Sometimes I Can Be a Super Duper Buttinsky

(DISCLAIMER: This is in response to a situation that has nothing whatsoever to do with me; however, thoughts regarding this sitch will continue to nag at at me until I speak my mind. So there. Read it. Or don’t. Whatever. I do understand that my blog is a public forum and that this may cause negative or hard feelings to be directed my way. But whatever. I feel strongly about what is being said. That is all.)

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.

“Suck it! I gave him 15!”

Would I be a big ol’ blasphemer if I confessed that Commentary!: The Musical– the Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog commentary by the cast and creators– is even better than the actual show? Would it?! Because I don’t know! I’m just asking, is all! For future reference!

Because DUDE. Nathan Fillion is HI-larious (AND better than Neil) which is an inside joke if you are cool and have already memorized the lyrics of Commentary!: The Musical which is brilliant and funny and interesting and ultimately educational. Because of that bit about some writers’ strike that supposedly went on last year? I mean, who knew?! Also, when the writers asked Joss Whedon where he got the idea for the musical and he responded all gloom-and-doomy, “It came from PAIN…” and they were like, “Let’s not talk to Joss! He’s sad and confusing!” I just laughed and laughed! I had a coughing fit! From the laughter! Exacerbated by the tonsillitis and laryngitis, sure… but mostly I coughed from the laughter. It was gross. There was phlegm involved. It was a whole mucousy thing. I called my doctor.

Also most amusing for those in the online-video-world know, was Felicia Day’s fanatical promotion of her series The Guild, the web series juggernaut with “dozens of loyal fans! baker’s dozens!…they come in thirteens,” (as Felicia sang in one of her songs), which I have spoken about before because I am IN the know. And then Felicia Day COMMENTED on my SITE so we are obviously almost BFFs now and I will probably have a lead role in Season 3… DANGIT! Lost my train of thought. It’s NOT about me, it’s about Commentary: The Musical! GOSH! So… Felicia Day… The Guild… ah, yes, the running joke of her shilling for The Guild on “someone else’s dime” that she manages to work into the lyrics of one of her songs. And just as everyone is telling her, “No one CARES, Fel-iii-ciiiaaa!” she quickly adds “CatchGuildFever!” before being cut off.

Oh. I could go on and on. I’d probably embarrass myself or something though, so I’ll just rein it in. Call it good. Be done with it. So… it is good, y’all. So, so good. Totally worth your money. Buy it today. Or not. I really don’t care. I don’t even get a $10 solo out of this post, so whatever. Do what you want. (Commentary!: The Musical. Tell your friends.)

And now I must rest. My head feels bobble-heady and my throat is achey. From the laughing. And from the tonsillitis and laryngitis, but mostly from the laughing.

That is all.

Break it down and behold!

Commentary!: The Musical

1. Commentary!
2. Strike!
3. Ten Dollar Solo — this one contains my new favorite lyric, “Suck it! I gave him 15!” from whence came my title.
4. I’m Better Than Neil
5. I Mean Art
6. I Don’t Do Songs
7. Nobody Wants to Be Moist
8. Ninja Ropes
9. It’s All About Me
10. Nobody’s Asian
11. Pick, Pick, Pick
12. Neil’s Turn
13. Commentary! Reprise
14. Steve’s Song

Too Much Time on My Hands

When you’re stuck in bed– a hoarse, sniffly shell of what used to be a loud, exuberant human being– you find the time to do things that don’t really need to be done. Nevertheless, you do them. Because you CAN.

Thus… BEHOLD. My new DWM header.

Fancy, eh?

Quiet Introspection

Doctor’s diagnosis: Tonsillitis and laryngitis.

Doctor’s prescription: Bed rest, no talking, hot teas and salt water gargles, no talking, and lots of lovely meds. And no talking.

See! Told you I was sick! Told you! TOLD YOU! HA HA HA!… HA! Woooo! FACE!

Also? Turns out, I have no absolutely no idea how to communicate without the ability to yell and interrupt.

