Hi, Cat!

Yes. I admit it has been a severe blow to my self-esteem to realize that I need HELP, y’all. I thought I had all of my projects under control. One can never juggle too many projects at once! Seriously! There’s absolutely nothing wrong with keeping busy, is all I’m saying! It’s GOOD to be productive! Right? Am I right?! RIGHT?!

Right?

In my defense, I don’t have a craft room or any place awesome like that where I can escape and just sew and knit and paint and Mod Podge like nobody’s business. Nope. So when I drag my old sewing machine out of its hiding spot in the cupboard, dust it off, and lug it to the craft table I only just broke out of storage, well, I’m going to get some things DONE, by golly! CRAFTY things! Because remembering how to thread the machine correctly so the thread doesn’t jam the needle up, and how to properly fill bobbins and whatnot is no picnic when you have accidentally totally misplaced your sewing machine manual and your machine is, like, fifteen years old and you can’t find the manual online– except for the one that might be the right one but they want you to PAY for it, which what the WHAT (?!) and no THANK you, because it’s the whole principle of the thing.

Just saying.

Honestly. I thought I could handle the knitted Christmas stockings, the Dot quilt, the Window Box quilt, the quilted Christmas stockings, the button monogram on canvas, the knitted Sweetheart socks, the Mod-Podged wooden “L”… AND the felt Advent Calendar!

*sigh*

I need help.

*end of glass half-full moment*

Except I’m foraging for spare change rather than carrots or shrubs. I mean, clearly. If I wanted to eat vegetation, I would have “remembered” to pack a salad! You know what I’m saying?! Am I right?! Am I? AM I RIGHT?!

Yep. Forgetting is no fun at all.

Not to even mention that sometimes, so surprised am I by the sudden, primal outburst or the sheer violence of expression that I unintentionally snort or giggle, and hey, I just do NOT appreciate being forced into behaving in such a juvenile manner. I’m only saying. So cut that crap out! Hee. I said “crap.” (See?! With the juvenile behavior?!) Just think of others before you go all Serena Williams while doing your business, okay?! GOSH.

Oh, to be clear, I am only referring to these types of outbursts in PUBLIC restrooms. What you grunt/groan while doing your business at home is totally, well… your business. Go crazy. Get down with your primal grunting self! Oh, except if you have house guests, obviously, in which case I would advise strongly against this type of behavior. Unless it is actually your intention to make said house guests SUPER uncomfortable. Then… ch-check! Mission accomplished! So you may want to rein it in– just a scoche!– when there’s company over. But otherwise, knock yourself out.

In other news, I am often peculiar and judgmental.

In other news, your toupee looks as if it is trying to make a run for it. Let it go, man. Just… let it go.

… must resist the urge to watch American Idol… must resist the urge to watch American Idol…

Whatever. I don’t even care. American Idol and I are still SO over. So what if I missed one of my favorite broadway slash television stars sitting in as a guest judge? Big whoop. I am certainly not going to spend the evening scouring YouTube for clips or anything lame like that, I can tell you that. Honestly. Because I don’t even care that I missed one of my favorite broadway slash television stars, Kristin Freaking Chenoweth, being all judgy and whatnot. On American Idol. Even if her appearance on the show would make for a fabulous AI recap. Because American Idol and I ARE NOT SPEAKING.

… must resist the urge to watch American Idol… must resist the urge to watch American Idol…

No. I will not be taken in again– not even for Kristin Chenoweth, y’all!– because I have not forgotten how American Idol strung me along for years and years before finally revealing itself as a sham and a liar and a time-suck of epic proportions! I put my blood, sweat, and tears into that relationship and where did it get me?! Huh?! Nowhere, bucko, that’s where! And I can’t get all those late-night hours spent dialing and voting and recapping BACK, no sir! That’s all I’m saying.

