TGIM: “Son, you can’t murder Holly! That would be wrong.”

Who passed on the quirky drive-by randomness gene? Mystery solved.

I seriously [heart] my family.

Mack (suddenly popping into my bedroom): “Momma, which do you like better? Brown dragonflies or iridescent dragonflies?”

Pause. Then–

Cat: “Um, iridescent?”

Mack: “Ohmygawsh! Me, too! It’s like we’re the same person!” (dances out as quickly as she appeared)

Pause. Then–

Cat (to empty room):  “Wait… what just happened?”

No? Me neither. That’s so totally weird.

But if that were to happen, not that it did, because apparently that is not a “thing,” I’m just saying if it WERE in fact a thing, then this quote from In Plain Sight (thank you, Netflix!)– which, super good show, by the way, I am NOT even kidding, but it’s over now and why didn’t anyone tell me about it, because RUDE?– well, you could say it still has a mighty firm grip on me, a figurative vice-grip tightening on my poor short hairs which is not a pleasant feeling, I tell you what:

Mary Shannon: [voice-over] We all live in hiding. In one way or another, each of us conceals pieces of ourselves from the rest of the world. Some people hide because their lives depend on it, others because they don’t like being seen. And then there are the special cases, the ones who hide because… because… because they just want someone to care enough to look for them.

And while you may read this and wonder, What is she on about? Well, first of all, have you met me? And B, it’s the damnedest thing because I know I can’t ever go back to NOT understanding that I… well, I’m one of the special cases. And honestly? I don’t know what to do with that.

Seriously. What do I do with that?

Yep. Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit drinking Diet Dr. Pepper.

And with that lame (but, come on, still funny) play on the classic Airplane bit… Cat out.

Oh, and how groupthink and peer pressure can influence one’s decision making process, obviously. And the nature of leadership.

Also, just say no to drugs. Because the shirtless dancing guy? He crazy high, yo?

Hmm. Maybe you should just take a little look-see and determine for yourself:

Honestly, it is clear to me that the lone nut’s “leadership” is somewhat wasted in this case. I mean, he’s not tripping all over himself to acquire a following or anything, right? No, he’s just doing his thang! Reveling–nay, baking!– in the fresh air and sunlight! But he is lit, I mean, he lit the way– blazed a trail, if you will– for the first follower, the linchpin to creative leadership. Where others saw a lone nut, the first follower recognized the dancing dude’s potential and knew how to tap it.

Hey. It’s MY blog! Deal with my punning.

Yes, the lone nut only inadvertently sparked a movement; it was the first follower who fanned that spark into a flame– fanned it higher and higher!– created the buzz, and convinced others to act, to follow. Inspiring a movement. Which, to me, makes the first follower the actual innovator and TRUE leader.

FINE! Done with the puns now.

Heh. This video should be called “Leadership and the Tripping Point.” Heh heh.

Okay, NOW I’m done.

Also, why don’t I have a cool name like Zippy?! What were my parents thinking calling me Catherine?! People called me Cathy, y’all. Cathy! Which, of course, with my somewhat… loquacious personality, lent itself to the horrifying moniker “Chatty Cathy.” Oh, yes. That. Honestly, I could have been Zippy! Or Sassy! Or Firecracker! Or any other name ever! But NO.

Cathy. (Fail.)

Anyway, this happy event also totally reminds me of the infamous “pun snap” of ’09. You know, that time TD went to a friend’s Bar Mitzvah and 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?! And all my kids seriously considered the merits of converting to Judaism? And then came the punning?

So I’m super excited for Hannah to get home and thrill us with all the cool details about today’s coming of age celebration. Because with an awesome name like Zippy? This Bat Mitzvah is sure to be epic. Right?! Am I right?!

Just sayin’.

…Half a mo’, Alli has rushed into my room to pitch story ideas at me! Honestly! I am not even joking! How fortuitous! Or is this serendipity? No, no, I will stand by fortuitous! Mostly because I am too lazy to look it up but also because I am pretty sure I’m right. I’m almost always right. Ask TGIM. He’ll tell you.

Oh! Oh! Here’s my opportunity to do something i’ve always wanted to do– live blogging! Fantastic. And we’re off.

Ah, okay, so the first idea, oh yes, I see, it involves young children–twins, I believe–who have the ability to control fire and water. Huh. Solid idea. I say, “Oh, like the Wonder Twins!” and then I correct myself, “No, NOT like the Wonder Twins! They were water and animals. Duh?”

