Am I Psyched? Chuck Yes!

I may or may not be super excited that a certain television show that I love oh-so-much will once more be on my TV this evening. Maybe. Not that the Olympics weren’t AWESOME and all (you know, from what I hear), but guys? GUYS?!

CHUCK! IS! BACK!

Yes! It is absolutely true. I mean, today is March 1, so, there you go. It IS March 1, right? RIGHT?!

Right.

I don’t want to come on too geeky, but… okay, I’m psyched!

Check it.

*happy dance*

SnOw MG! Snowmageddon in Metro DC.

Snowed in! Snowed in! STILL! It’s Snowverkill. Snowmageddon. The Snowpocalypse! (tm witty Capital Weather Gang)

Seriously. The Federal Government in DC is shut down– closed for bidness, y’all!– and you would think that I would be totally enjoying the fact that I am free– albeit stuck at home, but still, free– for who knows how long, but NO. Instead, I feel, I don’t know, well… guilty. I know, right?! About what, you may ask? I don’t even know, I might answer! It’s craziness! Sheer craziness! Honestly. What’s with all the guilt?! I mean, it isn’t MY fault the U.S. Office of Personnel Management opted to close down all Federal agencies in the Washington DC area. It’s not!

That’s it. I’m jumping aboard the happy, carefree, snow day(s) train, starting right now. Feeling good. Enjoying the blizzard. Choo-choo!

Freak. And there’s the guilt again.

In order to alleviate said guilt, I will now post something of value on DWM. A Flickr slideshow of Photos Past, if you will. Because that is PRODUCTIVE.

Anyway, photos from the past. Back when my kiddos were all cute and pre-preteen and babylike and whatnot.

And I mean this… aaaaaaw! (Thanks to TGIM for the scans. You = Awesome.)

Frogging: The Object Lesson

While enjoying some down time with my buddy Paige—which involved drinking caffeinated beverages, knitting and crocheting stuff, and watching the movie Australia (which, WOW?)—I looked over and saw that Paige, apparently frustrated, was busy unraveling hours worth of stitches on her bunny sweater project.

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.

Offensive Driving

So I totally had one of those crazy TV moments again yesterday. It was so silly, really. I mean, no one ASKED TGIM to jump behind my little Miata to pound his fist on the trunk and screech like– well, I’ll just say it– a freaking INSANE person about the lawn and how I was sort of maybe tearing up one teensy tiny SUPER little spot or some nonsense… but I suppose I should back up.

Heh. Back up. Heh heh. Hee.

Ahem.

See, we have this long, steep and windy, ridiculous driveway. So there you go. Oh, you need more? Well, only one car fits in the carport, so we have to park single file. SINGLE FILE. I know, in this day and age! So sometimes– at the buttcrack o’ dawn, mind you– I need to back one car down the driveway so TGIM can take the other car to work. Aaaaand now I’m thinking “Back it up like a dump truck, baby!”, thanks a lot, GLEE! Damn Quinn Fabray and her Power Motto!

But I digress.

So, I have to back a car down the driveway. It takes half a mo, and is thusly absolutely no big deal. Me backing the car down, that is. Except sometimes it is because I am BUSY. Doing morning stuff. But whatever, because I am an awesome driver. And it’s usually just my cute little Miata, which I am super stellar at driving, thanks to all the mad maneuvering skillz I learned during those four years of navigating the Capital Beltway. So, I’m an awesome driver, that’s all I’m saying. A little aggressive sometimes, sure, but that’s called offensive driving! No, that can’t be right. I’m not a defensive driver, so… whatever the opposite is, that’s what I am. Not that TGIM would ever admit it. Because he is a guy and I am not and only men can be awesome aggressive drivers because it’s a GUY thing and I am simply reckless, apparently. Which is a LIE.

Are we clear?

So whatever. I may have a little bit of a chip on my shoulder when it comes to driving around TGIM. So, yesterday morning, when he had to leave and I was all, “I am BUSY! Doing morning stuff!” he went out, jumped in the Miata, and instead of backing all the way down the driveway, he backed just a short distance and a little off to the side, onto our grass. His big plan was to maneuver past the Miata in the Sequoia, then pull the Miata back into the carport for me.

