And we women say, “Puuuull oooout noooow!”

Well, that’s just rude.

I don’t think these Code Pinkalicious women ought to be bossing people around about how to practice birth control.

I mean, honestly.

Mean People Are Ugly

“Don’t sweat the small stuff” means…

… a person shouldn’t freak the hell out when random, apparently illiterate people post super rude, wildly inappropriate comments at said person’s YouTube site because, seriously, while said person is obviously podcasting purely for the fun of it– and doesn’t really care what her hair looked like that day, couldn’t care less whether or not she “turned you on,” and has no idea what “you sound like ur in high school, in the valley” means anyway– those commenters have absolutely no excuse for their obstinate eschewal of the fundamentals of grammar coupled with a surprising lack of imagination. Plus, they’re obviously stupid. And probably very ugly.

So why sweat it? I say bring it ON. Everybody knows that God (and YouTube) invented the “Delete Comment” function for just this type of “small stuff.” That’s right, biznitches!

CLICK.

Why I’m An IDIOT #26

Reason #26:

I set up a contact form, and forgot to insert my email address. I know, right?! Me? MORON. I’m a trial to my friends and family. A burden on an increasingly technologically savvy society. Deal with it.

So– apparently– anyone who has tried to take advantage of my oh-so-generous invitation to, you know, drop me a line or sumthin’, well, I just NEVER GOT THE LINE. Or LINES. Of which there were several. That were sent out into the World Wide Web. NOT to ME. The person to whom they were intended. Gone forever. Because I have only just found them. Or– more accurately– the remnants of them, because my server is all, “FAILURE NOTICE! FAILURE NOTICE! Deeeeee-LETE!” Which in Server-ese means, “Wow. You are an IDIOT. NoEmailForYou!” [/Soup Nazi]

Or sumthin’.

That being said, feel free to drop me line sometime! Because this time? The line may actually be delivered to me.

Fooyah!

Time.

I had the house to myself. I decided to do a little meditating—indulge in quiet contemplation, if you will—before Alli came home from school and disrupted the stillness, so I lay back on my bed enjoying the view of the small patch of grayish blue sky I could see while staring through the slightly parted curtains of my bedroom window. It was soothing feeling the soft down duvet under me, and the smooth expanse of well-worn cotton against the palms of my hands while my thoughts were drawn upwards and out. Unfortunately, my thoughts never will stay elevated for any great length of time, and soon I lost myself in smug contemplation of my developing Guitar Hero skills and wondered if I ought to try out a new song before any of the kids came home. Frustrated, I closed my eyes, which I usually find particularly helpful in shutting out the inane. Peace. Gradually, however, my thoughts slipped into imagining what I would buy if I won the lottery—not that it mattered as I never play. I bought TGIM that American Stratocaster he’s been eyeing—after buying myself a snug little six-bedroom cottage with a large wraparound porch, naturally—and had almost settled on the widescreen LCD television for our bedroom…

I opened my eyes. The clock across the bedroom stared at me with silent condemnation: “Look at the time you wasted! LOOK!” It was time to join the line of parents at the elementary school Kiss and Ride. One second I was redecorating my newly purchased lottery home, spacious yet somehow tiny enough to feel safe and snug, much like a cathedral at the holidays; the next instant I was looking at my own little bedroom, small yet somehow big enough to hold all five of us on the bed, eating popcorn and watching cartoons.

Smiling ruefully, I rolled myself off the bed, cast one last wistful glance out the window, and went in search of my keys.

Veronica Mars REWIND: Spit and Eggs

Veronica catches the Hearst rapist(s). Logan has a run-in with a police cruiser’s windshield. The Dean causes Keith to feel really, REALLY guilty about that whole Harmony thing. Veronica Mars makes infidelity, GHB druggings, and cold-blooded murder FUN!

Even if you don’t watch Veronica Mars, watching me and Paige get a little crazy on camera (not like THAT, pervs! GOSH!) equals good times for all. Especially when Piznarski’s Dance Grooves and Stabby Unicorns are involved. So CLICK HERE. Because each time you click over, we get closer and closer to the Veronica Mars swag we’ve been eyeing. MUST. WIN. VM. SWAG. Or snickerdoodles. Whatever.

