TGIM: Okay, okay, I’ll order some online today and we’ll get them in a week or so.

MACK: OMG! A week?! (Chandler Bing style) Oh my gosh!

TGIM: Calm down! Ain’t no thang.

CAT: Ain’t no thang, ain’t no thang… Bing bong and chickadees! Hee. “New Girl” is fuuuunny, guys.

TGIM: Just wear your glasses until they get here.

CAT: “I’m the only one who hasn’t seen it!” Seriously. Schmidt is HI-larious!

MACK: Fine. But whenever I wear my glasses to school, all my friends congratulate me for getting my nerd on.

CAT: Pee-pee and bubbles!

MACK: MOM.

CAT: Glasses. Nerd. I’m listening.

HANNAH: They’re all like “Rocking the nerd look, huh, Hannah?!”

TGIM: Heh.

MACK: Yah. That’s on you.

“I’m sorry, this is embarrassing, but I forgot your name,” she confessed. “All I can think is TGIM!”

Well. When I heard about this I was all “woo-hoo!” and proceeded to pat myself on the back. But not literally, as that would be weird, even for me. But there was pride, people! Serious pride! Because, you know, TGIM is all my creation and stuff. And this means it’s, like, officially a thing now! Right?! TGIM! You see? Do you?!

So obviously I took it as a compliment.

TGIM? Not so much.

It’s last period and TGIM and I just totally ditched P.E. class!

I know, right?!

“MEMORY!” (end impromptu belting out of Memory from Cats…)

Except I’m foraging for spare change rather than carrots or shrubs. I mean, clearly. If I wanted to eat vegetation, I would have “remembered” to pack a salad! You know what I’m saying?! Am I right?! Am I? AM I RIGHT?!

Yep. Forgetting is no fun at all.

Yes. I’ve heard the criticisms. But to me, this is a heartfelt remake of the original USA For Africa version, and for a selfless cause, to boot! Sure, they could have written/produced a new song, but hey, there’s a reason this one’s a classic. I’m only saying. Plus, the rap portion is pretty fantastic, and Wyclef Jean singing the song as translated into Creole? Beautiful.

(Although I do have to wonder how many people were like, “DUDE. What the hell does ‘hi-uh-tee’ mean?!” Because I am sometimes prone to strange and random wonderings?)

As a side note, I will admit, the posthumous Michael Jackson tribute almost turned me off– due to the Singing Along With Video Footage Of Dead People Totally Gives Me The Wiggins factor? which is MY issue, clearly!– but I decided I liked the inclusion after I overheard TD explaining to TGIM how seamlessly they were able to incorporate MJ’s part: “Yeah, see, they had some lady dressed up to LOOK like Michael Jackson, and she sang with him.”

Poor Janet.

In any event, my kids were moved by the video, especially the footage from Haiti, so I bought the album at iTunes. I figure it’s just one more little way we can give hope to the people of Haiti, and to the world.

Think about it.

TGIM: Okay, while we’re waiting for our food, let’s talk about something. How about taxes? Who can tell me a situation in which you would have to pay taxes?

Allison: Thanks for the strawberry, T! (to me) Oooh, I bet that’s what his girlfriend will call him… “T”! Because it’s a really good nickname?

Tanner: Well, she wouldn’t be my girlfriend for long.

Cat: Really? Why not, T? Huh, T? What’s the big deal, T? Huh, T? Huh? T?

Allison: I hope our drinks come soon. I’m quenched!

Hannah: Tanner with a girlfriend? Ha.

TGIM: Nobody? All right, maybe a different topic. How about the weather? We could discuss the weather. Or global warming?

Cat: Sweetie, I think you meant to say “parched.”

Allison: No, because I’m REALLY thirsty, Momma.

TGIM: Fact: There is currently snow in every state in the U.S.

Hannah: Tanner is my big, strong potato man!

(giggles from the girls)

Cat: Um, what?

