It’s Genetics. Do You SEE?!

(Here’s the what:  I just found this lost post. Yep. From, like, a year and a half ago. So WAY late to the party! Still, I’d forgotten this whole conversation, so I thought I’d better post it! You know, for posterity’s sake? So… okay. That’s that.)

After attending a friend’s Bar Mitzvah, Tanner came home chock full of wild stories of crazy chair dances and professional DJs and AWESOMELY delicious food and, oh yeah, how much freaking MONEY his friend scored when he turned thirteen. Because money is a BIG DEAL. I mean, think! That is a WHOLE LOT of Pokemon! Am I right? Huh? Am I right?

Tanner’s sisters were (to put it mildly) super impressed, all “Nuh-uh! NUH-UH!” and “No FAIR!” And Alli? I can only imagine she’s been giving the matter of Bar Mitzvah’s tons of thought, as evidenced by a recent conversation.

Alli had been sitting in my room with me as I read, an unusual, pensive moodiness about her. Suddenly, she broke the silence. “You know, if Tanner were Jewish,” she said conversationally, “he’d be totally rich right now.”

Tanner overheard. “I know, right?” he replied.

Alli shrugged a little “Well That’s That” kind of shrug and lapsed back into her broody silence.

I looked at my youngest daughter with my “Really? That’s That?” kind of look, but she didn’t notice. She was lost in her thoughts, her brows deeply furrowed behind her glasses. And those thoughts? Those she was lost in? Were some seriously mercenary thoughts, it turns out.

“We need our own coming of age ceremony!” she burst out a few moments later.

Tanner perked up at that. Because, hello? Money? And professional DJs?! And chair dancing?! And MONEY?!

Noticing Tanner’s interest, Alli began to expatiate on her totally BRILLIANT idea. “We could call it a… a… a Har Litzfah!” she said, her eyes dreamy and distant, “And we would… um… tell jokes instead of reading scriptures! And people would give us MONEY for being FUNNY! Because HAR Litzvah?! Like har har har?!” She clapped her hands, reveling in her brilliance.

And I was all, “Ooooh! Pun SNAP!” and there was a giving and receiving of high-fives all around.

In other news, that inappropriate-yet-impossible-to-resist punning thing? Totally genetic.

(Har Litzfah. Good Lord.)

Happiness is…

Happiness is pulling my bikini out of storage, trying it on for the first time since last summer, holding my breath, sucking in my gut, tentatively glancing at myself in my full-length mirror in the privacy of my bedroom… and smiling.

Smiling! Not crying!

I know, right?

Deal with my shallowness.

America, We Salute You (Rhett and Link Style)

God bless America. And the Fallen Founding Fathers of the Freelance Fireworks Hall of Fame.

Amen.

Suppertime Non Sequiturs

ALLI: (out of the blue) I wonder who was the first person to ever do the pee-pee dance?

CAT: Okay… Because that’s a completely normal thing to wonder.

ALLI: (shrugs) My mind is a mystery.

We Don’t Need No (Sex) Education…

Alli, my fifth grader (I KNOW, right?!), has been enduring Family Life Education (FLE) class at school all week long. I say “endure” because she has been dreading FLE ever since Hannah went through it last year when she was a fifth grader. FLE is described as “a K-12 program designed to provide students with age appropriate knowledge, attitudes, and skills to make healthy, responsible, respectful, and life-enhancing decisions related to human growth and development, human sexuality, relationships, and emotional and social health.” So, really, FLE is just the school district’s sobriquet for, wait for it… wait… yes, SEX ED. And Hannah told Alli there would be PICTURES! Graphic PICTURES! And words like PENIS and VAGINA! And long conversations about S-E-X! And PICTURES! Mother of all that is sweet, the PICTURES!

So, Alli? Not on board with the whole FLE thing.

The first afternoon she walked into the house with Hannah and TGIM and silently handed me a colorful packet that contained a few sample feminine hygiene products and brochures with titles like “A Girl’s Guide to HAPPY Periods” and “Talking With Your Daughter About Puberty” and “It’s a HAPPY Thing!”

“I’m supposed to ask you about your experience, you know, goingthroughpubertyandstuff,” she explained with a strained, almost shell-shocked expression on her face as she handed me an FLE checklist I needed to sign.

