Dance in the Stillness

I have the house to myself.

It’s been so long since it’s been this quiet. This still. So here I am, curled up under my comforter savoring the view of the small patch of grayish blue sky I can see while staring through the slightly parted curtains of my bedroom window. There is something so freeing about lying in bed in the middle of the day with the curtains open, letting in the sun and the sky and the light, not blocking it all out, not shutting it all away, even if I might want to nap a little or perhaps just close my eyes for a bit—just a few moments!—because I know it will still be there when I open my eyes again. The sun and the sky and the light. There. Quiet and still. In the middle of the day that is MINE. I can’t explain it! I can’t! It is just so.

The thin branches in the tree outside are softly swaying and waving as the bitter winter breeze batters and bends them, tearing from them any remnants of clinging leaves, setting them free. But these leaves, remainders of the fall, they don’t dance with the wind. They are crinkled and paper thin and they break apart, disintegrate before my eyes, and swirl and twirl away, painting the air with warm earthy hues of russets and browns until they are out of sight.

But I push these thoughts away, because it is my day, my light and sky and peace, and I am snug, burrowing deeply into the soft down duvet. I’m soothed, running my hands across the top of the blanket, savoring the feel of the smooth expanse of well-worn cotton against my palms while I again allow my thoughts to drift upwards and out. Unfortunately, my thoughts never will stay elevated for any great length of time, and while I want to close my eyes, to enjoy the peace, I quickly lose myself in thoughts of the mundane. Chores. Responsibilities. My developing MarioKart skills. How I really ought to be filming a TechnoGeekery episode or doing something productive, dammit, rather than burrowing away from everyone and everything, staring out the window. Frustrated, I close my eyes, which is particularly effective in shutting out unwanted, intruding thoughts. Ah, stillness. Quiet. Peace. Gradually, however, my thoughts slip into imagining that new pair of Uggs I am absolutely coveting because they may be the fugliest footwear imaginable, but DAAAY-UM they keep my tootsies toasty and make mighty fine slippers and my old pair have absolutely no traction and I don’t want to bust my ass again slipping down the icy steps…

I just opened my eyes and the digital clock on my bedside table caught my eye. It is staring at me in silent condemnation, all “Look at the time you wasted! Just LOOK!” With a rueful grin, I move to throw back the covers, and then another leaf catches my attention. It swirls and twirls and disappears from my view. Then another blows by… and another.

And I realize that I am holding on too tight, I’m not letting go, when I should be breaking free to dance with the wind, to swirl and whirl and paint the sky, lush forest green with hints of olive, goldenrod, and palest yellow, and perhaps even a thin streak of burgundy running throughout, with really only one possible destination, but it is okay, more than fine, because it is my time to fly, my journey to enjoy, not half-assed, but wholeheartedly.

I smile and sink back into my cocoon of blankets, stretch lazily, and welcome the sound of stillness as it washes over me, through me.

Let it blow, I think to myself. I’m ready to dance.

Random Thoughts on a Snowy, Dreary WAH Day

Sometimes during especially long meetings, thoughts tend to run through my mind unchecked as I daydream about the tasty animal crackers I have back at my desk or ponder why I am compelled to add “haha” any time someone says “brouhaha” or wonder why it is called “after dark” when it really is “after light” because, seriously, what is up with that?

Also, do you know what is an inherently funny word? Freckle. Right? Am I right? Honestly. When someone says “freckle” I just laugh and laugh…

Finally, you know that thing you do sometimes when you are all alone at night and you hear noises and maybe– perhaps!– get a little freaked out, and your heart begins racing at three times the rate of your normal cardiac cycle, so you grab a bat and you tiptoe from room to room throwing open closet and bathroom doors while letting loose with an ear-splitting “AAAAAAIIIIIEEEEEEGH!” and totally swinging that bat with all you’ve got? Because adrenaline is POWERFUL and you could probably do some DAMAGE if someone was actually behind said closet and bathroom door(s)? Also, it is good aerobic exercise? You know, that thing?

No?

Me neither. Tachycardia is nobody’s friend.

More Passive-Aggressive PTA Shenanigans

Oh, HELL no.

