“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.

Never one to let a teaching moment pass me by—because, nerdly?—I said, “You know, hardcore knitters call that frogging.”

Paige stopped unraveling and looked at me. “What?”

“You know,” I nodded towards her quickly dwindling bunny sweater, “unraveling your stitches when you mess up. That’s frogging.”

Paige paused, looked at her work, then me, and said, “Frogging, eh?”

“Hm-hmm.”

“Why?”

Ooooh! Object lesson! Object lesson! I am SUCH a fan of the object lesson.

“Start pulling out the stitches again,” I instructed her. “And since the term frogging sort of gives this impression of, like, way enthusiastic unraveling, really go for it, okay?”

With a shrug, Paige began to unravel her knitting again.

“Good, Paige!” I shouted, which may have been overkill, in retrospect. “Rip it… rip it…RIIIIIP IIIT…!”

Naturally, we got all giggly at this point. I mean, we WERE drinking caffeinated beverages, after all, so there was that whole caffeine-induced giddiness factor in play. I’m only saying.

We may or may not have spent the rest of the afternoon drinking caffeinated beverages, knitting and crocheting stuff, watching the movie Australia, and every so often croaking, “Rip it! RIP IT!” as we exuberantly frogged our respective projects. Maybe. Honestly, it’s all a total blur now. I guess we may never know for certain.

In other news, knitters are total geeks.

Oh! But… not a 5K RACE! No indeed! That would have involved registration fees and fancy new running clothes and other craziness. Just… you, know, 5 kilometers. Or translated to metric-hatin’ American distance, 3.1 miles. Of course, truth be told, I actually ran 3.75 miles, but 5K was way easier to say, albeit a bit on the braggy, pretentious, metric-lovin’ side. Just a smidge. Perhaps.

Well, it was easier to say until I felt compelled to clarify, of course, at which time I realized I should have just said 3.75 miles in the first place. Total fail.

Still… good day. Yep.

One glove! I'm bringing it back, baby.

(The wrister in all its glory. Behold, the awesomeness.)

As I mentioned months back, through my super cool Podcast O’ TechnoGeekery’s affiliation with the Mommycast and Friends Family Channel, I received the support of a corporate sponsor, Johnson and Johnson’s Aveeno Baby line. I know right?! A corporate sponsorship! For a video podcast that I film right in my very own bedroom right in front of my very own computer! Except when I go on field trips and film in other people’s homes! Sometimes without their prior knowledge! But whatever!

Of course, this was no small deal. A huge corporate sponsor like Johnson and Johnson?! Yeah, a little beyond my meager (read: nonexistent) PR skills. The only way the Johnson and Johnson deal came together at ALL for the Mommycast and Friends Family Channel was through the skilled maneuvering of a gentleman by the name of Paul Vogelzang, who, BTW, is the executive producer of that podcast juggernaut, Mommycast.com, which holds the distinction of being one of the first independent podcasts to land a major corporate sponsorship, a la Dixie Paper Co.

LUCKY!

Well, luck actually did not have much to do with it. Because Paul V.? Dude. Paul is a dynamo! Truly. Paul is one of those uber-motivated individuals who simply makes things happen. This ability, coupled with his passion, enthusiasm, professionalism, and business savvy, totally closed the deal with Johnson and Johnson, I kid you not. The man is a leader– a guru, if you will– in the new media industry. I must give the man his props: Mommycast and the network are what some would call “an ideal model for anyone looking to succeed in this space” of “successful podcast production and advertising in podcasts.” Wait, someone DID say that… Jason Van Orden, Internet Marketing and Media Consultant with Van Orden Marketing and Media, LLC, and author of Promoting Your Podcast. My bad. But I totally agree, so there you go.

Paul totally gets new media, and is out there helping the old dogs learn the new tricks in the always changing media landscape. For REAL. He’s, like, a new media evangelist, out preaching the word! Which is New Media! Okay, that is technically TWO words, but you know what I mean. I can’t imagine anyone else I would rather have out there managing TechnoGeekery’s reputation in the online community.

So I would be a total jerk not to give shout-out and a BIG OL’ thank you to Paul Vogelzang, Mommycast, and the MommyCast production company, KDCP Productions, LLC, for the awesome opportunity I had to represent the Mommycast and Friends Family Channel and Johnson and Johnson’s Aveeno Baby line. Right?! I’m only saying. So… thanks Paul, Mommycast, and Johnson and Johnson. My kids and their college savings accounts totally love you. A LOT.

Cat, out.

Unfortunately his email went straight to my Junk Mail; fortunately I often skim over said Junk Mail, so I totally caught it amongst the offers to increase my… er, girth… well, whatever!