I’m not much liking this time of quiet repose.

Still sick.

Just thought I’d share.

The Lambson Family Newsletter- Holiday Edition 2008

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

Happy freaking HOLIDAYS!

DWM Rewind: A Snaking Tutorial and Other Horrifying Stuff

Okay, I just found the best, most embarrassing video EVER! It involves a “Snaking Dance Tutorial” (not to be confused with the The Axl Rose, as seen on Sweet Child Of Mine and other Guns & Roses late-eighties videos) recorded in a moment of insanity, which I now believe was brought on by sleep deprivation coupled with extraordinary amounts of caffeine in my system, and… well, no shame whatsoever. I cannot stress ENOUGH that I was triple-dog-dared by Charlotte in PA (FYI: I think this may be a private blog now…), so it is ALL HER FAULT.

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.

Performance Anxiety

I’m off my game.

It’s not my fault! I have the iPhone Game-Playing skillz! MAD skillz, I tell you! It’s just… well, the only time I really have to play games like Solitaire or Bejeweled or Critter Crunch or Wurdle on my iPhone is while commuting to and from work on the Metro. It sounds ideal, right? I mean, woo! That’s twenty-five minutes of solid gaming goodness right there! Each way! Depending on whether or not I snag a seat, which of course I always DO because I’m so small and absolutely wily in my seat-snagging ways!

But no.

Because when the train starts to get crowded (which it always does) and people smoosh up next to me (which they always do), all up in my bidness, I can’t concentrate. It’s not the noise or even the smells– although you wouldn’t BELIEVE how many people INHALE the garlic during cold season, apparently– it’s that I can feel their eyes on me. Watching me play. Judging me.

Oh, not judging me FOR playing. No. That wouldn’t bother me. I mean, I judge commuters all the time! With their primping and their loud cellphone talking and their selfish seat-hogging way of feigning sleep when the elderly or blind board the train. Whatever. What I meant to say is they judge my PLAYING.

Are you there yet?

And honestly, how am I supposed to concentrate on beating my high scores on Wurdle or Solitaire when I can feel the guy next to me armchair-quarterbacking my game?!

“Wow, I can’t believe she threw away that card… No, you CAN’T cover your Jack of Spades with a black ten, duh!… Where’d this joker learn to play?!… Heh, I said ‘joker’… Good GOD, woman! Play your five! Play the FIVE!”

So I spend the majority of my time shifting around to position myself and my game away from any prying eyes, all the while worrying some fed-up gamer is going to rip my phone right out of my hands and scream, “No, FOOL! THIS is how you play Critter Crunch! Now pay attention! ARE YOU WATCHING OR WHAT?!” and everyone else will applaud and pump their fists and say things like, “Right on!” and “You go!” and “Show her how to get ‘er done!” Because that could totally happen! You don’t know! It could! Or maybe I’m projecting… No, no, it could happen.

So… like I said, I’m off my game.

*sigh*

Suggestions?

Twitterpated, but not in the GOOD way.

Lately, Twitter Tweets have been giving me that desperate feeling usually reserved for those times when I walk into a room mid-conversation and I’m forced to go into Obnoxious Question-Asker mode, all, “Wait. What are we talking about?” and “WHO stepped on WHAT?! Gum? Your last nerve?  Huh?!” and “Congratulations for what?! Thank you for WHAT?!”, or when I’m late for a movie and I’m like, “Who’s that guy?” and “Wait. Why is that chick dressed like a hooker?” and “But how do you KNOW she’s a hooker? Did someone say?” and everyone is all, “SHUT UP!” and I’m like, “But I just want to know what the HELL is going ON HERE!”

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.

“Well, now that you mention it…”

Tanner says, “You know? In this picture? Uncle Jon looks kind of like Jesus.”

