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.

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.

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…

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.

Nathan Bransford’s Surprisingly Essential First Page Challenge

Oh, Bente… Have I told you lately that I love you? Hmm?

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

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

Wait. What?

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

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

I submitted an entry.

Yay! *sarcastic jazz hands*

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

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

So thanks for that, Bente. No, really.

(No, really.)

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

Just Thinkin’

I love hot chocolate, but detest chocolate milk. [cue Robert Palmer’s Some Like It Hot]

Too this end, I’ve noticed that my enjoyment of the beverage decreases exponentially as I work my way to the bottom of the cup. (I blame the inevitable cooling factor.)

Whatever. I just think that’s weird.

I Want

Faint voices echo from far off, people gossiping, laughing, chatting. A soft, almost inaudible hum drifts across the tops of the cubicles, but even its barely audible keening cannot penetrate my numbness. Strange. The cubicle walls shouldn’t hold out noise– they don’t, really– but it all seems so faraway, nonetheless. Suddenly I want to get up, to wander away, to find a window and press my nose against its icy slickness. I want to stare out, past the newly repaved parking lot to the grove of trees just beyond. I want to watch the trees– which stand tall and bare in the wintery breeze– as their boughs whip and sway and beckon to me beneath a sky of murky grey. Come out, the trees would invite. Come out and feel. And I want nothing more than to run outside into the cold and the colorless, and dance and whip and cut loose in the wind. I want to catch the sudden shaft of sunlight that shoots through the branches as the sun wanders out– only momentarily!– from behind darkened, stormy clouds. I want the light to brighten up the washed-out, grey, desolately drained of color dullness of my view. I want to see and sigh and dream.

I want, I want, I want…

I want to feel.

In Case Anyone Wondered Where the Sam Hill I Am These Days…

AKA: Why Cat is a HUGE Slacker.

NaNoWriMo, baby.

Honestly. Who knew that it was possible to be TOO thin? Well, apparently this is the case, if one slips the word “spread” before the “too thin” part. GOSH. Someone could have TOLD me!

In other news, TechnoGeekery Show #10: Scrapbooking… Taking it Techno, is now up at TechnoGeekery.com. Check it out! Digi-scrap is FUN! For the whole FAAAAAMILY!

Confessions of a Desperate Working Momma

I was once banned– that’s right, I said BANNED–from the TWoP boards for one teensy tiny moment of indiscretion–moments after the season four finale of American Idol–in which I may or may not have–I’m not sure, it’s all so hazy now–POSSIBLY suggested that all the Carrie Underwood haters just go ahead and SUCK IT. I know, right? What’s up with THAT?! Give a gal a break, yo? I was understandably carried away in the moment! I think! Again with the haziness! Honestly. And I liked my old TWoP user name, too. You don’t just come by sweet user names like that one every day, that’s all I’m saying. I mean, how wickedly cool is the na– well, my super cool, now unfairly defunct TWoP user name so isn’t the point. Whatever.

Ahem.

Then what IS my point? Oh! Yes! I have one!

Carrie Underwood haters? SUCK IT!

Hoo!

Aaah, the sweet, unmoderated freedom of blogging…

Feels GOOOOOOOD.

DWM Internet Outage, Day 10

OR

“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!

TechnoGeekery, and I’m going back to Cali, to Cali, to Cali…

Not that all y’all need any more reasons to mock me, but my new TechnoGeekery podcast is up.

TechnoGeekery Show #7: Breaking Up With Blogger

This week, the question du jour asks about transferring all of one’s posts from one blog host to another. Well, you know how the song goes: They say that breaking up is hard to do…

But it doesn’t have to be like that, and this week’s episode of TechnoGeekery shows you how to break up with Blogger–and move right in with Wordpress.com–in a snap.

Plus, there’s singing! And “Leave Wordpress ALONE” gal! And did I mention the singing?! Super bad singing?! Because there’s that.

That being said, I’m off to California! I’m going back to Cali, to Cali, to Cali… Will I have time to blog? Huh! I don’t think so.