… must resist the urge to watch American Idol… must resist the urge to watch American Idol…

Totally not checking YouTube and the American Idol Web site on Fox to find video clips from last night. Nope. But if somebody just sent me some random, anonymous links, and I was all, “Oooh, I wonder what THIS link opens?” and I clicked on the random, anonymous links and they happened to take me to some awesome clips from last night’s show featuring Kristin Chenoweth as a guest judge, well then, what’s a gal gonna do, you know? Sometimes things just happen like that, all random and whatnot. Understand? IT COULD HAPPEN. But I won’t be looking around for any clips. Nope.

Because American Idol is the devil.

TGIM and I, using out mad Craigslisting skills, had found a super slamming deal on a 5th generation iPod Nano—in green! as requested!—for Mack’s birthday (which, happy birthday, Hannah!), so SCORE. We established contact, set up a meet time, hopped in the Miata, and trekked to Arlington where we met up with the iPod Nano-selling guy. In a stroke of awesome luck which could only mean fortune was totally on our side, I noted our Craigslister had a Miata, too. Dude! Right?! A Miata! Like us! A common bond! Yes! That iPod was OURS, for less than the asking price, I just KNEW it.

With careful maneuvering, we cultivated the relationship. What year was his Miata? How long had he owned it? Did it have the flip-up headlights? What? The headlights have to be left flipped up in icy or snowy weather or they would stick shut? We did not know that. Our model had non-flippy-uppy headlights. Did he commute in his? Did his Miata get awesome gas mileage, like ours did?

For the most part, I let TGIM take the lead, because, you know, cars? As I listened to TGIM and the Craigslister grow closer—bond vehicularly, if you will—I mentally prepared myself to talk him down twenty dollars or so. I could do it. He loved us! We were Miata people! He felt a kinship with us! I could tell! He was putty in our hands! Mwah ha ha!

So involved were my machinations—perhaps even thirty dollars under the asking price was within my grasp!—I didn’t hear what TGIM was saying until it was too late.

“Yeah, the guys at work laugh when they see me getting in and out of the Miata,” he said.

Oh NO.

I tried to catch his eye, tried to stop him, but it was already spilling out of his mouth, the story he knew he shouldn’t share. I’d let him bond too long. He had run out of small talk and was cracking under the pressure.

With a somewhat hysterical laugh, TGIM continued. “Heh heh! They’re always like, ‘Hey! Want a little KY Jelly to help you get in and out of that thing?!’ Ha ha ha!”

Damn. Also, awkward.

Uncomfortable silence ensued, broken only by a small intake of breath as I opened my mouth to say something—anything!—to get the conversation back on track, but… I had nothing. With a sigh, I forked over the asking price for the iPod and let the guy make his escape. Which he made swiftly, and without even a backward glance, I might add.

TGIM and I climbed into the Miata in silence. He put the key in the ignition, but didn’t start the car. I could feel him staring at me, but I looked straight ahead in stony silence. Finally, “Too much?” he asked innocently.

I turned and looked him straight in the eyes. “Ya think?!”

He sighed dramatically. “Thought so.”

“Honestly, TGIM,” I said, “what have I told you about the Guys At Work stories?!” Without waiting for an answer, I continued, “Don’t tell them, that’s what! GOSH. I could have talked him down thirty dollars! Well, probably twenty… but thirty was NOT out of the question! Okay, maybe only ten dollars, but still! It could have happened!”

We sat in silence for a moment, TGIM looking contrite while I glared at him. Then, of course, I giggled.

TGIM smiled in response. “Sorry. I just… panicked.”

“You are SUCH a nerd,” I said before dissolving into outright laughter. I mean, honestly. We’d still scored a super slamming deal on a 5th generation iPod Nano, so where was the bad?

We laughed all the way home.

Yep. That’s my TGIM. Winning friends and influencing people. Then, not so much.

Today is so not one of those days.

Except I totally did.

