Sheriff Lamb, I Mean Michael Muhney, ROCKS SOLID.

**For more background on how I “met” (okay, make that “virtually met”) the actor Michael Muhney, CLICK HERE and HERE.

Nothing perks an injured gal up more than an email from her friendly neighborhood Sheriff Lamb (AKA: Michael Muhney of Veronica Mars fame)! Of course, until a few days ago I thought the email from Sheriff Lamb, I mean Michael Muhney, was simply the product of my Percocet-induced loopy-doopy mind, but NO! He really WROTE to me! Out of the BLUE! Because he’s AWESOME! I mean, he wrote to me while dandling his newborn baby on his KNEE! And I can’t believe I just used the word “DANDLING”! Because who SAYS that?!

Of course, the contents of said email are private and close to my heart, so BACK OFF.

Anyway, now I’m feeling a bit nostalgic, so I thought I would re-post my interview –okay, FINE, Paige was there, too, but whatever– with the most awesome Michael Muhney, who is obviously, like, my BFF now, right? Right? Oh, BTW, Paige, Sheriff Lamb, I mean Michael Muhney, says, “Hi.” But whatever. He still likes me best. Clearly.

**Aside to My BFF, Michael Muhney, Intended to Display My Self-Importance: Michael Muhney, you know I think you rock. And since you apparently know Joss FREAKING Whedon (squeeee!) well enough to have actual conversations with him… *just breathe… breathe…*… well, here’s hoping he realizes how rockin’ you are, too. **

Man. I don’t remember the video being THAT long. But still? AWESOME!

Also, don’t forget to check out my — I mean, OUR (my bad, Paige!)– special tribute to Sheriff Lamb, lovingly produced after his life was cut tragically short by the almighty crack of a baseball bat to the head.

Veronica Mars REWIND… er, Rewind

I thought I would re-post a few of my old Veronica Mars REWIND episodes because Michael Muhney rocks. Click HERE for more info!

TechnoGeekery Show #14: Podsafe Music… Pump Up the Volume!

Remember when Christian Slater was hawt? You know, like in Heathers? Oooh, and in Pump Up the Volume?! The 1990 dramady about rebellious quasi-political teens working out their angst via underground radio?! So they could Talk Hard?! ‘Member?! Do ya?!

Really? Cool.

And that’s what we in the biz call a “teaser”… because a new TechnoGeekery vidcast is up:

TechnoGeekery #14: Podsafe Music… Pump Up the Volume!

And while Christian Slater may not make an actual appearance, Chassy Cat may have an emotional Mary Katherine Gallagher monologue moment or two during this particular podcast. Perhaps. I’m just saying. It could happen.

Superstar!!

Random Thoughts on a Dreary Thursday Afternoon

Okay, I’m not sure if any of you have ever lost consciousness before, so let me just say very quickly here: Don’t do it.

No, seriously. If you can avoid a situation in which there is a possibility you might lose consciousness, by all means, do so. Whatever you do, do not pass out. Especially if you have foolishly locked yourself in an ER restroom where no one can find you until you come to, drag yourself up from the floor, and stagger out to find a nurse. Or, you know, anyone who will make the world stop spinning. It is NOT fun. Not fun at all. Trust me.

Just FYI.

Also, this? This right here is exactly what happens when you send a man to get support supplies after you bust your ass. Wait. I have to say, it seems like there should be something after that, doesn’t it? Like, “I busted my ass doing this report and this is the thanks I get?!” Or, “Hey, don’t bust your ass trying to get this done, it’s not that big a deal, yo?” You know? But whatever. Hee. I said “but.” Which totally sounds exactly like butt! Because it is a homonym?! Or more specifically, a homophone?! Hee! BUT.

What?

Oh yes… THIS is exactly what happens!

I know, right?! It’s like he just walked into CVS and grabbed the biggest, brightest, most gosh-awfulest butt-support-donut EVER and was like, “Dude. Cat will so totally love me for this. I am the best husband in the entire universe. I wonder if my bike pump will fit this bad boy?” And I was like, “Oh, the HELL you say?!”