I cannot BELIEVE I have been ambushed by the PTA! Again! I walked right into it, too, which is such an embarrassment and a true testament to how sleep-deprived I truly am due to the evil Nintendo and its wily Pokemon Diamond ways (I caught a Dialga. It’s a Legendary. I know, right?) Damn the PTA! DAMN THEM TO HELL! It’s supposed to be an orchestra concert, not an impromptu PTA meeting! Or, not so impromptu… just planned unbeknownst to me. Totally NOT beknownst! To me! Or most of the parents here, apparently, as 90 percent of them whipped out a Blackberry, iPhone, or other electronic device of choice seconds after the PTA president said, “Well, while you’re all heeeeeere… we may as well hold a SUPER quick PTA meeting, okay? Seriously! Five minutes. Maybe ten. Not that you have a choice, ha ha ha!… No, seriously, sit down. This is HAPPENING.”

I did NOT sign up for this. I call passive-aggressive PTA shenanigans! FAIL! Dear LORD, they are talking about the budget now. The BUDGET! Okay, just kill me now. Seriously. Just make it quick. And not in any way painful. Or gross.

Whatever. There better be some tasty cookies this time, that’s all I’m saying, or the PTA president is going DOWN.

Speaking of presidents, I am genuinely shocked by how many people I know who are totally on a first name basis with the President of the United States. For reals! They are all like “Oooh, Barack said this” and “Ooooh, Barack did that” While I, with no apparent claims of familiarity, am forced to stand on ceremony and call him “President Obama.” Or, if I’m feeling bold and sassy, perhaps “Mr. Prez, sir.” Hey! I said perhaps! Anyway, color me impressed.

Oooooh! Time for the concert. What the…?! The sneak-attack PTA meeting only lasted twenty-six minutes?! A personal best.

Happy Birthday to You!

The fact that Hannah was born on the day my brother Jon was born, which also happens to be the day my Dad was born is just a crazy random happenstance. But I do admit, I LOVE that I have a super-duper built-in birthday reminder so I don’t forget at least TWO of my family members’ birthdays! Most of the time!

Shut up. I can’t help how I am.

Happy birthday, Hannah, Jon, and Dad. I love you guys.

Strange and Shouty Thanks

I am not updating to toot my own horn (I’m not comfortable with self-horn tooting) but because a few of you asked me to. So, here it goes:

I did it! I stopped and smiled at the strange, shouty man on the corner (sorry, Jake, but he IS both strange and shouty, and that is how I shall describe him), and I put something in his outstretched cup (again, none o’ your business). He said (or, rather, shouted), “Yeah! Yeah! That’s right! Ha ha! Thank you! Thank you! That’s what I’m talking about! Yeah!” And, honestly? I could tell he totally meant it.

It was kind of awesome.

I mean, it’s one thing to give annually to CFC (if you’re Fed, you know CFC), but it is quite another thing to stand face-to-face with someone on the receiving end of your contribution. Sure, it can be a little awkward and scary and outside of your comfort zone. Oh, not pee-your-pants-in-freaking-terror scary or anything, but awkward nonetheless.

But guys? It can also be kind of awesome.

Oh, Think Twice

There’s a man… living in a cardboard box… down by the White House.

I want to joke. It’s what I do. You must understand: it is genetic. I had absolutely no say in the matter. Because, yes, you see, I have inherited the Loud Laugher/Loud Talker gene from my mother’s side of the family, which makes for good times in cubicle-land, let me tell you. Especially when I get phone calls. Or an especially funny email. I get shushed. I do! And when I break my butt walking down icy stairs , I laugh (after I pass out). When I pass out (again) while locked in the ER restroom, resulting in a twisted ankle and a bruised up face, I laugh. When my husband hits me in the head with a racquetball going mach 7, after I cry like a baby and cuss him to bits, I laugh. When I joke about someone hurting my feelings or breaking my heart, I laugh. I can’t help how I am.

But I can’t find the funny in this.

