Aerosmithsonian

When you’ve been together a while, it’s bound to happen. You know, the whole ending each other’s sentences thing? Accordingly, one shouldn’t be surprised by the following conversation I recently had with the DWM padres who have traveled all the way from Podunky Small Town Arizona to see Numbah One Grandson (Yeah-huh! Okay, Numbah TWO Grandson… happy Kim?! SHEESH.) in his musical theater debut as Charlie Bucket in Roald Dahl’s Willy Wonka Junior Ramma Lamma Bing Bang Extravaganza!

Do you follow?

So we were sitting down, having a nice little chat, when my dad leaned over my mother to ask if it would be difficult to get into DC to visit some places.

I asked, “Where do you want to go?” while mentally conjuring the Metro transit rail map.

“Well, I wanted to go to the Smithsonian…” he began.

Ah. See, there is a common misconception out there in the aether that the Smithsonian is one particular building in DC. This is not, in fact, the case. Let’s see…. you’ve got the more well-known Natural History Museum (check out the Hope Diamond!), the Air and Space Museum (ooooh! IMAX and Planetarium!), the National Portrait Gallery (don’t step too close to some of the exhibits… the sensors are freaking sensitive) and let’s not forget the National Zoo (Giant Pandas! Giant Pandas!). Then, of course, you’ve got your American Indian Museum, African Art Museum, your Postal Museum… and quite few more that I am much too lazy to look up, so there.

It’s evil I know, all show-offy and whatnot, but of course I asked, “Which one?”, and blinked innocently at the confused look on my dad’s face.

To his credit, I think he must have remembered my lecture on the Great Smithsonian Conundrum (yes! I’m a horrible geek! duh!) because he was only fazed for a moment.

“I wanted to see–”

And then it happened. The finishing each other’s sentences thing. (See? I’m focused! HA!)

My mom leaned over and butted in– er, interrupted– I mean, lovingly finished his thought, “Oh! He wants to go see the Aerosmith Museum!”

I blinked again, but this time in confusion. “The Aero…Smith… what?”

There was one of those pauses where it is completely silent except for the almost perceptible sound of cogs whirring and twirling in the collective brains of those assembled. As my dad and I began to snicker, my mom blurted out, “Oh! Air and Space! Air and Space!”

But it was too late. Oh, yes. Much too late.

My dad grinned. “Yeah, hon, I really wanted to hit that rock and roll museum… see all that rock star memorabilia?”

“Oh, sure! I’ll tell you how to get there! Just walk this waaaaaaay! talk this waaaay!”

My mom, adopting her patented I Totally Meant To Say That blasé attitude, was all, “Oh, you knew what I meant!” And just in case that wasn’t enough to save face, she quickly added, “Although an Aerosmith Museum would be pretty cool, come to think of it…”

My dad and I gave her a hard time of it for a few more minutes, after which I assured my father that I would make sure he got to see the Air and Space Museum.

Then I launched into my Smithsonian Conundrum spiel one more time for good measure, naturally.

Aaaaaaand now you know me better. You see? I can’t help how I am. It’s like the magnet my parents had on their refrigerator as I was growing up:

“Insanity is hereditary. I get it from my children.”

Wait… Hey!

*UPDATED I’m Thinking!

There are thoughts being thunk. I promise! But I’m in a funk. Not to mention the fact there are, unfortunately, not enough hours in my day to plunk out said thoughts being thunk…

Aaaaaand now I’ve gone all Theodor Seuss Geisel on your ass– er, bootays. How incredibly lame.

I need a vacation.

That being said, I have a story. It’s a good one. It involves six impatiently eager children, six gaily wrapped presents, one tinsel-covered Christmas tree, and a dream. Oh, and Uncle Ron. We can’t forget him. This story spans years and years and has recently come to a rather interesting conclusion. Or beginning. I don’t know…

When I gather the thoughts I’ve thunk, the keys I will plunk.

Oh, dear lord. I’m LAAAAAAAAAME.

Until I get my blog on, feel free to click over to TechnoGeekery for my latest shows:

TechnoGeekery Show #29: What the Widget?!

*TechnoGeekery Show #30: Send Videos…One Click!

Seriously. What the widget?! Did anyone ELSE know a person with Safari and Leopard could DO this?! SWEET.

* Plus, to prove people watch, I need your videos now! Send whatever you want, except porn ain’t allowed! (Hey, that sounds like a song…)

TechnoGeekery Quickie #4: iTunes… an Analogy

Hey! Hey! Head on over to TechnoGeekery! Hey! There’s a new Quickie! Hey! And there is singing! And ANALOGIES! Good ones!

And, hey… did I mention the singing? Yep. I composed some original tunes and debuted them on my vidcast. I know, right? Sweet.

What can I say? I am ALL about the giving this holiday season. And my analogizin’ skillz coupled with the guitarin’ and singin’ and whatnot? Well, that’s just my little gift to you.

