Someday they will thank me for this. I just know it.

May 31, 2006

The new CW logo may look like crop circles gone horribly wrong, but their Sneak Peek video pimpin’ my favorite show? TOTALLY makes up for it! Click it! You’ll see. Do it. Do it. Do it… Do it.

Kick ASS.

Firecracker! Firecracker! Boom boom boom!

May 31, 2006


My youngest daughter, my Alli, she’s a firecracker, I tell you what. A lit firecracker, too, not one of those calm and innocent-looking sparklers sitting quietly– unobtrusively, even– in a box just waiting for some poor sucker to come along and set her off, oh no, she’s on FIRE all the time– running around, dancing, laughing, gossiping, touching, eating, bouncing, asking, complaining, whining, giggling, performing, singing, and talking, talking, talking— until she drops into bed from sheer exhaustion at the end of the day. Honestly. She crawls into bed and without fail wails, “Mom! I’m not tired!” Yet before I can tell her to hush and just close her eyes, she’s gently snoring, her animated face all at once serene, peaceful at last. When she’s awake I find her adorable and loud and high maintenance and frustrating, but when she’s asleep? She’s truly beautiful.

Now, according to my mother, she’s my spitting image.

Speaking of, exactly who is responsible for thinking up such a vile idiom, I wonder? Who felt the compulsion to set that gem of figurative language into linguistic stone, if you will, to be used forevermore, yes, from generation to generation, to express that one’s child or friend or brother or dog is so much like another person it is uncanny? Come on! Spitting image?! I mean, when one takes a moment to conjure a literal image in one’s mind, the cognitive dissonance alone… Well. Because “spitting image”? As in, she looks like my spit? Or she acts/looks/speaks so much like me it’s as if I spit her right out of my mouth? What?! That’s just ridiculous! And ew? I assure you, spitting her out of my mouth probably would have been less painful. Then again I suppose we should simply be grateful that the genius behind this quirky figure of speech didn’t go with the more literal “she’s my vaginal image” or possibly the less graphic “hoo-hah image.” But counterintuitive belief persistence aside, my spitting image she is, and I went and said it, so there it is. [/tangent]

I have to agree with my momma on this one. She should know, she is the one who cursed me to “havechildrenjustlike[me]somedaysohelp[her]God!” Now it has been related to me several times throughout my life that my best friend’s mother– her name was (is) Sandy and I loathe that name to this day, I am so not kidding, grrr… HATE– once told my mother while in my 6- or 7-year-old presence, “Wow. That girl has diarrhea of the mouth. Does she ever shut up?!” I admit I do not remember this. In other news: I have the attention span of a gnat fly. I do, however, vividly remember catching a ride to school with my BFF one day and her mother singing at the top of her lungs “Short People Have No Reason to Live” while looking at me pointedly in her rearview mirror. And yes, I WAS the shortest person in my grade, and no, her meaning was not lost on me. But that is neither here nor there, so I will persevere, despite my Sandy issues. Anyhoo, short story long, as a child I talked a whole bunch. (Yes, TGIM, “as a child”! What?! Stop laughing! SHUT! UP!)

The thing is, I cannot tell you how often I look at my youngest daughter and think to myself, Good lord, will she EVER stop talking? Will she? Because DAMN! I mean, honestly… This nonstop Alli Chatter begs the million dollar question: Hello? If she never stops talking, when the hell will it be my turn?

I know, right?! This parenting gig is hard, yo?

Come on. Seriously. Why do all y’all think I started blogging in the first place?

Word? Edgewise?… Are you there yet?

Firecracker! Firecracker! Boom boom BOOOOOOOOOOM.

Epiphany in the Produce Aisle

May 26, 2006

Last evening I came to a startling and not altogether happy realization. A realization that rocked me to the core. A realization that struck at the very essence of my young(ish) womanly being. A realization that forced me to question the efficaciousness of my God-given feminine wiles. A realization that sent home the message: “Use it or lose it, baby.”