I work in DC. A block away from the White House. (And that’s all the details you’ll ever get out of me. Because it’s none of your business where I work, THAT’S why. STALKER.) And when I remember to get my hyper-focused self out of my cubicle and into the fresh air, I see him. During the bustle of the midday lunch crowd, there he is, right there on the sidewalk, fast asleep on a ratty old bed of blankets and newspapers, wearing several layers of clothing, his only possessions (as far as I can tell) an old metal shopping cart, a coffee cup filled with change and folded-up dollar bills, and a plastic drugstore bag filled with well-worn paperback books and assorted paraphernalia that is usually resting against the abandoned storefront window. The first time I saw him, I thought, Why doesn’t anyone steal his money? Or his bag? He’s SO out. Because I am a horrible person and that was the first thing that popped into my head. Theft. Yes, my parents are so proud. But in thinking that thought, I realized that no one stole his stuff… because they didn’t see it.

He wasn’t even there.

She calls out to the man on the street
“Sir, can you help me?
It’s cold and I’ve nowhere to sleep,
Is there somewhere you can tell me?”

And now it’s winter, and it’s bitter cold, and today I actually remembered to get my hyper-focused self out of my cubicle and into the fresh air. And I discovered that where the ratty old bed of blankets and newspaper used to be is a cardboard hut, built in a sort of half-hexagon shape and propped pretty solidly up against the abandoned storefront window. It’s a pretty intricate structure, with a swinging door (blocked by the shopping cart when I walked by). The coffee cup was there, filled with the usual change and folded-up dollar bills. And this time I thought, How did he build that? Did people stop and watch? Did anyone help him? The authorities have to know he’s here. Are they going to make him tear it down? Good LORD, he is LITERALLY living in a cardboard box! People don’t live in cardboard boxes. You can’t LIVE in a cardboard box. And I thought all this as I pulled my coat more tightly around me and pulled on my mittens to help ward off the icy wind blowing by.

But y’all? There’s a man living in a cardboard box down by the White House.

I have a confession: If he were awake when the crowds bustle by, perhaps sitting on his blankets reading, or talking to himself, or simply staring into space, I probably wouldn’t be able to recall such vivid details of the living space he has staked out as his own. I couldn’t. Because I know in my heart that I would probably look away. Like I do when the strange, shouty man at the corner of the street by the Metro entrance waves his coffee cup full of change at me as I rush to get to the train on time. Because I never have cash, and even if I did, I wouldn’t know what to do with it. Is it like a Ding Dong Ditch? Drop in a dollar, make no eye contact, and hurry by? What happens then? Will I be obligated to drop money into his cup every time I pass him? Will he expect it? I don’t know! I don’t!

Today, from across the street, I watched covertly as others hurried by him. Some dropped change and dollars into his cup, thus earning his strange, shouty thanks. Some smiled in his direction as they passed, flashing him a “Sorry, buddy, not today” type of gesture. But mostly? People walked on by, some even quickening their step or swerving as far from him as possible as they passed.

He walks on, doesn’t look back
He pretends he can’t hear her
Starts to whistle as he crosses the street
Seems embarrassed to be there

Yes, the economy sucks. Yes, people are losing their jobs. Yes, we need a change. Yes, we need hope. So I can’t help but be bewildered by this sense of complacency regarding homelessness I perceive in our nation’s capital, this abandonment of the needy, people who have the time and the wherewithal to build cardboard huts on the streets, right in front of us, right outside buildings where thousands of people work, only a block away from the home of the most influential person in the entire country, and yet… there they are? Are we, as a whole, complacent? ARE we? I don’t know! I don’t! I’m not judging. I’m ASKING.

Because there’s a man living in a cardboard box down by the White House. And I can’t find the funny in that. I just… can’t.

Oh think twice, it’s another day for
You and me in paradise
Oh think twice, it’s just another day for you,
You and me in paradise

Just think about it.

A new episode of TechnoGeekery is up!

I was so excited about the iPhone/iTouch friendliness of DWM and TG that I produced a TechnoGeekery episode about it! Also, a guy named John asked me how to make a (self-hosted) Wordpress blog iPhone friendly. But I’m just saying there was definite excitement going on here, as well! Just so you know.

Check it out! Even if you don’t care about the topic… because there will be singing. And an Easter Egg! (I’m almost positive I know what an Easter Egg IS, and if I’m right, there IS one. I think. Probably.)

TechnoGeekery Show #43: Make Your Blog iPhone Friendly

You’re welcome.

DWM is now iPhone Friendly!

Check me out on your iPhone or iTouch. Just do it! Do it! It’s SOOOOO totally awesome.

