“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.

5th Generation Ipod Nanos (with video capture capability) ROCK in a covert ops situation. Just so you know. They’re just so… unobtrusive! Honestly. No one even suspected a thing! At all! So, awesome covertly obtained video footage will follow. Oh, yes. It WILL follow. And they’re gooooood, yo? Because, well, Hannah simply ROCKED Gertrude!

Uh-oh, I feel the motherly pride kicking in again. Gosh… I promised myself I wouldn’t cry…

Honestly. Unbelievable. Such a shock! I mean, truth be told, I had no idea anyone was still SUBSCRIBED to my blog.

Imagine my surprise, yo?

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.

*ahem* I’m totally cool and collected and not out-of-control-excited AT ALL.

So… yes. The Evil League of Evil is finally accepting applications. Right? DUDE. I’m only saying!

Naturally I have had my application at the ready for MONTHS, so my “Horrible Evil Sidekick” video is up and Super Evil Chassy is ready to kick boo-TAY and take names and… other horrible, water-related evil stuff!

Thanks to Charlotte and Sue and my friend Jen for the heads-up. Apparently, my Dr. Horrible Newsletter announcing the opening with the ELE got lost in the email or something! Yo! What up, Dr. H?!

The following is my official application to the Evil League of Evil. I think it’s pretty solid this year.

Dear Evil League of Evil:

Here’s my application! I ain’t no stinkin’ henchman!

FYI: I can help with any kind of water-related evil. You know, with the evil goggles of watery evilness and whatnot? Water boarding, Chinese water torture, synchronized swimming… the works.

Hmmm… Was that too braggy?

In any event:

That’s it. Fingers crossed.

Well CHECK IT OUT! I’m FAMOUS! SIX people have VOTED for me! SIX! As of RIGHT now! And only ONE of those was ME! FOOYAH!

Dude, I’m saying. Wonderflonium.com ROCKS, yo? Solid.

So, yeah… feel free to click over and vote for Super Evil Chassy’s quite compelling argument for a spot in the Evil League of Evil as Dr. Horrible’s Sidekick. And while you’re at it, head on over to YouTube and spread the love. Joss Whedon, I mean Dr. Horrible, MUST pick me! MEEEE!

The Horrible Evil Sidekick gig will be mine. Oh, yes. It WILL be mine.

Now excuse me. I need to go call everyone I know.

SIX. Woo!

Honestly. Ain’t that a kick in the pants…

Thanks to the Simply Stated: Technology blogger, Erin of Manic Mommies, for the shout-out. I couldn’t be more jazzed!

*jazz hands*

See?

(Feel free to click on over to Real Simple and leave TechnoGeekery some love… you know, if you want to. I don’t even care. Whatever. But feel free!)

A legendary music video is in the works. I’m hoping to enter it in a contest and win some sweet prizes. Because I’m a huge geek?

Enjoy!

Or not. Whatev.

(BTW: Any thoughts on how to MAKE said Legendary Music Video would be much appreciated! I’m envisioning RockBand instruments… oh, AND a strobe light. Because, AWESOME?)

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

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

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

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

So it’s all good.

Cat, OUT.

So, yeah. Yesterday I got an email from an Aussie/Canadian friend o’ mine, Bente, regarding a literary agent dude by the name of Bransford. Nathan Bransford. Apparently, said literary agent dude opened a contest looking for up-to-500-word submissions of a person’s manuscript’s first page. Right?! RIGHT?! Dude, I’m SAYING. I mean, limiting myself to 500 words? HARD.

However, hundreds and hundreds of aspiring writers had already bombarded the blog by the time I heard about this contest, so it is fortunate that said literary agent dude had the prescience to solicit the assistance of a co-judge– a non-publishing-industry type by the name of Holly Burns (author of the Nothing But Bonfires blog)– who, incidentally, has a British accent, but not like Gwyneth’s or Madonna’s or Britney’s, but a REAL British accent, having been born English and whatnot.

Wait. What?

Oh! Contest! Shut up. I’m totally focused.

So, without much more than a cursory glimpse at Bransford’s– Nathan Bransford’s– website, I proclaimed him legit, threw caution to the wind, took my chances, threw myself in headfirst, pinned my hopes on a cloud, took the leap, jumped in with both feet, grabbed the bull by the horns and freaking wrassled that sucker to the GROUND… er, okay, I’m out.

I submitted an entry.

