Lost in the Din

The office is so quiet, so hushed, but a clamor in my head pervades the stillness, not jarring, like the faint creak of a door at the edge of an afternoon nap, but incessant, like the faraway buzzing of a halogen light.

Four years. Four years they’ve gone while I’ve stayed. Four years they’ve played while I’ve worked. Four years they’ve reconnected while I’ve disconnected. Four years.

If I admit I can’t get used to this, will the restlessness subside, or will I lose myself in the din?

Aerosmithsonian

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

Do you follow?

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wanted to see–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wait… Hey!

I’m Shameless When It Comes to Plugging You…

Okay… well, that was supposed to be a play on the lyrics of Billy Joel’s “Shameless” (or Garth Brooks’, whatev, pick your poison, I don’t judge), but I realize now that it just sounds dirty.

Eh.

So I made this wicked awesome header logo for my Chassy Studios website (to match, but not totally match, DWM and TechnoGeekery) and I want to brag and whatnot, not to mention plug my services (dude, again with the dirty), even though I am actually too busy right now to take on any new clients, which is completely beside the point, clearly, but I thought I’d mention it, so step OFF me! GOSH.

What?

Ah, yes! The header logo! Shameless plug! Because of the wicked awesomeness!

Check it:

 

Eh? Eh?! With the Chassy Car and the Chassy Town and the Chassy Tree and Chassy Buildings and e’rything?!  Right?!

Wicked awesome. I’m just saying.

So… there you have it.

Oh, I’m shameless. I just wanted you to know.
Oh, I’m down on my knees… shameless.

Hmmm… there’s a joke in there somewhere. I just KNOW it.

Presenting Gravatars! Again!

Yay, y’all! Now we can JUDGE each other!

I dedicated a TechnoGeekery episode to this topic back in August last year, and then Gravatars went all crazy on me and everyone was like, “O. Em. Gee. Where is my stinkin’ Gravatar?! LAME!” But in the latest upgrade of Wordpress, they threw caution to the wind and built in Gravatar support! I know, right?! SWEET. Accordingly, the following information and TechnoGeekery video may be familiar to you, but watch again. (I’m testing out mdialog– as suggested by new TechnoGeek Gail Rivett– by creating a channel. Let me know how it works for you, especially those PC users out there!)

IF that doesn’t work for you, try this:

With no further ado…

In our day-to-day lives we can judge others by what they look like, what clothes they wear, how they talk, oh, all sorts of ways. But blogs and boards are so… anonymous. It’s not as if we can actually see each other, right? So how the heck are we supposed to judge each other?!

Fortunately, that’s where gravatars come in. With gravatars, we can create custom images that represent us. A personal logo, if you will. Gravatars identify us and say something about our personality. Which… ah-ha! Okay, what I meant to say was… ah-ha! Now we have something to work with!

Think about it. What can we infer about a person who creates a gravatar image featuring a fluffy white kitten perched atop a pink pillow? Um, cutesy, much? Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Conversely, what can we assume about a person whose gravatar features an image of Jude and Tommy during that scene on Instant Star when they were totally making out in the rain? Aaaw! Hopeless romantic, that’s what! Eh? Eh?

Take a gander at some random gravatars:

So if you frequently find yourself commenting on blog posts throughout the blogosphere, I strongly suggest you create a gravatar. You know… so people can judge you? Then your gravatar should appear whenever you post a comment to a gravatar-enabled blog—like Technogeekery.com, for instance. Hey, it’s easy and it’s free, that’s all I’m saying. Do what you want. I don’t even care. Much.

So… do you have a gravatar now? Well, what are you waiting for? Show off the darn thing by commenting on this vidcast, for heaven’s Pete sake. Do it, do it, do it!

Do it.

*UPDATED I’m Thinking!

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

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

I need a vacation.

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

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

Oh, dear lord. I’m LAAAAAAAAAME.

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

TechnoGeekery Show #29: What the Widget?!

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

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

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

Leap of Faith… Redux

I recently stumbled across the following post, which I wrote way, waaaay back in May of ‘05. In all honesty, it made my heart hurt a little to re-read it. Who knew I could be introspective and poignant? Sometimes? Okay, I may have even teared up a bit. Just a little! I know, right? Me? BIG BABY. Deal with it. Re-reading the post also inspired in me a wicked craving for a donut. Go figure.

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.