Allison: It’s an inside joke. Ha ha! (off my look) Oh, don’t worry, Momma… it’s VERY funny to us!

TGIM: Except possibly Hawaii. Okay, every state in the continental U.S.

Tanner: Those stone faces on the wall are freaking me out. Are the faces on the wall freaking you out? Because they are freaking me out.

Cat: Hey! Stop drinking all my Diet Coke! Who’s drinking my Diet Coke?! Stop it right now!

Hannah: Wow! This cheesecake is GOOD! I feel happy! I love this place!

TGIM: (paying the bill) Well, guys, there goes our food budget for the week! Yep, it looks like we’ll be eating a lot of beans and rice for a while.

Allison: No, because it’s Friday night, and Sunday is the start of a new week, so… I think we’re good, right, Momma? I mean, we’ll just shop for good food on Sunday, right? So… you know what I’m saying?

TGIM: (standing to leave) I know, let’s talk about this new show I discovered called Mantracker…

Hannah: Is that the one with the guy with the rope?

Allison: Oh yeah! Mantracker! I was very disappointed that he didn’t rope that guy.

TGIM: Me, too.

Cat: I have no idea what you guys are talking about.

Tanner: The macaroni and cheese here is NOT good. I’m just saying.

Yep. A night out with the DWM family! Chock full of food, and fun, and non sequiturs. And quite often, just a little bit surreal.

My Buddy Boy

Hannah Hugging TGIM

Cat's Chin and Allison

So TGIM’s youngest sister, Candice, and her husband are living in Manhattan for the next three months while he attends training for his new job with the devil. I meant to say Goldman Sachs. And just so we’re clear, I already asked her if she had ever read The Firm and she assured me she had indeed, and I was all, “Okay, then,” and she was like, “Okaaaaaay…” so I wash my hands of it.

Anyway, Manhattan! Home of the Broadway Theatre district! And other noteworthy stuff, of course— such as Wall Street and the United Nations, not to mention cultural landmarks like the Met, where one might stumble upon world-famous Vermeer paintings or Bernini sculptures or Gossip Girl’s Queen Bee and her entourage eating their lunch on the steps!— but mainly, Manhattan has Broadway.

And Candice lives in Manhattan, albeit temporarily. Like, right there in the Broadway Theatre district, oh, yes, a wonderful place of joy and joyness that people visit in order to attend theatrical performances such as Wicked and West Side Story and The Lion King and Mamma Mia! and the like.

Do you see where I am going with this? Do you? Do you?

If not, allow me to clarify. See, we totally miss Candice and, come to think of it, I have never even met her husband, so we absolutely must visit them in Manhattan. You know, in NYC? Where the Broadway lives?! The whole Broadway aspect being secondary to the hanging-out-with-family thing, I might add. Clearly. Because family is IMPORTANT.

So TGIM was checking some online sources for tickets to, say, Wicked or perhaps The Lion King— shows we could attend as a FAMILY (which, as stated previously, is super important)—when he stumbled across a newer show which upon first glance looked somewhat promising. From the other room I heard him yell, “Hey, Cat! Ever heard of Rock of Ages?”

I had not, and told him so.

“It’s some sort of rock musical! It has classic rock songs from the 80s!”

While I was trying to think of a zingy comeback to him throwing the word “classic” all willy-nilly-like in front of “rock songs from the 80s,” TGIM must have clicked on a video clip because I heard the opening bars of “Don’t Stop Believing” blaring from the vicinity of the computer. Not the Glee version, mind you, but the old-school version. The arena-rock version. Naturally, I started boppin’ my head to the beat. Because I am cool that way, a’ight?! Shut up. I AM cool. Plus, Journey?! I DARE you not to bop to Journey! Take THAT, haters!

