It’s last period and TGIM and I just totally ditched P.E. class!

I know, right?!

“MEMORY!” (end impromptu belting out of Memory from Cats…)

After attending a friend’s Bar Mitzvah, Tanner came home chock full of wild stories of crazy chair dances and professional DJs and AWESOMELY delicious food and, oh yeah, how much freaking MONEY his friend scored when he turned thirteen. Because money is a BIG DEAL. I mean, think! That is a WHOLE LOT of Pokemon! Am I right? Huh? Am I right?

Tanner’s sisters were (to put it mildly) super impressed, all “Nuh-uh! NUH-UH!” and “No FAIR!” And Alli? I can only imagine she’s been giving the matter of Bar Mitzvah’s tons of thought, as evidenced by a recent conversation.

Alli had been sitting in my room with me as I read, an unusual, pensive moodiness about her. Suddenly, she broke the silence. “You know, if Tanner were Jewish,” she said conversationally, “he’d be totally rich right now.”

Tanner overheard. “I know, right?” he replied.

Alli shrugged a little “Well That’s That” kind of shrug and lapsed back into her broody silence.

I looked at my youngest daughter with my “Really? That’s That?” kind of look, but she didn’t notice. She was lost in her thoughts, her brows deeply furrowed behind her glasses. And those thoughts? Those she was lost in? Were some seriously mercenary thoughts, it turns out.

“We need our own coming of age ceremony!” she burst out a few moments later.

Tanner perked up at that. Because, hello? Money? And professional DJs?! And chair dancing?! And MONEY?!

Noticing Tanner’s interest, Alli began to expatiate on her totally BRILLIANT idea. “We could call it a… a… a Har Litzfah!” she said, her eyes dreamy and distant, “And we would… um… tell jokes instead of reading scriptures! And people would give us MONEY for being FUNNY! Because HAR Litzvah?! Like har har har?!” She clapped her hands, reveling in her brilliance.

And I was all, “Ooooh! Pun SNAP!” and there was a giving and receiving of high-fives all around.

In other news, that inappropriate-yet-impossible-to-resist punning thing? Totally genetic.

(Har Litzfah. Good Lord.)

DWM Clan 2010

CAT: Okay… Because that’s a completely normal thing to wonder.

ALLI: (shrugs) My mind is a mystery.

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.)

So TGIM’s youngest sister, Candice, and her husband are living in Manhattan for the next three months while he attends training for his new job with the devil. I meant to say Goldman Sachs. And just so we’re clear, I already asked her if she had ever read The Firm and she assured me she had indeed, and I was all, “Okay, then,” and she was like, “Okaaaaaay…” so I wash my hands of it.

Anyway, Manhattan! Home of the Broadway Theatre district! And other noteworthy stuff, of course— such as Wall Street and the United Nations, not to mention cultural landmarks like the Met, where one might stumble upon world-famous Vermeer paintings or Bernini sculptures or Gossip Girl’s Queen Bee and her entourage eating their lunch on the steps!— but mainly, Manhattan has Broadway.

And Candice lives in Manhattan, albeit temporarily. Like, right there in the Broadway Theatre district, oh, yes, a wonderful place of joy and joyness that people visit in order to attend theatrical performances such as Wicked and West Side Story and The Lion King and Mamma Mia! and the like.

Do you see where I am going with this? Do you? Do you?

If not, allow me to clarify. See, we totally miss Candice and, come to think of it, I have never even met her husband, so we absolutely must visit them in Manhattan. You know, in NYC? Where the Broadway lives?! The whole Broadway aspect being secondary to the hanging-out-with-family thing, I might add. Clearly. Because family is IMPORTANT.

So TGIM was checking some online sources for tickets to, say, Wicked or perhaps The Lion King— shows we could attend as a FAMILY (which, as stated previously, is super important)—when he stumbled across a newer show which upon first glance looked somewhat promising. From the other room I heard him yell, “Hey, Cat! Ever heard of Rock of Ages?”

I had not, and told him so.

“It’s some sort of rock musical! It has classic rock songs from the 80s!”