I just now– the evening before the half-marathon for which I’ve been training with my BFF Paige, mind you– JUST NOW dropped Mack’s HEAVY bag on my foot! Just freaking dropped it! ON. MY. FOOT! The foot on which I had surgery a few months ago! The one with the bunion! Which is embarrassing, so forget I said “bunion”! And now I have PAIN! PAIN, I tell you! And have to run a LONG WAYS! Which I paid cash money to DO!

Just thought I’d share.

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

Public Restroom Groaners, or PRGs, if you will. Oh, and PR Sighers! Honestly. Because you know what? PRGs? At home? In total private? Cut loose! Go for it! I mean, if you have to be trying that hard to do… um, your business… you should maybe consult a gastroenterologist, or, you know, eat more fiber or whatever, because all that straining is SO bad for you (*cough*hemorrhoids*cough*). But whatever. I’m only saying.

And YOU? PRSs? If you are so relieved upon, you know, relieving yourself that you can’t help but to heave creepy, near orgasmic sighs– that’s right, I said it!– then you are clearly holding it way too long which any urologist and Jim Carrey’s character in “Liar Liar” will tell you will only lead to problems down the road. Infections. Impotence. And remember Fergie?! Do you?! Peed herself right on stage! In front of God and her fans and everybody! Cautionary tale right there! But it’s your body. Do what you want. I don’t even care. At ALL.

Unless, that is, you happen to park yourself in the stall next to me at work, in which case, cut that crap out right now!

Oh.

Well, you know what I mean.

That said, Angel Cohen over at Television Without Pity gives a compelling argument for why Chuck, a show on the bubble, should be renewed for a third season. And c’mon! This is Television Without Pity! As in “Spare the Snark, Spoil the Networks”! That is totally their motto! So there you go.

Wait. What does “on the bubble” mean? Well, I will tell you. No need to be pushy, there, hotshot. GOSH. See, a show that is “on the bubble” is a show that does a’ight for itself, but it hasn’t gotten the green light yet on a pick-up for next year, meaning that the outlook is, shall we say… uncertain. Like, the Chuck bubble o’ goodness could burst at any time! POP! Get it? Get it? Bubble? BURST? Because the show gets CANCELED? Which, BTW, would totally blow.

Oooh, pun SNAP!

So I have to concur with all the kudos for the well-written storylines (with adequate suspension of disbelief, naturally), the fabulous and quirky cast, the will-they-won’t-they angst of Chuck and Sarah’s relationship, the gruntiness of Special Agent Casey, the sweet bromance between Chuck and Morgan, and the pop-culture fun woven into every episode of Chuck. Oh, and Jeffster. Can’t forget the Jeffster! I mean, any show that can seamlessly weave “Africa” by Toto into an episode is aces in my book. Aces!

And does it need to be said that Zachary Levi (AKA: Chuck) is totally Nerdalicious? Because I will totally say it if it needs to be said. I will. Don’t think I won’t because you would be so wrong. He is Nerd-a-licious. And Yvonne Strahovski as Sarah? Come ON. Plus, we get to see Captain Awesome shirtless in practically every episode, which, AWESOME?!

I’m not going to lie.  Despite my best efforts to harden my heart, I will be genuinely crushed if they cancel Chuck, my favoritest show on TV.

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

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

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

I cannot BELIEVE I have been ambushed by the PTA! Again! I walked right into it, too, which is such an embarrassment and a true testament to how sleep-deprived I truly am due to the evil Nintendo and its wily Pokemon Diamond ways (I caught a Dialga. It’s a Legendary. I know, right?) Damn the PTA! DAMN THEM TO HELL! It’s supposed to be an orchestra concert, not an impromptu PTA meeting! Or, not so impromptu… just planned unbeknownst to me. Totally NOT beknownst! To me! Or most of the parents here, apparently, as 90 percent of them whipped out a Blackberry, iPhone, or other electronic device of choice seconds after the PTA president said, “Well, while you’re all heeeeeere… we may as well hold a SUPER quick PTA meeting, okay? Seriously! Five minutes. Maybe ten. Not that you have a choice, ha ha ha!… No, seriously, sit down. This is HAPPENING.”

