Coke Pants? Well, of all the luck!

I gave up Diet Dr. Pepper three days ago. Add PMS to the caffeine deprivation and you’ve got a Desperate Working Momma wearing some seriously cranky pants!

Speaking of pants…

I am vexed. Lindsay Lohan is vexing me!

As I stated previously, TGIM called me at work last week to keep me abreast (pun totally intended) of Lindsay Lohan’s drunken, coke-pants-fueled spiral into infamy and unemployment.

Lindsay’s party planner, chaperone, and sometimes mom, Dina, said Lindsay “sounded good,” according to… um, sources. She added, “You know, people slip. Hopefully, she’ll get back on the wagon and she’ll be fine.”

Oh, Dina.

Dina, Dina, Dina… Freaking mother of the year, that’s what you are.

But whatever. Get back on that wagon, Linds! Go on!

(Just so long as she doesn’t get behind the wheel of that wagon, am I right?)

But here’s the thing. Freshly minted Promises rehab center graduate LiLo allegedly wrote in an e-mail to Billy Bush of Access Hollywood, “I am innocent… did not do drugs, they’re not mine.”

You see, Lindsay claimed the coke-laden pants weren’t hers, but belonged to her (I’m assuming now former) friend.

Ratfink, much? Honestly.

(Of course the car she commandeered didn’t belong to her either, but that is tertiary to the umpteenth DUI and the borrowed coke pants, yo?)

In any event, the pants? Not hers. Which begs the question: why in God’s name is LiLo wearing other people’s pants? Doesn’t she like her own pants anymore? Are her pants uncomfortable? Is there too much crap in her own pants pockets, weighing her down?

Personally, I like my own pants. My pants are comfy. My pants are hand-selected to flatter my chassy badassy bedonkadonk. And except for the occasional monetary windfall, I know what I’m carrying around in my pants pockets.

In all honesty, I cannot remember the last time I borrowed a friend’s pants for a night of drunken, coke-panted, highspeed car chasing. Probably not since high school! Minus the drunken, coke-panted, highspeed car chasing part, naturally. Just the pant-borrowing part.

Well, with the notable exception of that time a few months ago when Paige and I were filming a Veronica Mars Rewind podcast and eating junk food into the wee hours of the night and I ate too much Chubby Hubby and had to borrow a pair of Juicy trackpants in order to be more comfy while I finished off the Turtle Chocolate Check Mix, but the trackpants I borrowed didn’t even have pockets, so it really doesn’t apply in this case.

All I’m saying is that it seems to me that the problem with borrowing someone else’s pants is that when you put them on, you’re instantly and unwittingly weighed down with all the crap they’ve left in their own pockets. You’re stuck lugging around someone else’s baggage. Their baggage es su baggage. And why would you want to do that?

Frankly, my cranky pants are heavy enough.

Splitting Hairs and Other Nonsense

Lately I’ve been pondering the complexities of friendship. And not just any friendship, but Best Friend Forever-ship. BFFship, if you will. You see, shortly after I married TGIM, I cross-stitched (okay, shut it) “Happiness is Being Married to My Best Friend” (seriously, I will cut you), which I then framed and proudly hung on our apartment wall. Honestly. I don’t think you properly understand just how painful it is for me to disclose this heretofore repressed memory of archetypal suburban domesticity, but I do it for the sake of my ART, okay? Because only recently I have discovered the inherent flaw in my claim of spousal BFFship which I unwittingly bought into for several years. The sad fact is… well, TGIM?

Yeah. He’s a guy.

Don’t get me wrong. In the grand scheme of things, there is nobody I would rather be with. In the event of, say, nuclear holocaust or a big-ass spider on the kitchen floor, TGIM is the person I want in my corner. Romantic cruise or candle-lit dinner for two? He’s my guy. My numero uno. My… TGIM.

Yet… recently I was listening to my best of good friends, Paige, talk about heading out to Hawaii to be with her sister as she gives birth to her second baby. Since I knew all about the recent experience Paige had doing the same thing for a friend, it was easy to envision her providing comfort, encouragement, back massages, even ice chips for her sister. Aw! So sweet!