Naturally, as I watched him doing this, I had guilt. Because maybe I wasn’t all that busy, okay? But I mentioned it was morning, right? Buttcrack o’ dawn, and whatnot? Don’t judge.

So I ran out to the still-running Miata, put ‘er in gear, let out the clutch, and… nothing. I mentioned the steep and windy ridiculousness of the driveway, didn’t I? So I wasn’t TOO worried that I seemed to be spinning my wheels but going no where. Which is redundant. I see that now. See, as I already mentioned, TGIM had parked half the car on the lawn, which happened to be covered with morning dew. But, as also previously mentioned, I am AWESOME. At the driving thing! And since my daddy taught me how to pull out of a dead stop on gravel hills in a manual transmission with minimal rollage, I was NOT going to let a small thing like wet grass under my rear wheel stop me from showing TGIM– who was watching from the other car– that I could DO THIS, thank you very much.

So, steep hill plus wet grass plus Cat with chip on shoulder apparently equals Bad. Because as I eased off the clutch– and nothing!– I may have instinctively gunned it a little, you know, to rip up the grass a bit and find some purchase underneath it. Which was a super good plan and was totally WORKING– vrOOOm… vrOOM!– until I heard yelling and felt someone pounding on the trunk of my car.

What the…?!

I ask you: What person, in his or her right mind, would run up behind ME, whilst I am totally busy rocking the clutch and showing the neighborhood how to get ‘er done?! VROOOM!

Well, TGIM will. Yup.

I stopped the car, pulled the emergency brake, opened my door to see what the HELL was going on, and THAT is when I totally had one of those TV moments. (Hoo boy! I bet you thought I’d never get here, eh? Is anyone still reading? Hello?) There stood TGIM, arms spread wide in an Oh-No-You-DI’NT gesture, looking alternately from me to his suit, which was plastered in wet grass, sod, a little mud, and other lawn bits. It was classic slapstick comedy– you know, something you see on TV or in a movie and laugh at but think could never ACTUALLY happen– but with very real, and no doubt costly, dry-cleaning repercussions.

I was horrified! So, naturally I started to giggle.

Then, “What are you DOING?!” TGIM asked. Not nicely either, which RUDE.

“What are YOU doing?!” was my obvious reply.

“You were tearing up the LAWN!”

I was all, “Um, yeah, but what were you thinking?! I’m driving here! I totally HAD this! You don’t just run up behind someone’s car while they are DRIVING and pound on the trunk! Because of a tiny strip of grass! GRASS! That’s craziness! You’re crazy!”

“But… you were tearing up the LAWN!” At my blank look, he added, “Why didn’t you just let the car roll a foot or two so the back wheel would be back on the pavement?”

I glanced back at our steep and windy ridiculous driveway, then back at TGIM. “Oh,” I replied. “That could work.”

And it did.

As we walked toward the house, me to finish getting ready and TGIM to change and rinse the lawn from his face, I had a sudden thought. “Hey… Maybe those crazy TV show moments really ARE set in reality.”

We were both laughing as we walked into the house.

I Just Know Things. In My Mind.

Favorite new television show quote:

“I just know things. In my mind.”
Kat Stratford

Stated quite seriously in response to Cameron, drunk on a teen cliche– in other words, because he was too stupid to know the watermelon was spiked– after he asks an intoxicated Kat how she KNOWS her sister probably wishes she were making out with him RIGHT NOW.

First of all, spiked watermelon?! Who DOES that?! Tampering with the melon and whatnot?! I am so out of the loop.

And B, shut it! My kiddos MAKE me watch “10 Things I Hate About You”! Based on the movie of the same name! Which I may or may not have loved way back when! Because of Julia Stiles and her pouty expressions and slouchy overalls! And Heath Ledger and his singing in the bleachers! And their cuteness! And Larry Miller! Because he’s funny! Whatever! It’s a FAMILY thing! I watch the show with the FAMILY!