I did NOT sign up for this. I call passive-aggressive PTA shenanigans! FAIL! Dear LORD, they are talking about the budget now. The BUDGET! Okay, just kill me now. Seriously. Just make it quick. And not in any way painful. Or gross.

Whatever. There better be some tasty cookies this time, that’s all I’m saying, or the PTA president is going DOWN.

Speaking of presidents, I am genuinely shocked by how many people I know who are totally on a first name basis with the President of the United States. For reals! They are all like “Oooh, Barack said this” and “Ooooh, Barack did that” While I, with no apparent claims of familiarity, am forced to stand on ceremony and call him “President Obama.” Or, if I’m feeling bold and sassy, perhaps “Mr. Prez, sir.” Hey! I said perhaps! Anyway, color me impressed.

Oooooh! Time for the concert. What the…?! The sneak-attack PTA meeting only lasted twenty-six minutes?! A personal best.

Dear Lady of Questionable Humor Who was Recently Burned by Twitter Tweets:

I’m sorry that because of something you wrote in your Twitter stream you had to suffer the indignity of having the police come and check on you and your children. I worry all the time that one of my neighbors will call the police or child protective services because I have a daughter that has the most HORRIFYING, piercing yell—I kid you not—and she has absolutely no qualms about shrieking at the top of her lungs for longer than one would believe is humanly possible if her older brother so much as looks at her wrong. Which he does. A LOT. To have the cops come because someone heard her screaming and thought someone was hurting her would be embarrassing and horrible and scary and did I mention TOTALLY EMBARRASSING?! I’ve tried to explain to her that there are “Good Samaritans” out there who could potentially call the police because they can hear her screaming, but she’s a child… and when it comes right down to it, it’s an impulse control issue and all we can do is work on it. That said, I’d be pissed if someone DID call the authorities, especially without talking to me first, but I would totally understand why. While I’d rather be approached first, I really wouldn’t expect a neighbor to come to my door and ask, “Excuse me, are you abusing your child in there?” Nah. Not many people would be brave enough to take that risk. I’m not saying it’s right. I’m just saying.

That said…

I’m American. I don’t watch Fox news (I don’t watch any network news, actually). I do watch “Bones” and “House,” though, and they are on Fox so sometimes I see news commercials during the breaks, but I don’t think that should count because I am usually getting snacks and such, or spending quality time with my husband and children. And I live in the DC Metro area, which is technically “The South” if you go by the Mason-Dixon line, which I totally don’t because that line of demarcation is ancient HISTORY. But dude. Honestly. If you use Twitter, you have no expectation of privacy, unless you protect your updates. And frankly, I don’t know you from Adam, but after reading back through several of your Tweets, I know more about your battles with bipolar disorder, your strained relationship with your husband, and your discontent with your co-workers (and boss) than I think is entirely necessary. WAY more. Good LORD with the TMI, woman! But I have the ability to, you know, NOT follow you. Or read your blog. Which is cool. If I don’t appreciate your brand of humor, so what, right? In the big scheme of things, it don’t mattah. We don’t know each other. We’ll likely never meet, even if I do ever travel to Canada. It’s a big place. Whatever. My good opinion is nothing to you.

So please don’t misunderstand me. I’m all for emotional honesty. I’m all for snark. I’m all for cutting jokes and whatnot. And I get that you want to Keep It Real. Awesome. Go on and get down with your bad self. You have that right. You have the right to ask all of Twitter if it would be okay to smother your screaming child. Even if you are TOTALLY kidding! Ha ha! I get it. You’re like Michael Scott. You hope to someday live in a world where a person could tell a hilarious Child Abuse joke. I hear you. But sadly, that is not our world. Yet. (Fingers crossed!)