Anyway, I SO appreciated the advice. I mean, I’ve been told before that I should look into lighting, but I was like, “Dude. No way am I spending that kind of money! That’s a whole lot of Taco Bell!” Except, I totally don’t ever eat at Taco Bell. Their beans are DEHYDRATED. As for filming TechnoGeekery, I’ve tried moving around a bit, and my best lighting has been up in my room facing the window, but the natural light can be a little too harsh. Like, “Hello, freckles! How you doin’?” But my new TechnoGeek friend suggested I forgo spending what he called “a butt load of money on studio lighting” (which, HA! he said “butt”) and invest in a type of (cheap) lighting (totally inexpensive) he called China balls (which don’t cost much money at ALL).

Apparently, China balls—those paper globes with the metal ribs and a light bulb inside—are perfect for creating natural soft light. YES. Hello softer shadows! My freckles and I thank you, TechnoGeek Jim. No, really. From the bottom of my photoprotective melanin-deprived heart. Or skin. Oh, you know what I mean.

And I mentioned the “not expensive” part, right? Like, Blue Light Special cheap? That’s all I’m saying.

So… China balls! I didn’t know that is what those were called, but my aunt had several of them hanging in her bedroom in the early 80′s, so I am familiar with them. Hmmm, come to think of it, now that I know they are generally used to create natural soft light and pleasing skin tones… well, frankly, I’m a little wigged out. I am also forcibly reminded of her totally radical boyfriend back then, however, and I suppose the need for softer lighting would come into play… boyfriend had a perm AND a ‘stache! Couple that with his trendy 80′s fashion sense, and well, I’m not surprised. Honestly.

So, a big shout out to my new TechnoGeek peep, Jim! Thanks. I will definitely try to implement a new lighting arrangement as soon as I can get my hands on some cheap China balls!

Oh. Oh MY. Well that just sounds dirty. How embarrassing. I shall now call them cheap China lanterns.

Heck. I may even devote an entire TechnoGeekery episode to the benefits of cheap China ba– er, lanterns! I mean it. Ain’t technology grand?…

… Transformers! Robots in disguise! 

Ha! That never gets old.

1. Boboli pizza crust RULES.

2. Lots of bowlers have never seen a person do the Strike Dance or the I Picked Up a Spare Jive, which… weird?

3. It IS possible to bowl a 33.

4. Wii Bowling is WAY different from bowling at an actual bowling alley.

5. Lobbing the bowling ball down the alley is frowned upon. Even if it is accidental, which is so unfair.

6. I really, REALLY suck at bowling. Like a LOT.

7. If you really, REALLY suck at bowling, random people will stop by to tell you so, and to offer helpful pointers on how to handle your bowling ball.

8. It is considered bad bowling etiquette to suggest appropriate places for said random people to shove their own bowling balls.

9. Beading Necklaces Night will probably beat out Bowling Night next Girls’ Night Out.

TechnoGeekery Quickie #6: Attaching Files to Email

In this one, I get down to basics and explain how to attach files– such as documents, pictures, or videos– to your emails. Because my TechnoGeeks ASKED me, that’s why! Now, we’ve gone over this before, people! Don’t MAKE me get out my guitar and write a song, yo?

In other news, TD and Paige‘s daughter, Kate, wrote, directed, starred in, and produced a short video for a children’s video festival they want to enter. They did this– from the script-writing to the camera work to the film editing– completely independently and are bizarre and genuinely hilarious in it.

For real. They have the best chemistry and comedic timing. I don’t know where they get this.

“What’s up with that?! Haaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

I hope no one minds the repeat.

To Shuffle Off This Mortal Coil

My life is a tapestry characterized by elaborate pictorial designs. My childhood, though only comprising a small portion of my life so far, makes up a large, colorful corner section. Occasionally, I have been known to bask in the memories of a few of its more colorful parts. Lately, I find myself more and more often taking the tapestry out of its storage place in the attic of my mind, and airing it out.

The images are all there. I grew up in Phoenix, Arizona, where the sweltering summer sun baked the days so fiery hot that the tarry goo in the asphalt literally bubbled in the streets; where sunburned, barefooted children in tank tops and Dove short-shorts rode their banana-seat bikes to the crispy, brownish-green lawn at the Digital; where hot air balloons occasionally and thrillingly made emergency landings on sprawling industrial park lawns; where dirty, stinky, disheveled kids played Keep Away or a loose game of kickball until dusk when Dad pulled the old aqua-blue Chevy into the cul-de-sac, threw one of them on his lap, and let the chosen one drive the car all the way into the driveway; and where Grandma and Grandpa Heedum’s backyard swimming pool, complete with diving board, water filter “snakes,” and pool sprinklers, was the oasis playground for me, my five siblings, and all the Heedum cousins.

You know, a large portion of the tapestry of my childhood revolves around that pool scene.