Alli doesn’t pick up on my pop culture reference. I find that incredibly sad and somewhat unsettling. What kind of crazy world are we living in now? A world of children who have never experienced the joys of Saturday morning cartoons, that what kind!

However, I just barely call out “Wonder Twin powers, ACTIVATE!” before she is peppering me with her back-up ideas. OH EM GEE, she has BACK-UP ideas!

I ask her to give me time to catch up with her and she agrees but she is bouncing on the bed next to me, her excitement too wiggly and giddy to hold in. I’m a little tired just looking at her, truth be told. And there’s this feeling building inside me. I’m not quite sure, but I think it may be… shame. Shame! Here I am, sulky and idealess, blogging mojo on the fritz and whatnot, and my daughter swooshes into my room, literally bouncing with ideas! Literally! With all these ideas! Just bouncing on my bed! (My daughter, not the ideas. In case you thought there were actually ideas bouncing on my bed. Which would be very Sesame Street and weird.)

Oh, dang, okay she’s moving on to the backup ideas now (yes, that’s shame all right…)

So if the twin story doesn’t pan out (“That’s crazy talk!” says I) she will write the story of two orphaned children who are raised by a pack of lions (“Pride,” I say, but she is lost in the moment so I drop it for now), and the other is about five teenagers who live in a world with monsters in it, and they’ve been trained to fight them.

Good LORD. I just suggested she call that last one Monster Ninjas… which I think very clearly makes my initial point for me– you know, of the total non-conduciveness going on ’round here? Because, oh! The shame!

Monster Ninjas.

*sigh*

That said, a decent muffinery (or even a honeybunnery!) would do in a pinch.

And while they mocked me for bringing my iPad–some of my kids haven’t SEEN all the episodes of Sherlock, okay?!– and for sleeping in the car instead of a tent– hello? due to potential back pain from the rocky ground and absolutely NOT because I’m afraid of being eaten by a bear even though on the way into the campground we spotted a few big ol’ black bears that would (I am told) rather eat berries than people–it was good times for all. Because they are a fun, somewhat snarky, super cool family, that’s why!

As we sat around the campsite towards the end of the campout, one of our friends suddenly asked, “So, are we going to be in your blog now?” Which was A) surprising and awkward (people besides my mother READ my blog?!), and secondly, hilarious. So, as not to disappoint, I’ve recorded a few snippets of conversation from the weekend.

(ASIDE: There was this hilarious conversation about a certain “artsy” photograph from Mr. Morwitz’s college years that is NOT currently hanging on their wall, but that is a story for another day… I shall call it “Tit Climber.” Or not.)

Driving in Cars with Fifth Graders

On the way to the Shenandoah National Park, we swapped kids. Mack travelled with the Morwitzes to hang with one of her BBFs and we got our friends’ fifth grade son (we’ll call him Little Man), whose delightfully elliptical conversations kept us entertained throughout the drive.

Little Man: Oh, I know that I’m weird.

Cat:  Nothing wrong with being weird, I always say!

Alli:  That’s true. She does say that.

TD:  A LOT.

Cat: Yep. I’m a big fan of weird!

Alli:  Says that, too.

TD:  A LOT.

Little Man: In first grade, I tried being normal. It didn’t work.

Cat:  Oh…

Little Man: So I decided that I would be abnormal.

Cat: Oh, okay. So… you decided to be yourself.

Alli: Yeah. You OWNED your weirdness! Right Momma?

Little Man: No, no, I decided to be abnormal because I didn’t like trying to be normal.

Cat: But if you ARE abnormal, then that would mean you simply decided to be yourself.

Little Man: Oh…

Cat:  You decided to be YOUR normal.

Little Man: I hadn’t thought of that…

Cat:  Because you’re weird.

Little Man: Yes.

Cat: I like you, Little Man. You’re fun to talk to.

Little Man: Thank you.

At the Campground

To set this up, I should mention that Mack’s friend has a somewhat quiet and serious nature, at least around grown-ups. I’m pretty sure it’s a front though. Oh, not in an insincere, Eddie Haskell kind of way, mind you, but more of a Michigan J. Frog (“Hello! ma baby! Hello! ma honey Hello! ma ragtime gaaal…”) Looney Tunes-type thing. I mean, the girl is a fencing champion, after all! (Olympic fencing, that is. Obviously. Just want to be clear.) So she has a wild streak in there somewhere, right? Right? I’m just saying. So anytime I see her smile or crack a joke or act as silly as my daughters and other eighth-grade girls often do, well, it’s just fun.