While I was trying to think of a zingy comeback to him throwing the word “classic” all willy-nilly-like in front of “rock songs from the 80s,” TGIM must have clicked on a video clip because I heard the opening bars of “Don’t Stop Believing” blaring from the vicinity of the computer. Not the Glee version, mind you, but the old-school version. The arena-rock version. Naturally, I started boppin’ my head to the beat. Because I am cool that way, a’ight?! Shut up. I AM cool. Plus, Journey?! I DARE you not to bop to Journey! Take THAT, haters!

Anyway, the first verse began, “Just a small town girl…”

I may or may not have scared the living daylights out of my husband when I– perhaps!– came tearing in from the other room, wild-eyed and screaming, “HEY! HEEEEEEEEEY! That’s Constantine! COOOONSTANTIIINE!” Maybe that’s how it happened. It’s all fuzzy. It’s possible I stood up too quickly or something. That would account for the hyperventilating, right? I’m just saying it’s a BLUR. And TGIM lies a lot, so you totally cannot ask him.

In any event, guess who was on the computer screen? Singing and whatnot! Just guess who! Constantine Maroulis, that’s who! Yes! My Secret Greek Idol Luvah, right there on my computer, totally rocking the eyeliner and the pretty highlights and the greasy hair and acting all smoldery and shizz. YOU know. “Doing his thing”? Er, “dawg”? While singing JOURNEY! I mean, was it my BIRTHDAY?!

Honestly. It’s a wonder I didn’t faint on the spot.

(Thanks again to Mrtl for the t-shirt. You still ROCK.)

Sadly, I didn’t see Constantine bust out any of his legendary ki-YAH! kicks or awesome crouch-landings in the clip, but hey… one can dream, y’all. One can dream.

So… wow. My sweet Constantine. On Broadway. BROADfreakingWAY! Who knew, back when he graced the American Idol audience with the rocker screeches, the camera lovin’, the hair tossing, the duck-lip pouting, the cheesy grins, and the somewhat polarizing KISS tongues, that my Secret Greek Idol Luvah had the star power to make it to Broadway?! It’s madness! Who knew?!

Oh, wait. That’s right. I did. But I won’t say I told you so. Much. (I told you so!)

*sigh*

In the spirit of full disclosure, I do not see a scenario in which I could convince TGIM and the kiddos to go see this musical with me, you know, as a FAMILY, over shows such as Wicked or The Lion King. But still… good on you, Constantine! Good on you.

(Call me.)

Like, why do morning commuters who ate curry for breakfast gravitate towards ME on the train? Or, how can Uggs be so very VERY comfy—like foot pillows! fluffy foot clouds of pillowy… ness!—yet so very VERY ugly? You know, at the same time? Or why can’t knitters and crocheters get along? Honestly. I’m like, hey, what’s with all the hate? Why not try both skills? Be bicraftual! Or throw in quilting or weaving or something and go polycraftual. Just saying.

And lately, I’ve been wondering about the origins of silly children’s games. Like “Heads up, seven up.” Oh! And “Red Rover.” This particular wonder probably stems from an experience I had driving with TGIM the other day. There we were, driving along—well, TGIM was driving; I was trying not to side-seat drive because it is ANNOYING, apparently—when suddenly, a flock of waterfowl decided they needed to run—no, waddle—across the road right then—on foot! or web-foot! whatever!—directly in front of our oncoming vehicle.

Several things occurred to me at once. One, birds are stupid. Because, WINGS? Two, it is SUPER difficult to refrain from side-seat driving. And three, I need to get over my compulsive need to correct myself. It inevitably makes me appear foolish, not to even mention that it makes text-messaging somewhat tedious. Which sort of defeats the whole purpose of texting, I am told.

Whatever. I digress.

With extraordinary willpower I refrained from throwing my arms out to brace for impact while shrieking girlishly. Instead, I helpfully pointed out the front window at the birds and shouted to TGIM, “Duck!… Duck!… GOOSE!”

