(*chants*) Ste-vie! Ste-vie! Ste-vie! (Remember Stevie, guys? Do ya?) Ste-vie! Ste-vie! Ste-vie!...
Wow. That David Foster fellow is mighty full of himself, isn't he? A regular mutha. No, seriously, the dude's an ass. Ooooh, I hope he smacks down Pickler! Because awesome?
Oh, ho ho, listen to Kat (I love that she's Kat now, instead of Katharine. Solidarity, sistah!) all impromptu opera-ing it up with Andrea Bocelli. Andrea! Bocelli! Wow, she's GOOD. And he's got a super secret crush on her, too... and dude's BLIND.
Kat (If I Don't Have You): First off... BOOOOOOOOBS. Yeah, as if I wouldn't mention that. Good golly, Miss Molly! Ahem. Secondly, I think it is quite possible the judges have not only been passing around the hookah-- smoking God knows what but it ain't flavored tobacco, you know what I'm sayin'?-- but are also quite possibly insane because WHAT in the WORLD are they blathering on about?! That was simply gorgeous, Kat, and I'm not just saying that because of your quite excellent sartorial choices and the fact that you popped a button on your dress during your performance and accidentally flashed your cootch at several million people without breaking your stride. And considering the pompous jackass composer gave you his seal of approval, I'm wondering where Randy "Yo, yo, yo DAWG!" Jackson, Paula "Straight Up" Abdul, and Simon "I like to touch myself" Cowell get off saying any different. Way to take it with grace and style, Kat. Oh, and third of all, PRETTY. Love the hair. Wear yellow always. Now put those bad boys away before you hurt somebody.
Elliott (A Song for You): Huh. I didn't know Paula was a sad drunk. Lay off the sauce, Paula. Booze is no balm for the lonely... Oh, sorry, focusing. Elliott, you didn't move me to tears or anything (*cough* Paula *cough*), but that was very prettily done. Good on you, man! If you just had some stage presence, I could totally dig you. But don't worry, Randy and Paula luuuuuv you so, SO much. And you are looking... better tonight, so there's that, right? Like the goatee! That being said, Ryan wants his suit and metrosexual persona back.
See? See?! It's not just me:
David Foster: (referring to Kellie) What color is her hair?
Andrea: (laughs) Blonde...
Kellie (Unchained Melody): Wow. There are no words in the English language. Just... WOW. And not in the good way. So, SO not in the good way. I have this strange, uncomfortable feeling in my chest... Oh, good lord, I think I almost feel sorry for you, Kellie. For reals! Hold on a sec... Yep, I have plumbed the depths of my bitter, cynical soul, and I do in fact actually feel sorry for the Pickler. I do. It's a strange, uncomfortable feeling, I tell you! I don't like it at ALL. Aaaaw... sweetie! You know how bad that was, doncha? And the dead, glassy eyes after that first horrendous note? Killer. Don't let the door smack you in the-- well, you know the rest.
Paris (The Way We Were): Okay, you have never actually seen The Way We Were, have you, girlfriend? Because if you had you would know how completely NOT age-appropriate that song was for you. Just sayin'. Still, you sang it very well, as usual-- no, seriously, well-done-- but Streisand? Babs just does it so beautifully, you see... And, hey! Why didn't the judges slam you for a picking a song WAAAAAY too big for you? Huh. Teacher's PET.
Taylor (Just Once): I love the voice. I don't know why (Soul Patrol! Woo!). I just really, really do. And I thought you did well, truly I did. But this genre? Not your forte. Stay away from it. Far, far-- oh my goodness, are you wearing VELVET?! Dude, are you insane? It's mid-APRIL, yo?
Uh-oh. How genuinely irritated did Simon look when Paula interrupted his talking time? Somebody's in troooooouuuuuuuubbbbble...
Hannah Mack: Uuuuuuh!
Cat: What? Do you hurt?
Hannah: Uuuh! Hurtlikeheck...
Chris (Have You Ever Really Loved a Woman): Oooh! Ooooh! I totally sprawl on my back when I practice singing, and I am not even lying. But, Chris, honey? Singing with your diaphragm is not in actuality a "new technique." Just sayin'. Well. Pimp machine in full force, I see. Not one, but two guitarists. How special. Whatev. Oh, my gosh! Yes! FINE! I've really loved a woman, okay?! GOSH! I don't understand why you are shouting at me, dude. Cut it out. Scariness unto you.
Overall, meh. I am losing interest here, I must admit. I know, right?! Sacrilege. But seriously, who would have thought that frakking Queen Night would overshadow all the others? Queen Night! Well it surprised the hell out of me, and that's a fact.
Kellie is totally going home, and I would have said that even if I didn't already know she got voted off. For reals. I would have!
(*off to FF through results show*)
So, when one has some downtime between medicating children, one should relax, right? I mean, it's only fair that when the children are in a drug-induced stupor, the momma gets to indulge in some much needed R & R, right? You know, eat, doze in front of the TV, go for a jog. Duh. So my choice to watch the movie musical Reefer Madness was probably not the most relaxing option-- obviously a nice nap would have been the better, wiser choice at this point-- but I've been meaning to see it forever, and TGIM rented it for me and e'rything, so what can you do? And guys? I laughed my butt off. Laughed it right off! Not literally, of course... although that would be coolness. I mean it. And now I can't get "Listen to Jesus, Jimmy!" out of my head, which HA!
And I only have myself to blame.