Dreamy Eyes and Broken Hearts on 34th Street

While watching The Miracle on 34th Street– not the TOTALLY awesome 1947 version starring Natalie Wood and Maureen O’Hara, but the disappointing 1994 remake with Richard Attenborough, who, BTW, I cannot watch without remembering his turn as Jacob in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat and shouting– er, singing, “Jacob! Jacob and sons!” because AWESOME MUSICAL?!– the ever romantical Allison rushed to the defense of Bryan Bedford, played prettily by Dylan McDermott, after he proposed to Dorey Walker and she freaking SHOT HIM DOWN in the street like Atticus did to rabid old Tim Johnson, except not with a gun or bullets, but figuratively, or the show would have ended WAY differently, you know what I’m saying?

In response to Dorey’s unbelievably harsh “Have I ever done anything to give you the impression I wanted to marry you?” speech– which, Dorey, have you met Dylan McDermott?! Good LORD, woman! Are you INSANE?! He has, like, the DREAMIEST EYES ever! And the HAIR?! Hello?!– Allison turned to me, her misty eyes glittering behind her glasses.

“What?!” she cried. “She DID give him the impression she wanted to marry him! She DID! I mean, she kissed him”– she paused for emphasis– “ON! THE! LIPS! Like, mmmwah, mwahmm!”– here she made out with her hand a bit, which was a little disconcerting, let me tell you– “and she held his HAND, and… and… she went on a DATE with him!” She threw her arms in the air, obviously disgusted with Dorey’s loose moral standards. “Right, Momma? Right?!” she asked– rhetorically, I hope, because I was too busy trying not to giggle to answer– then she folded her arms across her chest with a little “hmmph!” and turned back to the movie.

Granted, the Dorey character does lose a little in translation, making this scene even harder to take, because, again, woman, do you not see the DREAMY EYES?! Come on! Plus, a single mom– not a widow, but a *gasp* divorcee!– trying to make it in the 1940’s business world was playing in an entirely different ballgame than today’s single working mom. Where Maureen O’Hara’s Doris was sympathetic as a realist trying to raise her daughter to accept the hard facts of life that would have been relevant to a single working mom at that time, modern Dorey’s mopeyness and glacial heart made me think, “Dude, a little Lexapro would be a Miracle on 34th Street for THAT lady, I tell you what.”

So, for a second I wasn’t sure if I should explain to my nine-year-old daughter that, in all honesty, smooching and hand-holding and dating aren’t quite the binding evidence of True Love she apparently thinks them to be, so TECHNICALLY the spurned luvah’s proposal was both arrogant and presumptuous (but, dreamy eyes?!), or if I should just let it go.

“I know, right?” I agreed, folding my arms across my chest in solidarity and cross disapproval. “Shocking.”

Snap!

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.

NaNoWriMo Brainstorms and Stuff

Prologue

When shattering glass hits tile it makes a beautiful tinkling melody, light and ethereal, like distant wind chimes or water washing over pebbles in one of those meditation fountains you can buy at the Just Like On TV store in the mall. I could hear it so clearly, the melody, more real to me than the faraway sounds of car alarms, shouts, and sirens. From where I lay, sprawled on the ground, my head lolling to the side, I could see the glass skittering across the floor in slow motion, catching the rays of sunlight that shone in through the jagged hole partially filled with—what? an SUV?—where a solid glass door had been just moments before. The effect of the light on glass was dazzling. A haphazard prism.

I heard someone calling my name, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the glass. Rainbows of color all around me. So pretty.

“Juliet? Juliet?”

It was a dream. All a dream. Shattered glass, faraway voices, something dark and red slowly seeping out and away… Oh, no. No, no, no.

I remembered.

The reunion newspaper article. An afternoon spent poring through old yearbooks in the school library. The deafening squeal of rubber on asphalt just as I rounded the corner of the deserted school hallway. Flying metal and exploding glass knocking me off my feet. Papers I had spent hours gathering flying every which way. A sudden violent pain searing through my chest. A tidal wave of agony washing over me, before dissipating into a dull, faraway ache wholly unconnected to me. Not me. Not real. Only a dream. I could not be lying in a pool of shattered glass and blood. Blood. My blood?