Because it occurred to me as we were about to hit the stupid waterfowl and maybe crash and/or die, or at the very least, be stuck scrubbing feathers and blood and goo off the grill of our car, that hey, those weren’t ducks at all! Gosh, no! Those were geese! Duh!

TGIM slowed quickly and laid on the horn, at which point the geese apparently remembered that they did indeed have wings. And could fly. OVER the oncoming cars. So no splat, which I’d put down under “Good.”

I sat silently, hoping that in the heat of the moment, perhaps TGIM didn’t notice. Please, please, please…

Yeah, right.

“Duck, duck, goose?” he asked, throwing an amused sideways glance my way.

“Well, they weren’t ducks,” I started defensively, “they were clearly geese, so…” but it was no use. TGIM snorted, then chuckled, and then we both dissolved into laughter.

Of course, while I was laughing at the funny coincidence (not to mention the sudden onset of nostalgia for a favorite childhood game) brought about by my compulsive correcting, TGIM was totally laughing at ME, which, how rude, right?

AND now I’m wondering why I didn’t sock TGIM in the nose when he decided to share the story, ad nauseam, with everyone we know.

Fantastic. Now I’m going to be stuck with serious thoughts all day.

Stupid geese.

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.

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.

Happy freaking HOLIDAYS!

Lambson Family Newsletter: Holiday Edition 2008

I was pleasantly surprised (read: horrified beyond belief, yet secretly pleased, but mostly just HORRIFIED) to find this gem of cinematographic goodness while looking back over some old posts. The following is the post that linked me to the video; it captures so well how I have been feeling lately about what of importance I have in me to pass down to my kiddos, that I decided to do a little DWM Rewind and post it in its entirety. Enjoy.

Or not. Whatev.

__________________________

Live Your Life With Arms Wide Open

Sometimes I look at my children, who are growing up so quickly right before my eyes, and I am at a loss as to what of importance I have in me to pass down to them. What? My love of books? My inner Drama Queen? My freckles? My Loud Talk/Loud Laugh gene? My charming wit and sparkling personality? My humilty? The list goes on and on… Then, this weekend, in the most roundabout way possible, I discovered one of the most powerful aspects of myself that I have to pass down to my progeny.

You see, nostalgia struck this weekend. One minute I’m downloading Sway by the Perishers, and the next thing I know I’m downloading music I remember listening to as I spent rainy afternoons in my parents’ bedroom thumbing through my parents’ old 45′s, jamming out to Purple People Eater, Charlie Brown, Shimmy Shimmy Ko-Ko Bop, Shoop Shoop Song, My Boyfriend’s Back, Rescue Me, oh, and this really catchy song about sitting in my a la-la waiting for my ya-ya (uh-huh… uh-huh…), amongst others.

So I went online to iTunes and legally downloaded Sixteen Tons by Tennessee Ernie Ford. I know, right? Me? Obtaining music on the up-and-up? All legal-like and shizz? Recognizing that creative works online are protected by copyright law? Not contributing to the illegal music trade which is destroying artistic creativity and innovation, eliminating jobs, and more than likely bankrolling organized crime?! I KNOW!

(Whatever. You’d think these people would be flattered that someone wants to listen to their stupid music, but noooooo. Money money money! That’s all any of these guys– singers, musicians, managers, producers– care about! I mean, honestly. It’s not as if I couldn’t do what I used to do when I was a teenager… which was to keep a cassette at the ready in my boombox and push RECORD whenever a song I liked came on the airwaves? Oh, the mixed tapes I used to make! At absolutely no cost to myself whatsoever! Well, except for the cassette, of course, but did you know that with a little tape and a tad of ingenuity, you can tape the new songs over old albums that you totally don’t want anymore anyway?… Anyhoos, no one was coming after me then, confiscating my Tainted Love Breakup Tunes or Hair Band Heaven Mix, no sir! Now it’s all about the money. Freaking selfish bastards.)