But goodness, Kristen Bell is the cutest, most over the top Mary Sunshine I have ever seen and I'm not just saying that because she also plays my kickass teen heroine Veronica Mars on my most favoritest TV show evah. No, the story is about two clean-cut, innocent teens (Mary Lane and Jimmy Harper) who fall under the menacing influence of Public Enemy Number One-- Mary Jane, marijuana, reefer, the "stuff"-- and quickly find themselves in a twisted, downward spiral into a world of sex, madness, and evil jazz music. It is so hilariously tongue-in-cheek, y'all-- and good golly is it ever over-the-top gruesome and nutty-- that I didn't get any rest at ALL. When Jesus (played by the awesome Robert Torti, who was also Pharoah in Donny Osmond's version of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat) comes down from heaven and, in a musical revue hosted by none other than Joan of Arc, tries to convince Jimmy to quit toking up, I almost peed my pants I was laughing so hard. Not very restful, I tell you what, GOSH. They should put a warning on the cover or something.
So basically, I didn't get a nap, I'm probably going to burn in hell, I can't stop singing "Loved by Mary Lane!", and I am suddenly super hungry. Honestly. What's that all about?
Okay, so I haven't even had a chance to watch AI yet, which is just a darn shame. (But I know Kellie's gone so woo-HOO! Ahem.) Because not only is Hannah Mack decidely averse to putting any fluids into her body, due to the pain in swallowing and the fact that the putrid smell in her throat makes her want to gag (and seriously, putrid is putting it mildly, y'all, I am SOOOOO not kidding, good LORD...) which will most assuredly lead to dehydration and hospitalization, but my little Alli, obviously jealous of all the ice cream and popsicles Hannah is not eating, gets herself sent home from school with a 102 degree fever. Sent home! With a fever! I know, right?! Man, oh MAN! Kids these days... And they wake up at all hours of the night, no rhyme or reason, just WHENEVER, and they cry and complain and vomit and just have absolutely no respect for their parents' sleep patterns whatsoever.
That being said, aaaaaaaaaaaw...
I'm wicked tired, yo? I'm going to bed.
WAHing is hard, yo? Not the actual work, mind you, but the whole actually getting to work thing. Granted, I have a whiny, achy little girl demanding much of my attention, but beyond that you would think it would be easy to just sit down and pound out some regulations, right?! Quarantine a few states infested with emerald ash borer! Extend the interval for conducting cervid reaccreditation tests! Regulate sheep semen, perhaps! You know, riveting stuff. Instead, my days (I have a week of WAH, due to Mack's surgery) look much like this:
1. Turn on computer.
2. Check my email.
3. Read about American Idol and Veronica Mars on Television Without Pity, then check out Kristin's chat transcripts on E!Online. (Hey, keeping abreast of current events is key.)
4. Get out files and workplans and push them around on the table a little bit. Stare at them thoughtfully.
5. Notice that the kitchen windows are spotty. Make note to self: clean windows.
6. Eat a donut.
7. Amend note to self: ask TGIM to clean windows.
8. Sit and stare at my belly, which is obviously bigger as I just ate a donut.
9. Decide to jog my three-mile route while Mack is sleeping. (A strong body and mind are key.)
10. Shower... duh.
12. Send several emails to boss, so she knows how busy WAHing I am.
13. Make Very Important revisions to my Very Important shelled garden peas docket for a minimum of 10 minutes, but no longer than thirty minutes. (Pace is key, guys. Honestly.)
14. Notice that Scooby Doo is on... YES! I just love those rascally, meddling kids.
15. Update my Weekly Activity Report. (Obviously, inventiveness? Totally key.)
Oh, I kid. Heh-heh! Such a kidder! Of course this post is completely fictitious. It bears absolutely no resemblance to my actual WAH habits whatsoever. No, really. It is so utterly untrue. False, false, false. Embellished for Artistic Purposes only. Okay, except for the jogging part. Oh, and the part about Scooby Doo. Really. I am BUSY, y'all. Busy and important. Yep.
My descent into scary fangirlyism has begun. No, seriously. This is even worse than Constantine touching my boobs, y'all. Honestly.
See this shirt?
I know, right?! Cute design! Loverly! Stylin'! With the orchids and the Chinese characters and whatnot! "So what's the deal?" you ask? "Why the shame?" Here's the thing... I saw it and literally stopped in my tracks, all, "OMG! Veronica Mars has that shirt! OMG! OMG! Veronica Mars has that shirt! VERONICA! MARS!" I'm pretty sure I scared the staff, and quite possibly a large majority of the customers. Because of the screaming? And the jumping up and down and stuff? And then?... I freaking bought the darn thing ON THE SPOT. I didn't even try it on. That's right. I just bought it.
Behold my Shame:
Yep. Me = scary fangirl. Then again, it is a wicked cute tee...
Okay, whatever. I am SO over it.
Hey, let's just thank God they don't make "I [heart] Logan Echolls" t-shirts, or sell "Veronica Mars is Smarter Than Me" tank tops. Gosh. Then I'd be doomed.
You're judging me, aren't you?
... for my little Mack Attack's (not so) dearly departed tonsils and adenoids. May they be safely and hygienically disposed of in a proper medical waste incinerator in peace.
ETA: Wow. We're back already. I thought this would be an all-day thing, but here we are all tucked into bed watching SpongeBob. Well, she's tucked. I'm tucking. And fussing. And shoving meds down her throat. And fussing some more. Basically doing the Momma Thing. Plus, cartoons? BONUS.
SpongeBob? Funny stuff.