My first thought, naturally, was… it’s a HAPPY thing? Okay, I dare the author of that pamphlet to say that to a woman during a few key days every month! I’m only saying. Honestly.

TGIM, who was sitting across the room, asked, “Hey, did I ever tell you guys how Papa Neal taught me about sex?”

“YES!” we all yelled.

Undeterred, TGIM continued, “He said to me, ‘Son, have you seen the bulls with the cows out in the field?’ I said, ‘Yes, Dad,’ and he patted me on the back and said–”

“‘Good talk, son’!” we yelled in unison.

“Oh,” TGIM said, eyes wide with feigned innocence, “have I told that story before?”

Hannah, ignoring her father, asked, “So, did they make you yell ‘vagina’?” She rolled her eyes. “They made us yell ‘vagina’.”

“Yes,” Alli said and shuddered dramatically. “And penis, too. It was disturbing.”

I did my best to assure her that using those words should not be disturbing, that they are just words to describe parts of the body, like “mouth” or “knee” or “elbow,” but I must admit that the vision of a room full of fifth graders yelling “vagina” and “penis” over and over again was a bit disturbing. You know, just a scoche.

As the week went by, a pattern emerged. Alli would approach me after school and, with a deer-in-the-headlights expression, hand me yet another parent-child FLE conversation checklist to sign. I would gamely buzz through the questions, Alli would stare glassily ahead, I’d sign the checklist, and with a gusty sigh of relief Alli would shove it into her backpack and run off to play.

Friday afternoon Alli came home and told me that they had discussed making babies in FLE, which, first of all, gross, and second of all, GROSS. “I mean, the pictures, Momma? WAY too detailed. I get it! I did NOT need to see that!”

Hannah patted her on the back. “I know, right?” she agreed with sisterly camaraderie.

That night there were no more checklists. Yes! Happy day, FLE was behind us! We had made it through FLE relatively unscathed! Yay, us! So there we were, sitting on the bed in my room, just playing… a game, NOT Pokemon or anything, just a normal, age-appropriate, not-Pokemon game. The companionable silence of a mother and daughter sitting and playing said game which was not Poke– Okay! It was Pokemon! Soul Silver! FINE! Shut up!– was interrupted by a sudden revelation from Alli.

“Hey, Momma?”

I paused my game. “Hmm?” I looked over at her and I was immediately intrigued by her serious expression.

“You know what I’m going to do when I grow up?”

Oooh! Life choice! Fun! “What?” I asked, curious if she was still dead set on being an actress and/or astronaut.

“ADOPT.”

Mind Your Business

I’m going to take a stand here and now, and say that I will never (not ever!) understand those people who grunt and/or groan things like “OH boy” and “Oooo-ee!” while using the facilities. Why?! Why would they do that?! I don’t understand! Does it enhance performance? Or are they expecting some sort of congratulations, perhaps? Because I don’t know of any situation in which another person would be all like, “Oh, that must have been a good one!” or “Way to BM like a rock star!” Unless, to be fair, that other person happened to be the person’s mother, as moms totally inadvertently say embarrassing stuff like that all the time because they forget that everyone else in the restroom doesn’t KNOW they are a mom and, you know, just being all encouraging and weird. But whatever. I don’t know! That’s all I’m saying. What I DO know, however, is that these outbursts are all kinds of awkward for everyone else in the vicinity. Also, so so gross.

Not to even mention that sometimes, so surprised am I by the sudden, primal outburst or the sheer violence of expression that I unintentionally snort or giggle, and hey, I just do NOT appreciate being forced into behaving in such a juvenile manner. I’m only saying. So cut that crap out! Hee. I said “crap.” (See?! With the juvenile behavior?!) Just think of others before you go all Serena Williams while doing your business, okay?! GOSH.

Oh, to be clear, I am only referring to these types of outbursts in PUBLIC restrooms. What you grunt/groan while doing your business at home is totally, well… your business. Go crazy. Get down with your primal grunting self! Oh, except if you have house guests, obviously, in which case I would advise strongly against this type of behavior. Unless it is actually your intention to make said house guests SUPER uncomfortable. Then… ch-check! Mission accomplished! So you may want to rein it in– just a scoche!– when there’s company over. But otherwise, knock yourself out.