Anyway, the first verse began, “Just a small town girl…”

I may or may not have scared the living daylights out of my husband when I– perhaps!– came tearing in from the other room, wild-eyed and screaming, “HEY! HEEEEEEEEEY! That’s Constantine! COOOONSTANTIIINE!” Maybe that’s how it happened. It’s all fuzzy. It’s possible I stood up too quickly or something. That would account for the hyperventilating, right? I’m just saying it’s a BLUR. And TGIM lies a lot, so you totally cannot ask him.

In any event, guess who was on the computer screen? Singing and whatnot! Just guess who! Constantine Maroulis, that’s who! Yes! My Secret Greek Idol Luvah, right there on my computer, totally rocking the eyeliner and the pretty highlights and the greasy hair and acting all smoldery and shizz. YOU know. “Doing his thing”? Er, “dawg”? While singing JOURNEY! I mean, was it my BIRTHDAY?!

Honestly. It’s a wonder I didn’t faint on the spot.

(Thanks again to Mrtl for the t-shirt. You still ROCK.)

Sadly, I didn’t see Constantine bust out any of his legendary ki-YAH! kicks or awesome crouch-landings in the clip, but hey… one can dream, y’all. One can dream.

So… wow. My sweet Constantine. On Broadway. BROADfreakingWAY! Who knew, back when he graced the American Idol audience with the rocker screeches, the camera lovin’, the hair tossing, the duck-lip pouting, the cheesy grins, and the somewhat polarizing KISS tongues, that my Secret Greek Idol Luvah had the star power to make it to Broadway?! It’s madness! Who knew?!

Oh, wait. That’s right. I did. But I won’t say I told you so. Much. (I told you so!)

*sigh*

In the spirit of full disclosure, I do not see a scenario in which I could convince TGIM and the kiddos to go see this musical with me, you know, as a FAMILY, over shows such as Wicked or The Lion King. But still… good on you, Constantine! Good on you.

(Call me.)

TGIM and I, using out mad Craigslisting skills, had found a super slamming deal on a 5th generation iPod Nano—in green! as requested!—for Mack’s birthday (which, happy birthday, Hannah!), so SCORE. We established contact, set up a meet time, hopped in the Miata, and trekked to Arlington where we met up with the iPod Nano-selling guy. In a stroke of awesome luck which could only mean fortune was totally on our side, I noted our Craigslister had a Miata, too. Dude! Right?! A Miata! Like us! A common bond! Yes! That iPod was OURS, for less than the asking price, I just KNEW it.

With careful maneuvering, we cultivated the relationship. What year was his Miata? How long had he owned it? Did it have the flip-up headlights? What? The headlights have to be left flipped up in icy or snowy weather or they would stick shut? We did not know that. Our model had non-flippy-uppy headlights. Did he commute in his? Did his Miata get awesome gas mileage, like ours did?

For the most part, I let TGIM take the lead, because, you know, cars? As I listened to TGIM and the Craigslister grow closer—bond vehicularly, if you will—I mentally prepared myself to talk him down twenty dollars or so. I could do it. He loved us! We were Miata people! He felt a kinship with us! I could tell! He was putty in our hands! Mwah ha ha!

So involved were my machinations—perhaps even thirty dollars under the asking price was within my grasp!—I didn’t hear what TGIM was saying until it was too late.

“Yeah, the guys at work laugh when they see me getting in and out of the Miata,” he said.

Oh NO.

I tried to catch his eye, tried to stop him, but it was already spilling out of his mouth, the story he knew he shouldn’t share. I’d let him bond too long. He had run out of small talk and was cracking under the pressure.

With a somewhat hysterical laugh, TGIM continued. “Heh heh! They’re always like, ‘Hey! Want a little KY Jelly to help you get in and out of that thing?!’ Ha ha ha!”

Damn. Also, awkward.

Uncomfortable silence ensued, broken only by a small intake of breath as I opened my mouth to say something—anything!—to get the conversation back on track, but… I had nothing. With a sigh, I forked over the asking price for the iPod and let the guy make his escape. Which he made swiftly, and without even a backward glance, I might add.