Driving in Cars with Kiddos

Sometimes big thoughts hit you during small moments.

For whatever reason, my kiddos and I were talking about the city that lives underneath Disneyland, full of offices and tunnels and security and employees making their way across the park without having to brave the crowds. I believe the Mickey Mouse Jail is underground, too. Not that I’ve ever been in it. But, hey, I know people who have, so HA!

“Hey, Momma, wouldn’t it be fun to live underground?”

Before I could say anything, Tanner butted in to say exactly what I was thinking. “No way,” he replied. “Everyone would be all grumpy and depressed…”

“Exactly,” I interjected, imagining a world full of people stricken with seasonal affective disorder due to sun deprivation.

“… until we evolved.”

Okay, I wasn’t thinking that last part.

“Evolved?” Allison repeated, her eyebrows going all wrinkly.

Tanner turned around in his seat to look at Allison who sat behind him in the middle row of our car. “Yeah,” he said, with that twelve-year-old air of confidence and superiority sixth-graders have before they go off to junior high and have it squashed out of them. “Then? We’ll lose our eyes and have to find our way around by echolocation.”

Okay, I wasn’t thinking that part either.

I could see in the rearview mirror that Allison’s eyebrows had flown up into her hairline as her eyes widened to enormous proportions behind her glasses.

Tanner, never one to miss an opportunity to showboat, cupped his hand to the side of his mouth and stage-whispered, “And then we become FISH!”

Allison gasped. Hannah snickered from the very back seat of the car, then continued reading the book that had miraculously kept her out of the conversation up to this point.

I looked over at Tanner–torn between reproving him for freaking out his sister or giving him props for his correct usage of sweet words such as “evolve” and “echolocation”– but before I could say anything he smiled smugly at his littler sister and said, “But don’t worry. Evolving would take years.”

I cleared my throat.

“Millions of years,” Tanner amended.

Allison’s tense little body sagged with relief. “I guess it wouldn’t be fun to live underground after all, huh, Momma,” she said.

“I guess not,” I replied, smiling at her in the rearview mirror. Then I turned to glance at Tanner, with what I hoped was a stern look on my face. “Echolocation?” I asked, raising my eyebrows. “Fish?”

Tanner shrugged and smiled, then turned away to look out the window.

Echolocation, I murmured to myself, amused. Evolution. I ever-so-slyly stole a look at my son, and suddenly, in that small moment, the big thought struck. We may have millions of years underground before we evolve into freaky, sightless, echolocating fish, but my son appears to be evolving right before my eyes into more and more of a handsome young man than my sweet little buddy boy.

And that quickly, evolution didn’t seem all that funny anymore.

“Echolocation!” Hannah piped up from the back seat as she slammed shut her book. “Like bats!” she added with a giggle.

At that, I burst out laughing. Because honestly. Echolocation? Still funny.

Special Message to Spammers

No. I can unequivocally state that I do not, in fact, want to increase the girth of my, er, male member. What with me not having boy parts and all. Just so you know. So please stop sending me Special Offers.

Especially those ones in Chinese, for obvious reasons.

I mean, honestly. Why don’t they send out spam the same way they distribute Happy Meals at McDonald’s? “You want one cheeseburger Happy Meal? Okay… boy or girl?”

Street Cred

Crap.

I may have just been spotted–at work!–air guitaring along with the (wicked awesome) song playing on my iPod.

Hey! I can’t help it! The music is in my SOUL, so kindly step OFF me, yo?

Well. This can’t be good for my street cred with the urban cubicleland demographic.

Guess who’s TWITTERpated?!

Follow Chassy Cat at TWITTER.

That’s right, y’all. I’ve already jumped on board the Twitter train, but now I am determined to get off my lazy, non-Twitteriffic butt and rush full steam ahead! Or something. Crap. Yeah, I lost myself in my analogy, too.

Whatever! My point is this: I have installed a Twitter widget in my right sidebar. Seriously. Take a look. —> Over there! I can wait… See, I’ve decided to Twitter random thoughts as they occur to me throughout the week. For instance, please note today’s Chassy Cat Tweets:

Britney Spears totally cracked me up on HIMYM. Well, there you have it. Words I never thought I’d utter without a codicillary “Not!”

AND

I suddenly realized the only time I will ever “stop traffic” is during my funeral procession and basically my day went downhill from there.