So all the Twitter Tweeters who read your “questionable” Tweet (and the others before it) have the right-—and some “Good Samaritans” would say the responsibility-—to think—perhaps!—that someone ought to make sure that you are not REALLY going to smother your child to get her to be quiet and go to sleep. Because mothers ACTUALLY DO THAT. A commenter confessed that she Tweeted that she wanted to flush her child down the toilet, and asked if that Tweet should have sent alarm bells going in the Twitterdom, too. Well, no, actually, it shouldn’t. Why should it? Because mothers CAN’T ACTUALLY DO THAT. Unless there is some super secret child-flushable toilet out there that only she knows of, but even I cannot willingly suspend disbelief on that one, and I watched ALL SEVEN seasons of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer.” (I know, right?) Nor can you sell your child on eBay. Believe me. I’ve tried.

Wait! That was a joke.

You know, the image of the young mother Rowena smothering her three-year-old daughter in “Mary Jane Harper Cried Last Night” is STILL burned into my memory, and that came out in the 70s. THE 70s! I had nightmares! Didn’t want to sleep with a pillow anymore! Even though my momma was always super nice to me! But still! Hate Susan Dey to this… er, day! So there you go. You have willingly put yourself out there as a parent struggling through mental illness and the challenges of raising a family. So when you say something extreme, like “I want to kill my children,” this will lead to extreme reactions and/or responses. It will. You must have known that when you wrote it. Weren’t you trying to be shocking? Otherwise, a simple “My daughter won’t go to bed and she is driving me CRAAAZY…” would have sufficed. Extreme comments like yours set off alarm bells. They just do. And you can’t control the reaction you’ll get from readers who may not know you very well. Or, you know, at all. If you can’t understand that then maybe you shouldn’t be blogging. Or Twittering. At all. At least not in such a public forum.

Because sure, you have the right to Keep It Real and eschew “bullshit and fake honesty” in your own way. But if your exercise of that right in the public forum—where, again, people who see it may not (and most likely do not) know you personally—results in unintended negative consequences, then it is as Mark Twain wrote– that free speech “ranks with the privilege of committing murder: we may exercise it if we are willing to take the consequences.”

Perhaps instead of complaining that concerned readers should take the time to read back over your past posts and Tweets and figure out for themselves that you were just making a twisted sort of emotionally honest joke, perhaps you could ask yourself to take a few moments before you post something that you know is shocking or questionable and ask yourself if it may be taken in the wrong spirit by other parents or people who just don’t get your brand of humor. Like, “Hey, if I announced to a random crowd at the mall that I wanted to kill my children or asked passerbyers at the grocery store if it would be okay to smother my screaming child, would that raise alarm bells?” If the answer is yes, then there you go. Instant filter. Problem solved. I’m just suggesting that self-censorship is necessary if you aren’t keen on serious backlash for hasty or controversial content you put out there for anyone to read. Unless you WANT a reaction, of course, in which case, just keep on keeping on.

It’s like I tell my children who have inherited my control freak gene:  “You can’t control anyone but yourself.” To me, that principle extends to how we present ourselves and who we let into our little space in the blog world. You may not be able to control what other people take away from your writing, but you can control how you present your thoughts and feelings. Raw honesty does not have to be shocking or vulgar. It just has to be real.

Again, I am so sorry you had to suffer the indignity of cops coming by to check on you and your family. I mean that sincerely. That must have sucked SO MUCH.

That’s all I have to say about that. I will now carry on living my life.

Don’t get me wrong. I have no issues with the bombardment of the minutiae of my friends’ lives. It’s fun to see what people can squeeze into 140 characters! I’m all about the 140 character challenge! Go brevity! BRING IT! No, it’s the @ replies that are killing me. Softly.

In moderation, fine. If I see “@bff You wish! Tell her she can STEP OFF me!” I can scroll down or follow a link to find the beginning of the conversation. I’m not high maintenance! I can roll with it! Honestly. If I am totally curious as to WHY a certain person is thanking another person for… something, or why another person is passionately defending… someone, for, you know… something, I can take a moment to backtrack. I know it isn’t all about me! I can be flexible! But lately? I’m seeing half a conversation EVERY OTHER TWEET–I kid you not!–which is TAXING on my latent Obnoxious Question-Asker tendencies! TAXING, I tell you! Because I just want to know what the HELL is going ON THERE! And where’s the fun in THAT?! It’s like listening in on someone’s phone conversation, except without the giddy, naughty, voyeuristically satisfying part! Which, hello? No fun? At ALL?!