In other news, I am often peculiar and judgmental.

Am I Psyched? Chuck Yes!

I may or may not be super excited that a certain television show that I love oh-so-much will once more be on my TV this evening. Maybe. Not that the Olympics weren’t AWESOME and all (you know, from what I hear), but guys? GUYS?!

CHUCK! IS! BACK!

Yes! It is absolutely true. I mean, today is March 1, so, there you go. It IS March 1, right? RIGHT?!

Right.

I don’t want to come on too geeky, but… okay, I’m psyched!

Check it.

*happy dance*

Open Letter to Metro Express Germ Guy

Hey, you there with the hacking cough. Guess what? Go on! GUESS! A newspaper is not a tissue, that’s what! Thus, your Express newspaper is spectacularly ineffective as a barrier for germs between your gross, snuffly, coughing self and me. And pretty much everyone else on the crowded Metro subway, of course, but mostly, this is about me. Your extreme grossness and how it affects me, specifically. Oh, and BTW? Said newspaper is especially ineffective when it is held several inches from your mouth as you cough. Does the word “duh” mean anything to you?! I mean, honestly. You aren’t fooling anyone with your lame, half-hearted attempt to deflect your germs from the grossed-out masses, buddy. Use a tissue! Or your elbow! A disposable face mask, even! I swear to God, if I get sick I will hunt you down and freaking kick you! Right in the shins! I am so serious. I will KICK YOU. Don’t think I won’t. Because I totally will. I’ll be all, “Kiai!” And then there will be a whole lot of shin pain going on. Truth.

In other news, your toupee looks as if it is trying to make a run for it. Let it go, man. Just… let it go.

In Which Cat Defends “We Are The World 25 For Haiti”

Yes. I’ve heard the criticisms. But to me, this is a heartfelt remake of the original USA For Africa version, and for a selfless cause, to boot! Sure, they could have written/produced a new song, but hey, there’s a reason this one’s a classic. I’m only saying. Plus, the rap portion is pretty fantastic, and Wyclef Jean singing the song as translated into Creole? Beautiful.

(Although I do have to wonder how many people were like, “DUDE. What the hell does ‘hi-uh-tee’ mean?!” Because I am sometimes prone to strange and random wonderings?)

As a side note, I will admit, the posthumous Michael Jackson tribute almost turned me off– due to the Singing Along With Video Footage Of Dead People Totally Gives Me The Wiggins factor? which is MY issue, clearly!– but I decided I liked the inclusion after I overheard TD explaining to TGIM how seamlessly they were able to incorporate MJ’s part: “Yeah, see, they had some lady dressed up to LOOK like Michael Jackson, and she sang with him.”

Poor Janet.

In any event, my kids were moved by the video, especially the footage from Haiti, so I bought the album at iTunes. I figure it’s just one more little way we can give hope to the people of Haiti, and to the world.

Think about it.

Random Dinner Conversations at the Cheesecake Factory

Random DWM family conversations overheard at the Cheesecake Factory:

TGIM: Okay, while we’re waiting for our food, let’s talk about something. How about taxes? Who can tell me a situation in which you would have to pay taxes?

Allison: Thanks for the strawberry, T! (to me) Oooh, I bet that’s what his girlfriend will call him… “T”! Because it’s a really good nickname?

Tanner: Well, she wouldn’t be my girlfriend for long.

Cat: Really? Why not, T? Huh, T? What’s the big deal, T? Huh, T? Huh? T?

Allison: I hope our drinks come soon. I’m quenched!

Hannah: Tanner with a girlfriend? Ha.

TGIM: Nobody? All right, maybe a different topic. How about the weather? We could discuss the weather. Or global warming?

Cat: Sweetie, I think you meant to say “parched.”

Allison: No, because I’m REALLY thirsty, Momma.

TGIM: Fact: There is currently snow in every state in the U.S.

Hannah: Tanner is my big, strong potato man!

(giggles from the girls)

Cat: Um, what?

Allison: It’s an inside joke. Ha ha! (off my look) Oh, don’t worry, Momma… it’s VERY funny to us!

TGIM: Except possibly Hawaii. Okay, every state in the continental U.S.