Woo! FUN! I mean, that is good stuff there. All I’m saying is that a person needs an outlet for all the randomness in life, and I think I’ve found mine. And all in 140 characters or less, to boot! That’s right… hollah!

*raises the roof*

So feel free to visit DWM to see my Tweets, or head on over to Twitter and follow me there. Oooh, and if you already have a Twitter account, we can totally Tweet each other! Right?!

Dirty.

Royally Screwed

As I sat at a traffic signal a few moments ago, stopped at a green light, my feelings quickly descended from the heady heights of annoyance– I mean, STOPPED! at a GREEN LIGHT!– into the realm of somber thoughtfulness, which was most likely a natural progression of thought due to the mile-long funeral procession crossing in front of me through the light.

And as I watched the cavalcade of mourners roll slowly by, preceded by motorcycle police officers with their sirens and lights providing guaranteed right-of-way to the hearse containing the casketed remains which followed closely behind, something pretty earth-shattering occurred to me.

See, I suddenly realized the only time I will ever be treated even remotely like royalty– with cavalcades equipped with sirens and lights and special flashers, and adoring family and friends following me around– I will be totally DEAD. And thus, completely unable to enjoy the experience. And heaven knows that my family and friends won’t have a good time, what with being all wrecked with sadness and whatnot over the tragedy of their loss. You know, of me. Right? Right?! Dude, I’m saying.

In what universe is that fair?

Benjamin Franklin once said, “Certainty? In this world nothing is certain but death and taxes.” And today I suddenly realized that in both? Well, I get totally gypped.

Washington Improv Theater, Free To Me, and Other Confessions

I remember the moment– the exact moment– I realized what it was I wanted to do with my life.

Ah, yes… how could I forget? It was summer and I was at recess with my friend Natalie. We were on the monkey bars… but, wait… it must have been spring, rather than summer, if we were at recess, right? But whatever! The moment is tattooed on my brain! Natalie and I were on the slide… except it must have been Dominique because Natalie didn’t like the slide… and… oh, hell, I may as well burst into a soulful rendition of “I Remember It Well” from Gigi, the 1958 Academy Award winning musical film starring Leslie Caron, Louis Jourdan, and Maurice Chevalier, and be done with it! GOSH. I didn’t say I could focus clearly on the minutiae of the moment! I just said I remember the moment! The having of it! So step OFF me.

*ahem*

So, Dominique asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up.

Well, this was a deep question in the sixth grade, I tell you what. We’d gone way beyond, “Do you like me? Check yes, no, or maybe.” And as an aside, why “maybe”? Had no one taught us that “maybe” was the new “no, but I don’t want you to cry or hit me at recess”? Honestly.

I remember thinking very seriously about Dominique’s question. Probably for more than a minute, even. No one had ever asked me that question before, you see. And then, I just knew.

“I want to make people laugh,” I said with conviction. “You know, like Erma Bombeck!” (Shut up. I was eleven.)

Oh, the folly of youth! There I was, thinking there was a career to be had in making people laugh! Ha! There Dominique was, asking “Who the heck is Erma Bombeck?” Double ha!

Dominique and I drifted apart in junior high.

So, there it is. I’ve always wanted to be a comedian. Or a lawyer. And for a short while, there was that dream of becoming a professional Orca trainer at Sea World. (Hey! They get to swim with Shamu. And ride the dolphins!) Sadly, not one of these careers has ever panned out.

That being said, guess what?! Give up? Okay! I have been invited to attend some (free!) improv classes at Washington Improv Theater, that’s what! But, hello? Scary. I mean, I’m not sure what to expect. For instance, will I be required to take part in any type of miming activities? Because I don’t mind saying that mimes? Give me the wiggins. With their imaginary glass boxes and drinking from cups that aren’t there and whatnot! Good LORD! It’s just not RIGHT!

On the other hand, I’m pretty sure I already mentioned the free-to-me part. No cost whatsoever. Totally free.

I’m torn. Should I set aside my Metamfiezomaiophobia and sign up? Well? Should I?!

Oh, who am I kidding? I’m going in, y’all, the possibility of being trapped in a glass box be damned! I’ll see you on the other side.

(Any one in the DC Metro area who has a wild a hair and wants to join me, give me a holler! Or an email! Whichever!)

Girls’ Night Out

What I learned last night during Girls’ Night Out:

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.