Um, okay. I had a point when I began…

Ah, yes! Sixteen Tons! Of course, of course… So I dragged my kiddos into my bedroom and forced them listen to the song. I watched delightedly as they fell in love with it, Ernie’s impromptu snaps setting a tempo like a coal-mining crew axing into a brick-solid wall, effectively sucking them into the hammer-like rhythm of the song. Alli snapped in time (fine, almost in time), Hannah bopped her head, TD attempted to look bored, but failed miserably– and as I was swept back to a time when I would giggle madly as my dad would bring this song on home: “I OWE my SOOOOOOUUUUUUU-OOUUUU-OOOUUULLL!… to the company store…” I realized that I was passing on a history. A legacy of music, if you will.

Which… scary thought.

This realization brought to mind my fourth grade end-of-the-year party, when my absolute favoritest teacher EVER gave us permission to bring in some of our own music to play for the class. Stoked, I rushed home and told my mother I simply HAD to bring her album– The New Christy Minstrels’ Sing and Play Cowboys and Indians – to school or I would absolutely DIE. So the next day, armed with my uber-cool album and a sure knowledge of my Cool Factor totally skyrocketing as soon as my classmates heard the opening strains of this kickass song called Navajo, I rushed to the front of the line, bypassing The Police, Air Supply, a few Blondies, Irene Cara (Fame, naturally), and– if I recall correctly– one Captain and Tenille album.

Needless to say, my classmates did not appreciate the music as much as I thought they would and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why. I mean, this was GOOD STUFF, right? What the hell was wrong with these people?! But it strikes me now that they did not enjoy my music for many of the same reasons that my daughter’s 2nd grade classmates probably wouldn’t appreciate the phenomenal music from The Phantom of the Opera or Les Miserables. Perhaps my classmates’ mothers hadn’t yet instilled in them a love for the The New Christy Minstrels’ minstrely goodness by playing Lily Langtree or Betsy From Pike– or, oooooh! this super funny song called Three Wheels on My Wagon!– over and over again.

And perhaps their dads didn’t stand at the door “singing” (note my use of sarcastic quote marks) Nelson Eddy as he’d leave the house for work: “I’ll find you in the mornin’ sun and when the night is new… I’ll be looking at the moon… but I’ll be seeing… (*deep breath* *mom joins in*) YOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!” And my mom would be all, “Oh , JIM,” and we’d laugh and shout, “Kiss her, Daddy!” and my mom would blush and be all, “Oh, you! Go to work!” and we were like, “Aww!”

Although, come to think of it, I don’t much like Nelson Eddy. Okay, I don’t even KNOW Nelson Eddy. But I love that memory! See how that works? It’s tricky. But that is beside the point.

The point is that as I sat there playing music for my children, I began to imagine my daughters or son sitting down with their own children, playing my music, perhaps songs from U2′s The Joshua Tree album or The Offspring’s hit single Pretty Fly for a White Guy, music that perhaps my grandchildren would take to THEIR fourth-grade end-of-the-year parties. And maybe my kids will teach their kids to Snake or Axl Rose, and maybe, just maybe!, they’ll even gather ’round the karaoke machine and belt out the oldies from their great-grandma’s and grandpa’s generation, perhaps Sixteen Tons or Rescue Me, and they will all laugh at how crazy life was back in the day, and maybe they will videotape it and send it to me, and TGIM and I will laugh and probably bust a tear or two due to the whole Empty Nest Syndrome, and, oh, how glorious that will be.

Yes! I thought. I shall pass down the music!

Of course, I began to panic. I mean, the pressure I suddenly felt to produce the quintessential 21st century mixed CD– representative of the most influential music from 2001 through today– was crushing, but I calmed myself with the knowledge that, hey, I’m totally up to the challenge. I watch American Idol. I pay attention to the music of Veronica Mars. I’m hip to the pop culture, fo’ rizzle, my shizzle.

Gosh. I tell you what… my kids are SO lucky to have me.

In truth, however, around the seventh time I played Sixteen Tons the nostalgia faded with the final strains of the flute and clarinet. I came to my senses and realized that my children, though influenced by my taste in music now, will grow into teenagers and will develop their own tastes, just as I eventually did, and they will call my music stupid and tell me I’m way out of touch and be all, “Ooooh, my music is so much cooler than yours, Momma! Ooooh!”