Then I recollected TGIM during the birth of our second child, sitting at the edge of MY hospital bed staring at the television, remote control in hand, saying in a reasonable voice, “Come on! It’s not that bad. I’ll massage your back during the commercials!”

And that’s when it really hit me. Guys and gals? Totally different, yo?

What I’ve learned is that a woman should never underestimate the power of a best girlfriend. And not just any girlfriend, but a kindred spirit. A bosom bud. A BFF. And yesterday this point was driven home in spades.

Allow me to illustrate:

See, I was feeling all brave and buoyant and masochistic yesterday and before I knew it I was at the mall shopping for a new swimming suit.

I know, right?! Oh, and just so you know, my body just shivered convulsively at the memory. No, seriously. I totally shuddered. I just thought I’d point that out, you know, just to illustrate. I mean, since you can’t see me an all. For reals, y’all. I’m all in a dither! In fact, I typed “aswo;4wrj” instead of what I intended to write next (because of the shaking?), so I had to delete “aswo;4wrj” and explain about the shuddering and the convulsing and whatnot, which has completely thrown off my train of thought and just goes to show that even still I am in the throes of emotional perturbation after an afternoon spent swimsuit shopping at the mall.

Wait. What?

Oh! The swimsuit! Right. Thing is, I sometimes have these little spurts of insanity. Eh. What’cha gonna do?

Amazingly, though, I found one. A swimsuit, that is. And not just any old swimsuit, oh no, but a ONE-PIECE swimsuit! And do you know what? Do you? I loved it. LOVED it! (if someone could just head on over to my momma’s house and revive her, please, that would be so great, thanks…) I loved that swimsuit so dang much I wanted to marry it and have its bikini babies, it was that cute! With the ruffled halter neckline and the ruching at the bust and the slimming effect of the dark chocolatey material and whatnot? I was all, “Hey, there, sexy little one-piece, how YOU doin’?”

Unbelievably, I snagged the last pair of these cheeky little Roxy swim short-shorts (too easy?) that totally matched. The coup de grace? Everything was on sale! Honestly. You better believe I was all over that deal. ‘Cha. My momma didn’t raise no fool. (speaking of… seriously, just a quick peek in at my mom? someone? just let me know…)

You’re probably asking yourself what any of this swimsuit nonsense has to do with friendship, what with the absence of any sort of camaraderie thus far in my story. Perhaps you are trying to make sense of it all by gleaning my swimsuit saga for meaning, perhaps drawing parallels betwixt (yes, betwixt!) the psychological import of finding a slimming, modest swimsuit and the emotional well-being derived from a friendship with a supportive, unpretentious girlfriend. You’d be dead wrong, of course. Good lord, people. Sometimes a swimsuit (fetching though it may be) is just a swimsuit. Has Freud taught us nothing?

No, actually, my point is this: I called TGIM to tell him I found a kickass swimsuit with matching short-shorts which I subsequently snagged and bought (on sale!) for my very own.

“How much?” he asked with obvious trepidation.

Well, that was disappointing.

So I called Paige to let HER know that I found a kickass swimsuit with matching short-shorts which I subsequently snagged and bought (on sale!) for my very own.

“Sweet! Well, get yourself on over here and model it, girlfriend! Woo!”

Ah. Much better.

Better still, when I actually did go over and model my new bathing ensemble, no fault could be found in Paige’s raptures over the extraordinary cuteness of the suit or in her admiration for my ability to Shop the Sale.

(In the interest of full disclosure I got a similar, equally enthusiastic response from TGIM after I snapped a picture of myself in said bathing ensemble and sent it to his phone, but that is SO not the point.)

My point, manic though it may be presented here (I’m trying to go off the Diet Dr. Pepper, I truly am, honest), is that although my husband is my best guy, my steady rock, my lover, he is just not a GIRL. He won’t put on yoga pants and go trapezing with me on my birthday. No, sir. He doesn’t want to hear me complain about PMS, or about being bloated due to overindulgence in cheese fries, or how all my hair seems to be falling out and I wonder if it’s the product I’m using? Nor does he want to listen to me go on and on about podcasting, or how Let’s Dish! takes the stress out of dinner, or how YouTube is the devil. And he certainly doesn’t want to speculate on the possible meaning behind a look that took place between Veronica and Logan on Veronica Mars. I mean, he WILL listen, because he’s a super nice guy. But he won’t GET it. Not like a best girlfriend– a BFF– will get it.