Apparently, some mysterious person is accusing me of copyright infringement. I’m all, “Who in the what now?!” So VEOH pulled my video, but there is no word as to exactly whose copyright I’m supposedly infringing upon.

Help! Help! I’m being oppressed! Do you see VEOH oppressing me?!

I mean, RUDE.

Yay! The Man is no longer holding me back, y’all. Click away!

Ooooh, it’s that time of year, y’all… (updated for authenticity)

(Shout-out to Shaun for the flippin’ SWEET photo!)

American Idol, baby!

Let’s get ready to RAWK, yo?

However…

I totally missed the season premiere of AMERICAN IDOL.

Again.

I know, right?! Where the HELL are my priorities?! Gosh. Stupid family obligations. And work and stuff. Freak.

Luckily, both of this week’s episodes are safely tucked away in my handy-dandy Ti-Faux, and there will be a recap– oh, yes, there WILL be a recap. In the meanwhile, I do have a small inkling of how things went down last night, thanks to an IM session with my buddy Paige which consisted– in part– of the following exchange [sensitive information redacted]:

Paige: Are you watching?

Cat: Am I watching… DAMMIT!

Paige: So, no?

Cat: It’s recording… I’ll watch later.

Paige: Ryan is SHORT.

Cat: I know, right?! He’s wee!

Paige: I feel sorry for these people.

Cat: Delusional. The lot of ‘em.

Paige: Simon is being so mean!

Cat: What?! NO! I’m SHOCKED! Are people crying?

Paige: Dude!

Cat: Dude!

Paige: Don’t go up to the camera and cry! What did you expect?!

Cat: See? I don’t even need to be watching.

Paige: What? They don’t know that they suck?

Cat: I mean, seriously.

Paige: I can’t stop eating Cheezits, dammit!

Cat: Dammit!

Paige: This 7 foot tall woman is on…

Cat: Aw. Poor Ryan.

Paige: Simon is saying “I think that is the tallest girl I have ever seen!”

Cat: Speaking of tall, I need a donut.

Paige: Simon just called her a giraffe!

Cat: He’s such an ass.

Paige: Whoa!

Cat: What?

Paige: What the…?!

Cat: WHAT?!

Paige: Seriously…

Cat: Okay, keep in mind I’m not actually watching right now…

Paige: Hey, did you buy a gerbil?

See? I mean, I practically watched it, right?!

Then again, if you– like me– missed the season premiere(s), I am fairly certain that if you go back and read this post from last season, take out last year’s contestants and insert this year’s freaks and geeks, then bada bing bada boom! You’ve just freed up four hours of your life that otherwise you would never get back! EVER.

Oh, you’re feeling me, aren’t you?

That being said… was it good?!

Wait! Don’t tell me! DON’T TELL ME! Sheesh. What’s wrong with you? Honestly.

…

No, really. Was it?

(Blink twice for yes.)

MUST. HAVE. iPHONE.

Dear God,

Please send me one of these kickin’ iPhones. Today, if at all possible. I don’t know what your schedule looks like, but now is totally good for me.

Oh, and world peace would be awesome, too.

Amen.

Family Resemblance

Life is so unfair. Honestly. I mean, is it too much to ask for just ONE of my children to look like me? Just a little? I mean, hello! Why do you think people have kids in the first place? To experience the wonder and joy of creation by way of creating miniature replicas of themselves, that’s why! And to carry on the family name, naturally. Oh, AND for help around the house. Chores equal GOOD. But mostly, we just want to make cute little mini-me’s, whose lives we will then mold and guide and basically live vicariously through so as to stay young at heart and correct the mistakes of our youth.

So imagine my dismay as I watch my children grow to look more and more like TGIM, and TGIM’s brothers and sisters, every single day. For reals. Tanner has his Uncle Hansy’s contagious grin, coarse hair, and build; Hannah is Aunt Candice Redux; and Alli looks like her Grandma Claire and Aunt Esther all rolled into one, with a pinch of TGIM, but in a girly way. It’s eerie, I tell you. And unfair. And EERIE.

Now, granted, these are all extraordinarily good-looking people, but COME ON. Shizz ain’t right. That’s all I’m saying. And did I mention that my kiddos just keep GROWING? Like, a LOT? Because TGIM’s brothers are freakishly large and strong, and his sister’s are Amazonian?! In comparison to me?! Keeping these children in clothes will be my ruin, I kid you not. (Heh. Kid? Hoo! Killer. Okay, focusing.)