I was shocked-- shocked!-- to discover they can flavor the knock-you-out-in-two-seconds-FLAT gas. Of course, the obvious choice today was bubble gum. I checked it out, you know, for scientific purposes. VERY cool. I personally think adults get the shaft with the whole put-the-IV-in-before-they-knock-you-out thing.
Despite the fact that someone just cut overlarge masses of lymphoid tissue out of her throat, she's more concerned about the killer IV binding. "Hey... why is there BLOOD in the tube?!..."
This is TGIM "helping." Totally "paying attention." Really "being there" for his daughter. (Sudoku. It's a sickness, y'all.)
Hey. Napoleon ain't the only one with smoove moooooves, I tell you what. I think I have my next instructional video idea! Heck, yeah! I better get to work though. Some of those hip thrusts look way difficult, yo?
(*moonwalks to full-length mirror to practice*)
Honestly, people. Did Felicity teach us nothing? I told you. Never mess with The Hair.
That is all.
Rod Stewart? Oh boy. Rod's a hugger! Who knew?!
Smooth songs? Oh boy. You mean no one's going to sing "Do You Think I'm Sexy?"?! Man, what a gyp.
An argyle tie? Oh boy. Ryan, you are making this TOO EASY.
Well my, my, my, don't Paula and her boobs look very nice this evening?!
Rod Stewart's baby is just the cutest little thing evah!
Um, Rod Stewart is apparently self-medicating. Popping happy pills. Doing speed. Hopped up on goofballs, if you will. Drugs. Just Say No, people.
Chris (What a Wonderful World): Hmmm... "a vocal push." Yeah, I have no idea what Rod Stewart is talking about. Hey! Didn't Elvis sing this? And, seriously, dawg, you seem kind of angry that it's a wonderful world. Why? Is it because you are all rock and this song is... not? Is it about your manhood? Because of the vest and all? And the make-up? I'm not feeling the rolled shirtsleeves, but I do like the vest dude, it's very snaz... zzzzzzzzzz, snort zzzzzzzzzzz... I'm awake!... but bored now.
Paris (Foolish Things): Dude, you kicked ass last week, girlfriend, I am SO not kidding. I mean The Show Must Go On?! Wow, you rocked it, baby girl. Even better than Satine in Moulin Rouge! Yes. It was that good. Oooh, hey, I'm impressed. Looking good tonight! Hair under control? Check. Unfortunate, so not flattering, potentially malfunctioning Janet Jacksonesque wardrobe gone? Check. Okay, wait. How the hell is this song Rod Stewart? This song is NOT Rod Stewart. Rod Stewart sings about being sexy and shizz. Yes, Perfect vocals. Whatever. Unnaturally mature for age. Got it. BORED NOW.
I think it is quite possible Simon is intoxicated. Best performance? Hello?! The Show Must Go On, people! THE SHOW! MUST! GO-- Oooooh, goody! Taylor's next! Woo! Soul Patrol! Soul Patrol!
Rod Stewart is BLEEPed. That's friggin' awesome. And he dissed Simon? Rock on, Rod Stewart. Rock on.
Taylor (You Send Me): I sure like you, Taylor. You make me happy. Not in my pants or anything, but still... so, so happy! You, you, you, thrill me, honest, you totally do. Oh! Spaz it, baby! Spaz it GOOD! Yeah! Woo! Soul Patrol! Soul Patrol in the HIZZOUSE! Way to keep it real, dawg! That was hawt. Seriously. I want to meet you and sing and dance with you. And quite possibly take in a movie with you. And you could teach me some of your spazzy dance moves, and I could teach you to Snake. And Axl Rose, if you're a quick learn. Think about it. (Call me.)
Elliott (It Had to be You): Elliott's momma was a professional singer? Ah-haaaaaaa... It's all coming together for me now. Oh lordy. This song has all the emotional resonance of Kevin Federline's PopoZoa. And that outfit? Is just... well, it's unfortunate is the thing. Never half-ass the outfit, dude! It is never a good sartorial choice to be a dress party on top, but a casual Friday on the bottom. They do not mesh, you see. Pan-down nightmare. You're stressing out the cameramen, okay? Pick one! Wait. I swear they are slowly capping your teeth with veneers, admit it, don't lie, because they are suspiciously straighter every week. Is it just me? Is it? I think I'm going crazy. Oh, and bored now. Oh so bored now. Boooooooring.
Dude, Elliott is actually wee-er than my wee Ry-Ry?! Because that? Is, like, SUPER wee. Weetastical!
Kellie (Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered): Please stop with the airhead stuff. Please? Pretty please with sugar and a big old juicy cherry on top? Uh-oh. By the way Simon is crying and banging his head on the table, over and over and over, I'm thinking things are looking grim for Miss LuAnne "Ah'm Sorry!" McFakesalot. Who, I must admit, looks quite beautiful this evening. The rough crack 'ho vibe from last week was fun, but I think it would have been a little much for this genre. Hey. Maybe they'll give you a side of beef as a bon voyage gift after that craptastical butchering of Rod Stewart's song. That'd be cool. Baby back ribs. Mmmm.