He tries, of course. In fact, just the other day he called me at work to tell me that he heard on the radio that Lindsay Lohan had been arrested for DUI and possession of cocaine. Just because he thought I’d want to know! Aw! But did he want to discuss anything beyond the possible jail time she was looking at, such as the ridiculousness of celebrity “rehab” centers like Promises or the possible ramifications of this arrest on LiLo’s career? NO. Because he just doesn’t get it. Not like a BFF gets it. And that’s what BFFship is all about.

I realize now that my heartfelt cross-stitch (SHUT. IT.) was almost right. Happiness is being married to my best GUY friend. Oh, I know, I know…. but semantics, shmemantics! All I’m saying is I am so very lucky to have found the wonderful man I’ve chosen to spend my life with…. but I’ve come to realize how much happier, how much fuller life can be when one is also lucky enough to have found a BFF.

She’s a Legend in Her Own Mind

I don’t wanna brag or nuthin’, but I was interviewed for something by someone. For real! Click HERE.

Then you’ll see! Just do it! Click! Do it! Do it! Do it do it do it doitdoitdoit… DO! IT!

Um, also, it has been brought to my attention that it is totally okay for me to Pimp My Blog, so check out the fancy Blogger’s Choice Brag Badges to my right. Scratch that, to your right. To THE right! Okay?! Over there! –> Anyhoos, if you click on them, they take you to the Blogger’s Choice Awards website. And don’t let the possessive apostrophe fool you. More than just one blogger can vote! Seriously! I’m not even lying!

Of course, you have to sign up for an account to actually cast your vote for my humble little blog, but I ask you: is signing up for a Blogger’s Choice account too high a price to save me, a blovely blogger friend in the blogosphere o’ blogs, from the ignominy of cumulative votes in the single digits?! Is it? Do I ask too much? Well?! DO I?!

But that’s cool if you don’t feel like voting. Whatever. If you don’t have the time… I mean, hey, I don’t even care either way. Not at ALL. Whatev.

Well, y’all, that’s it for this edition of Pimp My Blog. Join me tomorrow when I ask you to help subsidize my firstborn’s college education.

Do Not DISTURB…

… or I WILL cut you.

No, really. See my crazy hair? Does it LOOK like I’m joking?!

My Fifteen Minutes

So… when Sarah Mahoney approached me and asked for an interview for a piece she was writing– No More Nagging: 10 Tips that Get Results– I was all, “Sure, I’d be happy to! Not that I ever nag. Could this be a piece on how I never nag? And how awesome it is that I never nag? And how everyone in my family LOVES it that I never nag them? Never ever? Because that would be ANNOYING?”

When I realized she wasn’t writing a fiction piece, I laughed. Ha! Because of the hilarity?

Then I opened my big mouth. And with that, I exposed my true motherly colors to the world.

MUST-SEE VIDEO: Treadmill Dancers

I realize I may be completely behind the times, here, but honestly… this is seriously one of the funniest, most bizarre yet strangely cool things I have seen in a long time. I mean, choreographed treadmill dancing?! Why didn’t I think of that?!

*shakes head ruefully*

Blame it on Paris, Redux

Alas. Paris Hilton continues to suck my will to live.

Thus, my novel snappet, part deux:

“Hi,” he said softly, his voice deep and melodic. “I’m Finn.”

I stared at the sinewy pale hand he offered me—long fingers and firm, milky white skin (well, he’s obviously not a surfer, I surmised somewhat inanely)—and thought how unfair it was that even his hand was gorgeous. I was also strangely pleased that he hadn’t opted for the fist bump or the “‘Sup” with accompanying nod, like other boys I knew. He went for the handshake. A boy after my own heart. Still, I hesitated, and that is when I realized that his hand was actually shaking. It was subtle, barely noticeable. If I hadn’t been staring at his hand so closely, I probably would not have even noticed.

I looked at him, a slight quirk in one eyebrow and a question in my eyes. If anyone was supposed to be nervous, I thought the small, seemingly defenseless girl with the strange boy in her car would be the one allowed that honor. He stared back at me, no longer smiling, his eyes wide. Apprehensive, with a touch of defiance. His whole body seemed tensed up, every muscle tight. Except for the slight tremor in his hand, he looked as still and as immoveable as stone.