I mean, guys? It smells like those kickballs you used to check out from the P.E. teachers at recess! Yeah. Like that. And I can totally bounce it and it makes that rubbery BOING! sound, which I demonstrated to several of my very impressed co-workers. Well, once they recovered from the blinding shock of the Manic Panic Orange, that is.

Honestly.

Thank goodness for my spare office hoodie, that’s all I’m saying.

So… think anyone will notice?

Conversation Over B-Day Breakfast for TD

by Guest Blogger TGIM

Scene: Family of five, two adults, one rugged twelve-year old boy and two young girlie-girls. All sitting down, waiting for breakfast to be served.

Man to Rugged Boy: “Son, would you like to go to the sporting goods store and check out some pocketknives?”

Girlie Girl #1: “Ooh, I want a pocketknife!”

Girlie Girl #2: “Hey, can I have a knife too?!”

Rugged Boy (with slightly sheepish smile): “Um, yeah… do you think we could go to the craft store instead?”

Woman to all: “Wow.”

End Scene.

Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!

Last night was a comedy of errors, really. Except sad. And very painful. Lots of pain. But a comedy, nonetheless. Bringing the funny.

Ha?

It all began when I slipped on the iced-over concrete steps outside of our house while on my way to the mailbox. I had keys in one hand and envelopes in the other and it all happened so fast, so I didn’t even have time to catch myself. So, THUD, thud, thud. Then pain. Scratch that. I meant to say PAIN. Yet, even through the haze of agony, I automatically did that thing you do when you fall. You know? That thing? When you look frantically around to see if anyone saw you fall, because 1) embarrassing!, and 2) if anyone DID see it is imperative that you do the “I’m all right! Ta da! Nothing to see here!” thing, and 3) EMBARRASSING. Hmm. Why do people do that, anyway? And by “people” I mean “me.” When a weakly uttered, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” would be so totally appropriate, not to mention awesomely pathetic? Really.

But, I digress. Luckily I was able to pick myself up, and– clutching my back– managed to stagger back through my front door before passing out. Coincidentally, Alli was watching Madagscar and was just at the part where Alex the Lion has been nailed with tranquilizer darts and is in a psychedelic delirium. I know, right? It lent itself well to my own confused thinking during my dramatic collapse and loss of consciousness. Mood music, if you will. Hey, mad props on the timing, Fate! You bizzyotch.

When I came to, TD was on the phone with 911. I guess when I came staggering through the front door babbling about how I thought I’d broken my tailbone and to “call DAD!” he insisted on calling 911 first. He apparently told me (several times, allegedly), “Okay, I’ll call Dad, but 911 FIRST!” At the time, 911 meant nothing to me, just random numbers he kept throwing around. Like 12. Or 7. I couldn’t understand why he was so fixated on those stupid numbers when clearly I needed him to call TGIM. I’m pretty proud of the kid, actually. He stayed calm, followed the directions of the 911 dispatcher, and took care of his utterly freaked-out sisters. Of course, the four blankets he and the girls ripped off the beds and threw over me may have been overkill on the whole “Keep her warm!” directive, but still… proud!

So… I got my first ambulance ride out of the experience. But I have to say it wasn’t as fun as one would think. Probably because of the neck brace, the backboard, the IV, and the excruciating pain. Probably.

At the hospital they took x-rays (after three hours) and told me that while I didn’t appear to have broken anything, my coccyx was badly bruised (along with my dignity) and I will have to check back with my doctor on Friday, in case of internal bruising or a herniated lumbar disc or some such nonsense. You know what? Herniated is a funny word. HER-NEE-AAAY-TED. See? Funny.

After about six hours in the emergency room, they finally decided to discharge me. Yes, even though it was after midnight. And TGIM and the kiddos were at home in bed (thinking I was staying the night). But the emergency room was swamped and they needed the bed, so there you go. Unfortunately, in their haste, they did not take the time to do the little things. You know, like check my blood pressure? Which is a good idea when a patient tells you repeatedly that she has low blood pressure, and you decide to hop her up on Percocet anyway (on an empty stomach, no less), and then leave her laid out on a stretcher for six hours.