Ace (That's All): AAAAAAEEEEEEEIIIIIII!!! Good God! Oh, phew, it's just Ace. With... a ponytail. Oh, my heart... Wow, that just killed The Pretty dead, now didn't it? Killed it good. Why, Ace? Why would you mess with The Hair? Thousands of card-carrying "I [heart] Ace" fan girls are crying themselves to sleep tonight, I tell you what. But you were actually pretty damn good, the Ace Segal-slash-Gay Mafia vibe notwithstanding, so it's actually sort of tragic that you chose to go all Felicity on our asses. At least they didn't try to submarine you again with a clip of the guest artist totally smacking you down (what was THAT all about last week?!). Kudos. But you are still so gone, unless the miniscule fissure caused by Elliott's lackluster performance allows you and your ponytail to slip through... Hee. Fissure. Does anyone else think "anal fissure" when you hear the word fissure? Anal! Hee! No? Oh, me neither. Because that would be weird.
Ace's head is WAY bigger than Ryan's. No, literally. I'm scared... Hold me.
Kat (Someone to Watch Over Me): Speechless... Me... No words... 'Sha, right. As if. Seriously, I couldn't even type that with a straight face! Good golly, Miss Molly, that was LOVELY. Luminescent. Resplendent. Sublime. Superb. Kudos. You got the pimp spot tonight, and lordy, how you did deserve it. I felt that performance. Honestly. You nailed it. Nailed it good and proper, and by God, you even wore an attractive, totally not ugly outfit! And the hair? Perfect? I love you. I do. You are my super special secret Girl Crush. Oh, but Kat? Rod Stewart totally wants you, you know. And you guys were so frickin' cute together, with the joking and the dancing and Rod's longing glances... But hey, Rod's wife is in the house, so watch your back, that's all I'm saying. And what a fine back it is. Ahem.
Taylor and Kat were the only even remotely interesting performance of the evening, in my opinion (and possibly Paris if that song wouldn't have been so... zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...). So who will go home? Well, my batting average ain't stellar, that's fo sho, but I'm going to go out on a limb and say... Ace. No, Elliott! No, Ace! And Kellie will be in the bottom three, but will survive due to the "Ah'm Sorry!" Pity Vote. Suckers.
Oooh! Time for Veronica Mars now! Huzzah! On Tuesdays at 9 ET now! Encore presentation on Wednesdays at 9 ET. On UPN!
I have pinpointed the source of my love-- okay, fine, obsession, whatev-- with Veronica Mars.
However, allow me to back it on up a bit.
Okay. You know how there is this running joke on television and in movies that getting married means you will only have sex with one person-- the same person-- for the rest of your life? And the prospective bride or groom is all like, "I know, right?! Aww! Special!" then "Wait..." and all the single, unattached viewers laugh at the silly, silly person who didn't think about that before agreeing to hitch him or herself to someone until death do they part, nanny nanny boo boo? And all the married couples go, "Hey! I resemble that remark!"-- then catch a glimpse of hubby picking at his belly-button lint, or the missus waxing her upper lip, or back, or toes, or whatever, and they are all, "Ooooooh... Right." Because ew?
And then this show comes along and the chemistry between the two leads is spectacularly squee-worthy. (What? What's squeeworthy? You know, like "OMG! Logan just touched Veronica's shoulder! SQUEEEEEEEEE!" See? Squeeworthy. Note it.) Honestly, when Logan and Veronica are in a scene together, I just can't take my eyes off them. I am riveted and everything else evaporates. Because with them, it is all about the moment.
Then it hits me. Some of the most memorable moments in my life are those moments. Those romantic, sexy moments. I'm a sap, okay? A sucker, a romantic, a nostalgic, sentimental fool. I cry during credit card commercials, all right? And yes, Kleenex commercials, too! GOSH. (But in my defense, "Kleenex says... 'bless yooooouuuu'..."is advertising gold.) And as a (happily) married woman, there are obviously a few of these moments that I will never experience again.
For instance, aaaaaw... remember your first kiss with that special someone? No, even better, do you remember when you first realized that you wanted that first kiss? And whenever you were in the same vicinity as the boy (or girl) you were crushing on, your naughty bits would tingle, and your heart would be thumping like a jackrabbit hopped up on goofballs, and you would have that heart-stopping, yet exhilarating falling sensation in your tummy, and your palms would sweat like crazy, and you would giggle nervously and totally trip over your best friends ESPRIT bag and crash to the floor like a sack of bricks, then immediately jump back up, all, "Ta-daaaaaaa....?"
Remember? Do you?
The first crush. The first kiss. The first luuuuuuv. I've had 'em all. But as I get older, the firsts get harder to find. And I'm not saying that this is a bad thing, oh no, no, no. I SO do not want to go back, not at all. I have made peace with where I have been and where I am going, thank you very much. It's just that sometimes the knowledge that the moments are gone, never to be captured again... well, it makes me sad. Again with the nostalgia. I don't know if that makes me a bad person or not, but it's true. Honestly, I absolutely love sharing my life with TGIM, but it's still there in my heart. That yearning. Yearning for just one more romantic first moment.
That's where my obsession comes in. Ha! You thought I forgot, didn't you?! Admit it! You totally did! But I didn't! Hoo!
Just kidding. Besides the obvious character flaw of wanting everything I cannot have, I love watching Veronica Mars. Seriously. LOVE. I mean, naturally it's a stellar show in its own right-- snappy dialogue, witty quips, engaging mysteries, a kickass soundtrack-- but the thing is, it has two of the most charismatic, undeniably sexy lead characters I have ever seen. And it's not as if Veronica and Logan are even conventionally hot, because they really are not.
(ASIDE: In point of fact, Jason Dohring-- the actor who plays Logan-- was passed up for the original lead role because according to UPN, he "wasn't pretty enough." Ironically, he went on to steal the show; Logan evolved into the new lead, and has outlasted the Pretty Boy actor hired instead of him. Take that, UPN!)