With a small, nervous laugh, I took Finn’s hand in mine. “I’m Juliet,” I said, and gave his hand one small shake. I remember my surprise that—even though it was unusually muggy for early November—as soon as his hand touched mine, all the hair on my body bristled as the air in the car grew warmer, literally crackling with static electricity. I also remember that as soon as I touched his hand, his body jolted as if shocked. Although it hardly seemed possible, his eyebrows flew even higher, almost disappearing into his hairline, and I swear all the blood drained from his face, evaporated, in an instant. [Read more]

Ramblings on a Friday Afternoon

I’m just getting over a touch of the stomach flu. My stomach is growling. My head feels too big for my body. My thoughts are in a jumble. That probably accounts for it.

At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

See, a friend I haven’t heard from in ages found my blog and touched bases with me via email. “Do you want me to call you Cat?” she asked, having always called me Catherine in the past.

And that’s when it happened.

“You can call me Cat. You can call me Catherine. You can call me anything you want,” I wrote, “just don’t call me late for dinner!”

I know.

And I’d be totally lying if I didn’t admit that at this very moment it is taking all the strength I have in me to refrain from breaking into Flip Wilson’s “The Devil Made Me Do It” routine.

Honestly. I blame my father and his obsession with sketch comedy and variety television humor. And Sid Ceasar. I totally blame Sid Ceasar. And the Smothers Brothers. Oh, and Milton Berle. That’s right, ladies and germs! I even blame Uncle Miltie!

Mostly, though, I blame the cold medicine.

Gonna Miss the Buggers

I have been a bad, BAD blogger, my peeps. Lo siento mucho, pero no era mi intención. But here are some PICTURES to make up for it! Eh? Eh?! Okay… well, how ’bout THESE, then? C’mon! See?! With the SAGUAROS?! Saguaros have got to be worth something. Just sayin’.

So, here’s the deal. TGIM and I have been traipsing all over Arizona, which, HELLO HEAT! Anyhoos, it’s the yearly trek Out West to drop the kids off with the grandparents in Podunky Small Town Arizona, and boy howdy is it hot here. And don’t give me, “Well… at least it’s a DRY heat…” Are you FREAKING KIDDING ME with that?! It’s ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SIX DEGREES outside! I don’t care if the heat is dry, I am burning up! BURNING UP, I tell you! Honestly. When they call Phoenix “The Valley of the Sun,” they mean it literally.

You don’t buy it? Okay, well, let me tell you, on the Fourth of July it was so hot that when we pulled into my sister-in-law’s driveway and opened the car door, the wave of heat was so intense it took away our breath and nearly tumbled us back into the car. And then? As we struggled out of the formerly air-conditioned car– now roughly 110 degrees and rising as we let all the cool air out– we were all, “If we can just make it to the house, then we’ll be able to breathe again! And maybe we won’t melt! Or have a heat-stroke and die right here on this pavement radiating with thousand-degree heat!” But when my sister-in-law took about 60 seconds longer than should have been necessary to answer the door (like her three-year-old NEEDS help on the toilet?! whatever?!), I am positive I suffered some sort of mini heat stroke (although TGIM tells me I was just being a big ol’ drama queen– I know, right?! RUDE.) and nearly collapsed on the spot.

Anyhoos, we’ve escaped the heat of Phoenix and are now safely established in Podunky Small Town Arizona, where my mother is introducing me to culture, like, “Flip This House” and “Confessions of a Matchmaker,” and I have just finished a wedding video for my brother-in-law, who is getting married on Saturday. Gettin’ hitched, if you will.

Good times, these.

Yet all the while, I am dreading tomorrow, when TGIM and I head back down to Phoenix to catch our flight home. But not because of the heat. Nope. I probably won’t even feel it this time around. Because I’m leaving the kiddos here. And though I know they are in safe hands, and I know they are in for a summer of swimming at the pool, biking at the park, hiking around town, and playing with cousins and friends… I hate to go. Because our house is so, so QUIET when they’re gone.

So quiet.

*sigh*

I’m gonna miss those buggers.