Also, the actress’s delivery was HI-larious. And Gregory Peck’s grandson, who plays the Heath Ledger role, looks and sounds eerily like his grandaddy, who’s old-timey babe-a-licious!

Wait. That probably isn’t the cool thing to say anymore. Freak! I am so out of the loop.

DWM Soundtrack

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

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

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

In other news, occasionally I am melodramatic and strange.

Stressed?! Who’s Stressed?!

One more reason moving can be super stressful, thus officially No Fun At All…

…internet withdrawl? SUCKS.

That is all.

Freaking Out Top Ten

Top Ten Reasons I am FREAKING Out:

10. Boxes everywhere! Seriously! All over the place! In my new house! Big boxes full of stuff I probably don’t REALLY need! And dust! Big boxes full of stuff and DUST! Dear LORD, the dust!

9. I am frantically putting the finishing touches on the PowerPoint I needed to post, like, last week, for the presentation I am giving in Cincinnati NEXT week. And, everyone knows–as Dwight Shrute once said–”PowerPoints are LAME.”

8. I will be leading a session at an industry Expo next week using said heretofore unfinished PowerPoint (see 9).

7. Despite several calls and frantic emails, I still have not been able to successfully register for my GovTrip account.

6. I do not have a travel itinerary for my business trip next week, mainly because I CANNOT SUCCESSFULLY REGISTER FOR GOVTRIP and therefore have not been able to buy my plane tickets.

5. I can’t find my favorite comfy jeans. Because there are BOXES ALL OVER MY HOUSE!

4. My allergies are out of control. Probably because of the dust. You know, in the boxes? All over my house?

3. I’m 99 percent sure I have a room reserved at the conference center in Cincinnati to which I may or may not have transportation. It’s that remaining 1 percent of uncertainty that has me by the short hairs.

2. Speaking of… my previously straightened hair is being completely ornery about all this humidity, and is like “Aw, hell no!” the minute I step out the door. Naturally, my flatiron is no where to be found. YOU know why. Honestly. Don’t MAKE me explain the “Boxes! Boxes Everywhere!” situation again.

1. New houses awesome! Physically moving, however? NOT awesome.

The One in Which Cat Snakes the Ride or Elevator Ride of Shame

This morning I did that thing again. You know, that thing where I say “ha HA!” a bit overloudly– perhaps!– after I JUST make it through a door before it closes on me? And people stare and point and whisper to one another as they move as far away from me as they possibly can in the confines of the crowded elevator I have just stormed? But I don’t even care? I just smile all sunnily and say, “Four, please!” to the dude over by the elevator buttons? Because I freaking SNAKED it, yo?

In other news, I am an idiot.

Fresh Feeling

Is it weird that I am the creator slash administrator of my high school’s Facebook reunion page, and I have quite suddenly realized I am totally not even remotely interested in attending? The reunion, that is? Like, at all? Not even a little? (Okay, maybe a little.)

I’m thinking… no, not so weird, actually.

See, the mystery? Gone. Wiped. No more. Or, solved, if you will. Facebook did it’s wacky Facebook thang, you know, where the group goes from 1 to 15 to 50 to 300, and now I’m like, eh. Curiosity satisfied. I won’t go so far as to say that I was absolutely jazzed about attending the reunion until I realized there wasn’t anyone I really wanted to actually, you know, SEE. Like, in person? Because, RUDE? So I’ll just chalk it up to realizing that it was a long frakking way to go to see a bunch of people I really didn’t NEED to see. You know, in person? Because they are totally on Facebook! You see? Right at my fingertips! Am I right?! Am I?! Up-to-the-minute updates! Photos! Favorite things! Photos! Hobbies! Lots of photos! Family and friends! And PHOTOS! So, see? Where’s the incentive? You know I’m right.

Because, honestly. You can break down the reasons for attending your high school reunion into three main categories:

Reason number one, to reconnect with old friends. But if you’ve never, I don’t know, DISCONNECTED with old friends, then that reason falls by the wayside. I’m only saying. So long reason number one. It’s been fun.