Oh, I kid! I’m attending the Podcast and New Media Expo in sunny CA with my Mommycast BFF’s (TechnoGeekery is part of their new Mommycast and Friends channel at Podango! Woo!) this weekend, so there will be bunches and bunches of technogeeks around playing with techno gadgets and vidcasting and blogging and stuff. I know, right?! Heaven on earth.

Uncool

I can’t ever do anything the cool way.

Honestly. I couldn’t smash my hand while doing something cool or heroic, like–in a superhuman, adrenaline-fueled burst of strength–lifting a car off the bodies of a trapped mother and her three children. Oh, no. I slam my hand in my car door. Like an IDIOT. Oooh! Look at me! Miss Coordination! I can’t remember to pull my hand out of the way of a car door in time to prevent damage to my limbs! Wooooo!

It reminds me of when I was a competitive gymnast. My worst injury? Did I get it while performing a double-twisting layout during my floor exercise? No. Did I get it when my fingers slipped from the uneven bars during my giant swing? Uh-uh. Did I get it while showing a class of six-year-olds how to do a proper cartwheel? DING DING DING! We have a winner!

Or… not. Which was my point, actually.

*sigh*

Life is so unfair.

Next time I hurt myself, I darn well better be saving the life of an endangered mammal of some sort. That’s all I’m saying. You hear me, Oh Whimsical and Ironical Fate? Well?! DO YOU?!

In other news, Technogeekery Show #6: Trump Teens at Technology is up at Technogeekery.com. A big thanks to Paige from Mommycast.com for appearing as my special guest star slash expert person. You rock!

Life in the Fast Lane

So, yesterday afternoon, as I was driving down the Beltway in my sporty li’l Mazda Miata at speeds in excess of, er, sixty miles per hour, it suddenly occurred to me that I was driving (read: hurtling) down the Beltway in my sporty (read: teensy-tiny) li’l Mazda Miata (read: practically a toy car!) at speeds in excess of sixty (read: seven—er, fine, eighty) miles per hour (read: way too damn fast). And with that realization, a shock of unadulterated terror like I have never known (not even when I jumped out of that perfectly good airplane that one time with only a hot foreign dude—oh, and a parachute—strapped to my back!) jolted through me. I’m not talking about a pang or twinge of fear. Uh-uh. No. TERROR. IN ITS SHEEREST FORM.

Through a haze of blinding panic I caught a glimpse of the enormous wheels of a semitruck as they rolled past my window—taller than my car and mocking me, all, “Toy Car, I mock you weeth my rubbery enormity! I weel roll you down and squash you eento pancakes, yes?! Oh, ho, ho!” Sparing only a millisecond of surprise that the semitruck’s tires were apparently French imports, one hand flew involuntarily to my chest with—I can only imagine—the ostensible purpose of keeping my suddenly pounding heart from bursting—blappidy BLAP!—straight through my ribcage. Beads of sweat—cooled immediately by the crisp, conditioned air—broke out on my forehead. I could barely hear the radio over the accelerated hammering of my heartbeat, pounding in my ears— pounding, pulsing, rushing, racing! Danger! Panic! Good lord! I was all in a panic! Cars! Everywhere! Big cars! Semitruck wheels! Towering over me! With slightly dubious French accents! I was going to die! In my sporty li’l Miata! DIE, I tell you! GAH!

And… BLAM! Just like that, the terror vanished, replaced with a sudden wave of euphoria so strong, so sweet, it sent waves of chills up my spine. It was the most curious thing. Every nerve in my body seemed to be tingling with exhilaration. I mean, I was whizzing down the Beltway in my sporty li’l Mazda Miata at top speeds! TOP SPEEDS! WHIZZING! ME! FOOYAH!

With that realization, I turned off the air conditioning, rolled down the window, let down my hair, and cranked up The Jeep Song by Lee Coulter, which happened to be playing on the stereo at that very moment. At the top of my lungs, I sang along with Lee as I left those pompous semitruck tires in my dust.

