Booty Shaking and Hair Tossing

Hannah, whilst singing most enthusiastically along with Metro Station’s “Shake it” which was blaring from the car radio:

“‘Shake shake, shake shake, shake your BOOTAY! Shake shake…” (turned to Alli, who was also belting out the tune) “C’mon Alli, WORK those curls!”

Okay. She may have taken some liberties with with Metro Station’s lyrics– but honestly, “shake it” IS somewhat vague, truth– but you have to admire her energy!

Yep. That’s my girl. Shaking her booty and working those curls.

*proud*

DWM Soundtrack

So, it’s been a while since I’ve written a post explaining exactly why one might describe me as an “Odd Duck.” You know, if one happened to be totally RUDE and stuff. Thus, I present Why One Might, if One Were Totally Rude, Call Cat an Odd Duck, Reason 216:

Sometimes after work, I hit my “On the Go” iPod mix and crank Justin Timberlake’s “What Goes Around Comes Around” as I step onto the escalators and begin my descent into the subterranean bowels of the Metro station. And as I stride along to the beat of my life’s soundtrack, everyone and everything around me seems to morph into slow motion because I am the protagonist in some super awesome dramedy and this is that moment in the show/movie– you know the one– where I freaking rock and take CONTROL of my life and everyone is all “Woo! You go, girl!” as I toss my hair playfully and twirl and smile triumphantly and then, just before the inevitable montage kicks in, my train has usually come so I am free to switch to a more mellow mix. You know, if I feel like it.

What?! Don’t judge. I mean, sometimes I go with less pop culturally controversial tunes such as The Postal Service’s “Such Great Heights” or Lee Coulter’s “Booty Voodoo” (shake it, shake it!). And when I’m feeling a bit retro, I kick it old school with Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes.” So, see?! That’s absolutely less Odd Duck-y than the Justin Timberlake track! Ha! Take THAT, Judgy McJudgerpants.

In other news, occasionally I am melodramatic and strange.

“Spin With It” or “The Stupid Wasp”

I’ve been feeling anxious lately. Unsettled. Discombobulated, even. And if you’ve ever been combobulated, you know how unsettling the opposite of THAT can be. I’m only saying.

Perhaps it is the heat. Here I am hard at work inside, while the sun is shining away outside, all, “Come out and PLAY, cave dweller!” And I’m like, “Don’t interrupt! RUDE.”

Perhaps it is the sounds of imminent summer pressing against my bedroom window. The first wave of summer bugs and their veritable cacophony of buzzing, chirping, whirring, zitzing. Distant mowers and leaf blowers whining and buzzing intermittently. A wasp, trapped between the window and screen, thumping fitfully against the pane. I am painstakingly ignoring the wasp’s plight; hornets make me cranky. I am aware of the inherent pun.

Even still, my house seems unnaturally still, somber… withdrawn from the restless, almost-but-not-quite-summer day brewing outside, and I wish I could withdraw and still the restless anxiety softly brewing inside.

Of me, not my house. Pay attention.

It is as if I am waiting, holding my breath, but I don’t understand why or for what. You know how there are times when you gaze out the window of a moving train or vehicle or airplane, and find yourself mesmerized by the scenery flying by… but not while you are the one in actual physical control of the vehicle or plane because that would be super dangerous? And although the scenery is moving by in lightning-quick flashes of lakes and trees and earth and sky, you struggle to capture it, to put it in your pocket, all of it—the meadowy greens and azure blues, the earthy browns and oranges and purples, even the strips of barren desert or occasional muck along the way—because it is just… so… breathtaking… it is!… and all that beauty is yours at that very moment, and you have no doubt in your mind that if you could just grab it and hold it all in your hands for even a teensy second then it would be the most wonderful, most perfect second of your life?!

But you can’t touch it because you can’t slow down, you can’t just stop, you’re not where you’re supposed to be yet? And your chest tightens and you can barely take a breath? Because as the scenery continues to pass by, to elude you, it changes, it always changes, and though it is still oh-so beautiful and utterly mesmerizing and you know that there is more to see, so much more, you also know in your heart that the you can never get it back, and you will never see it exactly the same way again? And even though you never had it, not to keep, not really, because it was never yours to take… still, you feel the loss?

Yup. The anxiety I’m feeling is a lot like that.

Like my life is speeding by in a whirl of restlessness and obligations and TGIM and my kiddos are only a mesmerizing blur along the way—lightning quick flashes of growing and changing and learning and becoming—so beautiful, yet so fleeting… and I can’t make it stop! I can’t snatch my children out of time and hold them close to me just as they are, so lovely and young, so full of innocence and love and trust, because there are miles to go and places to be and that’s just the way it goes, this life. And before I know it my son is a teenager with braces and hormones and opinions, and my daughters are not quite as grossed out as they used to be when they see people kissing and they will soon be too cool to cuddle up with me and ask me to read them bedtime stories.

So I’ve been feeling anxious lately. Unsettled. Discombobulated.