And reason number two, to settle old scores. What? No way, you say? That is so not true? It’s all about reconnecting, you say? Whatever. Your mad flurry of dieting, working out, shopping for clothes, scheduling hair appointments and facials, and coaching your significant other in how to be the most awesomest significant other EVER tells a different story. Oh! Not that there is anything WRONG with that story! For real! I don’t judge! Honestly! I’m all about settling old scores! I’m still biding my time before laying the smackdown on TGIM for that time when he snuck into the bathroom while I was showering and poured an entire pitcher of ice water on me from the other side of the shower curtain! And that was YEARS ago! So whatever! It’s a different story, that’s all I’m saying. It’s just not MY story.

Which brings me to reason number three: curiosity. Sheer, unadulterated, unabashed curiosity. Like, Hey! Whatever happened to Cheerleader? So-and-So? What’s Her Face? The Ugly One? And then it’ll be like , “Oh, why, hello The Ugly One, you’re looking so makey outy tonight.” (Sorry. My kiddos are maybe a bit addicted to Teen Girl Squad. Perhaps!) All I’m saying is reason number three is all about finding out if the person voted most likely to succeed actually DID (which, ironically, is rarely the case), if the Mean Girls and Bullies got there’s, and if the jerk who shattered your heart into tiny pieces in the tenth grade actually went on to get married and divorced three times and now works in a dead-end job at a Jiffy Lube in Tucson. And lives with his parents! And drives a stupid, ugly car! That’s RIGHT!

*ahem*

What? I didn’t say there couldn’t be CROSSOVER. Gosh.

My point? Well, I totally have one! See, I didn’t think all this through when I set up the reunion site. That’s all I’m saying. Facebook, with the photos and the favorites and the updates and the photos? It’s, like, a nostalgia voyeurs’ dream! But not in an icky, scary way! Because, freaky?! And now? The reunion and I? Well, we just aren’t seeing eye-to-eye. Because… curiosity satisfied, you know? And if that’s wrong, then baby, I don’t want to… well, you know the rest.

Wait. There’s a “but” coming.

BUT… if I am in any way wrong, and this is a horribly offensive, way rude commentary about a joyous, time-honored tradition that I should be embracing rather than eschewing, than I am totally joking. It’s not that I don’t totally WANT to go– because I absolutely DO– it’s just… I have to work that week. I do! Just a working fool, that’s me! I’m not even joking at all! So, yup. Working.

Darn.

Doctors and Lab Tests and Tumors, Oh My!

Today I’ve decided to actually ATTEND my pre-op doctor’s appointment. Which was rescheduled? You know, due to the I-am-a-complete-airhead factor? I know, right?! Truthfully, I contend that I am just too busy and important to be bothered by silly things such as my health and ridickalous benign tumors residing in my foot and whatnot, but think what you want. I don’t even care. But don’t judge. RUDE.

Hey, we can’t be rebels ALL the time, okay?! We can’t be running around all willy-nilly-like, blowing off appointments and forgetting to schedule lab tests and such. Sometimes we have to suck it up and simply say, “Fine! TAKE my blood! TEST my urine! Hey, want a kidney while we’re at it?! Seriously! Take it! Go on! Take it! Take it! GOSH.” Because that is what grownups DO.

Confessions from a DWM

Yesterday? I did something. Something I swore I’d never do. Something I have come out strongly against. Something about which I can be a leeeettle bit judgmental. Judgy McJudgerpants. Judge-o-ramma lamma bing bangish. But it was late! Almost two hours later than I usually leave work! And my kids were wondering where I was! And I had limited cell service in my building! And I only had a small window of opportunity to call home before I hit the Metro and lost all service! And I think I might have even been a little delirious due to hunger and sleep deprivation! I’m only saying it is POSSIBLE, okay?! A colossal lapse in judgment brought about by an unhappy confluence of desperation and opportunity! Because I needed to call home and I had already left the office suite and I had one more super quick stop before heading out and the one place in the building with almost all bars was…

Gosh. This is so much harder than I thought it would be. I can hardly bear to say it. But the sad truth is…

Y’all? Yesterday evening? As I was leaving work? I… I… I was a public restroom cell phone user.