“I want to wake up now.” Did I say it? Did I think it? I was awake in a dream. That was it. I closed my eyes, shut out the glass, the tile, the rainbow colors, the stuff that wasn’t–couldn’t be!– blood. Wake up, wake up, wake up…

“Juliet? Stay with me. Please, Juliet, stay…”

Someone knelt next to me and swore softly. I felt a hand brush gently against my cheek, wiping away splinters of glass. It stung. Like needles. Like bee stings. The person gasped. I moaned. Suddenly my button-up shirt was ripped open. Mind muddled, I tried to remember if I had picked out a cute bra that morning. But it didn’t matter. Not really. Medical professional. Plus, dreaming. I felt a tug, followed by a fieriness that radiated across my abdomen. Warm hands felt their way across my stomach, coming to rest in exactly the spot that, when pressure was applied, caused shooting pains of white-hot heat to explode in my head, illuminating the insides of my eyelids to a blinding pinkish-white.

I was definitely awake.

I gasped and struggled to move, but quickly realized that the movement only made things worse. Much worse.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the voice whispered. “Pulled out the glass… have to apply pressure, I’m sorry…”

I blinked, groggy, foggy, and could just make out a person, a male person. He had his hands on my belly, and was leaning in to look at my face. He was close, I could feel him, but it was as if I was looking at him from the end of a long, dark tunnel, with the sun illuminating him from behind, obscuring his face in shadows. He smelled faintly of the ocean, and where his hands pressed, I burned.

“It’s not time yet,” the voice whispered, his lips so close to my ear they grazed against it softly. “You have to hang on. Stay here… stay…”

Where am I going to go? I thought to say, but keeping my eyes open was struggle enough. He continued murmuring words of encouragement, but his voice grew softer and was finally drowned out by a wave of darkness roaring towards me. I gazed up at the shadowed face once more, caught a glimpse of dark eyes, wide and panicked, eyebrows raised almost into his hairline, and for a split second I could see myself reflected in his eyes, strands of my dark hair plastered to my bloodied cheeks as I lay pale and still beside him, my body peppered with slivery shards of glass. I wanted to say something like “who are you?” or how I wasn’t ready to die yet, thank you very much, but all that came was a gentle sigh as I let the dark wave wash over me and carry me away.

Two weeks ago I died. So here’s my question: Why did I have to die to finally feel alive?

Sending Out a Little TechnoGeeky Love

Let me tell you a little secret. It’s a good one.

As I mentioned months back, through my super cool Podcast O’ TechnoGeekery’s affiliation with the Mommycast and Friends Family Channel, I received the support of a corporate sponsor, Johnson and Johnson’s Aveeno Baby line. I know right?! A corporate sponsorship! For a video podcast that I film right in my very own bedroom right in front of my very own computer! Except when I go on field trips and film in other people’s homes! Sometimes without their prior knowledge! But whatever!

Of course, this was no small deal. A huge corporate sponsor like Johnson and Johnson?! Yeah, a little beyond my meager (read: nonexistent) PR skills. The only way the Johnson and Johnson deal came together at ALL for the Mommycast and Friends Family Channel was through the skilled maneuvering of a gentleman by the name of Paul Vogelzang, who, BTW, is the executive producer of that podcast juggernaut, Mommycast.com, which holds the distinction of being one of the first independent podcasts to land a major corporate sponsorship, a la Dixie Paper Co.

LUCKY!

Well, luck actually did not have much to do with it. Because Paul V.? Dude. Paul is a dynamo! Truly. Paul is one of those uber-motivated individuals who simply makes things happen. This ability, coupled with his passion, enthusiasm, professionalism, and business savvy, totally closed the deal with Johnson and Johnson, I kid you not. The man is a leader– a guru, if you will– in the new media industry. I must give the man his props: Mommycast and the network are what some would call “an ideal model for anyone looking to succeed in this space” of “successful podcast production and advertising in podcasts.” Wait, someone DID say that… Jason Van Orden, Internet Marketing and Media Consultant with Van Orden Marketing and Media, LLC, and author of Promoting Your Podcast. My bad. But I totally agree, so there you go.