TGIM and I climbed into the Miata in silence. He put the key in the ignition, but didn’t start the car. I could feel him staring at me, but I looked straight ahead in stony silence. Finally, “Too much?” he asked innocently.

I turned and looked him straight in the eyes. “Ya think?!”

He sighed dramatically. “Thought so.”

“Honestly, TGIM,” I said, “what have I told you about the Guys At Work stories?!” Without waiting for an answer, I continued, “Don’t tell them, that’s what! GOSH. I could have talked him down thirty dollars! Well, probably twenty… but thirty was NOT out of the question! Okay, maybe only ten dollars, but still! It could have happened!”

We sat in silence for a moment, TGIM looking contrite while I glared at him. Then, of course, I giggled.

TGIM smiled in response. “Sorry. I just… panicked.”

“You are SUCH a nerd,” I said before dissolving into outright laughter. I mean, honestly. We’d still scored a super slamming deal on a 5th generation iPod Nano, so where was the bad?

We laughed all the way home.

Yep. That’s my TGIM. Winning friends and influencing people. Then, not so much.

I maintain that 2010 does indeed usher in the start of a new decade and that TGIM and Wikipedia can suck it.

(Hey. We don’t have cable, so we have to make our own fun.)

Which, weird?

In any event, I made our annual 2010 calendar gift. It will be shipping soon to a store near you! Okay. Not really. That was just the newscaster in my head talking again.

Click here to view these pictures larger

Like, why do morning commuters who ate curry for breakfast gravitate towards ME on the train? Or, how can Uggs be so very VERY comfy—like foot pillows! fluffy foot clouds of pillowy… ness!—yet so very VERY ugly? You know, at the same time? Or why can’t knitters and crocheters get along? Honestly. I’m like, hey, what’s with all the hate? Why not try both skills? Be bicraftual! Or throw in quilting or weaving or something and go polycraftual. Just saying.

And lately, I’ve been wondering about the origins of silly children’s games. Like “Heads up, seven up.” Oh! And “Red Rover.” This particular wonder probably stems from an experience I had driving with TGIM the other day. There we were, driving along—well, TGIM was driving; I was trying not to side-seat drive because it is ANNOYING, apparently—when suddenly, a flock of waterfowl decided they needed to run—no, waddle—across the road right then—on foot! or web-foot! whatever!—directly in front of our oncoming vehicle.

Several things occurred to me at once. One, birds are stupid. Because, WINGS? Two, it is SUPER difficult to refrain from side-seat driving. And three, I need to get over my compulsive need to correct myself. It inevitably makes me appear foolish, not to even mention that it makes text-messaging somewhat tedious. Which sort of defeats the whole purpose of texting, I am told.

Whatever. I digress.

With extraordinary willpower I refrained from throwing my arms out to brace for impact while shrieking girlishly. Instead, I helpfully pointed out the front window at the birds and shouted to TGIM, “Duck!… Duck!… GOOSE!”

Because it occurred to me as we were about to hit the stupid waterfowl and maybe crash and/or die, or at the very least, be stuck scrubbing feathers and blood and goo off the grill of our car, that hey, those weren’t ducks at all! Gosh, no! Those were geese! Duh!

TGIM slowed quickly and laid on the horn, at which point the geese apparently remembered that they did indeed have wings. And could fly. OVER the oncoming cars. So no splat, which I’d put down under “Good.”

I sat silently, hoping that in the heat of the moment, perhaps TGIM didn’t notice. Please, please, please…

Yeah, right.

“Duck, duck, goose?” he asked, throwing an amused sideways glance my way.

“Well, they weren’t ducks,” I started defensively, “they were clearly geese, so…” but it was no use. TGIM snorted, then chuckled, and then we both dissolved into laughter.

Of course, while I was laughing at the funny coincidence (not to mention the sudden onset of nostalgia for a favorite childhood game) brought about by my compulsive correcting, TGIM was totally laughing at ME, which, how rude, right?