GAH! I know! RIGHT?! The SHAME.

Wild Hair in the Employee Lounge

As I passed the employee lounge refrigerator this morning I had this almost irresistable urge to shake every single bottle and can of soda in it. All of ‘em! Every last one! Leave no can unshaken! And not at all because I am trying to get off the Diet DP, you know, because it is too spaz for me, not to mention unhealthy–water is best! water is best!–no, not at all, because hello? Grown woman? Seriously. And water is BEST so I don’t even care at ALL if other people are drinking those nasty caffeinated spazzilicious beverages that are NOT water and are therefore NOT best. It’s their lives! DRINK the soda! It’s none of my concern! It’s–

Okay, even I’m not buying it. *sigh* I’m just a bad person. A bad person with evil soda-shaking thoughts. So I hope you properly admire my restraint.

But if I did give in to my baser instincts, come lunch time, there WOULD be a whole lot of excitement going on around here, I tell you what! Woo!

Whatever. A gal can dream. That’s all I’m saying.

Strange and Shouty Thanks

I am not updating to toot my own horn (I’m not comfortable with self-horn tooting) but because a few of you asked me to. So, here it goes:

I did it! I stopped and smiled at the strange, shouty man on the corner (sorry, Jake, but he IS both strange and shouty, and that is how I shall describe him), and I put something in his outstretched cup (again, none o’ your business). He said (or, rather, shouted), “Yeah! Yeah! That’s right! Ha ha! Thank you! Thank you! That’s what I’m talking about! Yeah!” And, honestly? I could tell he totally meant it.

It was kind of awesome.

I mean, it’s one thing to give annually to CFC (if you’re Fed, you know CFC), but it is quite another thing to stand face-to-face with someone on the receiving end of your contribution. Sure, it can be a little awkward and scary and outside of your comfort zone. Oh, not pee-your-pants-in-freaking-terror scary or anything, but awkward nonetheless.

But guys? It can also be kind of awesome.

Oh, Think Twice

There’s a man… living in a cardboard box… down by the White House.

I want to joke. It’s what I do. You must understand: it is genetic. I had absolutely no say in the matter. Because, yes, you see, I have inherited the Loud Laugher/Loud Talker gene from my mother’s side of the family, which makes for good times in cubicle-land, let me tell you. Especially when I get phone calls. Or an especially funny email. I get shushed. I do! And when I break my butt walking down icy stairs , I laugh (after I pass out). When I pass out (again) while locked in the ER restroom, resulting in a twisted ankle and a bruised up face, I laugh. When my husband hits me in the head with a racquetball going mach 7, after I cry like a baby and cuss him to bits, I laugh. When I joke about someone hurting my feelings or breaking my heart, I laugh. I can’t help how I am.

But I can’t find the funny in this.

I work in DC. A block away from the White House. (And that’s all the details you’ll ever get out of me. Because it’s none of your business where I work, THAT’S why. STALKER.) And when I remember to get my hyper-focused self out of my cubicle and into the fresh air, I see him. During the bustle of the midday lunch crowd, there he is, right there on the sidewalk, fast asleep on a ratty old bed of blankets and newspapers, wearing several layers of clothing, his only possessions (as far as I can tell) an old metal shopping cart, a coffee cup filled with change and folded-up dollar bills, and a plastic drugstore bag filled with well-worn paperback books and assorted paraphernalia that is usually resting against the abandoned storefront window. The first time I saw him, I thought, Why doesn’t anyone steal his money? Or his bag? He’s SO out. Because I am a horrible person and that was the first thing that popped into my head. Theft. Yes, my parents are so proud. But in thinking that thought, I realized that no one stole his stuff… because they didn’t see it.

He wasn’t even there.

She calls out to the man on the street
“Sir, can you help me?
It’s cold and I’ve nowhere to sleep,
Is there somewhere you can tell me?”