Paul totally gets new media, and is out there helping the old dogs learn the new tricks in the always changing media landscape. For REAL. He’s, like, a new media evangelist, out preaching the word! Which is New Media! Okay, that is technically TWO words, but you know what I mean. I can’t imagine anyone else I would rather have out there managing TechnoGeekery’s reputation in the online community.

So I would be a total jerk not to give shout-out and a BIG OL’ thank you to Paul Vogelzang, Mommycast, and the MommyCast production company, KDCP Productions, LLC, for the awesome opportunity I had to represent the Mommycast and Friends Family Channel and Johnson and Johnson’s Aveeno Baby line. Right?! I’m only saying. So… thanks Paul, Mommycast, and Johnson and Johnson. My kids and their college savings accounts totally love you. A LOT.

Cat, out.

Election Day… What a Ride!

Dude. People are reporting standing in line with– and I quote– “easily 75 people!”? Ha! I thumb my nose at 75 people! I laugh in the face of your 75 people! Honestly. There are “easily 75 people” peppering the crowd around me and TGIM with sample ballots. No, REALLY. This line is LONG. Like, SUPER long. DISNEYLAND long! Raiders of the Lost Ark: The Ride long! But the rolling boulder part is awesome, so what are ya gonna do?

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!

Halloween Candy Corniness

Why do people go so crazy with the Halloweeniness? Which is a word I just made up but am now rethinking?

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.

Hair Trek

This morning, as I waited patiently (I know, right?! Hush up… anyone who knows me. I DID!) PATIENTLY, I say, at the super secure Federal building at which I was to pick up my brand-spankin’ new (seriously, why “spankin’”? Who’s idea was that?!) super secure Federal ID, I couldn’t help but notice (okay, STARE, but you would have, too! It was mesmerizing, okay?! Don’t judge!) the ‘do on the older gentleman ahead of me.

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!

Awesome Light

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

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

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

And then it all falls apart.

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

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

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

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

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

And that? Is totally awesome.

Well, Tweet it to hell!

Twitter is sucking my will to blog.

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

I’m only saying.

A TechnoGeekery Lightning Round!

Unbefreakinglievable. I FINALLY posted a new TechnoGeekery episode! Right?! RIGHT?!

BOOM says the lady!

TechnoGeekery Show #40: TechnoGeekery Lightning Round

You can also CLICK HERE to watch at Chassy Cat’s YouTube.

In this episode, Chassy Cat makes up for lost time by answering several Burning Questions all within this one episode! Oh, and then there’s the “singing.”

Why yes, as a matter of fact I am using my sarcastic quotes. Whatever.

Also, my apologies to Instant Star. YOU know why.

NaNoWriMo is ON!

But what geniuses planned a novel writing month RIGHT during prime tv-watching season?! Huh?! It’s almost as if they don’t WANT us watching television in our free time… Honestly. There’s only so many hours in a DAY, people! Good LORD.

See, it’s all about priorities…

The Day Has Come! Oh EVIL Day!

It’s here! It’s time! It’s arrived! The Day! The Evil Day! YEEEEEES!

*ahem* I’m totally cool and collected and not out-of-control-excited AT ALL.

So… yes. The Evil League of Evil is finally accepting applications. Right? DUDE. I’m only saying!

Naturally I have had my application at the ready for MONTHS, so my “Horrible Evil Sidekick” video is up and Super Evil Chassy is ready to kick boo-TAY and take names and… other horrible, water-related evil stuff!

Thanks to Charlotte and Sue and my friend Jen for the heads-up. Apparently, my Dr. Horrible Newsletter announcing the opening with the ELE got lost in the email or something! Yo! What up, Dr. H?!

The following is my official application to the Evil League of Evil. I think it’s pretty solid this year.

Dear Evil League of Evil:

Here’s my application! I ain’t no stinkin’ henchman!