TechnoGeekery Quickie #4: iTunes… an Analogy

Oh. No need to thank me. It was my pleasure.

In Case Anyone Wondered Where the Sam Hill I Am These Days…

AKA: Why Cat is a HUGE Slacker.

NaNoWriMo, baby.

Honestly. Who knew that it was possible to be TOO thin? Well, apparently this is the case, if one slips the word “spread” before the “too thin” part. GOSH. Someone could have TOLD me!

In other news, TechnoGeekery Show #10: Scrapbooking… Taking it Techno, is now up at TechnoGeekery.com. Check it out! Digi-scrap is FUN! For the whole FAAAAAMILY!

Labor Day: DWM Style

Well, we couldn’t let a Labor Day pass by without our annual Labor Day Video Extravaganza Ramma Lamma Bing Bang, now could we?! Okay, so it’s only the second year, but still… traditions have to start somewhere. Just sayin’.

So, without further ado… the DWM Clan unleashes their mad lip-syncing skillz on an unsuspecting public with…

Apologize by Timbaland fea. One Republic.

Yeah, baby. Sit back and enjoy. We’re taking it Old School.

Um, I don’t know what that means, really, the Old School thing, but… cool!

In Which We Observe the English Geekery of Cat’s Children

Conversation in the car while driving home from an afternoon outing:

“Hey, Dad! Mom!” Alli suddenly piped up from the backseat. “That boy in the car next to us? He just waved at me gleefully!”

Tanner and Hannah snickered from the backseat.

“Did you say… ‘gleefully’?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice from breaking with the trill of laughter bubbling inside of me.

“Yeah! Look! He’s all waving at me gleefully!”

TGIM and I exchanged looks brimming with laughter.

“Yep. She’s your daughter,” he said.

*********

Conversation while watching Never Been Kissed, a movie throughout which Drew Barrymore’s character corrects the grammar of everyone around her:

After being asked where she was the night before, Drew’s character (Josie) answered, “Oh, I must have forgot.”

“‘Forgotten’,” Tanner quickly corrected, more to himself than anyone else. “She should have said, ‘I must have forgotten.’”

Silence. Then… “Very nice! High fives and kudos, my English geek son!” I gushed, near-bursting with motherly pride

With a half-proud, half-embarrassed grin, Tanner slapped my outstretched hand.

“NICE,” I repeated, shaking my head in admiration, before settling back to enjoy the rest of the movie.

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]

Blame it on Paris

Okay, who else is absolutely exhausted by Paris Hilton and this weekend’s Get Out of Jail Free Card debacle? Hmm? Let’s see a raise of hands… I know, right?!

Goodness. I am weary, y’all. Weary, I tell you. I have no energy for original thought today. None. Nada. Zilch. My mind? Blown by the idiocy.

So that is all I have to say about that. Instead, because of my weariness, I shall simply post another snippet from my novel. Okay, it’s a bit more than a snippet. What does that make it, then?… A snappet?

Plus, I’m going to try out my new (to me) “Read the rest of this entry…” link feature. So, yay me!

With no further ado, I present to you… a snappet of my novel in progress:

It took me all of ten minutes spent sifting through my favorite DVD’s to decide I didn’t want to waste the rest of the evening watching a movie all by my lonesome. I grabbed my keys and headed out to my car.

I drove aimlessly for over an hour. The houses—striking and inviting individually— began to blend together, identities lost in the sameness dictated by homeowner association bylaws. No garage doors left open, no cars parked on the street, no lawns with grass more than two inches high. I wondered vaguely if I should be frightened by the Stepford Wifeyness of it all, but I had too much on my mind to be amused by my own dumb attempts at humor.

I honestly had no plans to head for the ocean. I certainly didn’t want to see Becca or Dean or any of that crew, but somehow I ended up at the edge of our local beach, staring out at the seemingly endless miles of rippling green and blue. I had unofficially designated this particular section of the beach as my own private sanctuary. It was usually deserted; the imposing rocks and gravelly sand didn’t exactly provide an inviting venue for surf and sun.

I parked in the furthest space from the lot entrance and set my emergency break. I took my keys out of the ignition and dropped them into my purse, slowly unrolled my window—just a crack—then reclined my seat and closed my eyes.

Even with the window cracked, there was a sultry oppressiveness in the air, but I basked in the warmth, feeling momentarily peaceful in my quiet globe of heat. It reminded me of when, at six years old, I would spend hours lazing in one of the elaborate blanket forts I used to erect in our living room. Oh, how my mother hated those forts. Where I saw a magical fortress of solitude–however stuffy–she saw three rumpled beds she had to remake.

Mom.

I struggled to banish the sudden ache I felt by concentrating on the rhythmic lapping of the waves surging to shore, dashing against rocks and rolling over sand, before pulling away again. For a few moments, nothing but the steady surge of waves and the gentle thump of my heartbeat interrupted the stillness of the haze-hushed afternoon.

[Read more]