Nevertheless, they just... burn. And as I watch these two experiencing some of their own first moments, I can almost FEEL it. They have this amazing chemistry that is, I think, rare between two actors, and sparks burst out of my television at me, and my temperature rises a few degrees just watching them dance together, just dance-- staring into each others' eyes, she can't look away-- even though they ostensibly loathe each other, and I know TGIM is laughing at me because I am flushed and barely breathing, afraid I'll miss even one... little... moment... But I don't even care! I don't! It's like crack, y'all. CRACK.
Not that I would know. About the crack, that is. But I bet it is. For reals, y'all. Just. Like. Crack.
Because I am totally living the story with them, just as I am prone to do when I find myself reading an especially well-done novel. So I figure my obsession with Veronica Mars is perfectly healthy, right? Right?! It's totally normal that my stomach hurts when Veronica and Logan fight, and I ofttimes want to reach into the television and strangle one or the other of them for being so stupid, and I get all tingly when they can't take their eyes off of each other, and when they finally kiss? Hoo, boy! Let's just say TGIM will be getting lucky that night! RAWR!
Good lord. TMI. Scratch that last part.
And the best part is that I know there will be more of those moments coming. My fix, if you will. And I also know that if I am going through withdrawl at some point between episodes, I already have several of these moments TiFauxed for posterity. I know, right?! GENIUS. DVR is a gift, guys. A gift from GOD. So whenever the yearning strikes I can queue up the show and watch that moment over and over and over again-- not that I do or anything because hello? I have a life? (TGIM, SHUT. UP.) But I could, that's all I'm saying.
And amazingly, experiencing life vicariously through these characters does assuage the yearning a bit. Thus the obsession. So mock me if you will, but dude... that's quality entertainment.
From the moment she stepped forward out of the crowd of laughing high school students and cut a duct-taped, naked Wallace down from the school flagpole, snarking "Go, Pirates!", Veronica had me hooked.
You see, Veronica Mars? She's no superhero. She is a hard-boiled, cynical, high school student living in the sleazy, gritty California town of Neptune, where the wealthy 09er zip code dominates, but this isn't a formulaic detective show. And these aren't your regular teenage characters. This is noir, baby. Nothing is ever as it seems in Neptune.
As an amateur sleuth working part-time for her father (former sheriff turned private investigator) at his PI office, Veronica solves crimes for her fellow students for a price (especially from the 09ers), ranging from credit card fraud to cheating spouses to child abuse. She's sharp, she's snarky, she's sassy, and she wields a mighty taser. But don't think she's Miss Goody McGoodperson. She also makes mistakes, she jumps to conclusions, and she can be maliciously single-minded in her pursuit of answers and justice, no matter who is standing in her way. And her ofttimes questionable tactics tread the fine line between moral and Machiavellian. Honestly. What's not to love?! But the Mystery of the Week detective work is ultimately less important than the character-driven, overriding series mystery arc.
"You want to know how I lost my virginity? So do I."
Veronica's matter-of-fact delivery of that statement took my breath away. That's when I knew... this show was different. Last season Veronica needed answers to some key questions in her life: Why did her billionaire boyfriend, Duncan Kane, abruptly break up with her? Who murdered her best friend, Lilly Kane (Duncan's sister)? Why did her mother run out on her and her father? Who was really her father: Keith Mars or Jake Kane?... And who drugged and raped her at Shelly Pomeroy's party, and why?
After the local sheriff laughed at her-- "Look, she cries!"-- and advised her to "Go see the wizard" when she reported her rape, instead of crying and shouting "Why, God? WHY?!" or turning to lesbianism when life got too rough (*cough* Marissa Cooper *cough*), Veronica hardened. Now she believes in getting mad... and getting EVEN. So she sets out to solve the mysteries in an effort to bring everything back to normal. (Although-- as "normal" basically means going back to a time when she was unaware of her alcoholic mother's extramarital affair, the class war raging in Neptune, or the possibility of having had an incestuous relationship with her ex-- she is probably better of just moving ON. I'm just sayin'.)
This season Veronica is beginning to realize normal ain't all it's cracked up to be as she investigates who really killed PCH biker Felix and framed Logan Echolls for the murder. She also comes closer to figuring out who turned a busload of students into the Yellow Submarine of Death by detonating a bomb on board, sending the bus off a cliff into the Pacific Ocean. A bomb that Veronica believes was meant for her. And through it all, she is still trying to make sure Lilly's murderer pays for what he did. Oh, and she's a senior now, so there's the whole graduation/valedictorian thing she's working toward. And, of course, there's a boy. There's always a boy, right? And what a boy!
Anyhoos, the dialogue on the show? Dazzles. The cast? Extraordinary. They sparkle. No, really. They are amazing. All this, in my view, makes Veronica Mars one of the best, must-see shows on television... like, ever. Even if it IS on UPN! If it goes the way of Arrested Development, I fear I will lose faith in the world of entertainment. I will rename it the world of ignorant people choosing Donald Trump and other stupid-ass reality shows over quality entertainment.
Rent the DVD's. You'll see.
(*steps off soap box*)
Seriously. I think UPN should pay me for that. I just plugged the hell out of that show.
I find it extraordinarily rude that my boss keeps assigning, like, actual WORK to me which consequently interferes with my blogging. Seriously. What's that about? GOSH.