Tanner: Those stone faces on the wall are freaking me out. Are the faces on the wall freaking you out? Because they are freaking me out.

Cat: Hey! Stop drinking all my Diet Coke! Who’s drinking my Diet Coke?! Stop it right now!

Hannah: Wow! This cheesecake is GOOD! I feel happy! I love this place!

TGIM: (paying the bill) Well, guys, there goes our food budget for the week! Yep, it looks like we’ll be eating a lot of beans and rice for a while.

Allison: No, because it’s Friday night, and Sunday is the start of a new week, so… I think we’re good, right, Momma? I mean, we’ll just shop for good food on Sunday, right? So… you know what I’m saying?

TGIM: (standing to leave) I know, let’s talk about this new show I discovered called Mantracker…

Hannah: Is that the one with the guy with the rope?

Allison: Oh yeah! Mantracker! I was very disappointed that he didn’t rope that guy.

TGIM: Me, too.

Cat: I have no idea what you guys are talking about.

Tanner: The macaroni and cheese here is NOT good. I’m just saying.

Yep. A night out with the DWM family! Chock full of food, and fun, and non sequiturs. And quite often, just a little bit surreal.

SnOw MG! Snowmageddon in Metro DC.

Snowed in! Snowed in! STILL! It’s Snowverkill. Snowmageddon. The Snowpocalypse! (tm witty Capital Weather Gang)

Seriously. The Federal Government in DC is shut down– closed for bidness, y’all!– and you would think that I would be totally enjoying the fact that I am free– albeit stuck at home, but still, free– for who knows how long, but NO. Instead, I feel, I don’t know, well… guilty. I know, right?! About what, you may ask? I don’t even know, I might answer! It’s craziness! Sheer craziness! Honestly. What’s with all the guilt?! I mean, it isn’t MY fault the U.S. Office of Personnel Management opted to close down all Federal agencies in the Washington DC area. It’s not!

That’s it. I’m jumping aboard the happy, carefree, snow day(s) train, starting right now. Feeling good. Enjoying the blizzard. Choo-choo!

Freak. And there’s the guilt again.

In order to alleviate said guilt, I will now post something of value on DWM. A Flickr slideshow of Photos Past, if you will. Because that is PRODUCTIVE.

Anyway, photos from the past. Back when my kiddos were all cute and pre-preteen and babylike and whatnot.

And I mean this… aaaaaaw! (Thanks to TGIM for the scans. You = Awesome.)

Insomnia and Prince and Donuts, Oh MY!

Whoa. Stop the presses. (Vicki Vale, Vick-V-Vicki Vale!) How did this happen?! This NEVER happens! I fell asleep before 9:00 PM?! What the…?! Okay, I blame this anomaly on exhaustion stemming from bad bedtime choices. But let’s not point fingers, GOSH. Everyone just settle down!

(Keep bustin’.)

In any event, my bedside clock tells me it’s two in the morning and, hello? I’m wide awake. WIDE. AWAKE. Aaaaand now I can’t seem to get “Batdance” out of my head, thanks a WHOLE LOT, “Chuck” and Prince!

What now?

(This town needs an enema!)

Oooh, I say donut run! Donuts! Dunkin Donuts is open 24 hours, right? Just gotta grab my Uggs and some cash…. gotta beat the snow storm and whatnot… it’s just down the road, no one will even miss me… mmmm, cinnamon cake donuts…

(Batman!)

As it turns out, sleep deprivation? Not my friend. Clearly.

(STOP!)

The Heart Never Forgets. Thanks A LOT American Idol!

(NOTE: If you have read my blog for a while, or you know, actually KNOW me, you may—perhaps—know a little something about my forbidden relationship with a certain Secret Greek Idol Luvah. I think I love him. You have been warned.)

So TGIM’s youngest sister, Candice, and her husband are living in Manhattan for the next three months while he attends training for his new job with the devil. I meant to say Goldman Sachs. And just so we’re clear, I already asked her if she had ever read The Firm and she assured me she had indeed, and I was all, “Okay, then,” and she was like, “Okaaaaaay…” so I wash my hands of it.