AND now I’m wondering why I didn’t sock TGIM in the nose when he decided to share the story, ad nauseam, with everyone we know.

Fantastic. Now I’m going to be stuck with serious thoughts all day.

Stupid geese.

TGIM:  Hey, Cat, I just remembered! I had this dream last night of you taking a shower in our bathroom…

Cat (coyly):  Hmm, do tell…

TGIM:  Yeah, I dreamed you moved all my tools out of the shower and hopped in and I was like, “What are you DOING?! I haven’t finished grouting the tile yet!”

Cat:  …

TGIM:  Cat?

Cat:  Okay, I did not see that twist coming…

TGIM:  I know, right?!

Y’all? The romance, she is a’fading.

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.

“Momma, I hope we win this game! Then we get to play in the… the…”

“…the playoffs,” TGIM supplied.

“Yeah, playoffs,” Alli agreed, bouncing excitedly in her seat. “It’s like a dance-off… but for basketball!”

Watch out, opposing team. Alli’s in the hizzouse!

Hey. It could work. You don’t know.

Toward the end of the evening, however, TGIM received a phone call from home. We knew it was The Call. You know. The one where the kid calls and is all, “So… I just thought you might want to know that Hannah is sitting on Alli’s head and I think the toilet is broken, but the towels got most of it, and the smoke detector in the kitchen WORKS, if you were wondering, and no one is even listening to me”– interrupted by background screams of “Tanner’s a LIAR! Don’t LISTEN TO HIM! LIAR! LIAR! Pants on FIIIIRE!” and “Get OFF me! GET OFF! Mooooooommmmmmaaaa!”– and always ending with, “um… so when are you coming home?”

I watched TGIM take the call, trepidation creepy crawling down my back, and waited for The Response. You know. The one where the parent is like, “Is anyone bleeding? Is? Anyone? BLEEDING?!” and then, “Then WHY are you CALLING?! We’ve talked about this! Rule number one: Don’t call unless there is blood or broken body parts! Now tell Hannah to get off her sister, stay out of the bathroom, don’t go NEAR the kitchen, and we’ll be home in a bit!”

But the only response from TGIM was a grin.

“Well,” I hissed sotto voce, “what’s he saying?”

TGIM covered the phone, held it away from his mouth, and answered loudly enough for all of us to hear, “He said, ‘When are you coming home? It’s pandeminium over here!’”

He uncovered the phone and replied, “Pandeminium, eh?”–I covered my mouth to stifle a giggle–”Well, we’ll be home soon, so hang in there.”

Afterward, we all agreed. Developing a larger-than-average vocabulary mostly through reading?

As it turns out, not always optimal.

So… when I say walk away from it all, I mean the web. The Blogosphere. To simply drift away from the Twitter and the Facebook. To walk away from the vidcast and the blog. It’s been a good run! Who knew back in 2004 that I would still be here, here in the Blogosphere, writing and filming and friending and tweeting? Who knew? Certainly not I. I honestly had no idea what I was getting myself into, what I would learn and become, and sometimes… well, it feels like too much. See, I’ve gone and developed Expectations. And with Expectations comes Self Doubt. Envy. That big meanie, Judgy McJudgerpants. And I start to wonder stuff. Like, “Oh NO. What if I run fresh out of pithy thoughts? What if suddenly I’m pithyless? What then?” That is exactly the moment when I get the naggy, achy feeling, and there’s a part of me that wants to slip away. To go gentle into that good night.

And by “go gentle into that good night” I mean walk away. You know, from the web. Just to be clear. When I quote Dylan Thomas, I am speaking metaphorically. There is no need for intervention. ARE WE CLEAR?