Curse TGIM’s overbearing, yet strikingly handsome family genes!

But life has a way of evening the score, even when you think the scales are tipped wholly in your spouse’s favor.

Allow me to illustrate:

On Sunday, it was drizzling rain, so we all piled into the car and headed out for a leisurely family drive. As we wound our way through some of the more– oh, let’s call them “affordability-challenged,” shall we?– neighborhoods, a hazy, pinkish-gray mist blurred our view, but not our perception. We took turns pointing out the houses we would buy if we were gazillionaires and wanted to be conspicuous and vainglorious.

I finally settled on a cozy-looking farm-style house. And by “cozy” I mean “manor-housey.” It had several dormers, two chimneys, and this fabulous wraparound porch, complete with a white, wooden swing. One of those quaint, old-fashioned barns with the hayloft and crisscrossed doors was the clincher. I’m telling you, I can’t resist a cute little (or in this case, ginormous) barn. See, I have a barn-loving complex. I blame it on growing up on the mean streets of Phoenix. The asphalt jungle, if you will. I’m just saying.

“Ooooh, pretty horses!” Allison cooed, pointing out the window at the horses in the field surrounding My Chosen Home.

Hannah was concerned. “Aaaaw, they’re out in the rain, Momma. Why don’t their owners put ‘em away?”

“Well, that one doesn’t seem to mind,” I said, pointing to a pretty, strawberry roan-colored horse wearing a winter horse blanket and leaning against a low wooden fence that separated him from the next field and the horse corral. A gate stood open a few feet away from him. “Look. A gate. See? He could go inside if he wanted to.”

“Hey, Momma, what’s that horse wearing?” Allison asked, pointing at the blanket.

“It’s a poncho,” Hannah said, in her best, big sisterly “duh!” voice, before I could respond.

Then a new voice piped up. “A poncho?”

Four heads turned simultaneously toward Tanner, who had miraculously emerged from the magical and hitherto all-consuming land of Tamagochi to add his two cents to the conversation. “That’s not a poncho. That’s a horse poncho. A honcho!”

I snickered.

TGIM sighed.

“Bwah ha ha! A honcho!” Alli was elbowing Hannah. “Get it?! A HONCHO?!”

“Was the honcho covering the horse’s head?” Tanner continued, his gaze finally directed outside as he strained to catch a glimpse of the thus-dubbed honcho-wearing horse.

Oh, no, I thought. He’s not going to go there. No way.

“Because then it would be a HEAD honcho!”

Huh. He went there.

The girls and I broke into fits of laughter. “Oooh, good one, son!” I said between giggles. Because seriously? Good puns are fun for ALL.

My kiddos carried on doing that thing that kids do– you know, that mimic thing?– where they repeat a funny joke several times, more often than not accompanied by knee-slaps, cracks of wild laughter, and ofttimes some frighteningly violent arm slapping or elbow jabbing? There are some adults who may do this, too– perhaps! I don’t know! I’ve heard!– and while I am sure it must be “annoying,” and “a trial to friends and family,” I am equally certain it is an innocent and spontaneous reaction to amusement, and completely unintentional, and good jokes are MEANT to be shared, and why do people have to be so judgmental anyway? Gosh.

I turned to TGIM, my eyes overflowing with laughter and maternal pride, and dang me, if I wasn’t met with a Look. A Look! You know, one of those Dear God In Heaven He Is SO Your Son looks, with a smidgen of What Did I Ever Do To Deserve ANOTHER Punster, Lord, WHAT?!

“Hey,” I said, backing away from the Look, hands raised in an I’m Just Saying manner, “they LOOK like YOU.”

We spent the rest of the trip looking for more horses in honchos.

Ha!

Point, set, match.

Take that, overbearing TGIM-family genes.

Yay, Mommycasters! *sigh* I knew them when…

I love it when good things come to good people, and this article about my friends Paige and Gretchen of Mommycast.com (Paige is also my Veronica Mars Rewind co-host, doncha know?) certainly seems to fit the bill.