Anyway, Manhattan! Home of the Broadway Theatre district! And other noteworthy stuff, of course— such as Wall Street and the United Nations, not to mention cultural landmarks like the Met, where one might stumble upon world-famous Vermeer paintings or Bernini sculptures or Gossip Girl’s Queen Bee and her entourage eating their lunch on the steps!— but mainly, Manhattan has Broadway.

And Candice lives in Manhattan, albeit temporarily. Like, right there in the Broadway Theatre district, oh, yes, a wonderful place of joy and joyness that people visit in order to attend theatrical performances such as Wicked and West Side Story and The Lion King and Mamma Mia! and the like.

Do you see where I am going with this? Do you? Do you?

If not, allow me to clarify. See, we totally miss Candice and, come to think of it, I have never even met her husband, so we absolutely must visit them in Manhattan. You know, in NYC? Where the Broadway lives?! The whole Broadway aspect being secondary to the hanging-out-with-family thing, I might add. Clearly. Because family is IMPORTANT.

So TGIM was checking some online sources for tickets to, say, Wicked or perhaps The Lion King— shows we could attend as a FAMILY (which, as stated previously, is super important)—when he stumbled across a newer show which upon first glance looked somewhat promising. From the other room I heard him yell, “Hey, Cat! Ever heard of Rock of Ages?”

I had not, and told him so.

“It’s some sort of rock musical! It has classic rock songs from the 80s!”

While I was trying to think of a zingy comeback to him throwing the word “classic” all willy-nilly-like in front of “rock songs from the 80s,” TGIM must have clicked on a video clip because I heard the opening bars of “Don’t Stop Believing” blaring from the vicinity of the computer. Not the Glee version, mind you, but the old-school version. The arena-rock version. Naturally, I started boppin’ my head to the beat. Because I am cool that way, a’ight?! Shut up. I AM cool. Plus, Journey?! I DARE you not to bop to Journey! Take THAT, haters!

Anyway, the first verse began, “Just a small town girl…”

I may or may not have scared the living daylights out of my husband when I– perhaps!– came tearing in from the other room, wild-eyed and screaming, “HEY! HEEEEEEEEEY! That’s Constantine! COOOONSTANTIIINE!” Maybe that’s how it happened. It’s all fuzzy. It’s possible I stood up too quickly or something. That would account for the hyperventilating, right? I’m just saying it’s a BLUR. And TGIM lies a lot, so you totally cannot ask him.

In any event, guess who was on the computer screen? Singing and whatnot! Just guess who! Constantine Maroulis, that’s who! Yes! My Secret Greek Idol Luvah, right there on my computer, totally rocking the eyeliner and the pretty highlights and the greasy hair and acting all smoldery and shizz. YOU know. “Doing his thing”? Er, “dawg”? While singing JOURNEY! I mean, was it my BIRTHDAY?!

Honestly. It’s a wonder I didn’t faint on the spot.

(Thanks again to Mrtl for the t-shirt. You still ROCK.)

Sadly, I didn’t see Constantine bust out any of his legendary ki-YAH! kicks or awesome crouch-landings in the clip, but hey… one can dream, y’all. One can dream.

So… wow. My sweet Constantine. On Broadway. BROADfreakingWAY! Who knew, back when he graced the American Idol audience with the rocker screeches, the camera lovin’, the hair tossing, the duck-lip pouting, the cheesy grins, and the somewhat polarizing KISS tongues, that my Secret Greek Idol Luvah had the star power to make it to Broadway?! It’s madness! Who knew?!

Oh, wait. That’s right. I did. But I won’t say I told you so. Much. (I told you so!)

*sigh*

In the spirit of full disclosure, I do not see a scenario in which I could convince TGIM and the kiddos to go see this musical with me, you know, as a FAMILY, over shows such as Wicked or The Lion King. But still… good on you, Constantine! Good on you.

(Call me.)

Amazing Gertrude!

While on my way to watch Hannah perform as Gertrude in Seussical the Musical, I had some SERIOUS nervous energy going on. Nevertheless, we got there, and FRONT ROW!

5th Generation Ipod Nanos (with video capture capability) ROCK in a covert ops situation. Just so you know. They’re just so… unobtrusive! Honestly. No one even suspected a thing! At all! So, awesome covertly obtained video footage will follow. Oh, yes. It WILL follow. And they’re gooooood, yo? Because, well, Hannah simply ROCKED Gertrude!