Childhood Scene 1:
I see Grandma and Grandpa Heedum’s house, air-popped buttery popcorn in enormous Tupperware bowls; the boisterous laughter of women playing cards; a crowded pool complete with inflatable rafts, orange floaties, and rousing games of Shark and Marco Polo; water filter snakes slithering and snaking across the bottom of the pool, stirring up the settled desert dust instead of cleaning it; peeling, sun-burned noses and green-tinted chlorine-hair; and too many wet kids in bathing suits slipping and sliding through Grandma’s kitchen.

I see my 7-year-old, wet, bathing suited self dancing around at the arcadia door, pounding on the glass, leaving behind oozing wet scrinchy marks as I cupped my hands to look in at the ladies sitting at the dining room table playing cards, trying to get my mommy’s attention. Shoot. Anyone’s attention, really.

“Mommy! Lookit! Mommy! Grandma! LOOKIT! Lookit me!”

When I could finally get someone to watch I would race to the diving board and execute some elaborate cherry bomb, or back flip, or twisty dive through an inner tube. When I would emerge from the depths of the pool, proud and spluttering, I would race back to the arcadia door and smash my face up against it, water dripping in my eyes, until I could see my mommy turn away from her cards for a moment to shout from inside, “Uh-huh! Good one, Cathy!” Then she would turn back to her game, laughing and joking, and I would return to the pool, satisfied.

I remember the feeling of walking into the cool, air-conditioned house from the sweltering Arizona desert heat outside, and how it would immediately chill the pool water in my hair and the damp swimsuit against my skin. I would literally freeze in the doorway before the grown-up chorus of “SHUT THE DOOR!” would spur me into action.

Honestly. I still love swimming, but somehow, the Olympic-sized indoor pool at our Rec Center doesn’t bring me the sublime satisfaction of hot-footing it across the foot-searing cooldecking surrounding Grandma and Grandpa’s pool and jumping into the cool, sun-heated water.

Childhood Scene 2:
Another large chunk of the childhood tapestry is in the section devoted to the awe the Heedum grandkids felt toward Grandpa Heedum. Seriously. He scared the bejeebies out of us.

When I think of my grandparents’ house I always see a stifling tobacco-smoke haze hanging in the air, as Grandpa, apart from his card-playing wife and daughters, would sit guarding the back door to the pool, watching television and smoking cigarette after cigarette. Now, in my mind I know that Grandpa quit smoking years ago, when I was in my late teens, but I still see him like that, smoking a cigarette, watching television, snacking on and presiding over the elaborate spread my food-loving mom, aunts, and grandmother laid out for their weekly card-playing get-togethers. To our dismay, his probing eyes, although seemingly riveted to Hee Haw or Lawrence Welk, never missed small hands trying to sneak more popcorn or another powdered-sugary lemon square or a Cuckoo Cookie, maybe even some M & M’s if we were… just… super-duper… sneaky…

He observed everything, Grandpa: the card game, the food-sneaking, the swimming, the joking, but he rarely joined in. He listened to his family’s laughter, his daughters’ silly stories, and their hilariously obvious cheating tactics. Occasionally he barked out a comment (often sarcastic), or laughed at a joke, or told us “Go ask your mother!” when we tried to grab food, but he sat apart, and that is just the way it was. We didn’t question it. Still don’t. He loved us, and we loved him. But he was apart.

I remember once when I was very young, on a Memorial Day, Grandpa went out and fired up the BBQ grill. He joked around with my Uncle Lyle while they drank beer and he cooked the hot dogs and hamburgers, and we were all so surprised because it seemed like Mommy and Grandma and the Aunts always cooked. But Grandpa apparently felt that grilling was a man’s job, so there you go. Then, after dinner, he got in a bathing suit, pulled the special, extra-large, Do Not Touch inner tube out of the heretofore unplumbed depths of the hall swimming closet, and HE GOT IN THE POOL. He floated around, a wet, floating Jonathan Winters (he is the spitting image, I kid you not), beer in hand, cigarette held carefully aloft, and you can bet none of us dared to splash or yell or pick up the water snakes or make waves of any kind. Because, dear lord, the world had gone insane and Grandpa was IN THE POOL.

Sometimes, when the tapestry gets cloudy, I think maybe it’s just the cigarette smoke.

Childhood Scene 3:
The last picture that captures my attention is the pinochle game. My mom and her sisters and her mother love to play cards. As far back as I can remember, when the Heedum women got together, they gathered around the dining room table, where cards were played and food was eaten. And, it goes without saying, there was the laughter. The Heedum women? Are Laughers. Loud Laughers. And Loud Talkers, as a matter of fact. Oh, ho, ho, yes they are. You know the type. So if you know me personally, 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, 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, y’all!