Woo! You go, girls! Get down with your bad mommy selves! Or something! And I’m totally NOT jealous or anything! Much! Maybe a little!

Hey. You dang well better stow me in a suitcase and bring me along if you get to meet Oprah (or Ellen! I must dance with ELLEN!), or seriously? HEADS. WILL. ROLL.

No, really.

Heads? Rolling everywhere.

It all started with a pecan roll…

(DISCLAIMER: This post is blowhardy. Windbaggy in a BIG way. You have been warned.)

So there I was at Panera, totally doing my work-at-home thing. Er, while not a home, but it COUNTS, okay? I had just given myself wholly to the pleasure of eating– nay, savoring– an absolutely decadent pecan roll (that bad boy contained more fat calories than I normally consume in a week, but dude… it’s the culinary equivalent of sweet, sweet loving, that’s all I’m saying) when the loud, nasally voice of a short, youngish, stylishly suited-up dude interrupted me. He sat down a few tables from me and commenced loudly and insistently bloviating about an “exciting new business opportunity” that he felt “obligated to share” with this poor sucker he had more than likely accosted in the book aisle at Target or Walmart. Seriously. These network marketing people are EVERYWHERE. And they really, really like TGIM. A LOT. For whatever reason. It’s inexplicable.

A quick look around told me I wasn’t the only pastry-cum-free-internet customer sporting raised eyebrows and a Boy Howdy! Glad That’s Not Me grin. I toyed with the idea of breaking out the iPod and drowning the relentless hum of bromidic blather spewing like liquid hot magma from this slick little dude’s mouth, but I couldn’t help myself. It was like really bad performance art. Riveting.

In full-on Veronica Mars spy-girl mode, I cast several surreptitious glances their way. I could only see the back of the guy on the receiving end of this sales pitch– let’s call him Mark, shall we? (Hoo! Get it?! Do ya?! Thank you! I’m here ’til Thursday…)– but he was obviously putting a considerable amount of energy into scribbling down every platitudinous morsel this young man let drop.

(Hey. That is a GREAT word. Platitudinous. I shall use it more often. Fooyah! But I digress…)

I wondered what in the Sam Hill he could possibly be gleaning from the words, words, WORDS cascading over him like warm, gooey glaze over a Panera pecan roll. (Seriously. You need to taste one. Seriously.) Because there was no mention of any kind of company or product, mind you. Just “blah, blah, make money doing nothing, blahcakes.” So, what was there to write, really? “Why must he spit whilst he speaks?” “I can’t believe he didn’t even buy me a scone.” Or perhaps even “This guy is a total douchetard!”

Good golly, Miss Molly. I had to see that notepad. Curse my sudden but inevitable fit of curiosity! I mean, honestly, how did Mark’s notes stack up against my mental ones? Unfortunately, my work computer, PDA smartphone, and ginormous stack of document files prevented me from going all covert ops and scoring a peek, but I imagine the comparison would have looked much like this:

“…making money for almost no effort…” Oh, for the love of...

“…two thousand to four thousand a month…” The hell, you say? Er, I mean, ’shah…

“…residual income…” Uh-oh… wait for it…

“…exciting business opportunity!…” Thar she blows!

“…go into business with little or no start-up capital…” Call me Ishmael. Heh. Wait, what?

“…home-based business franchising…” Mayday! Mayday!

“…retire younger and richer…” The Captain goes down with the ship! The Captain goes down with the ship!

“…attend opportunity meeting…” All systems fail! Abort mission! Eject! For the love of God, EJECT!

Yes, my mind is a very intense place to be sometimes. Um, most of the time.

I must say that at this point I would not have stuttered a keystroke if the slick little dude suddenly tossed aside his half-eaten bagel, jumped up on the table, and shouted “How many of you want to be rich, rich, RICH?!” while dancing the Running Man. Yawn. Nor would I have batted an eyelash if he then proceeded to invite any Panera patrons interested in becoming a cog in his downline to join hands with him and sing a chorus or two of Kumbaya. Because, honestly? Dude was on FIRE.

Sure, you could tell his sales pitch was canned– he’d obviously rehearsed it, complete with pauses for effect and creepy, unwavering eye-contact– but he was a born salesman. He laid out the whole plan. And Mark, bless him– with the nods and the wide, trusting eyes– was kindling to his flame.