The wasp is still trapped. I hear it thumping futilely against the pane, and it strikes me that its only thought right now is probably to get out, get out, get OUT of the place in which it is stuck. And if the stupid thing would only slow down for a moment, take a breath—although insects technically breathe passively, but work with me here—maybe it would realize that, hey, it got itself IN there—it crawled right in, uninvited and whatnot—so it can certainly get itself the hell out. There is ALWAYS a way out! A way to move onward, to be free from the frenzied, futile thumping, because what you are doing is not WORKING.

Except for when I open the window and swat it dead, of course.

Hey, I TOLD you. Hornets make me cranky.

But, I’m thinking. Just like the poor deceased wasp, maybe what I ought to do to dispel the unnamed restlessness is to slow down for a moment, breathe, look around. Take notes. Enjoy the view. I mean, I have traveled this far, and I know the ultimate ending, but if I am always waiting, holding my breath, always searching for something more, or looking for a way to get… oh, somewhere else, I am missing what is plain, what is right in front of me. The mesmerizing blur, so to speak. And I can’t get that back! Like it says in “World Spins Madly On” by the Weepies:

Everything that I said I’d do
Like make the world brand new
And take the time for you
I just got lost and slept right through the dawn
And the world spins madly on

So, pay attention, me!

Also? Occasionally I am melodramatic and strange.

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.

DWM Rewind: A Snaking Tutorial and Other Horrifying Stuff

Okay, I just found the best, most embarrassing video EVER! It involves a “Snaking Dance Tutorial” (not to be confused with the The Axl Rose, as seen on Sweet Child Of Mine and other Guns & Roses late-eighties videos) recorded in a moment of insanity, which I now believe was brought on by sleep deprivation coupled with extraordinary amounts of caffeine in my system, and… well, no shame whatsoever. I cannot stress ENOUGH that I was triple-dog-dared by Charlotte in PA (FYI: I think this may be a private blog now…), so it is ALL HER FAULT.

I was pleasantly surprised (read: horrified beyond belief, yet secretly pleased, but mostly just HORRIFIED) to find this gem of cinematographic goodness while looking back over some old posts. The following is the post that linked me to the video; it captures so well how I have been feeling lately about what of importance I have in me to pass down to my kiddos, that I decided to do a little DWM Rewind and post it in its entirety. Enjoy.

Or not. Whatev.

__________________________

Live Your Life With Arms Wide Open

Sometimes I look at my children, who are growing up so quickly right before my eyes, and I am at a loss as to what of importance I have in me to pass down to them. What? My love of books? My inner Drama Queen? My freckles? My Loud Talk/Loud Laugh gene? My charming wit and sparkling personality? My humilty? The list goes on and on… Then, this weekend, in the most roundabout way possible, I discovered one of the most powerful aspects of myself that I have to pass down to my progeny.

You see, nostalgia struck this weekend. One minute I’m downloading Sway by the Perishers, and the next thing I know I’m downloading music I remember listening to as I spent rainy afternoons in my parents’ bedroom thumbing through my parents’ old 45′s, jamming out to Purple People Eater, Charlie Brown, Shimmy Shimmy Ko-Ko Bop, Shoop Shoop Song, My Boyfriend’s Back, Rescue Me, oh, and this really catchy song about sitting in my a la-la waiting for my ya-ya (uh-huh… uh-huh…), amongst others.

So I went online to iTunes and legally downloaded Sixteen Tons by Tennessee Ernie Ford. I know, right? Me? Obtaining music on the up-and-up? All legal-like and shizz? Recognizing that creative works online are protected by copyright law? Not contributing to the illegal music trade which is destroying artistic creativity and innovation, eliminating jobs, and more than likely bankrolling organized crime?! I KNOW!

(Whatever. You’d think these people would be flattered that someone wants to listen to their stupid music, but noooooo. Money money money! That’s all any of these guys– singers, musicians, managers, producers– care about! I mean, honestly. It’s not as if I couldn’t do what I used to do when I was a teenager… which was to keep a cassette at the ready in my boombox and push RECORD whenever a song I liked came on the airwaves? Oh, the mixed tapes I used to make! At absolutely no cost to myself whatsoever! Well, except for the cassette, of course, but did you know that with a little tape and a tad of ingenuity, you can tape the new songs over old albums that you totally don’t want anymore anyway?… Anyhoos, no one was coming after me then, confiscating my Tainted Love Breakup Tunes or Hair Band Heaven Mix, no sir! Now it’s all about the money. Freaking selfish bastards.)

Um, okay. I had a point when I began…

Ah, yes! Sixteen Tons! Of course, of course… So I dragged my kiddos into my bedroom and forced them listen to the song. I watched delightedly as they fell in love with it, Ernie’s impromptu snaps setting a tempo like a coal-mining crew axing into a brick-solid wall, effectively sucking them into the hammer-like rhythm of the song. Alli snapped in time (fine, almost in time), Hannah bopped her head, TD attempted to look bored, but failed miserably– and as I was swept back to a time when I would giggle madly as my dad would bring this song on home: “I OWE my SOOOOOOUUUUUUU-OOUUUU-OOOUUULLL!… to the company store…” I realized that I was passing on a history. A legacy of music, if you will.