Because when you pull out her IV and point her toward the exit, and she decides to take a pit stop at the emergency room bathroom (IV? six hours? duh?), no good can come of it. None. Zilch. And wouldn’t you know it? No matter how sternly I told myself that I would NOT pass out– no, absolutely NOT, under no circumstances, I am not even JOKING!– the next thing I knew I was still coming to with my cheek pressed against the cool tiles of the bathroom floor. The kicker? I apparently twisted my ankle on the way down, just before I broke my fall with my face. Of course, having been unconscious during the fall, I didn’t feel a thing, so that was a mercy. Then again, I feel it now. Which… no fun at all? And while the sprained ankle seems reasonable to concerned friends and family, how do I explain the bruises and swelling on my face, when I purportedly fell on my bum?

Oh, I guess I just did. Sa-WEET.

Hey. You know what else is a funny word? Percocet. Ha! It’s loopy doopy. Percocet…

Oh, Snap!

Allison dragged me over to the dream home she had constructed for her Polly Pocket using an empty paper box, a pair of heavy duty scissors, assorted colored pencils, and some seriously stellar eight-year-old ingenuity.

“Momma, look, ” she instructed, flourishing at the box with a red colored pencil she had evidently put to work covering the outside of Polly’s new home with meticulously crafted bricks. “Check it out!”

Mentally tallying how many hours before TGIM tripped over Polly’s dream home one too many times and condemned it to tear down status, I said, “Ooh, uh-huh.” Hey! With motherly pride! Step off me!

“Well?” she asked, her face lit with eagerness and pride in ownership. “What do you think of Polly Pocket’s new briiiiiiiiiick… hooouuuuse?”

I ruffled her hair playfully. “It’s mighty mighty,” I replied, almost without thought. “Now Polly can let it all hang out.”

We stood there, mother and daughter, admiring Polly Pocket’s Dream Home in artistic and Motown solidarity. After a moment we went our separate ways, each of us humming and singing “She’s a briiiiiick… hoooouse…” under our breath and jiving to the beat. What can I say?

That’s just how we roll at the DWM house.

“Momma, can I read to you?”

Alli stood at my left shoulder, resting her chin on the back of my chair to peek at whatever it was on my computer screen that held my attention. I could feel her there, fidgety and anxious, waiting as patiently as she knew how until I finished typing. Her warm breath tickled my neck, and I smiled to myself. I turned away from the computer (these days it is always the computer) to give her a smile, and that is when it happened. That is when I saw her.

Really saw her.

Of course you saw her, dipstick, you think to yourself. You were looking right at her. And you’d be right, of course, except for the “dipstick” part, because that is just plain rude. I looked at her. Of course I looked at her. But it was what I saw that startled me.

I’m not going to spout any hackneyed verbiage about seeing her “with new eyes” or “for the first time.” Nor will I wax allegorical about seeing beyond the outward appearance of those around us. Nope. It was simpler than that. I wasn’t seeing her anew; I was just… seeing her. Her sea green eyes, one magnified by a coke bottle lens, but both shining up at me, full of depth and warmth. The freckle on her chin. The wisps of unruly hair that danced around her hairline, escaped from the confines of her ponytail. The sweet little nose. The determined tilt of her chin, seemingly at odds with the amiable set of her lips. The almost palpable energy radiating from her body as her excitement and vitality threatened to spill over, to overwhelm me with, just… her, all of her, even as she struggled for composure.

She was so beautiful in that moment. Ethereal, yet so very real. I literally ached with the beauty of her. All of her. In that moment, she wasn’t just a spunky little mini-me with glasses and a propensity for chattering simply for chattering’s sake. I don’t know how else to say it. She was just… herself.

And it was breathtaking.

Alli shook my shoulder. “Mom? Momma?” She peered into my eyes, and a shadow of concern crossed her face.

Just a moment had gone by–seconds, really–but I felt both physically and emotionally exhausted, absolutely spent, as if I’d been traveling for weeks in some far off place and I was finally returning home. Trying to get my bearings.