I do understand that walking away from it all would be bittersweet. Bitter because I slightly neglected several well-loved hobbies to delve into the new ones, and where would that leave me if I turned away? But sweet, because I’ve made so many friends through all of it. See, this is why I am all about the milk chocolate. Bittersweet chocolate blows. Michael Scott had it right. “Why not just sweet? I mean, who are you helping?” And that’s what I keep asking myself. Who am I helping? Me? Who? And does it matter? Does it? With the gajillion bloggers out there, will anyone even notice if I fade away? I don’t know! But truthfully, I can’t help but think it hugely presumptuous of me to think anyone will. Notice, that is. Because, bold much? Honestly.

If I’m going to power through the Self Doubt and the Envy, and push aside the antics of one Mr. Judgy McJudgerpants, if I plan to rage, rage against the dying of the light, I guess I feel as if it should be worth it. I don’t want to be taken in again, as with American Idol, who strung me along for years and years before finally revealing itself as a sham and a liar and a time-suck of epic proportions! I should have learned after the Ruben-Clay fiasco of ’03, but no. I put my blood, sweat, and tears into that relationship and where did it get me?! Huh?! Nowhere, bucko, that’s where! And I can’t get all those late-night hours spent dialing and voting and recapping BACK, no sir! That’s all I’m saying. I don’t want to look back and be all, “Dude. Why did I hang on to that relationship with the web for so long? Good LORD. What was I THINKING?”

You see?

It’s a conundrum, I tell you what. And by “conundrum” I mean… conundrum. Just so we’re clear.

In other news, I am occasionally melodramatic and strange.

Thus… BEHOLD. My new DWM header.

Fancy, eh?

Happy freaking HOLIDAYS!

Lambson Family Newsletter: Holiday Edition 2008

And, wow… There just is not enough “ew!” in the world for the mental picture THAT just conjured, I tell you what, but that is neither here nor there so I will persevere.

See, sometimes? I believe I am awesome. Chock full of the awesomeness. So awesome I can barely stand it! Chuck Bass awesome! I think, “Hey! How is it that I am THIS awesome?!” I write! I sing! I play my guitar! I make vidcasts! I enter contests! I jump out of planes! I swing on the trapeze! I teach my kids awesome things to do and say! And I post videos such as this in which I totally bestow my awesomeness on an unsuspecting, yet obviously pleasantly surprised, public! Because I am AWESOME! I mean, have you SEEN all my friends on Facebook?! I’m only saying.

And then it all falls apart.

I wake up one morning, fire up the iMac, click to my YouTube page to watch my awesome Dr. Horrible Evil League of Evil application one more time, confident in the knowledge that I WILL be chosen for the once-in-lifetime opportunity to be included in the special features section of the super awesome Dr. Horrible DVD. The video starts up, the intro music sends shivers of– what? excitement?– up my spine, but when my face pops up on the screen, my heart drops, freaking plummets, I tell you, and I think, “Oh. My. GOSH. What have I DONE?” I panic. I wish I could take it back. Take it all BACK. I’m not awesome! I’m a fraud! A loser! I made a music video while wearing pink goggles on my forehead! PINK GOGGLES! On my FOREHEAD! And I can’t SING! Or write MUSIC! What the HELL was I THINKING?! OH! EM! GEE! What if Joss Whedon actually SEES this?! I suck I suck I SUCK! (I totally suck.) Not to mention that OTHER people have, like, tens of hundreds of friends on Facebook! Which is a LOT!

And then I think of that quote from “When Harry Met Sally” when Sally tells Harry, “…AND I’m going to be forty!” and when he asks, “When?” she sobs, “Someday!” and I totally get it. Oh, I SO get it. Because it’s there. It’s just sitting there, like some big dead end. And time is passing and what am I doing? Really? Twittering? Jumping out of perfectly good airplanes? Playing around with my guitar? Filming myself acting the fool, not to even mention sporting pink goggles that totally clash with a blue-accented black rash guard? When I’m not even at the POOL?! Right?! There is no WATER for the pink goggles, people! How is that awesome? Do I really think I’m funny? Do I truly believe I have anything to offer? That I will ever write the great American novel or even have any kind of future as an observational humorist? Well?! DO I?!