But the pinochle game and the laughter of the women in my family- the Aunts, Grandma, Mom- it is IN me, and a part of me, woven into my tapestry like black thread, bringing it all together. And though it can (and has) cause people to misunderstand what I am feeling, to doubt my sincerity, to think I am stronger or more resilient than I really am, I am thankful it is in me.

Because when I break my stupid ankle doing a simple cartwheel, I laugh. When I get viral gastroenteritis and hurl so hard I get blood-red bruising around my eyes, 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 we get a lousy louse in the house, after I clean and clean and nitpick and scratch and clean and clean and CLEAN, I laugh. When I joke about someone hurting my feelings or breaking my heart, I laugh. When somebody close to me dies, I dig desperately into my mind and dredge up the funny memories about that person, and I laugh. I do. I laugh. I can’t help it. It’s a part of my tapestry.

Newest Scene:
Now, as a grown woman, I have yet another scene to add to my tapestry. Amongst the wedding day, and the births of my children, and the deaths of loved ones, there is this:

It is the image of the Heedum sisters and their mother sitting in a hospital room in the ICU of a Phoenix hospital, waiting for Grandpa to return from dialysis. Exhausted from the worry of feeding tubes and ventilators and Do Not Resuscitate orders and Medical Power of Attorney decisions to be made, yet there they sit, the Heedum women, crossword puzzles, novels, and TV remote thrown aside, brand-new gift shop cards dealt across an unused bed-table, and a high-spirited game of pinochle in progress.

Loud laughter. Silly stories. Blatant cheating. More than once a curious face peeks into the room, the face of another person sitting vigil in the ICU, fearing the worst and hoping for the best.

“Hey! You ladies are having way too much fun in here!… Can I play?”

They smile and scratch their heads at the women who can laugh when there are hard times ahead. Because Grandpa will not be doing dialysis anymore. And Mom and Grandma and my aunts? They know it. And they are dealing with it the only way they know how.

My life. This tapestry. As new sections of pictorial designs are created, I am thankful for the scenes that have come before, adding to the whole, bringing it all into perspective. Because even when someone leaves me behind, maybe shuffling off this mortal coil (if you will allow me to wax Shakespearean for a moment), they are always there, woven into my tapestry. In my mind and heart.

Forever.

And, you know… blonde.

On a completely different note, the way the four desks in my cubicle space are set up situates all of our phones at close proximity to one another. Because of this, my colleagues often unwittingly throw me into the realm of Too Much Information. Oh, you know what I’m talking about. You’ve had those phone conversations at work! Don’t lie! The ones you think no one can hear? But people actually CAN? Hear them, that is? As a result, when friends or family get in touch with me while I’m at work, I am so inhibited by the thought of being overheard that I am forced to take on a voice reminiscent of the soothing, pillow-talky, late-night radio personality voices of yore, which inevitably provokes the person on the other line to demand, “Hey, are you mad at me? No? Depressed? Sick? What’s wrong with your voice?” And I have to patiently (and quietly) explain, “No, dummy, I’m at WORK.”

And that is no small feat, I tell you what. Because I am normally a Loud Talker on the phone, you see, and apparently my abnormally calm, oh-so-easy-on-the-ears voice freaks people the hell out.

Personally, I’m thinking this desk formation violates the fundamental principles of Feng shui. I don’t know about my co-workers, but I’m worried about my ch’i.

“I Hate Verizon with a Flaming Passion.” Whichever.

That being said…

PNME 2007 concert
Originally uploaded by Scott Stys

Man. Paige and I frakkin’ KNOW how to work the booty voodoo, I tell you what. (Sorry, no video… yet. Ooooh! That’s what you call a teaser, y’all!)

Why, yes I DO realize we are big dorks. Why do you ask?

*sigh*

And HA!

Obviously, we made an impression.

“Keep Shaking Da Booty”

Strangely enough, one time all the girls DO say, “Ho!”

Hey. This love ain’t for the faint-hearted.

(More to come…)

No, seriously. She was neglecting the bagel bin to harass them! Honestly. I would have been all, “Hey! Stop your yammerin’ and gimmee my bagel, lady! I’m HUNGRY!… Oh, and do you have any more of those little cream cheese packets?” (I’m a little testy when I’m hungry. Low blood sugar, and all that.) But that is so not the point.

While I was appalled at the effrontery of the neglectful bagel re-stocker, I will admit that I definitely think it’s natural for people to go all Pregnancy Patrol and say things like, “Oooh, y’all are so cute! You’d have the prettiest babies!… so what’s up with that?” It has something to do with the human imperative to procreate. Oh, and that categorical imperative which requires that nosy people get all up in a person’s bidness. And I do think there is a compliment in there somewhere. People think you’re pretty! And would have cute babies! At the very least… flattering, right? Not that flattery will get up at two a.m. to feed a hungry baby, but still… you’re pretty!