Man, oh MAN. Katie Holmes is SOOOO having twins. Look at that belly! She's GINORMOUS! And she has apparently been soliciting Laura Ingalls for fashion advice, I'm thinking, because damn, girl! Is the TomKat Scientology-induced hypnosis wearing off? Are you trying to jump off the Tourbus to Crazy Town and this is your way of crying for help? Because what the in the freaking hell are you WEARING?! For reals, are you headed for a hoedown? A barn raising? The annual square dancing competition (which, FYI, you really shouldn't be doing in your condition)? Oh, honey. Just... no.
Veronica Mars rocked the hizzouse these past two weeks! Holy mother of heaven, how I love that show. I can't stop thinking about it... Who killed the busload of students? Who killed Curly, and why was Veronica's name scrawled across his hand in Sharpie (because honestly if you've been floating dead in the ocean, a regular old marker would just wash off, now wouldn't it? I mean, be serious)? Who called Weevil and all the PCHers the night of Logan's "Life is Short" party? Is Meg's little sister still being locked in the closet by her crazy-ass religious-freak parents? Will Duncan ever return with his and his dead ex-girlfriend's illegitimate baby? Is Mayor Woody (heh) Goodman gay? Or a pedophile? If not, what's with the Bad Touching? Has Beaver (heh) been abused? If so, was it at the hands of Big Dick or Little Dick (heh and heh)? Does Weevil know his nemesis, Thumper, was crushed under the imploded Shark Stadium after being chained to a bathroom urinal by the Fighting Fitzpatricks? WILL VERONICA AND LOGAN EVER DO IT?! And how does this all connect? I NEED TO KNOW! (Seriously, ignore my liberal employment of hyperbole. It's not as Soap Opera-y as it sounds... it's just modern NOIR, y'all.)
I'm sick. Noises seem amplified to ten times their normal sound, but the lights? Even louder. In my head. Is that weird? Must go to sleep. Eh, my boss might not like me catnapping on my desk again. Whatever. You'd be surprised how surprisingly versatile stacks of file folders can be, I tell you what. Good pillow material. Hey, it's more comfy than it sounds, okay?! Ouch. I should not have typed that last line so vehemently.
(Oh, Wait. All y'all thought I might have something of actual importance to share? Well, aren't you guys cute!)
In the absence of my usual sparkling wit and utterly insane stream of consciousness commentary, TWoP recapper Joe R. will have to do.
Ooooh! JUICY! I can't wait to see it! Did Ace really have mud on his face, a big disgrace? Did they kick his can all over the place? And OH. Katharine must have NAILED it, eh? I am SO excited. The Bouncy!
I mean, honestly. Who knew that The Music of Queen night on AI could, in actuality, Rock You?
Me: (shepherding kids from swimming pool to car) Tanner! I am so proud of you!
Tanner: Huh? What? Why?
Me: You actually brought dry shorts to wear instead of soaking the car with your wet bathing suit. Good job, buddy! Seriously. Kudos.
TGIM: Hey, Cat... ask him if he's wearing underwear.
Awkward silence. Then...
Me: Tanner... are you wearing underwear?
Tanner: (with a big grin and jaunty hop) Nope.
Me: Oh, dear lord.
TGIM: I know. I feel so proud.
Spring BREAK! Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Well, he-llllo scruffy Ry-Ry! How you doin'?
Ooooh, Kenny Rogers?! I LOVE "The Gambler"!! No matter how many times I hear it, I still get chills when he sings, "... and somewhere in the night, the gambler, he broke even..." Shut up! It's HAUNTING.
When did Kenny turn into Colonel Sanders? Seriously, the voice? Unmistakeable. But the face? Unrecognizable! Honestly, it's amazingly disconcerting. Seriously. Freaking me right out, I kid you not.
Mandisa: Sucked more.
Elliott: Didn't suck as much.
Paris: Moderate suckiness.
Ace: Didn't suck! Much!
Kellie: Barely sucked!
Chris: Only a smidge of suck.
Katharine: Fabulously unsucky.
This concludes my abridged recap of American Idol. You may now discontinue reading, if so desired.
The Rest of the Story
Hey! Welcome back!
Taylor: (Take Me Home Country Road- Jon Denver)-- Oh, for the love of God, WHY?! Don't get me wrong, I loves me some Jon Denver (Annie's Song? CHILLS.), but GOSH. Where was TAYLOR? Who was that guy boring me with a performance flatter than Paris Hilton's arse? Huh?! Okay, liking the violins. Not liking the song on you, Taylor. Not. At. All. Simon speaks true, y'all. Simon speaks true. Bring back the spaz, Taylor. I miss him.
"Safe, boring and lazy... Simon's love life, ladies and gentleman!" Oh, Ryan. Feeling pretty full of yourself now that you're snogging Teri Hatcher, eh?
Okay, what the HELL is going on with the "I love you Ryan!" shizz?! Step off, people! "Are we on the air right now?" Give it up, my wee Ryan. Because... crackheads? (I love you, Ryan!)
Mandisa: (Any Man of Mine- Shania Twain)-- Looking pretty! Love the hair! Burn that top! Like, immediately! But seriously? That kinda sucked. Without the glory notes, you come across a little less spectacular, girlfriend... Sorry. But thank you for not yelling at me.
What up, Rachel Bilson? Too cool to stand? Huh? Huh?! Bizyotch. Okay, I wouldn't have stood either, but I'm not the one on TV, all right?!
Okay, Ryan and Simon, I am officially UN!COMFORTABLE! so knock it OFF.