At this point, no amount of affirmation, self or otherwise, can penetrate the gloom. My heart hurts and I wish I could crawl away and hide. I stop writing. I stop creating. I lose myself in (quality!) television and (totally awesome!) DS video games. I avoid novels because they make me believe that– perhaps!– I could write something even better and why set myself up like that? Do I really want to be That Person? The one who deludes herself? Like those super horrible American Idol contestants who no one ever had the cajones to grab by the shoulders, give ‘em a shake, and sternly say, “Seriously? I love you, but you SUCK at the singing. For real! Even Paula thinks you suck, which HELLO?! Now cut that shit out!”

On one level, the rational one, I understand this is a phase. A mood. A momentary lapse of confidence in my utter awesomeness. But on another level, I just feel sad. Weary. Depressed. So totally lacking in the awesomeness. Awesomeless. Awesome light.

It’s moments such as this that I need to drag myself up off the floor of my I’m SO Not Awesome At ALL pity party, give myself a figurative “Pull it together, fool!” slap across the face, and look around. Take an interest in those who weren’t on the invite list to my party of one. TGIM. My kiddos. My family. My friends. Because even in the depths of self-pity, yes, even then! I understand that they don’t need any kind of proof of my awesomeness. They see it in me, the awesomeness, or see the lack thereof, yet they love me. Unconditionally. Yup. Pink goggles and all.

And that? Is totally awesome.

Okay, so we’re breaking out! The stay-cation has morphed into a wicked cool mini-break! Woot! YES! Because stay-cations equal sadness for all. Honestly. Well, at least for DWM and clan. I’m just saying. Staying is NO FUN. At ALL.

So, now that I’m done with the filming (oooh, that’s what we call a “teaser” in the biz…) We’re off to NYC, all y’all. That’s right! New York City! All of us! Even TGIM! We’ve never been, so… EXCITING?! That being said, if there is anything we absoLUTEly need to do while we’re in the Big Apple (wait… do we still call it that? is that un-hip of me? Dear LORD! I don’t even KNOW!), let me know, mm’kay?

And now, I must pack. For the wicked cool mini-break I happen to be going on with the fam. Because we are done with the shoot. And we are no longer staying. We are mini-breaking. Which is way better.

“Happy birthday, Momma! So, did you get any presents from Daddy?”

“I did. He took me shopping and bought me a pair of jeans.”

“Uh, jeans?”

“Well, they were designer jeans.”

“Oh… so he bought you fancy pantsies! Cool.”

In any event, I thought I would share. Or, rather, re-share. Share again? Whatev. You know what I’m saying.

_______________________________

I have no desire to be enigmatic.

But it is a scary place, my mind. Crowded with jumbled imagery and intricate stories and trivial pop culture references, with nowhere to go. All of the craziness shuffles and scuffles to be forefront in my mind, to be most important. To be first. “Let me out!” it all screams, because it has to go somewhere, right?

Sometimes, when I read a book or I see a movie, I catch the mood of the piece, and I cannot shake it. I am there, and woe unto any who try to break in, to find me. I am in it, and only I can find my way back out. I am not even sure if that makes sense, but it is most definitely the case.

I mean, I know other people can read a book and put it down. Me? I read the fifth Harry Potter book in one night. ONE NIGHT! That freaking book is over 800 pages long! Honestly. It can take me literally hours to stop worrying about the characters in which I have invested my time. I feel their pain, their joy, their despair, their triumphs. If the book is particularly well-done, if the characters are alive, if the mood is fully realized, then it can take me hours to stop feeling the book. To let go of it.