However… while perfect strangers have every right to see a cute young couple and think something along those lines, it is a very different thing altogether to express said thoughts aloud. So very inappropriate! Good lord. I agree with you, Kelly. People DO need to stay the hell out of a person’s uterus, the bizzyotches. I vote that you go with the “I have sex JUST for fun” t-shirt. Think of all the fun confrontations… I mean, conversations that bad boy would cause! Am I right? (I like the “Thank you for not sticking your nose in my uterus” slogan idea, but I think it may leave things too open to interpretation… oh, you know who you are! **cough**NILBO**cough**)

On the flip side:

If you’re me, you get, “Good lord. Are all those yours? [insert look of abject horror] Wait… you don’t plan on having any more of them, do you?”

Or– if you’re a part of TGIM’s family– you get, “When are you having more?!”

Coincidentally, just the other day as I sat in a salon chair staring with fascination at the sticky, tin foil faux hawk my stylist was creating with her crazy mad hair-coloring skillz, the usual questions began. And, as usual, they drifted into kid territory.

“What?! You have three kids?! THREE?! Wow! When did you start having babies? When you were twelve?! HA! HA! HA! How old are they?… Oh my GOD! Did you MEAN to have them so close together like that?! That’s crazy!… Hey! Can you believe she has THREE kids?! Yep! THREE! She looks twelve, right?! HA!”

At this point, everyone in the salon was sneaking stealthy yet totally obvious peeks at me, the crazy lady, the abnormally fertile momma. Hey. Don’t get me wrong. I like attention as much as the next attention whore, but at that moment, strangely, I was wondering why it is that the earth never opens up and swallows you whole when you WANT it to? Because honestly… where could I go? With the freaky foil faux hawk? And the prolific procreation skills?

But then my hair turned out all cute and stuff, so I was like, “Eh. That’s me. I’m a child-birthing fool… with some super cute hair! Take that, loudmouthed, rude stylist who I will totally be coming back to because LOOK AT MY HAIR! Cuteness.”

So, you see? The madness? Sorry, Kelly. Babies or not, it never ends.

Lately I’ve been pondering the complexities of friendship. And not just any friendship, but Best Friend Forever-ship. BFFship, if you will. You see, shortly after I married TGIM, I cross-stitched (okay, shut it) “Happiness is Being Married to My Best Friend” (seriously, I will cut you), which I then framed and proudly hung on our apartment wall. Honestly. I don’t think you properly understand just how painful it is for me to disclose this heretofore repressed memory of archetypal suburban domesticity, but I do it for the sake of my ART, okay? Because only recently I have discovered the inherent flaw in my claim of spousal BFFship which I unwittingly bought into for several years. The sad fact is… well, TGIM?

Yeah. He’s a guy.

Don’t get me wrong. In the grand scheme of things, there is nobody I would rather be with. In the event of, say, nuclear holocaust or a big-ass spider on the kitchen floor, TGIM is the person I want in my corner. Romantic cruise or candle-lit dinner for two? He’s my guy. My numero uno. My… TGIM.

Yet… recently I was listening to my best of good friends, Paige, talk about heading out to Hawaii to be with her sister as she gives birth to her second baby. Since I knew all about the recent experience Paige had doing the same thing for a friend, it was easy to envision her providing comfort, encouragement, back massages, even ice chips for her sister. Aw! So sweet!

Then I recollected TGIM during the birth of our second child, sitting at the edge of MY hospital bed staring at the television, remote control in hand, saying in a reasonable voice, “Come on! It’s not that bad. I’ll massage your back during the commercials!”

And that’s when it really hit me. Guys and gals? Totally different, yo?

What I’ve learned is that a woman should never underestimate the power of a best girlfriend. And not just any girlfriend, but a kindred spirit. A bosom bud. A BFF. And yesterday this point was driven home in spades.

Allow me to illustrate:

See, I was feeling all brave and buoyant and masochistic yesterday and before I knew it I was at the mall shopping for a new swimming suit.

I know, right?! Oh, and just so you know, my body just shivered convulsively at the memory. No, seriously. I totally shuddered. I just thought I’d point that out, you know, just to illustrate. I mean, since you can’t see me an all. For reals, y’all. I’m all in a dither! In fact, I typed “aswo;4wrj” instead of what I intended to write next (because of the shaking?), so I had to delete “aswo;4wrj” and explain about the shuddering and the convulsing and whatnot, which has completely thrown off my train of thought and just goes to show that even still I am in the throes of emotional perturbation after an afternoon spent swimsuit shopping at the mall.

Wait. What?