Elliott: (If Tomorrow Never Comes- Garth Brooks)-- Not bad, dude. Except for the creepy, constipated faces and the annoying vibrato, I was feeling it. No, really. It was pretty good.
Paris: (How Do I Live Without You- LeeAnn Rimes)-- Eh. You've done better. I'm thinking you were like, "Country?! No way I'm doing country!" And they were all, "Ya-HUH!" So you were all, "FINE. But I'm not gonna like it." Well, child? Either did I. So, hey! Way to go.
Ace: (I Wanna Cry- Keith Urban)-- Well, not that it means much, but that was significantly less sucky than I thought it would be. In fact, I liked it. It was purty. Like you! I'm still firm in the belief that throwing "naked" in there would really help a bunch. I'm not even kidding. Good angst, but you ain't no Keith Urban. Plus, might I suggest a few spritzes of Afrin up the old nostrils before each performance, because the nasal, dude! The NASAL!
Kellie: (Fancy- Reba McIntire)-- First of all, WHATEVER. How am I supposed to believe you're genuine when you respond to accusations of faking your ditziness by saying "Yep, I'm an idiot, y'all!" I mean, honestly: "There's an L, y'all! So I jist HAD to pronounce it! Hee!" Rrrrright... So, do you say "WaLLk"? Or "TaLLk"? I don't think so. BUSTED! Take THAT, Pickler! Oh, I've got your number, sister! That being said, awesome job. OMG, would you look at that... It appears that monkeys are flying out of my butt.
Chris: (Making Memories of Us- Keith Urban)-- You sang a song! You sang a song! And you didn't Stapp it up! Or do a whole lot of shouting for that matter, which, thank you. It was a little off key in the chorus, but I'm letting it slide and giving you your props, dawg, because damn it-- you sang. A song.
Katharine: (You're Bringing Out the Elvis in Me- Faith Hill)-- I love you. And that? Sounded FABULOUS! And you look so pretty! With the clothes that aren't hideous! And the bouncy hair! And the wicked FINE eyebrows! And I love you! Seriously, though, grrrrrreat job, and I'm not just saying that because I love you. Honestly. (I love you.)
Ooooh! House looks like it's going to be GOOOOOOOOD! I am so there! And not just because Hugh Laurie has those beautiful blue eyes and kicks ass as an emotionally unavailable megalomaniac. No, for serious. Good show.
Bucky: (Vertical Horizon- Gary Allen)-- I'm not sure how I felt about that, Buckster. I'm pretty sure Colonel Sa-- er, Kenny Rogers said something about enunciating? Hmm? And seriously, could someone turn down the band, because LOUD?! But still, it was a'ight for me dawg. Just a'ight. I didn't feel much emotion in it, really. Just... blahness. Come to think of it, I think Taylor would have KILLED with this song, leaving YOU to sing Country Road. Because I kind of wish that country road WOULD take you home. You know... to the place you belong?
Best of Night: Kat and Kellie (I KNOW!) Oh, and Chris.
Who is Going Home: Tough call, but methinks it may be Ace's time. Or possibly Bucky's. Okay, fine, I have no idea who will go home, but I do know one thing: it better not be Katharine or I will have to CUT somebody! Or, you know, cry and snarf a pint of Ben and Jerry's. Whichever.
Yeah... I don't get MySpace. No, really. Not even one itty-bitty little bit. Not at ALL.
Just thought I'd share.
Sometimes I look at my children, who are growing up so quickly right before my eyes, and I am at a loss as to what of importance I have in me to pass down to them. What? My love of books? My inner Drama Queen? My freckles? My Loud Talk/Loud Laugh gene? My charming wit and sparkling personality? My humilty? The list goes on and on... Then, this weekend, in the most roundabout way possible, I discovered one of the most powerful aspects of myself that I have to pass down to my progeny.
You see, nostalgia struck this weekend. One minute I'm downloading Sway by the Perishers, and the next thing I know I'm downloading music I remember listening to as I spent rainy afternoons in my parents' bedroom thumbing through my parents' old 45's, jamming out to Purple People Eater, Charlie Brown, Shimmy Shimmy Ko-Ko Bop, Shoop Shoop Song, My Boyfriend's Back, Rescue Me, oh, and this really catchy song about sitting in my a la-la waiting for my ya-ya (uh-huh... uh-huh...), amongst others.
So I went online to iTunes and legally downloaded Sixteen Tons by Tennessee Ernie Ford. I know, right? Me? Obtaining music on the up-and-up? All legal-like and shizz? Recognizing that creative works online are protected by copyright law? Not contributing to the illegal music trade which is destroying artistic creativity and innovation, eliminating jobs, and more than likely bankrolling organized crime?! I KNOW!
(Whatever. You'd think these people would be flattered that someone wants to listen to their stupid music, but noooooo. Money money money! That's all any of these guys-- singers, musicians, managers, producers-- care about! I mean, honestly. It's not as if I couldn't do what I used to do when I was a teenager... which was to keep a cassette at the ready in my boombox and push RECORD whenever a song I liked came on the airwaves? Oh, the mixed tapes I used to make! At absolutely no cost to myself whatsoever! Well, except for the cassette, of course, but did you know that with a little tape and a tad of ingenuity, you can tape the new songs over old albums that you totally don't want anymore anyway?... Anyhoos, no one was coming after me then, confiscating my Tainted Love Breakup Tunes or Hair Band Heaven Mix, no sir! Now it's all about the money. Freaking selfish bastards.)