Uh-oh, I feel the motherly pride kicking in again. Gosh… I promised myself I wouldn’t cry…

Frogging: The Object Lesson

While enjoying some down time with my buddy Paige—which involved drinking caffeinated beverages, knitting and crocheting stuff, and watching the movie Australia (which, WOW?)—I looked over and saw that Paige, apparently frustrated, was busy unraveling hours worth of stitches on her bunny sweater project.

Never one to let a teaching moment pass me by—because, nerdly?—I said, “You know, hardcore knitters call that frogging.”

Paige stopped unraveling and looked at me. “What?”

“You know,” I nodded towards her quickly dwindling bunny sweater, “unraveling your stitches when you mess up. That’s frogging.”

Paige paused, looked at her work, then me, and said, “Frogging, eh?”

“Hm-hmm.”

“Why?”

Ooooh! Object lesson! Object lesson! I am SUCH a fan of the object lesson.

“Start pulling out the stitches again,” I instructed her. “And since the term frogging sort of gives this impression of, like, way enthusiastic unraveling, really go for it, okay?”

With a shrug, Paige began to unravel her knitting again.

“Good, Paige!” I shouted, which may have been overkill, in retrospect. “Rip it… rip it…RIIIIIP IIIT…!”

Naturally, we got all giggly at this point. I mean, we WERE drinking caffeinated beverages, after all, so there was that whole caffeine-induced giddiness factor in play. I’m only saying.

We may or may not have spent the rest of the afternoon drinking caffeinated beverages, knitting and crocheting stuff, watching the movie Australia, and every so often croaking, “Rip it! RIP IT!” as we exuberantly frogged our respective projects. Maybe. Honestly, it’s all a total blur now. I guess we may never know for certain.

In other news, knitters are total geeks.

American Idol is the Devil. No, Really.

Who in the what now? Kristin Chenoweth was at the American Idol auditions in Orlando?! The ones that aired last night?! As a GUEST JUDGE?! Kristin C?! Olive Snook?! April Rhodes?! What?! Who?! WHAT?!

… must resist the urge to watch American Idol… must resist the urge to watch American Idol…

Whatever. I don’t even care. American Idol and I are still SO over. So what if I missed one of my favorite broadway slash television stars sitting in as a guest judge? Big whoop. I am certainly not going to spend the evening scouring YouTube for clips or anything lame like that, I can tell you that. Honestly. Because I don’t even care that I missed one of my favorite broadway slash television stars, Kristin Freaking Chenoweth, being all judgy and whatnot. On American Idol. Even if her appearance on the show would make for a fabulous AI recap. Because American Idol and I ARE NOT SPEAKING.

… must resist the urge to watch American Idol… must resist the urge to watch American Idol…

No. I will not be taken in again– not even for Kristin Chenoweth, y’all!– because I have not forgotten how American Idol strung me along for years and years before finally revealing itself as a sham and a liar and a time-suck of epic proportions! I put my blood, sweat, and tears into that relationship and where did it get me?! Huh?! Nowhere, bucko, that’s where! And I can’t get all those late-night hours spent dialing and voting and recapping BACK, no sir! That’s all I’m saying.

… must resist the urge to watch American Idol… must resist the urge to watch American Idol…

Totally not checking YouTube and the American Idol Web site on Fox to find video clips from last night. Nope. But if somebody just sent me some random, anonymous links, and I was all, “Oooh, I wonder what THIS link opens?” and I clicked on the random, anonymous links and they happened to take me to some awesome clips from last night’s show featuring Kristin Chenoweth as a guest judge, well then, what’s a gal gonna do, you know? Sometimes things just happen like that, all random and whatnot. Understand? IT COULD HAPPEN. But I won’t be looking around for any clips. Nope.

Because American Idol is the devil.

How to Win Friends and Influence People. And Then Not So Much.

Everything was going so well.

TGIM and I, using out mad Craigslisting skills, had found a super slamming deal on a 5th generation iPod Nano—in green! as requested!—for Mack’s birthday (which, happy birthday, Hannah!), so SCORE. We established contact, set up a meet time, hopped in the Miata, and trekked to Arlington where we met up with the iPod Nano-selling guy. In a stroke of awesome luck which could only mean fortune was totally on our side, I noted our Craigslister had a Miata, too. Dude! Right?! A Miata! Like us! A common bond! Yes! That iPod was OURS, for less than the asking price, I just KNEW it.