Other people can watch a particularly riveting television show or movie and walk away thinking, “Huh. Good show! What’s for dinner?” Me? I become emotionally invested in the characters. I will obsess about their lives and the “what if’s” for days on end. Weeks, even. Now do not misunderstand. This is not to say I cannot separate the fictional characters from reality. No worries. I absolutely can. What I cannot do, not right away, anyway, is to stop thinking about their stories. Taking them in new directions. I will spend hours weaving new stories for them. Sometimes I even dream new stories. But Leonardo da Vinci said, The eye sees a thing more clearly in dreams than the imagination awake. Dude was a wise Renaissance man, yo?

Which leads me to this: when I write stories? Oh BOY. I am SO living them. And it is so exciting! I get to be someone else! Well, for a little while, anyway. I become Goddess of the Story Universe! Bow to me! Then, inevitably, my characters begin growing and acting out in ways I had not intended, and I just get to go with it, and it is GOOD. Of course, I think this is why I enjoy happy ending so much, formulaic cliche be damned. I need them, or I am lost. Then again, my endings are not always happy. And I absolutely hate that, because I ache for my characters. But I love it, too.

For a long time I thought this craziness had a name. I HAD to give it a name. I was surely bipolar. Manically depressed. Obviously. It was the only explanation for the mood swings, the black days, the deep-rooted dark despair that settled into my mind and would not let go. Right? And what sane, happy person loses herself in television and books? Huh? Normal people with three beautiful kids and TGIM don’t act this way, right? Am I RIGHT?! I hated my career choice, my living situation, my life, and I could not shake the feeling that something was terribly, terribly WRONG with me, because everyone I knew insisted I should be happy, that I should be thankful, that I should just STOP wallowing and get on with living. And I wanted to. I WANTED TO. But I was stuck. So I turned to the happy pills. But the drugs? They did not help. Dispassionateness, for me, was not a cure. It was a bandage.

“You are just like my ex-husband,” my sister said to me. “You can be anything you want to be. Anything but happy.”

Oh, no she DIDN’T.

So I ripped it off that bandage. And I made CHANGES.

I found a job writing and quit my teaching job. I packed up and moved all the way across the United States, not sure when and if TGIM would follow, but sure it was the right thing to do. I began expressing the jumbled imagery, intricate ideas, and trivial pop culture references swirling about in my mind through the magical world of blogging. I made new friends. I discovered the words “job satisfaction” were not mutually exclusive. I pulled myself out of the rut of complacency and fear in which I was trapped and made some personally earth-shattering decisions regarding what I wanted out of life. And, yes, I hurt TGIM and others close to me in the process and, yes, almost lost everything. I know that. I OWN that. But these days? I’m starting to feel as if despite the excruciating pain I caused myself and others, I have gained everything.

TGIM thinks this is The Crazy in me. Sometimes he loves me for it, sometimes… not so much. Me? I am starting to believe The Crazy is simply the artistic temperament in me. And, slowly, oh so slowly, I am learning to embrace it. I am learning how to USE it, to hone it, to bend it to my infinite megalomaniacal will, mwah ha ha ha!…

Sorry.

The other day I stumbled across a quote by Edvard Munch, the artist formerly known as the man who painted The Scream. Okay, he is still known as that, I just like the allusion to Prince. Because Prince ROCKS. Anywhos, Munch wrote of the experience he had which triggered the creation of this masterpiece:

I was out walking with two friends – the sun began to set – suddenly the sky turned blood red – I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence – there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city – my friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety – and I sensed an endless scream passing through nature.

As I read this I realized, hey, sometimes I sense that Endless Scream, too. I hear it! I KNOW it. And, slowly, I am learning to embrace it. I am learning how to USE it. I know, I know. Inscrutable, much? Talk to my family. But, then again, if I did not see the world this way, if I did not feel the world this way, how could I write? And writing? Makes me feel complete. Utterly, dizzyingly complete.

Well, writing, and a big ol’ cinnamon cake donut. Yummmmmm.

Take that, big sister. I CAN be happy.

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?