Oh! The swimsuit! Right. Thing is, I sometimes have these little spurts of insanity. Eh. What’cha gonna do?

Amazingly, though, I found one. A swimsuit, that is. And not just any old swimsuit, oh no, but a ONE-PIECE swimsuit! And do you know what? Do you? I loved it. LOVED it! (if someone could just head on over to my momma’s house and revive her, please, that would be so great, thanks…) I loved that swimsuit so dang much I wanted to marry it and have its bikini babies, it was that cute! With the ruffled halter neckline and the ruching at the bust and the slimming effect of the dark chocolatey material and whatnot? I was all, “Hey, there, sexy little one-piece, how YOU doin’?”

Unbelievably, I snagged the last pair of these cheeky little Roxy swim short-shorts (too easy?) that totally matched. The coup de grace? Everything was on sale! Honestly. You better believe I was all over that deal. ‘Cha. My momma didn’t raise no fool. (speaking of… seriously, just a quick peek in at my mom? someone? just let me know…)

You’re probably asking yourself what any of this swimsuit nonsense has to do with friendship, what with the absence of any sort of camaraderie thus far in my story. Perhaps you are trying to make sense of it all by gleaning my swimsuit saga for meaning, perhaps drawing parallels betwixt (yes, betwixt!) the psychological import of finding a slimming, modest swimsuit and the emotional well-being derived from a friendship with a supportive, unpretentious girlfriend. You’d be dead wrong, of course. Good lord, people. Sometimes a swimsuit (fetching though it may be) is just a swimsuit. Has Freud taught us nothing?

No, actually, my point is this: I called TGIM to tell him I found a kickass swimsuit with matching short-shorts which I subsequently snagged and bought (on sale!) for my very own.

“How much?” he asked with obvious trepidation.

Well, that was disappointing.

So I called Paige to let HER know that I found a kickass swimsuit with matching short-shorts which I subsequently snagged and bought (on sale!) for my very own.

“Sweet! Well, get yourself on over here and model it, girlfriend! Woo!”

Ah. Much better.

Better still, when I actually did go over and model my new bathing ensemble, no fault could be found in Paige’s raptures over the extraordinary cuteness of the suit or in her admiration for my ability to Shop the Sale.

(In the interest of full disclosure I got a similar, equally enthusiastic response from TGIM after I snapped a picture of myself in said bathing ensemble and sent it to his phone, but that is SO not the point.)

My point, manic though it may be presented here (I’m trying to go off the Diet Dr. Pepper, I truly am, honest), is that although my husband is my best guy, my steady rock, my lover, he is just not a GIRL. He won’t put on yoga pants and go trapezing with me on my birthday. No, sir. He doesn’t want to hear me complain about PMS, or about being bloated due to overindulgence in cheese fries, or how all my hair seems to be falling out and I wonder if it’s the product I’m using? Nor does he want to listen to me go on and on about podcasting, or how Let’s Dish! takes the stress out of dinner, or how YouTube is the devil. And he certainly doesn’t want to speculate on the possible meaning behind a look that took place between Veronica and Logan on Veronica Mars. I mean, he WILL listen, because he’s a super nice guy. But he won’t GET it. Not like a best girlfriend– a BFF– will get it.

He tries, of course. In fact, just the other day he called me at work to tell me that he heard on the radio that Lindsay Lohan had been arrested for DUI and possession of cocaine. Just because he thought I’d want to know! Aw! But did he want to discuss anything beyond the possible jail time she was looking at, such as the ridiculousness of celebrity “rehab” centers like Promises or the possible ramifications of this arrest on LiLo’s career? NO. Because he just doesn’t get it. Not like a BFF gets it. And that’s what BFFship is all about.

I realize now that my heartfelt cross-stitch (SHUT. IT.) was almost right. Happiness is being married to my best GUY friend. Oh, I know, I know…. but semantics, shmemantics! All I’m saying is I am so very lucky to have found the wonderful man I’ve chosen to spend my life with…. but I’ve come to realize how much happier, how much fuller life can be when one is also lucky enough to have found a BFF.

Woo! Super cute.

Thanks, Mr. Michael Muhney. You are officially the coolest celebrity I know. Plus… nice penmanship! With the hearts and whatnot?

Mwah!

Oh, I kid. Totally kidding! Kid, kid, kid! I’m a kidder. It’s what I do. So it’s all good.

Anyhoos… Katie’s hypothesis? Well, why don’t I just let her tell you herself… (Gives me time to finish my American Idol recap. SHUT! UP! I can’t help myself! It’s a sickness.)

Featuring “Sick of Chicks” by Brother Love and “Booty Voodoo” by Lee Coulter.

(Oooh! As soon as it’s available, please do that clicky thing and give us some love over at VEOH, mm’kay?)