“…making people stare, she’s on her way… she’s on her waaaaaaaaaay!”

In other news, I’m pretty damn certain I will be trading in my sporty li’l Miata for a big-ass SUV. Like, IMMEDIATELY.

Just so you know.

That Thing You Do

You know how sometimes you do that thing when you’re all alone? You know… that thing? C’mon! That thing? YOU know. Where you get all comfy in the bed and turn the lights down low and pop the two-part Season Two finale of Buffy the Vampire Slayer into the DVD player, then sit back and enjoy the wiggins when Willow goes all uber witchy, then cry like a baby– big, heaving sobs, you know?– right there at the end, when Buffy kisses Angel, her true love, then runs a sword through him– to save the world!– and the haunting strains of Close Your Eyes crescendoes and Angel whispers, “Buffy…?”– all confused-like– just before he is sucked into hell, and Buffy is sobbing and then the ache in your throat is too much to bear so you begin bawling and hysterically sobbing “Whyyyyyy, God, whyyyyyyy?!?!”– just letting it all out, you know?– especially when Sarah McLachlan starts in with Full of Grace, AKA The Heartbreaking Song O’ Sorrow and PAIN?

You know? That alone thing? That you do?

No?

Yeah. Me neither.

I Think I Love Him!

So, when my good buddy at work, let’s call her H (see, Harriet? I’m keeping you Anonymous!), brought ’round to my cubicle her brand-spankin’ new copy of Constantine’s debut record, entitled “My Secret Greek Idol Luvah”– er, I mean, “Constantine”– I was prepared to mock.

Yes! I admit it! I was! So what?! Huh?! A girl can’t mock if she wants to?! HUH?!

I mean, honestly– I’m not going to lie– I was not a big fan of the ‘Pray For the Soul of Betty’ music, so I may have had on my Skeptical Face when Harriet– I mean H– proudly showed me the album.

But, then… the Pretty! With the Smoldering? I was transported back to AI days of yore, I tell you, the moment I saw my brooding Greek Idol Luvah eye-sexing me up from the cover of his album. So I grabbed that bad boy, slid it into my computer, popped in the ear buds, and gave it a listen.

Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather, and that is no lie. Because– God help me– there was only ONE song on the whole album… that I DIDN’T love. I found myself boppin’ to the music as I worked, rewinding parts of songs that were particularly catchy, and actually stopping a few times to appreciate a particularly enjoyable ballad. I mean, I suppose I knew this, but beyond the smolder and the eyeliner and the pretty highlights and the eye sex and the overall posturing, dude can actually SING.

I know, right? My world is askew!

Eh. I suppose there is something to be said for Constantine not rushing to record and release an album as soon after the show as humanly possible, like other past American Idol contestants who– not wanting to miss an opportunity to ride the wave of fame that the juggernaut American Idol bestowed upon them– ended up with a rushed and mediocre release, and have since faded into anonymity.

Good on you, my Secret Greek Idol Luvah. Good on you.

(Call me.)

Splitting Hairs and Other Nonsense

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.

My Fifteen Minutes

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

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

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

Ramblings on a Friday Afternoon

I’m just getting over a touch of the stomach flu. My stomach is growling. My head feels too big for my body. My thoughts are in a jumble. That probably accounts for it.

At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

See, a friend I haven’t heard from in ages found my blog and touched bases with me via email. “Do you want me to call you Cat?” she asked, having always called me Catherine in the past.

And that’s when it happened.

“You can call me Cat. You can call me Catherine. You can call me anything you want,” I wrote, “just don’t call me late for dinner!”

I know.

And I’d be totally lying if I didn’t admit that at this very moment it is taking all the strength I have in me to refrain from breaking into Flip Wilson’s “The Devil Made Me Do It” routine.

Honestly. I blame my father and his obsession with sketch comedy and variety television humor. And Sid Ceasar. I totally blame Sid Ceasar. And the Smothers Brothers. Oh, and Milton Berle. That’s right, ladies and germs! I even blame Uncle Miltie!

Mostly, though, I blame the cold medicine.

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