That said, if you do not admire the awesomeness, then by all means scroll to the bottom of the site (on said iPhone and/or iTouch) and switch from “iPhone View” to “Normal View.” Badda bing badda boom! Totally normal. DWM, Old School.

SWEET!

Just wanted to share. Now I’m off to pretty up TechnoGeekery. Oooh! Perhaps I shall do an episode on how to go iPhone Friendly…

*thinks deep thoughts*

I shall compose a song, I think.

Note to Self…

NOTE TO SELF: Never watch heart-wrenching episodes of “Gossip Girl” while riding the Metro to work. When you tear up, sniffle, and let slip muffled sobs because Chuck is BREAKING YOUR HEART, comments to fellow riders (who are openly staring) such as “…allergies…” or “…stupid dry contacts…” as you brush away the watery mascara-laced tears are not fooling ANYBODY. Also, buy bread and milk. We’re out.

ID Badge Walk of Shame

So, there are card readers in my place o’ work. Lots of them. You know, for my safety? Also to engender self-loathing? Because before I can go through any door, or up or down any elevator, or into or out of any stairwell, I must stop, whip my super-secure badge out of its lead (yuh-huh!) case, and then stand in front of a card reader for, like, TENS of moments of my day, swiping my stupid (but actually smart) ID back and forth (and back and forth) and back and forth. And all the while, guys? All the entire while?! I am attempting to shield my eyes from the tragic evidence of just how absolutely AWFUL my hair looked on the day they took my ID photo, an unfortunate circumstance which—I might add— was totally not my fault! Except for it kind of was! Because that was the day I decided it would be a good idea to go ahead and walk the several city blocks to the GSA building instead of hopping on the Metro like everybody else. Because this is called aerobic exercise and is very good for my heart, that’s why!

Flash forward to me, today, approaching the door to the suite of offices on my boss’s floor. I waved and smiled at a group of my colleagues who were waiting at the elevators, reached for my ID badge, and steeled myself for the imminent embarrassment of Cat’s Oh-So Tragic Hair Day Which Will Live Forever In Infamy. But then? I spotted my opportunity! An opportunity of golden proportions! It was FedEx Delivery Dude! I am so not joking. I like to think it was fate’s little way of looking out for me and my fragile ego. Because if I hurried I could catch up to FedEx Delivery Dude and sneak right in behind him, no badge (and subsequent self-loathing) necessary! Score! Sadly, FedEx Delivery Dude was way too busy and important to hold the door for me and my ID badge of shame, but I totally sped up behind him and JUST caught the door before it could swing shut.

“Ha HA!” I triumphed, perhaps a bit louder than I intended. A tad. Perhaps. I may have also pumped my fist. I don’t know. It’s all a blur now.

Bursts of laughter followed me in from the hallway, only to be cut short when the door fell closed behind me. The secretaries in the foyer eyed me warily as I stumbled to a stop in front of their desks (the momentum of my hustle may have propelled me through the door at a pace a bit more energetic than is considered seemly and/or work-appropriate), but I just smiled and went about my business. Because DUDE… I freaking snaked it, yo?

In other news, occasionally I am heedless and strange.

Sometimes I Can Be a Super Duper Buttinsky

(DISCLAIMER: This is in response to a situation that has nothing whatsoever to do with me; however, thoughts regarding this sitch will continue to nag at at me until I speak my mind. So there. Read it. Or don’t. Whatever. I do understand that my blog is a public forum and that this may cause negative or hard feelings to be directed my way. But whatever. I feel strongly about what is being said. That is all.)

Dear Lady of Questionable Humor Who was Recently Burned by Twitter Tweets:

I’m sorry that because of something you wrote in your Twitter stream you had to suffer the indignity of having the police come and check on you and your children. I worry all the time that one of my neighbors will call the police or child protective services because I have a daughter that has the most HORRIFYING, piercing yell—I kid you not—and she has absolutely no qualms about shrieking at the top of her lungs for longer than one would believe is humanly possible if her older brother so much as looks at her wrong. Which he does. A LOT. To have the cops come because someone heard her screaming and thought someone was hurting her would be embarrassing and horrible and scary and did I mention TOTALLY EMBARRASSING?! I’ve tried to explain to her that there are “Good Samaritans” out there who could potentially call the police because they can hear her screaming, but she’s a child… and when it comes right down to it, it’s an impulse control issue and all we can do is work on it. That said, I’d be pissed if someone DID call the authorities, especially without talking to me first, but I would totally understand why. While I’d rather be approached first, I really wouldn’t expect a neighbor to come to my door and ask, “Excuse me, are you abusing your child in there?” Nah. Not many people would be brave enough to take that risk. I’m not saying it’s right. I’m just saying.

