long as I live!-- he spoke.
"Won't you... be... my neighbor?!"
Then without another word his arm dropped, his face went slack, and he fell back onto his mattress with a snore.
I swear to all that is holy, it took hours for my heart to stop its whickety-whack jackhammering in my chest. There may as well have been twins of him, or blood running down the walls! He could have shouted "Heeeeeeeeere's... Joshy!" or something for all it mattered. I mean, I saw The Shining! I saw The Exorcist! He was clearly possessed. I couldn't possibly have been more scared.
Okay, well maybe had there been a knife involved, I could have been an iota more frightened, but as that was not the case it's a moot point so let's move on, shall we?
To this day, I cannot look at a zipped cardigan sweater or slip-on canvas shoes without reliving this horrifying moment. Trolleys kind of freak me out, too. I'm just saying.
Fortunately, my little bro put all this craziness behind him. Today he absolutely SHUNS Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood (although I am sure he shed a tear at Fred Rogers' passing, may he rest in peace), and currently enjoys the musical stylings of Strung Out, Pantera, Death by Stereo, Van Halen, and Guns N' Roses.
So if your little one is obsessed with Barney or The Wiggles, the Teletubbies, or even the musical stylings of, say, Britney Spears (oh, dear LORD! and ew!), don't waste another moment worrying! My brother totally turned out completely normal. See?:
Bumper sticker on neighbor's car:
Jesus is coming! (Look busy.)
There's nothing more fun than the annual Redskinette Halftime Extravaganza in Podunky Small Town, Arizona, when all the tweenage girls in the community get their opportunity to be real cheerleaders for the evening! They dance and EVERYTHING! Oh, it's exciting, I tell you what... I mean it: the decked-out youngins, the brisk night air, the blowing wind, the marching band, the wind, the (mostly) age-appropriate dancing, the spirited cheering, oh yes, and the ice-cold, freaking wind!
No, really. Just check out my sister Kim and her one-night-only Redskinette daughter Maddy (my niece who is all of 12 but towers over me already)... just because I think they are way cute, yo?
See the joy? Do you?! Well?! DO YOU?! Yep. Joy. Tons of it. I'm so serious. There's some serious excitement and joy going on here.
That is all.
I am a big bawl baby.
During my children's Patriots' Day program this morning, when my 4th grade son's class stood and sang in tribute to MLK Jr: "There was a man in America who had a dream they say... that all the people of the earth could live in peace one day!" I admit it. I teared up.
When the children stood and sang the Armed Forces Medley - The Caissons Go Rolling Along, Anchors Aweigh, Semper Paratus, The Wild Blue Yonder, and From The Halls Of Montezuma - and all the military parents in the auditorium stood up proudly - some in uniform, some not - as their individual branches of the armed forces were honored through youthful voices lifted in song, I may have busted a tear. Maybe two.
You see, both of my grandfathers fought in World War II against the terrorists of their day.
Major Lyle Heedum, my mother's dad, was an infantryman in the Pacific during the war. He also served two tours of duty in Germany and fought in the Korean War.
Lieutenant Orville Shelton, my dad's father, was awarded two purple hearts during his military career. The first time he was injured was when he stepped on a land mine somewhere in North Africa. He was blown through the air into some bushes and knocked unconscious, and since no one could find him he was reported dead. I tell you what, he sure raised a stir when he woke up three days later and staggered back to headquarters covered in blood. He always joked that everyone in headquarters turned absolutely white when he walked in the door. The second time he was injured was 100 miles north of Rome when his troop ran under a bridge to escape an aerial bombing attack. Everyone in his troop died that night. Everyone but my Grandpa. He lived, but suffered significant health problems for the rest of his life.
TGIM's grandfather Delbert was a ball turret gunner who was captured by German soldiers after they shot down his crippled B17. After free-falling from over 30,000 feet in the air (resulting in frostbite), he was captured and held in a POW camp for more than a year before liberation. He lost his eye to shrapnel and ate rats to stay alive, but he came home a hero, by damn. He also earned a Purple Heart.
Even TGIM's great-grandfather was a naval officer in World War I.
So, although both of my grandfathers have passed away, one fairly recently, today we honor them anyway.