I’m Taking a Stand

Pockets are handy. You know? You can put stuff in them. You can keep your hands warm in them. Sometimes you find money in them. See? Handy! I am going to take a stand and say that pockets are good.

So yesterday, when I found myself pocketless– don’t ask how this happened, I have no idea what craziness compelled me to buy pocketless pants– I was at a loss. Where was I supposed to put stuff? And what if my hands got cold?! Huh? What then? And I’m not going to lie, a little windfall of forgotten change for a Diet Dr. Pepper would not have been unwelcome, thank you VERY much William Willet. (Damn you, Daylight Savings Time! DAMN YOU.)

So when I realized it was imperative to my workday productivity– and quite honestly, my usefulness as a human being in general– that I get caffeine in my system, like, STAT, I was like, “Oh, NO!” Right out loud, just like that. Because of the pockets? That weren’t there? Hello? Where was I supposed to put my MONEY? Honestly. I can’t just walk around clutching a dollar. Do you know how often I misplace my belongings? Do you?! Do you know how often I absently set things down and walk away? DO YOU?! Well, it is OFTEN, I tell you what. Which is very inconvenient, I must say, especially when that thing I set down is my wallet (in a grocery cart) or my child (also in a grocery cart). Oh, that last part was a joke. Clearly! I would never misplace my children! As far as you know!

And then, as so often happens when one’s back is pressed to the wall, I had a moment of epiphany. Heart hammering, I checked to see if the coast was clear– ohmygosh!– it was– ohmygoodness!– so without further hesitation I folded up that dollar bill and tucked it right into my bra. DUDE! I know, right?! I employed the classic bra stash! And let me tell you, that is not something I had ever considered. Not even remotely. I mean, as far as I’m concerned, the bra? Not exactly sartorially relevant in my life. Hey, I’m just saying that it doesn’t have to work very hard for me, and seems more of a nuisance than a help, what with the slipping straps and the stress of coordinating colors and whatnot. And let’s just say that the women who regularly bra stash as portrayed in TV and film are not exactly my peers in the *ahem* boobilicious department. Yet, here I was, actually getting some mileage from my heretofore irrelevant undergarments! SWEET.

Well, let me tell you, once I realized that my money was safely stowed away, safe from being misplaced, I felt pretty good. Sassy, even. I had MONEY in my BRA. How cool is that?! As I strolled with a bit of a jaunty air– hey, don’t judge– to the employee lounge, I imagined all sorts of other items that could be stowed away… business cards, sticks of gum, credit cards, notes with passwords or phone numbers… oh, the possibilities!

As I approached the vending machine, I decided that loose change was out of the question, clearly, but was a price I was willing to pay for peace of mind when I am caught pocketless and unawares. Coming out of my pleasant reverie, I nodded hello to the person standing at the next vending machine. Then I noticed the fifteen or so other people in the lounge, milling about. I could feel their eyes on me. Watching. Waiting. It’s like they KNEW or something! And they were judging me for my wanton ways! I mean, there was MONEY in my BRA! And, what? Was I just going to reach in and brazenly pull my dollar out of my bra, just like that?! Good LORD! I hadn’t thought this through!

STOP STARING AT ME! I thought, my heart beating wildly…

As a line began to form behind me, I realized I would have to suck it up or remain in my present state of decaffeinated non-productivity.

Caffeine won.

I slowly turned back to the machine, took a deep breath, and with my flushed face proudly held aloft I reached into my shirt, fished out my folded dollar bill, and snapped it open with a flourish. Ha! I thought. Take THAT, judgmental bystanders! And when that can of Diet Dr. Pepper finally dropped– thunk thunk! – I calmly retrieved it… and I got the hell out of there, vowing to donate my pocketless pants to the needy and leave bra stashing to the experts, by golly.

So… yeah. Pockets are handy. I’m taking a stand.

Yes, I said “Man Boobs.” What of it?

Guess what?!

Okay, a raise of hands: How many of you just reflexively shouted out “chicken butt!” (or at least thought it enthusiastically)? Don’t lie! I don’t judge.

But we were guessing, right? After indulging in a moment of juvenile humor, of course. Seriously, stop denying it.

I’ve been MIA for a bit of time– just a teensy bit!– because I finally “officially” launched my little side bidness I mentioned, oh, say, about a year ago? Give or take? Yup. Check me out! I am ALL about the website design and maintenance! Yessirree, Bob!

CHECK. ME. OUT.