I blinked a few times, fast, winking away any tears that dared to escape. I showed my tear ducts who’s boss, so to speak. “Yes, sweetie?” I finally answered.

“I love you.”

Now, I know for a fact that she had been about to ask me, “Can I read to you?” Because that is what she always asks when her homework is finished and she needs to read for twenty minutes for her reading log. But she changed the program.

“I love you, too,” I replied, then pulled her into my arms for a hug.

“I know,” she said simply. Then, “Momma?” she asked as she gently disentangled herself from my arms, arms which may or may not have been holding her a teensy bit too tightly.

“Hmm…?”

“Can I read to you?”

After a momentary glitch, we were back to our regularly scheduled program. All was well in the world.

But now, as I think back to that moment, I can’t help but wonder if Alli veered off-script because at that moment, that exact moment when she looked into my eyes… she saw me, too.

TechnoGeekery: Request for Questions

New vidcast up at TechnoGeekery.com!

That being said, I’ve been thinking about the future lately. Oh, not in a Saving For The Future kind of way, or an I Will One Day Backpack My Way Across Europe If It Is The Last Thing I Ever Do So Help Me GOD kind of way, but in the What The HELL Am I Doing With My LIFE way. You know. I know you know.

I blame TechnoGeekery.

Oh, yes. Yes, I do.

Here’s thing. I was approached, asked if I’d be interested in focusing my desire to create video podcasts into something with a little more purpose than PSA’s about Public Restroom Cell Phone Etiquette (I still stand by my original stance of *shudder*), and I was all, “Okay!”

Because I’m STUPID?

Here, let me tell you a secret: Me? I’m a bit of a perfectionist. No, really! Um… and a tad OCD. A smidge, really. Oh, and there’s the ADHD thing. So being the sole writer, cinematographer, film editor, director, producer, performer, musical coordinator, and PR person for a video podcast? A little time consuming. And–perhaps– a bit stressful. You know, at times. Or… most of the time.

So, while many audio podcasters may be able to set aside a few nights a week to record two or three episodes of their show per night, it is possible they may not have even a remotely accurate idea of the amount of time I put into one five-minute episode of TechnoGeekery.

See, it’s a chunk of time. A HUGE chunk. Big ol’ chunky chunk. Lots of chunk going on here.

And I can’t help wondering… well, what in the world is it all for? Why do I do it? Why do I fret over it? Will I look back on my life ten years from now and think, “Boy, HOWDY. I am so GLAD I spent all my free time making episodes of TechnoGeekery.” In the big scheme of things, how important is it to me that maybe–just perhaps– I made someone laugh? And maybe–just perhaps– I taught someone something they didn’t know? And if the answer to both of those questions is “pretty darn important,” the obvious question is then, “Is it important enough?”

And I’m not sure it is.

Especially when I stumble across a piece of writing like the following, which I wrote back in June of ‘06 after seeing Shopgirl, and I am reminded of exactly where I want to be in ten years:

June 5, 2006

This weekend TGIM and I watched Steve Martin’s novella-turned-motion picture Shopgirl (which… great movie) and though it had moments of humor which one would expect from the guy who shall go down in infamy as That Guy Who Played The Jerk, the humor was quiet– subtle, even. Further, the movie truly said something, spoke truths, and conveyed this in an atmosphere that was slow and thoughtful and deeply affecting. It reminded me quite a bit of Lost in Translation, actually, in both pace and poignancy. Both movies star over-the-hill comedians in quirky, May-December relationships with beautiful young girls– and I do freely admit the thought of watching Steve Martin and Bill Murray playing any beautiful young girl’s crush/lover initially squicked me right out– but amazingly, they both pull it off, so yay them.