Even if you don’t watch Veronica Mars, watching me and Paige get a little crazy on camera (not like THAT, pervs! GOSH!) equals good times for all. Especially when Piznarski’s Dance Grooves and Stabby Unicorns are involved. So CLICK HERE. Because each time you click over, we get closer and closer to the Veronica Mars swag we’ve been eyeing. MUST. WIN. VM. SWAG. Or snickerdoodles. Whatever.

Apparently, some mysterious person is accusing me of copyright infringement. I’m all, “Who in the what now?!” So VEOH pulled my video, but there is no word as to exactly whose copyright I’m supposedly infringing upon.

Help! Help! I’m being oppressed! Do you see VEOH oppressing me?!

I mean, RUDE.

Yay! The Man is no longer holding me back, y’all. Click away!

(Shout-out to Shaun for the flippin’ SWEET photo!)

American Idol, baby!

Let’s get ready to RAWK, yo?

However…

I totally missed the season premiere of AMERICAN IDOL.

Again.

I know, right?! Where the HELL are my priorities?! Gosh. Stupid family obligations. And work and stuff. Freak.

Luckily, both of this week’s episodes are safely tucked away in my handy-dandy Ti-Faux, and there will be a recap– oh, yes, there WILL be a recap. In the meanwhile, I do have a small inkling of how things went down last night, thanks to an IM session with my buddy Paige which consisted– in part– of the following exchange [sensitive information redacted]:

Paige: Are you watching?

Cat: Am I watching… DAMMIT!

Paige: So, no?

Cat: It’s recording… I’ll watch later.

Paige: Ryan is SHORT.

Cat: I know, right?! He’s wee!

Paige: I feel sorry for these people.

Cat: Delusional. The lot of ‘em.

Paige: Simon is being so mean!

Cat: What?! NO! I’m SHOCKED! Are people crying?

Paige: Dude!

Cat: Dude!

Paige: Don’t go up to the camera and cry! What did you expect?!

Cat: See? I don’t even need to be watching.

Paige: What? They don’t know that they suck?

Cat: I mean, seriously.

Paige: I can’t stop eating Cheezits, dammit!

Cat: Dammit!

Paige: This 7 foot tall woman is on…

Cat: Aw. Poor Ryan.

Paige: Simon is saying “I think that is the tallest girl I have ever seen!”

Cat: Speaking of tall, I need a donut.

Paige: Simon just called her a giraffe!

Cat: He’s such an ass.

Paige: Whoa!

Cat: What?

Paige: What the…?!

Cat: WHAT?!

Paige: Seriously…

Cat: Okay, keep in mind I’m not actually watching right now…

Paige: Hey, did you buy a gerbil?

See? I mean, I practically watched it, right?!

Then again, if you– like me– missed the season premiere(s), I am fairly certain that if you go back and read this post from last season, take out last year’s contestants and insert this year’s freaks and geeks, then bada bing bada boom! You’ve just freed up four hours of your life that otherwise you would never get back! EVER.

Oh, you’re feeling me, aren’t you?

That being said… was it good?!

Wait! Don’t tell me! DON’T TELL ME! Sheesh. What’s wrong with you? Honestly.

…

No, really. Was it?

(Blink twice for yes.)

Woo! You go, girls! Get down with your bad mommy selves! Or something! And I’m totally NOT jealous or anything! Much! Maybe a little!

Hey. You dang well better stow me in a suitcase and bring me along if you get to meet Oprah (or Ellen! I must dance with ELLEN!), or seriously? HEADS. WILL. ROLL.

No, really.

Heads? Rolling everywhere.

Cat: Hello?

Paige: Dude. Are you off work today?

Cat: Yep.

Paige: And all our kids are in school, right?

Cat: Heck, yes!

Paige: Cool! Come over and we’ll play Guitar Hero.

Cat: Sweet! Let’s “Shout at the Devil,” yo?

Paige: Okay, but hurry. I’ve got to pick Lola up from preschool in an hour.

And a happy new year, yo?

Peace.

xxoo Cat

(And just so you know, I have NO idea what’s up with my age. Very strange. It’s a total mystery, I am not even kidding.)

Cat’s MySpace page

Guys? I’m making friends.

Veronica Mars is MY friend! Nanny nanny boo boo! YEAH! Hoo!

Okay, so… now what do I do?

Damn. I don’t think the CW thought this through.

Eh.

Suddenly, WHAMMO! One of those Wait-OMG-I-Totally-Know-That-Person! moments hit me like a truckload of Krispie Kreme donuts (I’m hungry, so sue me): I graduated from high school with this guy, like, seventeen– I mean several– years ago! Back in Arizona! Which is SO far away from here! Like all-the-way-across-the-COUNTRY far away from here! So faaaaaaar from where I live and work now!