Now for the conversation. While we were camping, I noticed that when she wasn’t helping set up tents or playing frisbee or talking to Mack, she was immersed in a book. And while I know how irritating it is to be callously ripped out of a perfectly good book, I had to know what she was reading. Clearly. Because I’m annoying that way? So when I noticed her sitting quietly next to her mom, reading, I pounced. Cat-like and whatnot.

Cat: So… What’cha reading?

Mom M: Oh, you know, she’s just doing a little light reading. It’s The Count of Monte Cristo.

Heh. So, definitely NOT light reading, then. (Because I’m pretty sure that bad boy was the 1200 to 1400-page unabridged version.)

Now, I must confess that my English teacher recovery suffered a slight relapse (eight years teaching-free!) as I immediately thought, Here’s my chance! Because there are only so many ways you can make an author memorable for your students. Honestly. You don’t even know.

Cat:  Oh! Cool!

I had her attention.

Cat: (excitedly) The one by dumb-ass, right?!

She looked up at me. She cracked a smile.

Mack:  MOM…

Cat: (very seriously) Of course, I meant to say “Dumas.”

Her smile widened. I would even go so far as to say… she grinned.

Woo! Success! Cat’s lame, somewhat puerile humor FTW (for the win)! Take THAT, high school English teacher.

By the way, I did eventually acquire the new pair of Uggs I mentioned coveting. I’m not being random. Wait and see.

Okay, without further nonsense…

Dance in the Stillness

I have the house to myself.

It’s been so long since it’s been this quiet. This still. So here I am, curled up under my comforter savoring the view of the small patch of grayish blue sky I can see while staring through the slightly parted curtains of my bedroom window. There is something so freeing about lying in bed in the middle of the day with the curtains open, letting in the sun and the sky and the light, not blocking it all out, not shutting it all away, even if I might want to nap a little or perhaps just close my eyes for a bit—just a few moments!—because I know it will still be there when I open my eyes again. The sun and the sky and the light. There. Quiet and still. In the middle of the day that is MINE. I can’t explain it! I can’t! It is just so.

The thin branches in the tree outside are softly swaying and waving as the bitter winter breeze batters and bends them, tearing from them any remnants of clinging leaves, setting them free. But these leaves, remainders of the fall, they don’t dance with the wind. They are crinkled and paper thin and they break apart, disintegrate before my eyes, and swirl and twirl away, painting the air with warm earthy hues of russets and browns until they are out of sight.

But I push these thoughts away, because it is my day, my light and sky and peace, and I am snug, burrowing deeply into the soft down duvet. I’m soothed, running my hands across the top of the blanket, savoring the feel of the smooth expanse of well-worn cotton against my palms while I again allow my thoughts to drift upwards and out. Unfortunately, my thoughts never will stay elevated for any great length of time, and while I want to close my eyes, to enjoy the peace, I quickly lose myself in thoughts of the mundane. Chores. Responsibilities. My developing MarioKart skills. How I really ought to be filming a TechnoGeekery episode or doing something productive, dammit, rather than burrowing away from everyone and everything, staring out the window. Frustrated, I close my eyes, which is particularly effective in shutting out unwanted, intruding thoughts. Ah, stillness. Quiet. Peace. Gradually, however, my thoughts slip into imagining that new pair of Uggs I am absolutely coveting because they may be the fugliest footwear imaginable, but DAAAY-UM they keep my tootsies toasty and make mighty fine slippers and my old pair have absolutely no traction and I don’t want to bust my ass again slipping down the icy steps…

I just opened my eyes and the digital clock on my bedside table caught my eye. It is staring at me in silent condemnation, all “Look at the time you wasted! Just LOOK!” With a rueful grin, I move to throw back the covers, and then another leaf catches my attention. It swirls and twirls and disappears from my view. Then another blows by… and another.

And I realize that I am holding on too tight, I’m not letting go, when I should be breaking free to dance with the wind, to swirl and whirl and paint the sky, lush forest green with hints of olive, goldenrod, and palest yellow, and perhaps even a thin streak of burgundy running throughout, with really only one possible destination, but it is okay, more than fine, because it is my time to fly, my journey to enjoy, not half-assed, but wholeheartedly.