That said…

I’m American. I don’t watch Fox news (I don’t watch any network news, actually). I do watch “Bones” and “House,” though, and they are on Fox so sometimes I see news commercials during the breaks, but I don’t think that should count because I am usually getting snacks and such, or spending quality time with my husband and children. And I live in the DC Metro area, which is technically “The South” if you go by the Mason-Dixon line, which I totally don’t because that line of demarcation is ancient HISTORY. But dude. Honestly. If you use Twitter, you have no expectation of privacy, unless you protect your updates. And frankly, I don’t know you from Adam, but after reading back through several of your Tweets, I know more about your battles with bipolar disorder, your strained relationship with your husband, and your discontent with your co-workers (and boss) than I think is entirely necessary. WAY more. Good LORD with the TMI, woman! But I have the ability to, you know, NOT follow you. Or read your blog. Which is cool. If I don’t appreciate your brand of humor, so what, right? In the big scheme of things, it don’t mattah. We don’t know each other. We’ll likely never meet, even if I do ever travel to Canada. It’s a big place. Whatever. My good opinion is nothing to you.

So please don’t misunderstand me. I’m all for emotional honesty. I’m all for snark. I’m all for cutting jokes and whatnot. And I get that you want to Keep It Real. Awesome. Go on and get down with your bad self. You have that right. You have the right to ask all of Twitter if it would be okay to smother your screaming child. Even if you are TOTALLY kidding! Ha ha! I get it. You’re like Michael Scott. You hope to someday live in a world where a person could tell a hilarious Child Abuse joke. I hear you. But sadly, that is not our world. Yet. (Fingers crossed!)

So all the Twitter Tweeters who read your “questionable” Tweet (and the others before it) have the right-—and some “Good Samaritans” would say the responsibility-—to think—perhaps!—that someone ought to make sure that you are not REALLY going to smother your child to get her to be quiet and go to sleep. Because mothers ACTUALLY DO THAT. A commenter confessed that she Tweeted that she wanted to flush her child down the toilet, and asked if that Tweet should have sent alarm bells going in the Twitterdom, too. Well, no, actually, it shouldn’t. Why should it? Because mothers CAN’T ACTUALLY DO THAT. Unless there is some super secret child-flushable toilet out there that only she knows of, but even I cannot willingly suspend disbelief on that one, and I watched ALL SEVEN seasons of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer.” (I know, right?) Nor can you sell your child on eBay. Believe me. I’ve tried.

Wait! That was a joke.

You know, the image of the young mother Rowena smothering her three-year-old daughter in “Mary Jane Harper Cried Last Night” is STILL burned into my memory, and that came out in the 70s. THE 70s! I had nightmares! Didn’t want to sleep with a pillow anymore! Even though my momma was always super nice to me! But still! Hate Susan Dey to this… er, day! So there you go. You have willingly put yourself out there as a parent struggling through mental illness and the challenges of raising a family. So when you say something extreme, like “I want to kill my children,” this will lead to extreme reactions and/or responses. It will. You must have known that when you wrote it. Weren’t you trying to be shocking? Otherwise, a simple “My daughter won’t go to bed and she is driving me CRAAAZY…” would have sufficed. Extreme comments like yours set off alarm bells. They just do. And you can’t control the reaction you’ll get from readers who may not know you very well. Or, you know, at all. If you can’t understand that then maybe you shouldn’t be blogging. Or Twittering. At all. At least not in such a public forum.

Because sure, you have the right to Keep It Real and eschew “bullshit and fake honesty” in your own way. But if your exercise of that right in the public forum—where, again, people who see it may not (and most likely do not) know you personally—results in unintended negative consequences, then it is as Mark Twain wrote– that free speech “ranks with the privilege of committing murder: we may exercise it if we are willing to take the consequences.”