With careful maneuvering, we cultivated the relationship. What year was his Miata? How long had he owned it? Did it have the flip-up headlights? What? The headlights have to be left flipped up in icy or snowy weather or they would stick shut? We did not know that. Our model had non-flippy-uppy headlights. Did he commute in his? Did his Miata get awesome gas mileage, like ours did?

For the most part, I let TGIM take the lead, because, you know, cars? As I listened to TGIM and the Craigslister grow closer—bond vehicularly, if you will—I mentally prepared myself to talk him down twenty dollars or so. I could do it. He loved us! We were Miata people! He felt a kinship with us! I could tell! He was putty in our hands! Mwah ha ha!

So involved were my machinations—perhaps even thirty dollars under the asking price was within my grasp!—I didn’t hear what TGIM was saying until it was too late.

“Yeah, the guys at work laugh when they see me getting in and out of the Miata,” he said.

Oh NO.

I tried to catch his eye, tried to stop him, but it was already spilling out of his mouth, the story he knew he shouldn’t share. I’d let him bond too long. He had run out of small talk and was cracking under the pressure.

With a somewhat hysterical laugh, TGIM continued. “Heh heh! They’re always like, ‘Hey! Want a little KY Jelly to help you get in and out of that thing?!’ Ha ha ha!”

Damn. Also, awkward.

Uncomfortable silence ensued, broken only by a small intake of breath as I opened my mouth to say something—anything!—to get the conversation back on track, but… I had nothing. With a sigh, I forked over the asking price for the iPod and let the guy make his escape. Which he made swiftly, and without even a backward glance, I might add.

TGIM and I climbed into the Miata in silence. He put the key in the ignition, but didn’t start the car. I could feel him staring at me, but I looked straight ahead in stony silence. Finally, “Too much?” he asked innocently.

I turned and looked him straight in the eyes. “Ya think?!”

He sighed dramatically. “Thought so.”

“Honestly, TGIM,” I said, “what have I told you about the Guys At Work stories?!” Without waiting for an answer, I continued, “Don’t tell them, that’s what! GOSH. I could have talked him down thirty dollars! Well, probably twenty… but thirty was NOT out of the question! Okay, maybe only ten dollars, but still! It could have happened!”

We sat in silence for a moment, TGIM looking contrite while I glared at him. Then, of course, I giggled.

TGIM smiled in response. “Sorry. I just… panicked.”

“You are SUCH a nerd,” I said before dissolving into outright laughter. I mean, honestly. We’d still scored a super slamming deal on a 5th generation iPod Nano, so where was the bad?

We laughed all the way home.

Yep. That’s my TGIM. Winning friends and influencing people. Then, not so much.

So Unpopular

Someone just unsubscribed from my blog?! What the…?! Honestly. I just received an email that was all, “Hey, you suck. So someone has just totally unsubscribed from your blog. Yeah. That’s right, loser. Just so you know.” Except not in those exact words. Mostly, just in words like, “Unsubscribe notice: [insert email address here] has unsubscribed from Desperate Working Momma. Loser.” For real! Except for the “loser” part. But whatever, I understand the subtle nuance of the unsubscribe notice. I’m no fool. Truth.

Honestly. Unbelievable. Such a shock! I mean, truth be told, I had no idea anyone was still SUBSCRIBED to my blog.

Imagine my surprise, yo?

Sunshine Day!

You know those days? You know… the awesome days? The sunshiney days Greg, Marsha, and the rest of the Brady gang memorialized in song? The days in which everything seems to go your way? Like, you wake up early enough to eat breakfast before leaving for work, so you start the day with a healthy meal and absolutely NOT vending machine Pop Tarts and a Diet Coke? Because, ew? And people are super pleasant on the train and don’t glare at you and get all huffy when you—totally by accident!—poke them with your extra long knitting needles which perhaps you aren’t entirely comfortable with yet and may be wielding a bit haphazardly? PERHAPS? And you remember to clip on your PIV card and your many building swipe cards and security badges before you head to a different floor to hand-deliver a report? And you don’t get all stuck and panicky in the stairwell until you remember that if you run all the way down to the lobby you may be able to catch the elevator back to your floor with someone who did NOT forget said security cards and whatnot? And you can get back to your desk any time you want, and do not find yourself outside the office door knocking on the glass until someone—who all the while is obviously judging you for being so careless—comes by to let you in? And you absolutely can’t wait to see what else such an awesome day will bring you, and you DON’T want to crawl into a hole with your Diet Coke and Pop Tarts until the angry, entirely NOT awesome day just goes AWAY? You know? Those days?