Which… scary thought.

This realization brought to mind my fourth grade end-of-the-year party, when my absolute favoritest teacher EVER gave us permission to bring in some of our own music to play for the class. Stoked, I rushed home and told my mother I simply HAD to bring her album– The New Christy Minstrels’ Sing and Play Cowboys and Indians – to school or I would absolutely DIE. So the next day, armed with my uber-cool album and a sure knowledge of my Cool Factor totally skyrocketing as soon as my classmates heard the opening strains of this kickass song called Navajo, I rushed to the front of the line, bypassing The Police, Air Supply, a few Blondies, Irene Cara (Fame, naturally), and– if I recall correctly– one Captain and Tenille album.

Needless to say, my classmates did not appreciate the music as much as I thought they would and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why. I mean, this was GOOD STUFF, right? What the hell was wrong with these people?! But it strikes me now that they did not enjoy my music for many of the same reasons that my daughter’s 2nd grade classmates probably wouldn’t appreciate the phenomenal music from The Phantom of the Opera or Les Miserables. Perhaps my classmates’ mothers hadn’t yet instilled in them a love for the The New Christy Minstrels’ minstrely goodness by playing Lily Langtree or Betsy From Pike– or, oooooh! this super funny song called Three Wheels on My Wagon!– over and over again.

And perhaps their dads didn’t stand at the door “singing” (note my use of sarcastic quote marks) Nelson Eddy as he’d leave the house for work: “I’ll find you in the mornin’ sun and when the night is new… I’ll be looking at the moon… but I’ll be seeing… (*deep breath* *mom joins in*) YOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!” And my mom would be all, “Oh , JIM,” and we’d laugh and shout, “Kiss her, Daddy!” and my mom would blush and be all, “Oh, you! Go to work!” and we were like, “Aww!”

Although, come to think of it, I don’t much like Nelson Eddy. Okay, I don’t even KNOW Nelson Eddy. But I love that memory! See how that works? It’s tricky. But that is beside the point.

The point is that as I sat there playing music for my children, I began to imagine my daughters or son sitting down with their own children, playing my music, perhaps songs from U2′s The Joshua Tree album or The Offspring’s hit single Pretty Fly for a White Guy, music that perhaps my grandchildren would take to THEIR fourth-grade end-of-the-year parties. And maybe my kids will teach their kids to Snake or Axl Rose, and maybe, just maybe!, they’ll even gather ’round the karaoke machine and belt out the oldies from their great-grandma’s and grandpa’s generation, perhaps Sixteen Tons or Rescue Me, and they will all laugh at how crazy life was back in the day, and maybe they will videotape it and send it to me, and TGIM and I will laugh and probably bust a tear or two due to the whole Empty Nest Syndrome, and, oh, how glorious that will be.

Yes! I thought. I shall pass down the music!

Of course, I began to panic. I mean, the pressure I suddenly felt to produce the quintessential 21st century mixed CD– representative of the most influential music from 2001 through today– was crushing, but I calmed myself with the knowledge that, hey, I’m totally up to the challenge. I watch American Idol. I pay attention to the music of Veronica Mars. I’m hip to the pop culture, fo’ rizzle, my shizzle.

Gosh. I tell you what… my kids are SO lucky to have me.

In truth, however, around the seventh time I played Sixteen Tons the nostalgia faded with the final strains of the flute and clarinet. I came to my senses and realized that my children, though influenced by my taste in music now, will grow into teenagers and will develop their own tastes, just as I eventually did, and they will call my music stupid and tell me I’m way out of touch and be all, “Ooooh, my music is so much cooler than yours, Momma! Ooooh!”

I must admit to a few moments of frustration and despair. Because if not my love of good music, what?

Then Natasha Bedingfield’s sassy song Unwritten came on my iPod and I was immediately struck– struck, I say!– by the words:

I am unwritten,
Can’t read my mind
I’m undefined
I’m just beginning
The pen’s in my hand
Ending unplanned

Staring at the blank page before you
Open up the dirty window
Let the sun illuminate the words
That you could not find
Reaching for something in the distance
So close you can almost taste it
Release your inhibitions

Feel the rain on your skin
No one else can feel it for you
Only you can let it in
No one else, no one else
Can speak the words on your lips
Drench yourself in words unspoken
Live your life with arms wide open
Today is where your book begins

The rest is still unwritten.

Good LORD! That was it! The part of myself I absolutely MUST pass down to my children! Because if nothing else, I want to them to learn from me how to take life as it comes– grab it by the balls, if they must– and freaking OWN it.

I can DO that. I just know it.

And the fact that I am instilling this lesson in their minds not only by example, but covertly, as we dance and laugh and sing this song together while cooking dinner, cleaning our rooms, even folding the laundry?

Well, that’s just gravy.

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