And now it’s winter, and it’s bitter cold, and today I actually remembered to get my hyper-focused self out of my cubicle and into the fresh air. And I discovered that where the ratty old bed of blankets and newspaper used to be is a cardboard hut, built in a sort of half-hexagon shape and propped pretty solidly up against the abandoned storefront window. It’s a pretty intricate structure, with a swinging door (blocked by the shopping cart when I walked by). The coffee cup was there, filled with the usual change and folded-up dollar bills. And this time I thought, How did he build that? Did people stop and watch? Did anyone help him? The authorities have to know he’s here. Are they going to make him tear it down? Good LORD, he is LITERALLY living in a cardboard box! People don’t live in cardboard boxes. You can’t LIVE in a cardboard box. And I thought all this as I pulled my coat more tightly around me and pulled on my mittens to help ward off the icy wind blowing by.

But y’all? There’s a man living in a cardboard box down by the White House.

I have a confession: If he were awake when the crowds bustle by, perhaps sitting on his blankets reading, or talking to himself, or simply staring into space, I probably wouldn’t be able to recall such vivid details of the living space he has staked out as his own. I couldn’t. Because I know in my heart that I would probably look away. Like I do when the strange, shouty man at the corner of the street by the Metro entrance waves his coffee cup full of change at me as I rush to get to the train on time. Because I never have cash, and even if I did, I wouldn’t know what to do with it. Is it like a Ding Dong Ditch? Drop in a dollar, make no eye contact, and hurry by? What happens then? Will I be obligated to drop money into his cup every time I pass him? Will he expect it? I don’t know! I don’t!

Today, from across the street, I watched covertly as others hurried by him. Some dropped change and dollars into his cup, thus earning his strange, shouty thanks. Some smiled in his direction as they passed, flashing him a “Sorry, buddy, not today” type of gesture. But mostly? People walked on by, some even quickening their step or swerving as far from him as possible as they passed.

He walks on, doesn’t look back
He pretends he can’t hear her
Starts to whistle as he crosses the street
Seems embarrassed to be there

Yes, the economy sucks. Yes, people are losing their jobs. Yes, we need a change. Yes, we need hope. So I can’t help but be bewildered by this sense of complacency regarding homelessness I perceive in our nation’s capital, this abandonment of the needy, people who have the time and the wherewithal to build cardboard huts on the streets, right in front of us, right outside buildings where thousands of people work, only a block away from the home of the most influential person in the entire country, and yet… there they are? Are we, as a whole, complacent? ARE we? I don’t know! I don’t! I’m not judging. I’m ASKING.

Because there’s a man living in a cardboard box down by the White House. And I can’t find the funny in that. I just… can’t.

Oh think twice, it’s another day for
You and me in paradise
Oh think twice, it’s just another day for you,
You and me in paradise

Just think about it.

Note to Self…

NOTE TO SELF: Never watch heart-wrenching episodes of “Gossip Girl” while riding the Metro to work. When you tear up, sniffle, and let slip muffled sobs because Chuck is BREAKING YOUR HEART, comments to fellow riders (who are openly staring) such as “…allergies…” or “…stupid dry contacts…” as you brush away the watery mascara-laced tears are not fooling ANYBODY. Also, buy bread and milk. We’re out.

ID Badge Walk of Shame

So, there are card readers in my place o’ work. Lots of them. You know, for my safety? Also to engender self-loathing? Because before I can go through any door, or up or down any elevator, or into or out of any stairwell, I must stop, whip my super-secure badge out of its lead (yuh-huh!) case, and then stand in front of a card reader for, like, TENS of moments of my day, swiping my stupid (but actually smart) ID back and forth (and back and forth) and back and forth. And all the while, guys? All the entire while?! I am attempting to shield my eyes from the tragic evidence of just how absolutely AWFUL my hair looked on the day they took my ID photo, an unfortunate circumstance which—I might add— was totally not my fault! Except for it kind of was! Because that was the day I decided it would be a good idea to go ahead and walk the several city blocks to the GSA building instead of hopping on the Metro like everybody else. Because this is called aerobic exercise and is very good for my heart, that’s why!