I’ve already got some clients (hoo! I said “clients”! in a sentence in which it refers to people who will pay me money! MONEY! exchanging HANDS!), so I’ve been a little busy getting my bearings and whatnot, but I am determined– I’m making my determined face right now– determined, I say! to get back to blogging the snark on a regular basis.

Plus, we have TV again, so download Skype and give me a holler if you want to shoot the snarky breeze with Chassy Cat and friends for the TV recap podcast I am STRONGLY considering calling Boob Tube REWIND. Just so you know. I’m not sure if boobs will be a prerequisite for chatting, but if we swing that way, perhaps man boobs will be sufficient.

And I just said “boobs” way too many times for one whole post that is not in any way related to the loverly Kat McPhee.

Chassy Cat, OUT.

Random Thoughts on a Dreary Thursday Afternoon

Okay, I’m not sure if any of you have ever lost consciousness before, so let me just say very quickly here: Don’t do it.

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?

Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!

Last night was a comedy of errors, really. Except sad. And very painful. Lots of pain. But a comedy, nonetheless. Bringing the funny.

Ha?

It all began when I slipped on the iced-over concrete steps outside of our house while on my way to the mailbox. I had keys in one hand and envelopes in the other and it all happened so fast, so I didn’t even have time to catch myself. So, THUD, thud, thud. Then pain. Scratch that. I meant to say PAIN. Yet, even through the haze of agony, I automatically did that thing you do when you fall. You know? That thing? When you look frantically around to see if anyone saw you fall, because 1) embarrassing!, and 2) if anyone DID see it is imperative that you do the “I’m all right! Ta da! Nothing to see here!” thing, and 3) EMBARRASSING. Hmm. Why do people do that, anyway? And by “people” I mean “me.” When a weakly uttered, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” would be so totally appropriate, not to mention awesomely pathetic? Really.

But, I digress. Luckily I was able to pick myself up, and– clutching my back– managed to stagger back through my front door before passing out. Coincidentally, Alli was watching Madagscar and was just at the part where Alex the Lion has been nailed with tranquilizer darts and is in a psychedelic delirium. I know, right? It lent itself well to my own confused thinking during my dramatic collapse and loss of consciousness. Mood music, if you will. Hey, mad props on the timing, Fate! You bizzyotch.

When I came to, TD was on the phone with 911. I guess when I came staggering through the front door babbling about how I thought I’d broken my tailbone and to “call DAD!” he insisted on calling 911 first. He apparently told me (several times, allegedly), “Okay, I’ll call Dad, but 911 FIRST!” At the time, 911 meant nothing to me, just random numbers he kept throwing around. Like 12. Or 7. I couldn’t understand why he was so fixated on those stupid numbers when clearly I needed him to call TGIM. I’m pretty proud of the kid, actually. He stayed calm, followed the directions of the 911 dispatcher, and took care of his utterly freaked-out sisters. Of course, the four blankets he and the girls ripped off the beds and threw over me may have been overkill on the whole “Keep her warm!” directive, but still… proud!

So… I got my first ambulance ride out of the experience. But I have to say it wasn’t as fun as one would think. Probably because of the neck brace, the backboard, the IV, and the excruciating pain. Probably.

At the hospital they took x-rays (after three hours) and told me that while I didn’t appear to have broken anything, my coccyx was badly bruised (along with my dignity) and I will have to check back with my doctor on Friday, in case of internal bruising or a herniated lumbar disc or some such nonsense. You know what? Herniated is a funny word. HER-NEE-AAAY-TED. See? Funny.

After about six hours in the emergency room, they finally decided to discharge me. Yes, even though it was after midnight. And TGIM and the kiddos were at home in bed (thinking I was staying the night). But the emergency room was swamped and they needed the bed, so there you go. Unfortunately, in their haste, they did not take the time to do the little things. You know, like check my blood pressure? Which is a good idea when a patient tells you repeatedly that she has low blood pressure, and you decide to hop her up on Percocet anyway (on an empty stomach, no less), and then leave her laid out on a stretcher for six hours.