Allow me to elucidate:

Last night TGIM and I made a run for the grocery store, in dire need of potatoes. You know, because baked potatoes are tasty? And as the in-laws are visiting we’re thinking, “Huh. We better make some tasty food.” Because that is what good hosts do. Even when our guests have commandeered my very own bedroom and are sleeping in my very own bed with my very own super comfy down blanket and I have to sleep on the couch because I can’t sleep on the futon in the kids room because, duh, I wake up at 4:16 a.m. (I like evens, okay?!) and how rude to be all, “La la la! I’ll just set my alarm for 4:16 a.m. and wake everybody up at that God-forsaken hour just because I am too selfish to go downstairs and sleep on the couch when there is a super comfy futon bed upstairs.” Right?

But I digress.

So, we (TGIM and I? Sheesh, keep up!) approached the potatoes and TGIM’s all, “Cat, help me find small ones,” and I go, “Ooooh! Sweet potatoes!” because I love sweet potatoes and there they were, right next to the Russet potatoes and at that very moment I suddenly craved a baked sweet potato– with loads of butter… and salt and pepper– so bad it hurt. Hurt so good. And TGIM’s all, “Cat?” so I impatiently waved him over to the already bagged potatoes, as everyone knows they are always WAY smaller than the loose ones, GOSH. So TGIM wanders away and I’m feeling up every darn sweet potato in the bin because that’s how you find the tasty ones, and suddenly this cute, young guy approaches me.

Yes. A cute, young guy! Approached me!

So there I am just feeling up those sweet potatoes like nobody’s business, when this guy gets right up next to me and starts feeling up the sweet potatoes, too. Feeling up my potatoes!

So I’m thinking to myself, The bastard! He is totally trying to filch all the best sweet potatoes! And being the competitive person I am, I renew my search in earnest because no friggin’ way am I letting him pilfer my potatoes. Man. You should have seen me in action. I was a potato-picking maniac, rummaging like the dickens, throwing potatoes hither and thither… I must say I can be extraordinarily thorough when the chips are down… (Get it? Chips? Because… potatoes? Whatever, moving on…)

“Mmm. Sweet potatoes,” he says, picking up one I had just discarded (too big).

So I mumble something like, “I know, right?” because I had just found the best little sweet potato ever and I was busy grabbing a bag in which to put it before I accidentally dropped it back into the bin or some such disaster and this guy freaking snaked it.

“I mean, how do you know which ones are good?” he asks me, holding up an extra large sweet potato.

Feeling gracious, as I had already bagged two more perfect specimens and was now finished with my sweet potato shopping, I reveal my secret: “They’re fat, smooth, and smallish.” I am proud to tell you I even spotted a good one and handed it over to him. This is called sharing.

He drops the mammoth potato he is holding, takes the one I hand him, and begins rummaging the pile again. “Sooooo, short and fat?” he asks, looking up at me, and I finally notice that this guy? Well, he’s kind of cute. I shall forevermore call him Cute Guy. Note it.

I am embarrassed to admit that I chose this moment to revert to my twelve-year-old self. Short and thick does the trick! I thought, my inner twelve-year-old giggling like mad. It’s not the size of the boat, but the motion of the ocean!

It is a personal testament to my growing maturity that I had the presence of mind to keep this amusing gem of an inner monologue to myself, as my filter doesn’t always work, if you know what I’m saying. Unfortunately my face betrayed me, as I blushed deeply and fought a losing battle with the huge grin threatening to make an appearance. And damned if I didn’t feel a giggle fit coming on, too. Because It’s not the size of the boat, but the motion of the ocean? That’s comic gold.

Realizing that if I continued to repress, the modicum of self-control I was employing would likely burst like a dam and all that twelve-year-old hilarity would just tumble out all over this poor guy, who, after all, was just trying to buy a sweet potato. So I look around for TGIM, knowing he’d appreciate my witticisms, but he’s nowhere to be found. Then I catch a glimpse of him slinking over to the fruit section, casting furtive glances my way. Of course, I’m like, What is his damage?