I must admit to a few moments of frustration and despair. Because if not my love of good music, what?

Then Natasha Bedingfield’s sassy song Unwritten came on my iPod and I was immediately struck– struck, I say!– by the words:

I am unwritten,
Can’t read my mind
I’m undefined
I’m just beginning
The pen’s in my hand
Ending unplanned

Staring at the blank page before you
Open up the dirty window
Let the sun illuminate the words
That you could not find
Reaching for something in the distance
So close you can almost taste it
Release your inhibitions

Feel the rain on your skin
No one else can feel it for you
Only you can let it in
No one else, no one else
Can speak the words on your lips
Drench yourself in words unspoken
Live your life with arms wide open
Today is where your book begins

The rest is still unwritten.

Good LORD! That was it! The part of myself I absolutely MUST pass down to my children! Because if nothing else, I want to them to learn from me how to take life as it comes– grab it by the balls, if they must– and freaking OWN it.

I can DO that. I just know it.

And the fact that I am instilling this lesson in their minds not only by example, but covertly, as we dance and laugh and sing this song together while cooking dinner, cleaning our rooms, even folding the laundry?

Well, that’s just gravy.

I never will.

Feeling nostalgic. That is all. Feel free to add to the list. In fact, I strongly encourage you to do so!

Things I Miss from the 80′s:

1. Seeing 95 pounds peeking out at me from my scale. *le sigh*

2. Cruising for boys on Gurley Street with my homies, blasting the remix version of Billy Idol’s “Catch My Fall” (killer bassline, y’all), sipping Sundance Sparklers (nonalcoholic!), screaming “Memory! All alone in the MOOOOONLIGHT!” every time we passed by the scene of a make-out or break-up. Of which there were several. Ooooh! And “Old Man Driiiiiiver!” (to the tune of “Old Man River”) whenever we passed by guys WAY TOO OLD to be out cruising. Of which there were several. Huh, Di?! Huh?!

3. My ginormous Esprit and Guess? bags, which held everything from my Adventures in Literature textbook to my clunky cheer shoes to five or six really radical to the max cassette tapes to my assorted jelly bracelets and banana clips. And sometimes my lunch.

4. Rainbow-colored eyeshadow and blue mascara. And blue eyeliner, of COURSE. Duh.

5. Wham! The Wham Rap? Classic, y’all. CLASSIC. I still know all the words. Ask anyone. Go on. Try me. Do it. No, really. DO IT.

6. The Solid Gold Dancers. No, seriously. LOVED. THEM. Wanted to BE. THEM.

7. Saying “psyche!” Oh, and “freak!” Wait…

8. Star Search. When it was GOOD.

9. The Brat Pack.

10. Crimped hair, big bangs, strategically placed headbands, bangle earrings, and Swatch Watches with jelly Swatch Guards.

11. Cyberpunk Max Headroom. CATCH THE WAVE!! ‘Member, guys?! Do ya?! Dude. That was totally our Homecoming slogan one year. Go, Badgers!

12. Atari. I mean, c’mon… Frogger? Pitfall? GALAGA?! Hello?!

13. Spandex biker shorts under my paint-splashed, acid-washed denim mini. It just LOOKED COOL, okay?! Geez.

14. Debbie Gibson…. What?! I DO! And if you must know, it is possible that I miss Tiffany, as well. PERHAPS.

15. A time when I actually WANTED my MTV.

16. Echo & the Bunnymen, Cutting Crew, Scritti Politti, Tears for Fears, and Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark.

17. My acid-washed jean jacket covered with ENORMOUS, entirely superfluous silver buttons and an assortment of safety pins with multicolored beads strung through them. Which meant I was very popular and had lots of friends. Right?

18. Sleep overs with my girlfriends, at which we listened to KISS FM, gossiped about boys, experimented with our hair, traded comfy pink Esprit sweatshirts for zip-tapered, pastel-flowered Guess? jeans, and– contrary to TGIM‘s much-fantasized belief– DID NOT engage in naked pillow-fighting. But TGIM? Said girlfriends DID teach me how to French kiss. That one’s all yours, baby.