FYI: I can help with any kind of water-related evil. You know, with the evil goggles of watery evilness and whatnot? Water boarding, Chinese water torture, synchronized swimming… the works.

Hmmm… Was that too braggy?

In any event:

That’s it. Fingers crossed.

XOXO Gossip Girl Rawks!

Lily getting what she deserves for being so ridiculous as to pick Bart-the-father-of-I’m-Chuck-(the evil spawn)-Bass over cute ol’ Rufus? Awesome.

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.

No Assembly Required

There’s nothing like heading off to work when one’s head feels ten times too large for one’s body, all heavy and congested and whatnot, and that is not to even mention the sneezing and the hacking cough an the achiness radiating thoughout one’s body. And by “one’s” I mean “MINE.”

Yup. I’m like a limited edition Sick Bobblehead Chassy Cat.

On clearance.

Why, Nutzilla, What Big Acorns You Have…

FADE IN:

EXT. SUBURBAN NEIGHBORHOOD - AFTERNOON - ESTABLISHING

Late summer leaves litter the sidewalk in a quiet, kempt suburban neighborhood.

EXT. SIDEWALK - AFTERNOON

It’s the time of day when the air cools enough for a comfortable afternoon walk. Cars passing by can be heard in the background as MOMMA walks with her DAUGHTERS, MACK, 10, a thoughtful, artistic girl with an eye out for acorns and large sticks, and ALLI, 9, an energetic girl sporting pigtails, Heelies, and some serious attitude. The conversation is already in progress, and MOMMA appears to be listening to ALLI’s chatter, but just barely.

Momma and Mack walk out in front, while Alli rolls around behind on her Heelies.

ALLI
… and then this whole group of squirrels totally ganged up on me and threw acorns at me!

MOMMA
Hmmm. Interesting.

MACK
Well, maybe you shouldn’t throw berries at them first, then.

MOMMA
(paying attention now)
You threw berries at squirrels?

ALLI
They started it!

MOTHER
O-kay.

MACK
Whatever. Squirrels just started throwing acorns at you. Right.

ALLI
Yes. They do that.

Momma and Mack walk on as Alli continues to chatter.

ALLI
… and, hey, Momma, what if there were giant squirrels throwing acorns at us, huh, Momma? That would be so crazy, right, Momma?

MOMMA
(totally paying attention… except not)
Mm-hmm. Crazy.

A MAN walks up the sidewalk from his parked car. Momma and Mack move aside to allow him to pass.

ALLI
(lost in her imagination)
… yeah, so there’d be this giant squirrel, Momma? And he’d be named Nutzilla and he’d have nuts as big as soccer balls!

Momma blinks. One feels that she is acutely aware of the Man’s wide-eyed, what-kind-of-mother-ARE-you glance as he passes by; she bites her lip and looks resolutely forward. Then,

MACK
Oh dear…

That’s it. Momma’s stifled laughter erupts into full-on belly laughter as Mack begins to giggle. After a moment, Alli joins in.

MOMMA
(holding her stomach)
Oh! Oh! It hurts! My stomach! To laugh!

MACK
Nutzilla! Nutzilla!

MOMMA
With nuts! As big as SOCCER BALLS! His face! Did you see his face?!

The three pause on the sidewalk as Momma and Mack double over with shrieks of laughter. Alli laughs too, but less enthusiastically. Then Alli taps Momma on the arm.

ALLI
(still giggling)
Why are we laughing?
(looking from Momma to Mack)
Huh? Why are we laughing?

MACK
Oh DEAR! Nuts!

MOMMA
(wiping aways tears)
AS BIG AS SOCCER BALLS!

The two burst into fresh whoops of laughter as Alli looks on.

ALLI
(with arms akimbo)
Well, I still don’t get it.

Alli’s confused eyes are focused on Momma and Mack, who are wiping tears of laughter from their eyes.

ALLI
(to herself)
I don’t get it.

And… SCENE.

I know, right?

WORST. MOMMA. EVER.

And BWAH HA!