I smile and sink back into my cocoon of blankets, stretch lazily, and welcome the sound of stillness as it washes over me, through me.

Let it blow, I think to myself. I’m ready to dance.

Now, I realize that Martin Freeman is VERY busy Hobbiting it up in Middle-earth, adventuring with Thorin and the other dwarves, and Benedict Cumberbatch is being evil and whatnot as the Nectromancer, AKA soon-to-be-Sauron, and lending his awesome voice to the dragon Smaug, but seriously?! No new episodes of Sherlock until next YEAR?! And they don’t even start filming until SPRING 2013?!

Are they trying to KILL me? With THAT ending?! And the new episodes will show first in the U.K. anyway which means I– I mean we– will have to wait… well, a whole lot of time before we pick up where what in the WHAT happened and that is CRAZY talk and are you freaking KIDDING me BBC?!

*deep breath*

(Confession: When I’m sick I tend to be a little melodramatic. Deal with my drama.)

DORORO to SERGEANT KERORO (on the TV):  Hey! I’ve got passion!

CAT (without looking up from book): In my pants!  And I ain’t afraid to show it!

MACK: Oh, Mom.

CAT: (book down now) –show it, show it–

ALLI:  Momma, no!

CAT: I’m sexy and I know it! (up and dancing now) Girl look at that body! Uh! Girl look at that body! UH!

MACK: This is just embarrassing.

CAT: (shaking that bootay) Girl look at that body! UH!

GIRLS: MOM!

CAT: Ah… I work out!

Silence.

CAT (sits down again):  What?! It’s a song about exercise. GOSH.

More silence. Then–

MACK: No. Don’t do it, Mom.

ALLI: Seriously, Momma. Don’t–

CAT:  Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle yeah!

ALLI and MACK (no longer fighting it): Do the wiggle man! I do the wiggle man! Yeah!

CAT and GIRLS: I’m sexy and I know it!

Irrational impulse satisfactorily acted upon, I returned to my book and the girls went back to their show. Because that’s just how we roll at the DWM home.

Let’s be clear. This has happened before, this urge, but it’s totally NOT because I am off the Diet DP again, you know, due to it being super unhealthy–not even in a food group, people!–no, not at ALL, because hello? Grown woman, here? I’m mature and shizz. And anyway, water is BEST so I don’t even care at ALL if other people are drinking nasty caffeinated food-groupless beverages that are NOT water and are therefore NOT best. Whatever! DRINK the soda! TASTE the rainbow! I don’t even care! You know why? Because come lunch time… well, there’d be a whole lot of excitement up in hey-ah! Woo!

Fine. Whatever. I’m just a bad person. A bored, bad person with evil soda-shaking thoughts. But I didn’t succumb to temptation so I hope you admire my restraint.

Right, then. Moving on…

…I cannot recommend this show enough– BBC’s Sherlock.

BBC One describes it thus: “Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson’s adventures in 21st Century London. A thrilling, funny, fast-paced contemporary reimagining of the Arthur Conan Doyle classic.”

Yep, they’ve shed the Victorian trappings but preserved the dark humor and clever wordplay of Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes, and guys? It’s genius.

The casting is spot-on; I’ve never seen this Benedict Cumberbatch chap before, but I tell you what. He is absolutely mesmerizing as the enigmatic genius detective. And if you don’t just want to hug Dr. John Watson (Martin Freeman) after watching the show, well, I wash my hands of you.

Because really. It’s ace! Absolutely BRILL. Okay, not every episode is perfect, but the character moments, especially between Watson and Holmes, usually make up for it. And when everything is clicking… dude, it is ON. FIRE. Like nothing else on television! True story. Plus the production value is amaaahzing, so check it out. Or don’t. I don’t even care. It’s your life.

You’re welcome.

Perhaps it is the sunshine. “Why the sunshine?” you may ask me. “Sunshine is good! Sunshine brings the happy. Why you so crazy, girl?”

Well, you make a valid point. Sunshine does, in fact, bring the happy… when you can actually go outside and ENJOY it. Yet here I am hard at work inside– teleworking like crazy, I tell you!– while the sun is shining away outside, all, “Woo-hoo! Come out and PLAY!” And I’m like, “Um, I’m trying to WORK here, Sunshine! RUDE.”