Um, okay. I had a point when I began...
Ah, yes! Sixteen Tons! Of course, of course... So I dragged my kiddos into my bedroom and forced them listen to the song. I watched delightedly as they fell in love with it, Ernie's impromptu snaps setting a tempo like a coal-mining crew axing into a brick-solid wall, effectively sucking them into the hammer-like rhythm of the song. Alli snapped in time (fine, almost in time), Hannah bopped her head, TD attempted to look bored, but failed miserably-- and as I was swept back to a time when I would giggle madly as my dad would bring this song on home: "I OWE my SOOOOOOUUUUUUU-OOUUUU-OOOUUULLL!... to the company store..." I realized that I was passing on a history. A legacy of music, if you will.
Which... scary thought.
This realization brought to mind my fourth grade end-of-the-year party, when my absolute favoritest teacher EVER gave us permission to bring in some of our own music to play for the class. Stoked, I rushed home and told my mother I simply HAD to bring her album-- The New Christy Minstrels' Sing and Play Cowboys and Indians -- to school or I would absolutely DIE. So the next day, armed with my uber-cool album and a sure knowledge of my Cool Factor totally skyrocketing as soon as my classmates heard the opening strains of this kickass song called Navajo, I rushed to the front of the line, bypassing The Police, Air Supply, a few Blondies, Irene Cara (Fame, naturally), and-- if I recall correctly-- one Captain and Tenille album.
Needless to say, my classmates did not appreciate the music as much as I thought they would and I couldn't for the life of me figure out why. I mean, this was GOOD STUFF, right? What the hell was wrong with these people?! But it strikes me now that they did not enjoy my music for many of the same reasons that my daughter's 2nd grade classmates probably wouldn't appreciate the phenomenal music from The Phantom of the Opera or Les Miserables. Perhaps my classmates' mothers hadn't yet instilled in them a love for the The New Christy Minstrels' minstrely goodness by playing Lily Langtree or Betsy From Pike-- or, oooooh! this super funny song called Three Wheels on My Wagon!-- over and over again.
And perhaps their dads didn't stand at the door "singing" (note my use of sarcastic quote marks) Nelson Eddy as he'd leave the house for work: "I'll find you in the mornin' sun and when the night is new... I'll be looking at the moon... but I'll be seeing... (*deep breath* *mom joins in*) YOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!" And my mom would be all, "Oh , JIM," and we'd laugh and shout, "Kiss her, Daddy!" and my mom would blush and be all, "Oh, you! Go to work!" and we were like, "Aww!"
Although, come to think of it, I don't much like Nelson Eddy. Okay, I don't even KNOW Nelson Eddy. But I love that memory! See how that works? It's tricky. But that is beside the point.
The point is that as I sat there playing music for my children, I began to imagine my daughters or son sitting down with their own children, playing my music, perhaps songs from U2's The Joshua Tree album or The Offspring's hit single Pretty Fly for a White Guy, music that perhaps my grandchildren would take to THEIR fourth-grade end-of-the-year parties. And maybe my kids will teach their kids to Snake or Axl Rose, and maybe, just maybe!, they'll even gather 'round the karaoke machine and belt out the oldies from their great-grandma's and grandpa's generation, perhaps Sixteen Tons or Rescue Me, and they will all laugh at how crazy life was back in the day, and maybe they will videotape it and send it to me, and TGIM and I will laugh and probably bust a tear or two due to the whole Empty Nest Syndrome, and, oh, how glorious that will be.
Yes! I thought. I shall pass down the music!
Of course, I began to panic. I mean, the pressure I suddenly felt to produce the quintessential 21st century mixed CD-- representative of the most influential music from 2001 through today-- was crushing, but I calmed myself with the knowledge that, hey, I'm totally up to the challenge. I watch American Idol. I pay attention to the music of Veronica Mars. I'm hip to the pop culture, fo' rizzle, my shizzle.
Gosh. I tell you what... my kids are SO lucky to have me.
In truth, however, around the seventh time I played Sixteen Tons the nostalgia faded with the final strains of the flute and clarinet. I came to my senses and realized that my children, though influenced by my taste in music now, will grow into teenagers and will develop their own tastes, just as I eventually did, and they will call my music stupid and tell me I'm way out of touch and be all, "Ooooh, my music is so much cooler than yours, Momma! Ooooh!"
I must admit to a few moments of frustration and despair. Because if not my love of good music, what?
Then Natasha Bedingfield's sassy song Unwritten came on my iPod and I was immediately struck-- struck, I say!-- by the words:
I am unwritten,
Can't read my mind
I'm just beginning
The pen's in my hand
Staring at the blank page before you
Open up the dirty window
Let the sun illuminate the words
That you could not find
Reaching for something in the distance
So close you can almost taste it
Release your inhibitions
Feel the rain on your skin
No one else can feel it for you
Only you can let it in
No one else, no one else
Can speak the words on your lips
Drench yourself in words unspoken
Live your life with arms wide open
Today is where your book begins
The rest is still unwritten.
Good LORD! That was it! The part of myself I absolutely MUST pass down to my children! Because if nothing else, I want to them to learn from me how to take life as it comes-- grab it by the balls, if they must-- and freaking OWN it.
I can DO that. I just know it.
And the fact that I am instilling this lesson in their minds not only by example, but covertly, as we dance and laugh and sing this song together while cooking dinner, cleaning our rooms, even folding the laundry?
Well, that's just gravy.