TGIM's grandfather is alive and kicking, and a fairly well-known cowboy poet, and today we honor him, too.
We owe them, and others like them, the life we know today. They should have our respect and lasting gratitude. I know they have mine.
So God bless the troops who have fought for America in the past. And God bless the soldiers who are fighting for this country today, as well as those who will in the future. This country and nations all over the world owe our troops, past and present, a debt which can never truly be repaid.
So yes. I cried today. I did. And I don't care.
For the heroes
For the patriots
For the soldiers
For all the pioneers
I'll always be an American
And I'll always cry American tears.
Yesterday I was reading an article in a magazine about a man in the metro DC area who has legally changed his name to Jesus Christ. No, really. It's a devout expression of his faith, he claims. Hee. That in itself just cracks me up. I don't know why. "Hey there, Mr. Christ. What's the buzz? Tell me what's a- happenin'!" Anywhos, he is running into some problems in West Virginia, where he bought some land and is hoping to retire. Which is weird. I always thought Jesus would be more of a Utah fan...
The problem, you see, is that Jesus Christ falls short of West Virginia title and license transfer requirements because his Florida birth certificate has his original name on it and he has been unable to obtain an official name change in Washington DC, even though he changed his name to Jesus Christ over 15 years ago, and the name appears on his Social Security card as well as his passport. It is unclear to me at this time as to whether or not his middle name is H. But wouldn't we all be surprised if it were?
Christ did apply for the legal name change in May 2003, but it was denied by a District of Columbia Superior Court Judge because "taking the name of Jesus Christ may provoke a violent reaction or may significantly offend people." OH-kay... valid point, I suppose. Gosh. Perhaps I should rethink my idea of changing my name to St. Catherine of Alexandria. I thought it had a nice ring to it, and I've always admired Joan of Arc-- we would totally be BFF's-- but now, seriously... who wants the hassle? Catherine the Great it is, then. Yes?
Regardless, I am intrigued! What will happen? Will the courts overturn this ruling? Does Jesus Christ have a prayer? (Ha cha cha! Thank you! I'm here 'til Thursday! Try the veal!) Again with the hee.
Thing is, other than amusing me in an admittedly sacrilegious way, this situation reminds me of a student I had in my aforementioned Basic English for Dirtheads class. His name? Jesus Castillo. Yep. Good old Jesus C. He was a quiet kid, definitely not one to participate willingly in class, but pretty likeable in his silent, stoic way. Ofttimes in class when I would ask a particularly challenging question about the reading or a lesson we were discussing, the other boys in the class would get these exaggerated thoughtful expressions on their faces, then someone would inevitably wonder aloud, "Hmm, Mrs. L. That's a hard one..." Then with a pointed glance old JC's way, he would add, "What would Jesus say?"
I laughed every time.
And Jesus? Totally took it in stride, turned the other cheek, if you will. They were his friends, after all.
I am so going to hell, aren't I?
While waiting for your daddy to fill your prescription for chalky pink antibiotics to combat one nasty, pussy case of strep throat, by weakly and pathetically announcing to the friendly cluster of young children and their mother who try to sit next to you-- as well as everyone else in the CVS pharmacy within hearing distance-- in your best six-year-old, weak-as-a-kitten, drama queen voice, "I am sick and contagious. Seriously. You so do NOT want to sit next to me."link | posted by Cat at 7:36 AM
So... soccer at the second grade level? Pretty tame. I mean, no one is really keeping score which is silly because then how are the girls supposed to know whether or not they are losers? Huh? Think about THAT for a minute. Oh, and get this: there is no goalie. No goalie! Seriously, what?! Are you comprehending what I am telling you? Are you friggin' hearing this?! There is NOBODY guarding the goal, people! It's madness! MADNESS! There is, however, a nifty position Coach calls "playing defense," a highly coveted position that toward the end of the third quarter most of the girls on the Tiger team are begging to play because as my Mack tells me, "You don't have to chase the ball! You just stand there and wait 'til it comes to you!"
Oh, wait. Haven't I ever mentioned the inherent laziness coursing through my children's veins? No? Really? Well, what can I say, right? Honestly. I have no idea where they get it. It's an embarrassment, I kid you not. I would get on them more about it, but there never seems to be the time, what with my afternoon naps and must-see prime-time television and all. I will get around to it one of these days, though, never fear. Pinky promise. Probably next week. Or possibly during rerun season? Because it is THAT important to me.