Perhaps instead of complaining that concerned readers should take the time to read back over your past posts and Tweets and figure out for themselves that you were just making a twisted sort of emotionally honest joke, perhaps you could ask yourself to take a few moments before you post something that you know is shocking or questionable and ask yourself if it may be taken in the wrong spirit by other parents or people who just don’t get your brand of humor. Like, “Hey, if I announced to a random crowd at the mall that I wanted to kill my children or asked passerbyers at the grocery store if it would be okay to smother my screaming child, would that raise alarm bells?” If the answer is yes, then there you go. Instant filter. Problem solved. I’m just suggesting that self-censorship is necessary if you aren’t keen on serious backlash for hasty or controversial content you put out there for anyone to read. Unless you WANT a reaction, of course, in which case, just keep on keeping on.

It’s like I tell my children who have inherited my control freak gene:  “You can’t control anyone but yourself.” To me, that principle extends to how we present ourselves and who we let into our little space in the blog world. You may not be able to control what other people take away from your writing, but you can control how you present your thoughts and feelings. Raw honesty does not have to be shocking or vulgar. It just has to be real.

Again, I am so sorry you had to suffer the indignity of cops coming by to check on you and your family. I mean that sincerely. That must have sucked SO MUCH.

That’s all I have to say about that. I will now carry on living my life.

“Suck it! I gave him 15!”

Would I be a big ol’ blasphemer if I confessed that Commentary!: The Musical– the Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog commentary by the cast and creators– is even better than the actual show? Would it?! Because I don’t know! I’m just asking, is all! For future reference!

Because DUDE. Nathan Fillion is HI-larious (AND better than Neil) which is an inside joke if you are cool and have already memorized the lyrics of Commentary!: The Musical which is brilliant and funny and interesting and ultimately educational. Because of that bit about some writers’ strike that supposedly went on last year? I mean, who knew?! Also, when the writers asked Joss Whedon where he got the idea for the musical and he responded all gloom-and-doomy, “It came from PAIN…” and they were like, “Let’s not talk to Joss! He’s sad and confusing!” I just laughed and laughed! I had a coughing fit! From the laughter! Exacerbated by the tonsillitis and laryngitis, sure… but mostly I coughed from the laughter. It was gross. There was phlegm involved. It was a whole mucousy thing. I called my doctor.

Also most amusing for those in the online-video-world know, was Felicia Day’s fanatical promotion of her series The Guild, the web series juggernaut with “dozens of loyal fans! baker’s dozens!…they come in thirteens,” (as Felicia sang in one of her songs), which I have spoken about before because I am IN the know. And then Felicia Day COMMENTED on my SITE so we are obviously almost BFFs now and I will probably have a lead role in Season 3… DANGIT! Lost my train of thought. It’s NOT about me, it’s about Commentary: The Musical! GOSH! So… Felicia Day… The Guild… ah, yes, the running joke of her shilling for The Guild on “someone else’s dime” that she manages to work into the lyrics of one of her songs. And just as everyone is telling her, “No one CARES, Fel-iii-ciiiaaa!” she quickly adds “CatchGuildFever!” before being cut off.

Oh. I could go on and on. I’d probably embarrass myself or something though, so I’ll just rein it in. Call it good. Be done with it. So… it is good, y’all. So, so good. Totally worth your money. Buy it today. Or not. I really don’t care. I don’t even get a $10 solo out of this post, so whatever. Do what you want. (Commentary!: The Musical. Tell your friends.)

And now I must rest. My head feels bobble-heady and my throat is achey. From the laughing. And from the tonsillitis and laryngitis, but mostly from the laughing.

That is all.

Break it down and behold!

Commentary!: The Musical

1. Commentary!
2. Strike!
3. Ten Dollar Solo — this one contains my new favorite lyric, “Suck it! I gave him 15!” from whence came my title.
4. I’m Better Than Neil
5. I Mean Art
6. I Don’t Do Songs
7. Nobody Wants to Be Moist
8. Ninja Ropes
9. It’s All About Me
10. Nobody’s Asian
11. Pick, Pick, Pick
12. Neil’s Turn
13. Commentary! Reprise
14. Steve’s Song