Cute Guy smiles and says something else to me, but I don’t really hear him as I am too busy trying to figure out why TGIM is suddenly playing Dr. Watson to my Sherlock in the produce section of the supermarket. I flash a grin at Cute Guy before I take off after TGIM. This is called manners.

“Why did you ditch me?” I ask after finally chasing TGIM down in the melon section. I don’t know why I remember that we were amongst melons, I just do. I’m weird that way. Work with me.

TGIM just looks at me with his trademark huge, fabulously cheesy grin. “That guy was totally flirting with you!” Shrug. “I wanted to see how it played out.”

“He was NOT flirting with me.”

“Oh, yes he was.”

“No, he wasn’t. See, he wanted to know how to pick a good sweet potato and I’m like– seriously, TGIM, this is super funny, listen–”

“Cat, the dude didn’t care about the potatoes. He was flirting with you.”

“Wait, what? He was?” I think about it for a minute. “Naaaaaah… really? You think?”


I have to admit, at this moment I’m feeling a little puffed up in my own esteem. Cute Guy was flirting with me. The only people who ever (used to) flirt with me were the 17- and 18-year-old high school senior boys I used to teach, and that was always awkward and completely one-sided. Not to mention squicky to the tenth, yo? (And to squelch the subsequent jokes let me clarify that this flirting was always awkward for me and completely one-sided on their part. I can’t help it that I look deceptively young! And I didn’t even know what MILF meant at the time! Hand to God! Which is a good thing or I may have been held liable for kicking some perverted teenaged ass.)

Then it hits me. “O!M!G! Do you know what this means?” Off his I Never Know What The Hell You’re Talking About EVER So Please Just Tell Me look, I do just that. “It means my radar is broken! Or at least badly damaged… Dude I’m, like, radar-challenged!… Whoa. What if guys have been flirting with me for years and I haven’t even NOTICED?”

“Um, GOOD?”

We laughed. And then I shared the conversation I had with Cute Guy and my subsequent descent into bad, dirty thoughts. Because I’m a bad, dirty girl. Just bad all around. And dirty. Seriously, my mind is in the gutter, I tell you what. And then we laughed even harder. Because TGIM gets me.

But later I came to the unpleasant realization that as a result of my rusty radar, I had been missing out on my God-given right as a young(ish) woman to exercise my feminine wiles in a flirting situation. What if guys have been flirting with me for years and I just didn’t know it? I know, right?! I mean, how am I supposed to accurately assess my self-worth if I don’t even know that Cute Guys of the world are flirting with me? Oh! Woe! The opportunities missed!

Then again, if Kelly is to be believed, I don’t suppose I’ve missed out on much. I guess I will just have to let it go. But I am currently boning up on flirtatious witticisms that are appropriate to share with members of the opposite sex who may or may not be flirting, so I will be prepared next time. Smart, right? Eh?

Heh. I said “boning.”


May 25, 2006

Sorry, still too traumatized by the sight of David Hasselhoff crying tears of joy at Taylor’s coronation to form coherent thoughts. My eyes! They burn. And this is not even to mention the fact that Toni Braxton officially scares the bejeebies out of me! She scares the hell out of Taylor, too, if I’m not mistaken, and I’m pretty sure I’m not because did you SEE his face when they were singing (or, rather, he was singing and she was doing… whatever) and she grabbed his hand and was all, “Touch me here, bitch!” Good lord. Un-Freak My Heart.

In other news: Mandy Moore thinks Taylor’s the shiznit. Mandy freaking Moore!

More later.

Wait. What was the number for Daniel Powter?

May 23, 2006

Even though they do it every year, when Ryan does the whole I’m Just Standing in the Dark La La La-Psyche!-We’re in the Kodak Theater, Baby! reveal I’m all, “Oooooh! Aaaaah…” Every single time. Because of the bright lights? And the three tiers of balconies? And the thousands of adoring fans? Some of them celebrities? Honestly. How geeky am I?


Oooh, looky! It’s Mandy Moore! Hey, Mandy! Loved you in Saved! Hilary Faye rocked it when she threw that Bible at Mary and was all, “I am FILLED with Christ’s love! You are just jealous of my success in the Lord.” Remember that? And then she was like, “I told you! How great is Jesus?” Remember? Heh. That was awesome.