19. Slap bracelets. Preferably neon. Lots of ‘em.

20. Freezing my ass off while cheering at home football games. In the snow. In a cheerleading uniform. With NO pantyhose or tights. Because that would have been TACKY.

21. Singing along to “Wig” by the B-52′s at the top of my lungs on the bus during away football trips: “What’s that on your head? A wig! Wig, wig, wig! Wig’s on fire! Wig’s on fire! Wig’s on… fire! It’s 2525 and we’ve got the most wigs alive!” Why does nobody REMEMBER this song?

22. Tanning on the roof with a fluffy towel, my boombox, and big-A bottle of Hawaiian Tropic Dark Tanning Oil. For the Tan of the Islands! Or more freckles! Usually more freckles! Whatever!

23. Every single solitary stinkin’ John Hughes movie. I mean, sometimes I used to watch The Dead Zone on USA just to see Farmer Ted (AKA: The Geek from Sixteen Candles) and reminisce. “I never bagged a babe. I’m not a stud.” Seriously. Who writes movies like that anymore?! No one, that’s who!

24. Jams with coordinating t-back tank tops.

25. Comfy, unlaced Keds.

26. First REAL kisses. Cheetos optional.

27. Boys in cuffed jeans and unlaced Reebok high tops. I don’t know why, really.

28. Slouch socks. Ooooh! And slouch boots! Because they totally hid my freakish chicken ankles, all right?

29. My mini black lace ra-ra skirt, a la Madonna in Desperately Seeking Susan. HAWT.

30. Wearing sunglasses at night. Hey. Don’t be afraid of the guy in shades, oh no.

Sadly, I could go on and on and on…

Not that NOW isn’t good! Oh, I LOVE now! But your high school years, they stay with you, you know?

Which, once you think about it, is at the same time slightly comforting and absolutely horrifying. Especially, it seems, if you lived out your teenage years in the 80′s. Just sayin’. That’s a hard era to shake. The hair, the styles… I mean, just look at all the Mom-Pants out there. Totally 80′s! Honestly. It’s 2008! Lose the MOM-PANTS, ladies! LOSE THEM NOW.

And sometimes, guys? Sometimes? I have this almost overwhelming desire to poof up my bangs. You know, just a little. Like, “Oh, just an inch or so won’t hurt….” But it would! Dear lord, it WOULD!

Oh, NO. I just realize that the bulk of my childhood was spent during the 70′s! Don’t even get me STARTED on homemade polyester bell-bottoms, roller skating rinks, my Donna Summers fixation, tetherball wars, and hula hoops. PLEASE. Just… don’t.

That’s a post for another day, y’all. A post for another day…

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…)

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.

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!)

I hope no one minds the repeat.

To Shuffle Off This Mortal Coil

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Childhood Scene 3:
The last picture that captures my attention is the pinochle game. My mom and her sisters and her mother love to play cards. As far back as I can remember, when the Heedum women got together, they gathered around the dining room table, where cards were played and food was eaten. And, it goes without saying, there was the laughter. The Heedum women? Are Laughers. Loud Laughers. And Loud Talkers, as a matter of fact. Oh, ho, ho, yes they are. You know the type. So if you know me personally, you must understand: it is genetic! I had absolutely no say in the matter! Because, yes, you see, I have inherited the Loud Laugher/Loud Talker gene, which makes for good times in cubicle-land, let me tell you. Especially when I get phone calls. Or an especially funny email. I get shushed, y’all!

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

Because when I break my stupid ankle doing a simple cartwheel, I laugh. When I get viral gastroenteritis and hurl so hard I get blood-red bruising around my eyes, I laugh. When my husband hits me in the head with a racquetball going mach 7, after I cry like a baby and cuss him to bits, I laugh. When we get a lousy louse in the house, after I clean and clean and nitpick and scratch and clean and clean and CLEAN, I laugh. When I joke about someone hurting my feelings or breaking my heart, I laugh. When somebody close to me dies, I dig desperately into my mind and dredge up the funny memories about that person, and I laugh. I do. I laugh. I can’t help it. It’s a part of my tapestry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forever.