Flash forward to me, today, approaching the door to the suite of offices on my boss’s floor. I waved and smiled at a group of my colleagues who were waiting at the elevators, reached for my ID badge, and steeled myself for the imminent embarrassment of Cat’s Oh-So Tragic Hair Day Which Will Live Forever In Infamy. But then? I spotted my opportunity! An opportunity of golden proportions! It was FedEx Delivery Dude! I am so not joking. I like to think it was fate’s little way of looking out for me and my fragile ego. Because if I hurried I could catch up to FedEx Delivery Dude and sneak right in behind him, no badge (and subsequent self-loathing) necessary! Score! Sadly, FedEx Delivery Dude was way too busy and important to hold the door for me and my ID badge of shame, but I totally sped up behind him and JUST caught the door before it could swing shut.

“Ha HA!” I triumphed, perhaps a bit louder than I intended. A tad. Perhaps. I may have also pumped my fist. I don’t know. It’s all a blur now.

Bursts of laughter followed me in from the hallway, only to be cut short when the door fell closed behind me. The secretaries in the foyer eyed me warily as I stumbled to a stop in front of their desks (the momentum of my hustle may have propelled me through the door at a pace a bit more energetic than is considered seemly and/or work-appropriate), but I just smiled and went about my business. Because DUDE… I freaking snaked it, yo?

In other news, occasionally I am heedless and strange.

The Lambson Family Newsletter- Holiday Edition 2008

Click on the image below for this year’s Lambson Family Newsletter: Holiday Edition 2008. (Or download the PDF. Whichev.) Because I want to save a tree, that’s why! Also, I am disorganized and often quite lazy.

Happy freaking HOLIDAYS!

Awesome Light

I’m just going to go ahead and say it. Just blurt it out. Unleash it into the blogosphere. Let it explode out of me the way occasional bouts of introspective verbal diarrhea have a way of doing at the most embarrasing times.

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.

Thank you for the OC, Hulu. I owe you one. (Don’t judge.)

I am home sick with some sort of wicked stomach bug threatening to turn me inside out, make a party dress out of me, and wear me for dinner. Or something. Hmm… I’m pretty sure I mixed some metaphors there. Also? That was gross. Eh, I shall leave it. Because I am at one with the grossness today. Dude. GROSS.

That being said, when one does not want to venture too far from one’s… er, bedroom for fear of not being close enough to one’s… um, bedroom when it is necessary to USE said… okay, BATHROOM, fine! are you HAPPY?! GROSS!… then it should come as no surprise to me that I have finally given in to the machinations of fate which have been conspiring against me for years to further my already massive pop culture repertoire by finally giving in to the wily ways of those rascally kids from the O.C. And yet, here I am… surprised! Because did you HEAR me?! The O.C., people! Honestly! I never thought this day would come! I mean, I avoided this show for YEARS! Marissa Cooper who? Seth Cohen what? Summer who freaking cares? Ryan… yum?

Damn you, Hulu.com! DAMN YOU to HELL!

And yet… THANK YOU. Because hello? With the awesomeness?

I blame the illness. It’s the only explanation. I’m delirious. Right? RIGHT?! GAH!

Okay. So… anyone know when they are planning to post Season 2?

Anyone?

Random Thoughts on a Friday Midmorning

The kiddos come home next Friday, so YAY! You know, I always miss them SOOO much more than I think I will. Honestly. What does that say about me– as a momma– that I think I won’t miss them?

Great. Now I have thoughts.

Speaking of Dr. Horrible, if you haven’t seen Felicia “Penny” Day’s webisode series “The Guild” yet, you should totally check it out! (What? I wasn’t speaking of Dr. Horrible? Well, there’s a mad crazy switch.) It won the 2007 YouTube Video Award and e’rything! I’m spreading the love because I think it is hilarious so I want to share AND because I absolutely ADORE being the one that points out fun, pop-culturally-relevant stuff to people. It makes me feel happy and important. Sometimes, even, I get tingles. Tingles in happy and important places. So, you’re welcome.

Also, I am very weird.

Have I told you lately…

… that I freaking LOVE my sweet new job?!

Um, or that I HAVE a sweet new job?! That is totally sweet?! Full o’ the awesome sweetness?!

No?

Oh. Well, I do. And it is.

Just thought I’d share.

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.

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.

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