Because when you pull out her IV and point her toward the exit, and she decides to take a pit stop at the emergency room bathroom (IV? six hours? duh?), no good can come of it. None. Zilch. And wouldn’t you know it? No matter how sternly I told myself that I would NOT pass out– no, absolutely NOT, under no circumstances, I am not even JOKING!– the next thing I knew I was still coming to with my cheek pressed against the cool tiles of the bathroom floor. The kicker? I apparently twisted my ankle on the way down, just before I broke my fall with my face. Of course, having been unconscious during the fall, I didn’t feel a thing, so that was a mercy. Then again, I feel it now. Which… no fun at all? And while the sprained ankle seems reasonable to concerned friends and family, how do I explain the bruises and swelling on my face, when I purportedly fell on my bum?

Oh, I guess I just did. Sa-WEET.

Hey. You know what else is a funny word? Percocet. Ha! It’s loopy doopy. Percocet…

“Momma, can I read to you?”

Alli stood at my left shoulder, resting her chin on the back of my chair to peek at whatever it was on my computer screen that held my attention. I could feel her there, fidgety and anxious, waiting as patiently as she knew how until I finished typing. Her warm breath tickled my neck, and I smiled to myself. I turned away from the computer (these days it is always the computer) to give her a smile, and that is when it happened. That is when I saw her.

Really saw her.

Of course you saw her, dipstick, you think to yourself. You were looking right at her. And you’d be right, of course, except for the “dipstick” part, because that is just plain rude. I looked at her. Of course I looked at her. But it was what I saw that startled me.

I’m not going to spout any hackneyed verbiage about seeing her “with new eyes” or “for the first time.” Nor will I wax allegorical about seeing beyond the outward appearance of those around us. Nope. It was simpler than that. I wasn’t seeing her anew; I was just… seeing her. Her sea green eyes, one magnified by a coke bottle lens, but both shining up at me, full of depth and warmth. The freckle on her chin. The wisps of unruly hair that danced around her hairline, escaped from the confines of her ponytail. The sweet little nose. The determined tilt of her chin, seemingly at odds with the amiable set of her lips. The almost palpable energy radiating from her body as her excitement and vitality threatened to spill over, to overwhelm me with, just… her, all of her, even as she struggled for composure.

She was so beautiful in that moment. Ethereal, yet so very real. I literally ached with the beauty of her. All of her. In that moment, she wasn’t just a spunky little mini-me with glasses and a propensity for chattering simply for chattering’s sake. I don’t know how else to say it. She was just… herself.

And it was breathtaking.

Alli shook my shoulder. “Mom? Momma?” She peered into my eyes, and a shadow of concern crossed her face.

Just a moment had gone by–seconds, really–but I felt both physically and emotionally exhausted, absolutely spent, as if I’d been traveling for weeks in some far off place and I was finally returning home. Trying to get my bearings.

I blinked a few times, fast, winking away any tears that dared to escape. I showed my tear ducts who’s boss, so to speak. “Yes, sweetie?” I finally answered.

“I love you.”

Now, I know for a fact that she had been about to ask me, “Can I read to you?” Because that is what she always asks when her homework is finished and she needs to read for twenty minutes for her reading log. But she changed the program.

“I love you, too,” I replied, then pulled her into my arms for a hug.

“I know,” she said simply. Then, “Momma?” she asked as she gently disentangled herself from my arms, arms which may or may not have been holding her a teensy bit too tightly.

“Hmm…?”

“Can I read to you?”

After a momentary glitch, we were back to our regularly scheduled program. All was well in the world.

But now, as I think back to that moment, I can’t help but wonder if Alli veered off-script because at that moment, that exact moment when she looked into my eyes… she saw me, too.

TechnoGeekery: Request for Questions

New vidcast up at TechnoGeekery.com!

That being said, I’ve been thinking about the future lately. Oh, not in a Saving For The Future kind of way, or an I Will One Day Backpack My Way Across Europe If It Is The Last Thing I Ever Do So Help Me GOD kind of way, but in the What The HELL Am I Doing With My LIFE way. You know. I know you know.

I blame TechnoGeekery.

Oh, yes. Yes, I do.

Here’s thing. I was approached, asked if I’d be interested in focusing my desire to create video podcasts into something with a little more purpose than PSA’s about Public Restroom Cell Phone Etiquette (I still stand by my original stance of *shudder*), and I was all, “Okay!”

Because I’m STUPID?

Here, let me tell you a secret: Me? I’m a bit of a perfectionist. No, really! Um… and a tad OCD. A smidge, really. Oh, and there’s the ADHD thing. So being the sole writer, cinematographer, film editor, director, producer, performer, musical coordinator, and PR person for a video podcast? A little time consuming. And–perhaps– a bit stressful. You know, at times. Or… most of the time.