We hope your day was merry and bright, as well.

And, hey… did I mention the singing? Yep. I composed some original tunes and debuted them on my vidcast. I know, right? Sweet.

What can I say? I am ALL about the giving this holiday season. And my analogizin’ skillz coupled with the guitarin’ and singin’ and whatnot? Well, that’s just my little gift to you.

TechnoGeekery Quickie #4: iTunes… an Analogy

Oh. No need to thank me. It was my pleasure.

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!

Hannah: (kicking off flip-flops while swinging) Momma! Swinging with the wind rushing over my toes is my favorite way to swing! (flinging hair as if she were the Breck Girl) With the wind in my hair!… While wearing a skort!

Alli: (clapping her hands) Okay, people, let’s go to Dairy Queen for goodness Pete’s sake!

Hannah: Hey, Momma, listen! Cheese, cheese, I love cheese! Too bad I have allergies, and yummy cheese makes me sneeze! Geez!

Translation: “Allison is the talkingest damn child I’ve ever met and did we really voluntarily invite her– without any kind of coercion whatsoever– to spend the night with us? Because, if so… INSANE?”

Statement: “She likes to talk, doesn’t she? No, I mean, it was nice. Really!”

Translation: “Good LORD. Allison did not stop chattering from the minute she walked through our door until the moment two seconds before her head hit the pillow when she announced, “I probably won’t be able to fall asleep. No, really! I am actually not tired at ALL.’”

Statement: “Aw, she reminds me so much of you at that age.”

Translation: “You were the talkingest damn child I ever knew and now you’ve got one that rivals you for the sheer volume of words that pour out of her mouth in a steady stream of inane questions and “conversation,” and isn’t it true that Mom always told you she hoped you’d have a child just like you someday, so help her God, mwah ha ha? In which case, boy howdy! I think we’ve seen the culmination of THAT curse!”

Statement: “Yep. Allison IS just like me at that age. JUST like me, poor thing.”

Translation: “Thanks for the ‘curse,’ Mom. Because truth is, I love that girl more than life itself. Here’s to hoping she never loses her spunky energy and zest for life, or her firm belief that everyone around her absolutely loves her to death… just the way she is.”

Wedding registries have ruined everything.

You think I’m kidding, but I’m not. Seriously, hello? What do we all gleefully anticipate on our wedding night? Tackling and unwrapping that mound of presents, of course! Oh, yes. All. Night. Long.

But there’s no excitement in the whole gifting process anymore. No mystery. No drama. Instead, there’s a whole lot of brides and grooms glued to the computer, with visions of place settings dancing in their heads. “Hey, honey! Take a look! Someone just bought the silver-plated candle snuffer! One more candlestick and that insta-romance mood lighting set is OURS, baby! High five.” What happened to the days of oohing over homemade gift baskets and aahing over lovingly-stitched quilts? Or giggling at the gift from Aunt Gert that you think could be a ginormous checkered trivet but might also be a homemade chess board, minus the chess pieces? Or threatening to commit hara-kiri if you unwrap one more George Foreman grill, so help you God Almighty? Man. Those were the days, I tell you what. The laughing. The crying. The re-gifting.

Oh, whither hast thou gone days of yore? Whither?

A person like me needs options. A person like me needs her freedom to choose, are you feeling me? So I would think that when a person– in this case, me– decides to gift my much loved sister-in-law on her wedding day with a super secret, super special Cat-crafted wedding video– complete with myriad and sundry pictorial and videographical evidence of the fourteen years of our relationship– then, pursuant to Giftmeister’s Rules of Gift-Giving Etiquette*, said sister-in-law and assorted relatives forfeit any and all rights and privileges to choose the music and content contained thereinabouts. Because its MY GIFT! To HER! But still MINE! All MINE!

Ahem.