Today is so not one of those days.

Stupid Encyclopedia of Immaturity

Hannah: “Momma, if you say ‘gullible’ reeeeaally slowly it sounds like ‘green beans’!”

Cat: “Guuuuull-iiiii… crap.”

Honestly. Damn that wild hair that compelled me to give my daughter the stupid Klutz Encyclopedia of Immaturity for Christmas. Damn it to hell!

Also, heh.

Booty Shaking and Hair Tossing

Hannah, whilst singing most enthusiastically along with Metro Station’s “Shake it” which was blaring from the car radio:

“‘Shake shake, shake shake, shake your BOOTAY! Shake shake…” (turned to Alli, who was also belting out the tune) “C’mon Alli, WORK those curls!”

Okay. She may have taken some liberties with with Metro Station’s lyrics– but honestly, “shake it” IS somewhat vague, truth– but you have to admire her energy!

Yep. That’s my girl. Shaking her booty and working those curls.

*proud*

Knee-Jerk Pop Culture

You know that thing that happens when an innocent comment from someone triggers some sort of finely honed pop culture reflex and you respond by spitting out some obscure quote from a movie or television show? And sometimes people laugh? Because it is super funny? And sometimes people just smile and scoot slowly away and secretly think you are kind of weird because you never make any sense? Because they are obviously not serious about their street cred with the pop culture demo? You know how that happens?

Well, sometimes, thankfully, that innocent comment comes via email. Because when someone at work sends you an email that says, “Thanks. I think I got it in there,” and the completely reflexive “Did I say that out LOUD?!” response happens to be, “That’s what SHE said!”… well, it’s good to have a filter. I’m only saying.

In other news, I am a bad, bad person.

Crouching Tiger, Metro-Style

Ah, yes.

This afternoon I got very out of control and played chicken with the Metro car’s sliding doors (which, incidentally are NOT like elevators doors, in that if you happen to get caught in them, they do NOT bounce back open, don’t ask me how I know, I just DO) because I was super tired and hungry and grumpy and a little stressed about the four mile run I still had to do– on an empty stomach, no lie! in the COLDNESS– and I totally HAD to get home, GOSH. So the warning chimes were ding-dinging and the recorded voice was all, “Doors closing,” but I was like, “Aw, hell to the no!”

Honestly. Only my mad ninja skills prevented me from a near crushing between absurdly quick-closing subway doors.

Take THAT, Metro railway car!

Fooyah.

“So you had a good day.”

Ah, good day. I ran 5K with Paige and then we spent the rest of the evening knitting super cool wristers (yes, SUPER COOL), eating Hershey’s kisses, and watching old episodes of “Lie to Me.”

Oh! But… not a 5K RACE! No indeed! That would have involved registration fees and fancy new running clothes and other craziness. Just… you, know, 5 kilometers. Or translated to metric-hatin’ American distance, 3.1 miles. Of course, truth be told, I actually ran 3.75 miles, but 5K was way easier to say, albeit a bit on the braggy, pretentious, metric-lovin’ side. Just a smidge. Perhaps.

Well, it was easier to say until I felt compelled to clarify, of course, at which time I realized I should have just said 3.75 miles in the first place. Total fail.

Still… good day. Yep.

(The wrister in all its glory. Behold, the awesomeness.)

I’m right… once in a blue moon.

Happiness is spending the better part of an evening arguing with TGIM about whether 2010 is REALLY the start of a new decade, or if it begins NEXT year.

I maintain that 2010 does indeed usher in the start of a new decade and that TGIM and Wikipedia can suck it.

(Hey. We don’t have cable, so we have to make our own fun.)

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