There he stood. Right there. A piece of my past, just buying coffee and shizz. Craziness. What the…? Did I wake up in Bizarro Land?

Okay, here’s where things got a bit tricky. I admit, I wasn’t one hundred percent positive that this guy in the nice suit with the unfashionably long sleeves was BS (I swear those are his initials, so work with me), a cute, funny guy who used to hang with the Cowboy Crew, then went away to college and turned skater dude (random?). A PHS alumnus from those halcyon days of my yesteryear, if you will. So I did what any other sane person would do in my situation.

I totally stalked him.

In my defense, it all began with a simple double-take slash Wait Just A Cotton-Picking-Second look, but quickly escalated into a wide-eyed, full-on stare. Oh dear. Did I ever stare. But whatever. You have to admit there was a bit of a surprise factor there. I mean, I hadn’t seen this guy since high school and suddenly he’s standing in line buying coffee at MY place of employment, and I’m not supposed to stare? Just a little? The sheer surprise factor alone… I think Miss Manners would give me a little leeway here. I think the Manners Police would only issue me a warning. I think — okay, fine, I’ll stop with the metaphors. But I have more. Don’t think I don’t. Because I do.

Unfortunately BS (hoo!) caught me staring, so I cunningly deflected suspicion by grabbing two packs of gum and a box of Tic-Tacs… which in retrospect was maybe not the coolest of moves because he was probably all, “Oh… crazy lady’s got breath-freshening issues…” which, first of all, RUDE!, and secondly, I certainly DON’T, so shut up Mr. My Sleeves Are Unfashionably Long! Geesh. Judgmental, much? Some people.

Anyhoos, you know how in that one episode of Gilmore Girls when Lorelei was angry at Dean (Jared Padalecki– mmm…) for breaking up with her daughter Rory, and there was that scene where we could see Dean stocking shelves at the supermarket (he was the bag-boy, keep up, people!) and in the background Lorelei was staring at him through the supermarket window? And she did that funny bit where she spotted Dean, hesitated, walked away, then suddenly reappeared, walked past the window a few times while throwing quick, hilariously conspicuous glances inside, until she finally stopped, steeled herself, and went in? Well that’s what–

–wait, what? Really? You don’t know that scene? Huh. Okay, how about that scene in Grey’s Anatomy when George wanted the Chief– who was recovering from brain surgery– to sign a grant form so Joe the Bartender wouldn’t go bankrupt and lose his bar just because he needed that super expensive surgery where they basically killed him and brought him back to life? Which was totally cool? The killing and bringing back to life thing, that is? And George kept loitering by the Chief’s hospital room, hovering, peeking around the doorframe, trying to be inconspicuous but failing miserably? And it was funny? That one? Remember?

No? Okay, whatever, you get my point. And I apparently spend way too much time watching and thinking about television (and thinking about watching television), but that is neither here nor there so we will move on.

See, I was Lorelei and George all rolled into one– with the unintentionally conspicuous staring and the reconnoitering and the peeking around corners– and I am pretty sure I scared the ever-loving bejeebies out of BS (hee… BS… I kill me), truth be told. Because as I skirted the wall separating me from BS and the rest of the cafeteria, I misjudged the travel time from the cash register to the exit– a rookie mistake! damn!– and I rounded the corner too soon, coming this close to barreling into him. Of course this forced me to break out the classic Stop, Stare… Run Away! Run Away! manoeuver, which is a tricky business, I don’t mind telling you.

I shall never forget the hunted look in his eyes as he bolted for the door…

But whatever. I rushed back to my cube and looked him up at Classmates.com (I could NOT remember his last name, and hello? OCD?), then Googled him, and lo and behold, we work for the same agency. He apparently works out of our Colorado office, which would explain why I haven’t seen him around, but still! How coincidental is that?! So, SO coincidental, that’s how much!

I totally emailed him.

What?

[time lapse]

Well, that’s a relief. I just got off the phone with none other than Mr. BS (HA!) himself, who called me after receiving my email. And considering the sheer volume of exclamation marks and OMG!’s peppered throughout said email, it was jolly good of him.

Turns out he recognized me also, so I apparently only THOUGHT his Wait-OMG-I-Totally-Know-That-Person! look was a Dear God Please Don’t Let Her Be Kathy Bates-In-Misery Crazy Stalker Lady look. Which, honest mistake, right? And to be frank, BS (it seriously never gets old!) needs to work on his “looks” because the resemblance of the former to the latter? Uncanny. That’s all I’m saying.

And… I just realized I never told him I liked his suit. It’s a shame, really. I could have warned him about The Sleeves.

Oh, just FYI: the videos I make for my wee Ry-Ry cannot be over two minutes long, nor can they contain music I don’t have permission to use. GAH. The pressure!