In my humble, yet totally valid opinion, if people feel as if they need to have an open, involved, and generally LOOOOONG conversation with a particular user, especially when the conversation grows cryptic or, oh, let’s say ACRIMONIOUS, well, that is what the DM option is for. Or, you know, EMAIL. I’m only saying.

Why?!

No, really. It’s like she has Fate by the short hairs and is all, “Oh, yeah. I’m doing this! WHILE WE ARE MOVING. Consequences and/or permanent blindness be damned! Because I have mad liquid eyelining skillz, biznitches! What up?! Now step off! I shall now floss and shave my legs before the next stop.”

Sure, it could be worse. I mean, at least she isn’t DRIVING. But whatever. Personally, I prefer to apply cosmetics when the ground isn’t shaking. Call it my wacky personal preference.

I barely notice the freezing weather. I’m like, “Fingers numb with cold?! Whatever! I’m an AMERICAN.”

Take THAT, voter apathy.

(BTW, anyone else think Nader has a shot?)

Almost there…

… almost there…

… almost there…

“BOOM!” says the lady!

Is it because we can say “Happy Halloween!” with no compunction about having perhaps offended someone who doesn’t celebrate Halloween? Someone who hates candy corn and all it stands for? Someone who has bizarre, grotesquely horrific nightmares because her delicate constitution can’t handle the horror flicks everyone else seems so fond of and everyone mocks her and stops inviting her to their stupid scary movie parties? (Hey! “The Shining” is freaking SCARY! Blood in the elevator shaft?! Totally clingy ghost twins?! And– oh, dear lord!– REDRUM?! Well that’s just great. Now I’m going to have NIGHTMARES. Thanks, Halloween!)

Sorry. My issues. Shut up or I will CUT YOU.

Or perhaps someone who maybe doesn’t believe in spooks, thank you very much? Like the Cowardly Lion? Although I would argue that Mr. C. Lion was in fact deathly afraid of spooks, but that is neither here nor there. Or here. Or over thataway. So whatever.

Because if that is the case, then whoa there, Nelly! Because Halloween? Hello Samhain meets All Saints’ Day meets All Souls’ Day! Hello, crazy jumbled pagan-meets-Christianity holiday celebration!

And let’s be honest… Putting aside the not-so-subtle undertones of religious syncretism, I can’t be the only person who sees that the so-called “holiday” totally promotes begging as a valid lifestyle choice, with parents actually ENCOURAGING their children to disguise themselves and importune the neighbors for candy! Right?! Shaking ‘em down, right there at their very own door! I mean, what the..?!

And I’m not just saying this because a bag of Halloween candy costs just short of seven dollars. For ONE MEASLY BAG! Or because my kids come home with enough candy to keep them in sugar well through the new year. Nope. No, indeedy.

It’s the principle of the thing, is all.

Now, listen. I have nothing against bald people. Honestly. Bruce Willis? Patrick Stewart? Vin Diesel? Andre Agassi? Billy Zane? That guy who plays Lex Luther on Smallville? Britney Spears? And hello? GHANDI?! That’s right! Who’s shallow now, biznitches?! FACE!

Wait, so… what?

Oh! Balding dude! Or more acurately, Comb-over Guy. Oh. My. Lord. There was some SERIOUS comb-overage going on there, I tell you what. I fully admit to staring– just a little, mind you! or maybe a whole lot! whatever!– in wide-eyed wonder at the proficiency– nay, the sheer majesty!– of his crowning achievement! (ba dum bum).