I mean, because it is my gift to give, and should be created autonomously. Which is why it is super secret in the first place. That’s all I’m saying.

So when– through no fault of my own, I assure you– the bride-to-be finds out about said super now-not-so-secret, super special Cat-crafted wedding video o’ goodness, and subsequently offers several detailed suggestions as to how I should craft said video, and her parents call at regular intervals with gentle, friendly reminders that they haven’t received their copy of the wedding video in the mail… well, quite frankly, it stresses me the freak out, okay?

Not that there’s anything wrong with either the suggestions OR the gentle, friendly reminders. No, sir! Nothing whatsoever! Totally understandable! I’d likely do the same thing myself, if the tables were turned! Except I’d probably supplement my efforts with a full frontal email assault, and request a private screening before the video’s wedding party and general public premiere, but that’s just me and is totally beside the point. I’m just saying I have IDEAS. I have VISION. I have an entire sequence of pictures set to Lee Coulter‘s Booty Voodoo!

Okay, I’ll admit that a song with the lyrics,”I’ve got a wife with a sexy butt that wiggles… (shake it! shake it!),” and “Girl you know my weakness is the uniqueness of your cheeks, yeeeeeaaaeah!” may not– perhaps!– be the most appropriate song choice for a video celebrating the sacred and eternal union of two souls, forever shackled together by the matrimonial bonds of holy love. According to TGIM, anyway, but whatever. I think it’s sassy. But I’m not married to the idea or anything. Oh, goodness! See what I did there? That’s what you call a pun!

But I digress.

My point? I’m, like, an artist. That’s right. A cinematographical ARTIST. Or something. Like Steven freaking Spielberg! But not really. Or like Michelangelo! But not with the painting, so much. And did the Pope stand around all day while Michelangelo painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, offering suggestions and asking him to please hurry because we have a DEADLINE here? Huh? I think not! Because Michelangelo was a freaking ar– what? Really? The Pope did?

Oh.

Whatever. You totally know what I mean. All I’m saying is that due to stress and copious Diet Dr. Pepper consumption (imbibition?), I’ve averaged about four hours of sleep per night this past week. I know, right? No messy my resty, the Momma need sleep! Honestly. The bags under my eyes have packed up their own bags and are all “Cmon! Get some sleep already! We gots to GO!” I’m not even joking.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that you can throw “suggestions” and “reminders” at me ’till the cows come home, but ultimately I’m going to do what I’m going to do, suggestions and reminders be damned. Ask anyone. It’s an immutable flaw in my character. So the sad truth here is that the main source of my current stress appears to be the unreasonably high expectations I have placed upon myself to create the BEST. VIDEO. EVER.

Thankfully, the super not-so-secret, super special Cat-crafted wedding video is in the can. That’s fancy movie-talk for “I finished it last night and burned the DVDs and e’rything.” And while I may have bitterly berated myself over the past few weeks for not just choosing something off the damn wedding registry like a normal person, for hell’s sake, I can honestly say the time I spent splicing video footage and photographs was totally worth it. Because the videos and photographs reminded me of why I couldn’t bring myself to pick something off a list and have it shipped to her with a “personalized gift tag” in the first place.

Spending hours sifting through images of her from the time she was six until now was an achingly beautiful pictorial reminder of our past together. Images of her growing from the scruffy little tomboy with pigtails and no front teeth. Images of the adorable preteen with budding fashion sense and a willingness to play with and babysit my kiddos. Images of the teenage fashionista with plenty of sass and even more heart. And images of the beautiful young woman she is today, with wavy blonde hair and a smile that lights up any room. And those memories are worth missing a few night of sleep.

So wedding registry or not, those images, and the loving memories behind them, those are my gift to her. I can only hope she sees what I saw, and feels my love for her (our love for her), even though we can’t be there on her wedding day.

Of course, she’d probably rather have the toaster oven.

*Used for illustrative purposes only. I don’t know anybody by the name of Giftmeister. Frankly, I wish I did, because AWESOME?

That’s the moment where my imagination lives. Lately, oh how I wish I could capture it.