And then I’m distracted and thoughts run through my mind unchecked as I daydream about the new pet bunnies we have right outside that I could TOTALLY be cuddling with, or panic about my writing, you know, like, Oh NO. What if I run fresh out of pithy thoughts?, or ponder why I am compelled to add “You know what I mean?” any time someone on the radio says “Police on the scene” because, seriously, what is up with that?

See? Unsettling.

That is exactly the moment when I get the naggy, achy feeling, and there’s a part of me that knows that even sunshine can’t dispel the awful gloom of imminent pithylessness.

Clearly, what I ought to do to drive away the unnamed restlessness is to close my laptop for a moment, breathe, look around. Take notes. Step outside and enjoy the view. Bask a little. Revel in the warmth and light. That would be awesometastic.

Right?

Right?!

Because if I am distracted, unsettled, never basking in the sun, always waiting for something more, or daydreaming about a way to get… oh, somewhere else, I can’t really focus on what is plain, what is right in front of me. This way leads to madness… and discombobulation. I see that now.

So, pay attention, me.

For reals.

Like right now. Here I am again, at the ol’ blog-a-rooski and I like it here, but people are starting to wonder why I’m here so much, like, what am I doing here, I haven’t been here forever and suddenly I’m always hanging around and it’s weird because I can’t really explain that I just need to be here. Just hanging around and whatnot.

It’s like when Ms. Calendar notices that Buffy and the Scooby Gang are always hanging out at the school library, and she’s all, “You again? Huh. You kids really dig the library…” and Xander smoothly replies, ”Reading makes our…speaking… English good!”

That’s how I feel right now. Because why am I always hanging around here?

Writing makes my speaking stories good.

Duh.

Because AWESOME?

Honestly. I think I may even– perhaps!– like Scarlett Johansson again. Hey. I’m as surprised as you are.

Yep. Validation. Tastes good.

Because the scene (SPOILER ALERT) between Nikita and Brandt where she lashes out, and while physically outmatched, leaves no doubt as to who holds the power in the room, refusing to be intimidated by a dude who, I freely admit, would have had me peeing my pants in terror within minutes, demonstrated a darkness in Nikita that we haven’t really seen before. (END SPOILER ALERT and SUPER LONG RUN-ON SENTENCE)

And the raw, gut-wrenching scene between an emotionally drained Nikita and Michael broke my heart for the character because, to be honest, I can relate to her struggle with self acceptance (though not for the same reasons, as I am NOT a highly-skilled assassin taking vengeance on evildoers) and the fear that no matter what she does to atone for the sins of her past she will always be unworthy of love and happiness.

And that’s just so sad.

Switching gears, I should mention (in the interest of full disclosure) that even though the season 2 finale has already aired, I’ve only just watched “Wrath” (season 2, episode 19) because I am weird and sometimes like to save up my shows–just save ‘em right up–especially the shows that tend to be a little cliff-hangery, you know, like The Vampire Diaries (OMG, Elena! What?!) and Revenge (still saving those up). And then? I don’t have to wait a WHOLE week (sometimes more!) between episodes. Nope. I just wait a month or so to avoid any gaps between shows, and then marathon-watch the lot of them! Problem solved!

I just have to steer clear of spoilers and my mother.

Wait, I meant to say steer clear of spoilers and conversations with my mother!

No, I didn’t mean that either.

Woman watches a lot of TV… at its regularly scheduled time. That’s all I’m saying.

I sometimes wonder if I might actually take just a teensy bit of sadistic pleasure in torturing myself this way, but mostly I just want to avoid obsessing about a show every week. Hey, it works for ME, okay?!

It is absolutely NOT weird. I’m just a little like the impatient cow. You know:

Knock, knock!

Who’s there?

Impatient cow.

Impatient c–

Moo! Moooooo!

And that’s all I have to say about that.

Anyway… Is it my birthday?! Wait. Maybe it’s my sister’s birthday because I tell you what, girlfriend used to LUUUURVE her some Curt Smith (and Tears for Fears)! Like, a whole LOT. I’m not even kidding. Which, come to think of it, is how I was introduced to The Hurting in the first place. I should really get that cassette tape back to her…

But I digress.

Honestly. One of my favorite, super obscure songs from the 80s AND James Roday?! (Shawn Spencer, Psych) That’s what I’m talking about! This song/video #FTW!

(Read the full story of this awesome collaboration at Janice Whaley’s blog.)