And I thought, wow, that is a whole lot of hair he has going on there, to be able to trek from the base camp just above his left ear, traverse the summit, and make the LONG descent down the other side of his head, not stopping for a rest at the sideburns–oh no– or even the right ear–no lie– but making it all the way to just below his chin, where it fell exhausted and limp from the journey… not to mention what I perceived to be a healthy amount of hair product.

So, see? There were extenuating circumstances which obviously precluded me from any perception of rudeness. I’m only saying. Not rude! Just… mesmerized! By the majesty!

Of course, once all the Mount Kilimanjaro analogies dried up, all I could think was, “Oh, dear LORD. What does all that he has going on over there look like when he SHOWERS?!”

And, well, that just opened up another whole can of worms and gave me a (not so) funny, icky feeling in my tummy. Not to mention the scary visual image seared into my brain. But then I began to hum “Climb Every Mountain” and recalled that recent scene in “Pushing Daisies” where Kristin Chenoweth is at the nunnery singing her little heart out a la Julie Andrews in “The Sound of Music” and I felt MUCH better… until I could grab my brand-spankin’ new (really?! again with the spankin’?!) super secure Federal ID and get the HECK AWAY from the scary hair!

People, if you’re naked on top, but can weave a basket out of what you have going on on ONLY ONE SIDE of your head, please remember this… Bruce Willis shaved his head and got DEMI MOORE, okay? Are you hearing me? DEMI MOORE! Of course, her current husband has a TON of hair, but I think THAT relationship is less about hair and more about Demi’s obsession with staying freakishly hawt and young-looking forever and ever. And Ashton is ridiculously good-looking. And perhaps there is some sort of pact with the devil, but that’s just a guess.

In other news, it could be the Pop Tart talking, but I’m feeling spunky!

And, wow… There just is not enough “ew!” in the world for the mental picture THAT just conjured, I tell you what, but that is neither here nor there so I will persevere.

See, sometimes? I believe I am awesome. Chock full of the awesomeness. So awesome I can barely stand it! Chuck Bass awesome! I think, “Hey! How is it that I am THIS awesome?!” I write! I sing! I play my guitar! I make vidcasts! I enter contests! I jump out of planes! I swing on the trapeze! I teach my kids awesome things to do and say! And I post videos such as this in which I totally bestow my awesomeness on an unsuspecting, yet obviously pleasantly surprised, public! Because I am AWESOME! I mean, have you SEEN all my friends on Facebook?! I’m only saying.

And then it all falls apart.

I wake up one morning, fire up the iMac, click to my YouTube page to watch my awesome Dr. Horrible Evil League of Evil application one more time, confident in the knowledge that I WILL be chosen for the once-in-lifetime opportunity to be included in the special features section of the super awesome Dr. Horrible DVD. The video starts up, the intro music sends shivers of– what? excitement?– up my spine, but when my face pops up on the screen, my heart drops, freaking plummets, I tell you, and I think, “Oh. My. GOSH. What have I DONE?” I panic. I wish I could take it back. Take it all BACK. I’m not awesome! I’m a fraud! A loser! I made a music video while wearing pink goggles on my forehead! PINK GOGGLES! On my FOREHEAD! And I can’t SING! Or write MUSIC! What the HELL was I THINKING?! OH! EM! GEE! What if Joss Whedon actually SEES this?! I suck I suck I SUCK! (I totally suck.) Not to mention that OTHER people have, like, tens of hundreds of friends on Facebook! Which is a LOT!

And then I think of that quote from “When Harry Met Sally” when Sally tells Harry, “…AND I’m going to be forty!” and when he asks, “When?” she sobs, “Someday!” and I totally get it. Oh, I SO get it. Because it’s there. It’s just sitting there, like some big dead end. And time is passing and what am I doing? Really? Twittering? Jumping out of perfectly good airplanes? Playing around with my guitar? Filming myself acting the fool, not to even mention sporting pink goggles that totally clash with a blue-accented black rash guard? When I’m not even at the POOL?! Right?! There is no WATER for the pink goggles, people! How is that awesome? Do I really think I’m funny? Do I truly believe I have anything to offer? That I will ever write the great American novel or even have any kind of future as an observational humorist? Well?! DO I?!