Oh my LORD. Is that… could it be… no… is that… could that be Constantine? Over by Bucky? And Kellie (with those stank-ass hair extensions removed so she actually looks way cute)? It IS?! Um, okay, I officially request to no longer be considered his fan, guys. Get out of my living room, stinky man, and go take a shower! Wash that hair! And for the love of God, get some sleep. Then we’ll talk.

Now, without further ado…


Black Horse and the Cherry Tree: Nicely done. Kickass drummers. But just not as sexy as last time. Where were the hot and dirty blues? So sad.

Over the Rainbow: Damn. I repeat, damn. (*fans self*) And how cute was her giddiness about starting the song on key despite a mysterious earpiece malfunction? So, SO cute, that’s how cute!

My Destiny: Good GOD. Bring back Inside your Heavenly Hoo-Hah, yo? AI totally sandbagged my girl with that original song, and by original I mean “so sucky no one else will sing it so we shall force one of the AI finalists to perform it in front of millions of people because she can’t say ‘No effing way!'” Come on. It was not even remotely suited to her voice and was obviously written by some cliche-addicted songwriter who– apparently lost in the 90’s– said to herself, “I know what this song needs… gospel singers!” You know, instead of playful, heartfelt lyrics and a melody in at least the same zip code as the singer’s range?

Making her sing that song was like handing her a beat-up old Schwinn and telling her to race the Tour de France with it. And she totally knew it, didn’t she? I mean, she couldn’t even pretend to like the song. You could see her just give it up halfway through.

That being said, Kat? Pleats + Bow + Finale Dress = Oh, HELL No. My advice? Get a new stylist. STAT.

Poor Kitty Kat.


Living for the City: Shut UP, Taylor’s jacket. I’m trying to listen. Oooh! I’m so happy he brought back the funky Life in the City circular dance move of joy! I’ve been practicing that one, y’all. I had to rewind so I could dance it with him. I HAD to. Woo! Definitely his best performance of the night.

Oh, and Paula? Maybe your top did exactly match with Taylor’s crushed velvet jacket (good LORD), but I can’t say for sure because after I hit the floor, having been rudely shoved out of TGIM’S line of vision amid his excited yells of “Look! Her left boob! That’s sucker’s about to pop right out of her top!”, I think I may have lost consciousness for a moment. Floor’s hard. I’m thinking we should install carpeting. So put the girls away, you maniac.

Levon: Eh. Not bad, but not his best, either. And I absolutely adore this song, too, so color me disappointed.

Do I Make You Proud: Oh, yes, honey, you do. Good on you, Tay. Good on you. Just keeping it real, dawgs [/Randy’s voice], Taylor was off during the first part of the song, but once he dropped the dreck and unleashed the woo! and the Soul Patrol! ticks, he found his groove (and his key) and did it Taylor-style. Which is– to me, anyway– a GOOD thing. Dude’s soul is in his voice. And he makes me smile. I think that’s worth something.

Oh my goodnes, how much must the AI producers hate Chris? Because showing Chris’ murderous WHO IN THE WHAT NOW?! face in the video during Daniel Powter’s Bad Day performance was all sorts of cruel. I was like, “Guys! He’s sitting right there!” Cruel, I tell you. Yet, still funny. No matter how may times I see it. He’s just so PISSED, you know? Hee hee.

Sooooo… although I think both performers did well tonight– Kat finally using her head voice and whatnot, and Taylor just being Taylor– I have to say I (woo!) think Taylor (soulpatrolsoulpatrolsoulpatrol!hahahaha!soulpatrol!woo!) has the AI title signed, sealed, and delivered. Of course, we’ll have to sit through two excruciating hours of filler, guest performances, sappy videos from home, and painful Top 10 group sings (Chicken Little! GAH!) before we hear the news officially, but hey, I’m willing to power through. For posterity’s sake, naturally.

Cat… out.

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