But most of all, both movies speak of loss and discovery and an emotional awakening in a way that I have come to realize I long to master in my own writing. But too often it seems that when I am writing and find myself faced with the choice of expressing myself in a thoughtful, subtle manner or in a humorous, bantering light, I inevitably choose to joke. And I joke because that’s just what I DO, I laugh, whether life brings me gifts of joy all tied up with pretty bows or bitch-slaps me and hands me bitter disappointment, I laugh and laugh and laugh. Then laugh some more. To be honest, I cry, also, but not in front of anyone, not so anyone can see, because what if people find out there are chinks in this laissez faire demeanor I’ve created– they could hurt me more, right? I don’t like anybody to see me cry. Much like my youngest daughter Alli, who when she hurts herself will inevitably jump up from the spill shouting, “I’m all right! I’m okay! That kind of tickled, actually!” even though we all know it hurt her and there are tears in her eyes and she is just saying it didn’t hurt so we will leave her alone and she can run away and cry in peace. In a way perhaps we are trying to say, “You can’t hurt me. Nothing can hurt me. I laugh at pain! Ha ha ha!”

So I write and I’m silly and whimsical and manic and almost always utterly tongue-in-cheek, and though I quite often express exactly what I am truly feeling, it is more often than not hidden away in evasive verbiage. Linguistic smoke and mirrors, if you will. And though I know emotional honesty does not always have to be slow or thoughtful and that poignancy and humor are not mutually exclusive, I wish sometimes I could find the words to illustrate what I really mean without resorting to silliness and feigned vapidity. To be starkly honest, to lay my heart out in words so you could actually feel it beating if you just listened closely enough, and you just KNOW. You feel me. Hear me.

Then, inevitably, I run off to watch an old episode of Buffy or Veronica Mars and I am lost in the witty quips and snarky banter, and awed by the sheer brilliance of the marriage between humor and poignancy in the writing, and I’m like, “Eh.”

Because although I sometimes yearn– burn, even– to write peaceful, thoughtful prose, yes, passages of deeply affecting language whose impact will stay with people for hours, days, even years after reading it, that is not who I am. I am impulsive and passionate, rarely peaceful. And I see life though a haze of sardonic humor and I can’t help but spill it out in my writing.

And I think I am finally coming to terms with that.

Grr! Stupid Shopgirl. Making me all meditative and whatnot. Bah! I’m off to eat a donut and shake off this silly moment of introspective sentimentalism… I’m thinking cinnamon cake.

Carry on.

American Idol is WAY more exciting.

Dude. How very anticlimactic.

So, apparently the Surprisingly Essential First Page contest judges have not watched enough American Idol to learn how to go about informing the public about the contestants’ elimination from a public contest. Right? All I’m saying is they obviously don’t have an appreciation for how awesomely the judges and my wee Ryan bring the UN!COMFORTABLE! to the elimination process. Like the time– during the Best. Results Show. EVER.– when my Ry-Ry was all “Chrisyouaregoinghometonight.” And Chris Daughtry was like, “What in the which where? WHO IN THE WHAT NOW?!” and Kat McPhee was trying to do the Snoopy Dance of Joy and cry at the same time, and Taylor Hicks (soooooulpatrooool) and Elliott Yamin were like “Yes!” (*fist pump*) “Wow, sorry, dude”? And Chris was pissed– like, seriously, he looked like he wanted to reach through the television and kill me dead– but it was just so AWESOME?! And now they use Chris’s song as the farewell (AKA: See Ya, Wouldn’t Wanna Be Ya) song and he is totally kicking ass with his very own band which he named after his very own self so it all worked out in the end? You know?

Because, honestly… how fun was THIS?! No fun at ALL, that’s how fun! We put ourselves out there, lay it all on the line, and what do we get? Nothing! A big ZIP. Nada. Zilch. ZIPPO. What about the bottom three? And the agony of staying in the bottom three until “after the break”? And where was the anxiety? The tears? The almost unbearable stress? The gratuitous “You look great tonight” and “You moved me”? The thinly veiled homophobic posturing? HUH?! Seriously. I’m saying.

But I have to give the judges their props, yo? 675 entries? Hey, I mean, Simon, Paula, and Randy get a gagillion contestants or whatever, so they could be all like, “Oooh, ‘wah!’ 675 entries? Bitch, please.” But there’s THREE of them– not just two, right?– so there you go.

But whatever. I’m not discouraged. No worries. As God is my witness, if Chris Daughtry can headline his own personal shouty band, I can get myself published.

So it’s all good.

Cat, OUT.