Yay! *sarcastic jazz hands*

What can I tell you? I’m a crazy person. Ask anyone. They’ll tell you. CRAZY. PERSON.

And now? NOW? Well, I’m all aquiver with anxiety and self-doubt.

So thanks for that, Bente. No, really.

(No, really.)

Take a peek at my 498-word-entry (and feel free to critique) after the cut:

“Ju-u-u-u-u-u-li-et?”

The multi-syllabic question of my name set my teeth on edge, because it was a sure-fire indicator that the speaker sprawled on my passenger seat was completely and spectacularly drunk.

I set my mouth in what I could only assume was a highly unattractive grim line and focused my eyes with hyper-precision on the road ahead.

Relax. Count to ten…

“Aw, c’mon Jules. What about love?”

As God is my witness, when I get home I am going to find out which idiot left a Love Songs of the Eighties CD in my car, and there will be hell to pay. Oh, yes. Heads will roll.

We rolled along the highway on the outskirts of town, approaching Ferndale. As we crested a hill, the Ferndale skyline appeared in the valley below, the bright lights of the city illuminating the sky.

Ignore him, I scolded myself as I consciously eased my grip on the steering wheel. Just concentrate on getting Dean and the Wilson sisters home in one piece. I set my eyes straight ahead again, resolved not to let Dean or his questionable taste in music affect me.

Sporadic giggles and a few slurred “What about love, love, love, yeah’s!” later, I couldn’t take it anymore, resolve be damned. The eighties love songs were going down.

“No more music for you,” I singsonged as I reached to flip off the power. One of Dean’s hands dodged and snaked stealthily around mine to—oh lord, no—crank up the volume, while the other caught my hand midway to the radio knob.

I tried to pull my hand away, but his grip was surprisingly strong. Honestly, I can barely walk a straight line after two beers, yet Dean was somehow more coordinated after an evening spent keg-standing and smoking pot. In what universe is that fair?

“Dean!” I said in a no-nonsense voice. “Let. GO.”

Then… oh, he did not just squeeze my hand.

Except he absolutely did.

Alarmed, I jerked my hand from his, which in retrospect was not the smartest choice as the abrupt move resulted in my car swerving dangerously close to the median. The near-collision was just enough to startle him into letting go, however, so I convinced myself it was worth it. Willing my heart to find its way out of my stomach, I reached toward the radio knob again, but quick as lightening Mr. Handsy McDrunkenpants swatted my hand away.

That was the final straw.

I swatted back, then the two of us fell into a bit of undignified girly hand-slapping, which was all the more embarrassing when Dean actually won the battle. Clearly, I could have taken him if keeping my eyes on the road weren’t such a high priority, and if I had been able to use two hands instead of just one. Safety first, that’s all I’m saying.

“Damn the eighties,” I muttered as Dean leaned back and happily hummed along with the music. This was going to be a long drive.

Then you’ll see! Just do it! Click! Do it! Do it! Do it do it do it doitdoitdoit… DO! IT!

Um, also, it has been brought to my attention that it is totally okay for me to Pimp My Blog, so check out the fancy Blogger’s Choice Brag Badges to my right. Scratch that, to your right. To THE right! Okay?! Over there! –> Anyhoos, if you click on them, they take you to the Blogger’s Choice Awards website. And don’t let the possessive apostrophe fool you. More than just one blogger can vote! Seriously! I’m not even lying!

Of course, you have to sign up for an account to actually cast your vote for my humble little blog, but I ask you: is signing up for a Blogger’s Choice account too high a price to save me, a blovely blogger friend in the blogosphere o’ blogs, from the ignominy of cumulative votes in the single digits?! Is it? Do I ask too much? Well?! DO I?!

But that’s cool if you don’t feel like voting. Whatever. If you don’t have the time… I mean, hey, I don’t even care either way. Not at ALL. Whatev.

Well, y’all, that’s it for this edition of Pimp My Blog. Join me tomorrow when I ask you to help subsidize my firstborn’s college education.

So… when Sarah Mahoney approached me and asked for an interview for a piece she was writing– No More Nagging: 10 Tips that Get Results– I was all, “Sure, I’d be happy to! Not that I ever nag. Could this be a piece on how I never nag? And how awesome it is that I never nag? And how everyone in my family LOVES it that I never nag them? Never ever? Because that would be ANNOYING?”

When I realized she wasn’t writing a fiction piece, I laughed. Ha! Because of the hilarity?

Then I opened my big mouth. And with that, I exposed my true motherly colors to the world.