In the interest of full disclosure, when he came to the sticking point, I may have been completely sucked in to his spiel. Perhaps. I’m not really sure. It’s all a blur now, but MAYBE. Even though I already have a good job that I enjoy. And a family consisting of one TGIM and three high-maintenance kiddos. And a brand-new side business of my very own. And no free time. And Guitar Hero practice. And common sense.

So when he asked Mark, with the hint of a smirk and a dare in his eyes, “Are you ready to learn how to go into business for yourself with little or no start-up capital so you can retire young with plenty of cash?” I was all, “Heck, YES, I’m ready! Throw in a some gum and a pony and you’ve got yourself a deal!”

Okay, I didn’t say that. But I THOUGHT it, so points for effort, even if I didn’t actually say it aloud. Dang. I hate it when I miss an opportunity to be obnoxious, especially when it coincides with an opportunity to show a network sales person the error of his ways and possibly save said sales person from a life of thwarted purpose.

Man. I bet William would have said it. Right out loud. William! Where are you when I need you?!

I’d like to say there’s a happy ending to this story, but alas. Slick little dude wound down his spiel, entered all of Mark’s personal information in his slick little phone, and they stood to shake hands, the best of good friends. I imagine they are together right now, at the aforementioned “opportunity meeting,” swaying in unison while chanting “Mo-NEY! Mo-NEY! Mo-NEY!” with one hundred other network marketers, who will then go out and accost me in the linens aisle at Target.

“Hi! Those are some really nice bath towels you’ve selected there. Yes, ma’am. Nice. Soooo, you seem to like the finer things… how would you like the opportunity to find out how to make more money and retire young…”

Heaven help us all.

Amen.

“So thaaaaaat’s what she’s been up to…”

Hey. I’m starting my very own business, did you know? Because I am. I am starting a business. A business of my very own. I shall call it my very own super cool business, and hug it, and squeeze, and it shall be mine.

Details to be disclosed at a later date. You know, so as to detract potential idea thieves from stealing my (if I do say so myself) supah sweet, super cool business name, not to even mention my absolutely brilliant and pop-culturally relevant (yet timeless) slogan? No, seriously. They are SO catchy. Everyone (TGIM) says so.

Plus, I simply cannot wait to offer a different kind of supah sweet, super cool product for a heretofore unmet demand in this competitive, turbulent, fast-moving economy of ours. Oooh! Somebody STOP me!

Honestly. It’s a darn good thing I’m not given to too much hubris, or this whole business venture could totally end in DISASTER, am I right? Huh?! I am so right.

Gosh. I must admit, I am feeling vastly entrepreneury right about now. And quite puffed up in my own esteem.

*rushes off to Borders to pick up latest copy of PINK*

New Year’s Resolutions (NYR) for 2007

NYR #1: Stop procrastinating! Timeliness is key.

NYR #2: Spend more time with my children. Mostly via Guitar Hero. See, it’s educational, what with budgeting all the gig-earnings so we can buy new songs– like Strong Bad’s “Trogdor” and Amazing Royal Crowns’ “Mr. Fix It”– and killer new outfits, not to even mention all the traveling across the countryside and whatnot. I mean, we can play STONEHENGE, people. In ENGLAND. That’s all I’m saying. These are valuable life skills. It’s the school of rock, baby! SCHOOL. OF. ROCK.

Basically, it’s all about family togetherness.

NYR #3: Eat more pie. Preferably boysenberry. Self explanatory.

NYR #4: Stick to a budget. Any budget will do.

NYR #5: Retire “booyah!” Coin a new phrase. Perhaps something like “hooyah!” Or possibly “fooyah!” Be original.

NYR #6: Buy more fabric. Because you can never have enough of that stuff. Oh, and hoodies! Buy more hoodies.

Okay, I’ll finish this later.

How to ROCK My Socks Off

Phone rings.

Cat: Hello?

Paige: Dude. Are you off work today?

Cat: Yep.

Paige: And all our kids are in school, right?

Cat: Heck, yes!

Paige: Cool! Come over and we’ll play Guitar Hero.

Cat: Sweet! Let’s “Shout at the Devil,” yo?

Paige: Okay, but hurry. I’ve got to pick Lola up from preschool in an hour.