But I digress. Where was I? Oh, yes... soccer! So there are all these seven and eight-year-old girls out there on the field chasing around the soccer ball, occasionally kicking it toward their goal, but since they never really follow their kicks they are mostly just kicking it out of bounds, which is cool because then they get to throw it back in! Which is FUN! Oh, except for the occasional wild kicks from about mid-field that miss the goal by, like, ten feet but all the parents clap and yell "Good one!" when really they are all thinking, Just dribble or pass the damn ball, child! but of course no one would ever say that out loud because it is just a game and the girls are only seven years old and who really cares who wins, right, because no one is even keeping score and there is NO FREAKING GOALIE anyway!
Anywho, my little Mack is new to the game and I must admit seems a tad timid when it comes to stealing the ball from the other girls. She mostly just runs to the fringe of the fray, then stands waiting for the ball to come her way. No way is she getting in there and kicking at it or anything crazy like that. I mean, she may accidently kick someone, right? And there is shoving and kicking and shizz going on in there which means someone could perhaps kick HER. Shin guards can only do so much, you know what I'm saying? And I've already mentioned the inherent laziness factor, right? She obviously feels it is much better to wait it out, no matter how loud or often her parents yell, "Holy COW, Hannah! Just get in there and kick the ball! Freaking hell!"
After half a game of watching Hannah skirting around the ball but never really coming in contact with it, TGIM decided to try a different tack. During Hannah's next two-minute water break he pulled her aside.
"Hannah, listen. I will give you a dollar if you make a goal."
Of course I laughed derisively at my silly, silly TGIM, and began to scoff, "Seriously, dude, a dollar?! I mean..." when I noticed that Hannah's eyes had widened and she had this look on her face.
You know in the old cartoons when, oh, say Bugs Bunny or Huckleberry Hound was suddenly hit with a wave of greediness and there would be this telling "cha-ching!" sound and dollar signs would literally appear in the cartoon character's eyes?
Yeah. That was the look.
It was honestly the strangest thing. Apparently, much like Jerry Maguire, TGIM had drastically underestimated the power of the almighty dollar. When Hannah rejoined her team on the field, she was a dynamo. She penetrated the fray, she jostled, she kicked, she took no prisoners. TGIM and I had just enough time to exchange our "What in the freaking hell?" glances before Hannah kicked the ball right out of the cluster of girls and followed it. FOLLOWED IT! There was running! And dribbling! And kicking! And RUNNING! With a pack of Blue Dolphins on her heels, my girl took that ball to the net and she KICKED IT IN!
I was all, "Wait. Did she just score?"
"I think she did. Is it in the net?"
"It's in the net!"
"It's in the net?!"
"IT'S IN THE NET!!"
Girlfriend scored, y'all! Not that anyone was keeping score or stats or anything, the bastards. But still! TGIM was so proud he totally started crying. Wuss. I may have busted tear or two myself. Perhaps. But I'm a girl. That's all I'm saying.
As Hannah's teammates hugged and high-fived her, TGIM leaned over and whispered, "Hey, Cat, you got a dollar?"
My look must have spoken volumes.
"What?! C'mon, Cat! Who thought she'd actually DO it?!"
As I handed him the dollar I had to laugh. And maybe I teared up a little bit, too. Again. Gosh!
My little girl. Getting down with her mercenary capitalist self.
Although it has some limited educational value, it is best not to Mace yourself just to see how it feels.
Not that I would know anything about that. I'm just saying.
1. When your favorite television show is a repeat so you turn to another popular show which you have only watched once before, the episode airing inevitably turns out to be the exact same episode that you saw the one other time you watched it.
2. Rednecks are grossly underrepresented in film and television.
3. When people ask you "What are you thinking?" and you tell them you were wondering why Kellogg's doesn't make falafel-flavored Pop Tarts because that would be really tasty and easy to pack for work, they give you funny looks and walk away. Which is rude.
4. When your mother says, "Don't start with me, young lady!" you usually already have.
5. Nobody really talks about what was the greatest thing BEFORE sliced bread.