At this point, no amount of affirmation, self or otherwise, can penetrate the gloom. My heart hurts and I wish I could crawl away and hide. I stop writing. I stop creating. I lose myself in (quality!) television and (totally awesome!) DS video games. I avoid novels because they make me believe that– perhaps!– I could write something even better and why set myself up like that? Do I really want to be That Person? The one who deludes herself? Like those super horrible American Idol contestants who no one ever had the cajones to grab by the shoulders, give ‘em a shake, and sternly say, “Seriously? I love you, but you SUCK at the singing. For real! Even Paula thinks you suck, which HELLO?! Now cut that shit out!”

On one level, the rational one, I understand this is a phase. A mood. A momentary lapse of confidence in my utter awesomeness. But on another level, I just feel sad. Weary. Depressed. So totally lacking in the awesomeness. Awesomeless. Awesome light.

It’s moments such as this that I need to drag myself up off the floor of my I’m SO Not Awesome At ALL pity party, give myself a figurative “Pull it together, fool!” slap across the face, and look around. Take an interest in those who weren’t on the invite list to my party of one. TGIM. My kiddos. My family. My friends. Because even in the depths of self-pity, yes, even then! I understand that they don’t need any kind of proof of my awesomeness. They see it in me, the awesomeness, or see the lack thereof, yet they love me. Unconditionally. Yup. Pink goggles and all.

And that? Is totally awesome.

Twitter is the Devil and must be destroyed. Also, Pokemon Diamond. Because ADDICTING?!

I’m only saying.

Little J getting what she deserves for daring to cross Queen Bee? QUEEN FREAKING BEE?! Super awesome.

Vanessa getting what she deserves for… well, just being totally annoying, not to mention wearing children’s art supplies as accessories and sporting the weed-WACK ‘do? All is right in the Gossip Girl World.

But Dan? Self-righteously and undeservedly lashing out at Serena? And essentially calling her a spoiled rich slut? One too many times, I might add? And telling her to own up to it? And totally unleashing the righteous fury of a Queen S scorned?! And getting the public humiliation smackdown his tortured, I’m-So-Misunderstood-and-Poor-and-Blah-Blah-Self-Righteous-Blahdy-Blah self so richly deserves?! From the newly reborn Serena who is now the scariest freaking badass ever?!

So! Freaking! AWESOME! You go, Badass Serena. But go easy on Blair, mm’kay? She’s had it rough, with her Lord totally doing it with his stepmom and all.

Oh, how I’ve missed you, oh television goodness. Promise to NEVER go away again.

Tot N: (to TD) I hate you! I will kill you!

Tot R: Hey! Don’t say that! Else God will send a whale and it will EAT you!

Tot N: No! We don’t even live by the ocean!

Tot R: Well I know, but it will come out of the GROUND and eat you! And then it will spit you out of its blowhole and eat you AGAIN!

Tot N: (calmly) I will shoot him with a gun.

Tot R: (scandalized) HEY! YOU CAN’T SHOOT GOD’S WHALE!

Tot N thinks it over, shrugs.

Tot N: Okay. (then, to TD) Sorry.

TD: ….?

Dude. I love three-year-old logic. I do! Honestly. I mean, think. With that kind of logic, we could bring about Real Change…

Oh. Sorry. My issues. Projecting. It happens.

So, anyway, check it out…

We’ve got our BEFORE (see the curls? the handsome, manly curls?):

We’ve got our DURING (see the bouffant? the slightly less manly bouffant? of Danny Zuko proportions?):

And we’ve got our AFTER (see the manly flat-ironed hair?! the way handsome, totally manly, flat-ironed hair?! on my BABY BOY?!):

Awesome. Watch out boy-crazy adolescent girls. Here comes my boy.

(Break his heart, and I WILL cut you.)