So, while many audio podcasters may be able to set aside a few nights a week to record two or three episodes of their show per night, it is possible they may not have even a remotely accurate idea of the amount of time I put into one five-minute episode of TechnoGeekery.

See, it’s a chunk of time. A HUGE chunk. Big ol’ chunky chunk. Lots of chunk going on here.

And I can’t help wondering… well, what in the world is it all for? Why do I do it? Why do I fret over it? Will I look back on my life ten years from now and think, “Boy, HOWDY. I am so GLAD I spent all my free time making episodes of TechnoGeekery.” In the big scheme of things, how important is it to me that maybe–just perhaps– I made someone laugh? And maybe–just perhaps– I taught someone something they didn’t know? And if the answer to both of those questions is “pretty darn important,” the obvious question is then, “Is it important enough?”

And I’m not sure it is.

Especially when I stumble across a piece of writing like the following, which I wrote back in June of ‘06 after seeing Shopgirl, and I am reminded of exactly where I want to be in ten years:

June 5, 2006

This weekend TGIM and I watched Steve Martin’s novella-turned-motion picture Shopgirl (which… great movie) and though it had moments of humor which one would expect from the guy who shall go down in infamy as That Guy Who Played The Jerk, the humor was quiet– subtle, even. Further, the movie truly said something, spoke truths, and conveyed this in an atmosphere that was slow and thoughtful and deeply affecting. It reminded me quite a bit of Lost in Translation, actually, in both pace and poignancy. Both movies star over-the-hill comedians in quirky, May-December relationships with beautiful young girls– and I do freely admit the thought of watching Steve Martin and Bill Murray playing any beautiful young girl’s crush/lover initially squicked me right out– but amazingly, they both pull it off, so yay them.

But most of all, both movies speak of loss and discovery and an emotional awakening in a way that I have come to realize I long to master in my own writing. But too often it seems that when I am writing and find myself faced with the choice of expressing myself in a thoughtful, subtle manner or in a humorous, bantering light, I inevitably choose to joke. And I joke because that’s just what I DO, I laugh, whether life brings me gifts of joy all tied up with pretty bows or bitch-slaps me and hands me bitter disappointment, I laugh and laugh and laugh. Then laugh some more. To be honest, I cry, also, but not in front of anyone, not so anyone can see, because what if people find out there are chinks in this laissez faire demeanor I’ve created– they could hurt me more, right? I don’t like anybody to see me cry. Much like my youngest daughter Alli, who when she hurts herself will inevitably jump up from the spill shouting, “I’m all right! I’m okay! That kind of tickled, actually!” even though we all know it hurt her and there are tears in her eyes and she is just saying it didn’t hurt so we will leave her alone and she can run away and cry in peace. In a way perhaps we are trying to say, “You can’t hurt me. Nothing can hurt me. I laugh at pain! Ha ha ha!”

So I write and I’m silly and whimsical and manic and almost always utterly tongue-in-cheek, and though I quite often express exactly what I am truly feeling, it is more often than not hidden away in evasive verbiage. Linguistic smoke and mirrors, if you will. And though I know emotional honesty does not always have to be slow or thoughtful and that poignancy and humor are not mutually exclusive, I wish sometimes I could find the words to illustrate what I really mean without resorting to silliness and feigned vapidity. To be starkly honest, to lay my heart out in words so you could actually feel it beating if you just listened closely enough, and you just KNOW. You feel me. Hear me.

Then, inevitably, I run off to watch an old episode of Buffy or Veronica Mars and I am lost in the witty quips and snarky banter, and awed by the sheer brilliance of the marriage between humor and poignancy in the writing, and I’m like, “Eh.”

Because although I sometimes yearn– burn, even– to write peaceful, thoughtful prose, yes, passages of deeply affecting language whose impact will stay with people for hours, days, even years after reading it, that is not who I am. I am impulsive and passionate, rarely peaceful. And I see life though a haze of sardonic humor and I can’t help but spill it out in my writing.

And I think I am finally coming to terms with that.

Grr! Stupid Shopgirl. Making me all meditative and whatnot. Bah! I’m off to eat a donut and shake off this silly moment of introspective sentimentalism… I’m thinking cinnamon cake.

Carry on.

American Idol is WAY more exciting.

Dude. How very anticlimactic.

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.

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