Honestly. I’m not going to be That Person. You know the one. The one who posts something– anything, really– at his or her blog simply to check it off some mental (or actual) To Do List or whatever. Because clearly that type of quantitatively-driven, wooly-minded thinking only robs me of the fullness of the blogging experience and stuff. Otherwise it’s like, “Sayonara, spontaneity!” and totes all “Hello, mediocrity!” So I’m absolutely not going to be That Person.

Nope. That would be silly.

…

(ch-check…)

But here’s the thing… I’m in a funk.

I know, right?! Now don’t misunderstand, there ARE thoughts being thunk. Yes indeedy. But there is definite funkage going on here. Funk-o-ramma. Feeling funky! Funk! (SNL? Richmeister? The Copy Guy? Anyone? Anyone? Dude, I’M OLD!) Not to mention the fact that there, unfortunately, do not seem to be enough hours in my day to plunk out said thoughts being thunk… it’s a funk…

Aaaaand now I seem to have gone all Dr. Seuss on your behinds. How incredibly lame of me.

Anyway, on one level, the rational one, I understand this happens to everyone, that everyone hits a funk, and it’s perfectly normal to experience a momentary lapse of confidence in my utter awesomeness. But on another level, I just feel sad sometimes. Weary. Depressed. So totally lacking in the awesomeness. Awesomeless.

Awesome light.

And because I’ve spent years–years!–compartmentalizing and burying the myriad thoughts I used to express so freely at my blog, now that I’m here again and it’s TIME, I’m just feeling a teensy bit giddy, disoriented, a little off-kilter, like, “Whoa, well, let’s stop this crazy whirligig of fun! I’m dizzy!”

Because it’s swirling and rolling–the fanatical TV snark, the parenting moments, the random introspection, the questionable political commentary, and, yes, even the occasional emotional honestly– and I am so totally out of practice and it’s all rushing, no, surging at me in this giant wave of WORDS and ideas and I know it’s just a matter of time before I blurt out something awesome. Just 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 embarrassing times.

And, wow. There just is not enough “ew!” in the world for THAT mental image (sorry). I see that now. But my point is this… this funk? No WAY can it withstand the awesome power of my imminent verbal explosion, which I don’t think I could stop even if I tried. Which I won’t be. Trying to stop, that is. Not likely.

So I’m breaking up my I’m SO Not Awesome At ALL pity party and giving myself a figurative “Get it together, fool!” slap across the face. It’s time to 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 I understand that while I may have doubts, 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. Verbal diarrhea and all.

And that? Is totally awesome.

So I promise here and now… when I shake off this funk and gather the thoughts I’ve thunk, the keys I will plunk!

(My apologies to Dr. Seuss.)

Oh, “housekeeper” works, too.

Because, I tell you what, there never seems to be enough time in the day to get stuff DONE… Do you know what I’m saying? Do you?!

Yeah, you’re feeling me. I can tell.

Because my day is SUPER busy. Every day it’s like, wake up, get the kids up and out the door in the morning, commute to and from work, knit stuff out of yarn, watch awesome television programming, exercise, nag the kids about cleaning, spend quality time with TGIM, nag TGIM about cleaning, play video games (with the children! obviously! mostly!), remind myself that I really should be cleaning, get dinner going, ignore my email inbox, check Facebook and other Web-related stuff… you know the drill.

Sometimes I like time to bathe, also. Because smelly is bad. I have that on good authority. (I wish a few of my fellow subway commuters would get THAT memo. No, seriously.)

So what usually suffers? Housecleaning, that’s what! Mostly because I hate it with the fiery passion of ten thousand suns, but also because of the aforementioned there’s-only-24-hours-in-a-day thing. But mostly I just hate it. So SO much.

So there it is. Irrefutable evidence. There’s no way around it, y’all.

I need a maid…

…or a sister-wife who enjoys housework.

Um, because my parents LOVE me, that’s why!

But I can see how one could make that mistake because sometimes I’m all focused and totally enga– look, Labradoodle! What? And, sure, people HAVE been known to give their kids just SUPER first names like “Apple” and “Kal-El” and “Pilot Inspektor” so you never can tell. Not that I’m judging you for naming your daughter “Memphis Eve,” Bono. Well, I am a little. But I love you so it’s all good.

Speaking of random, every so often a TV show comes along that I enjoy much more than I should. Case in point, I (not so) secretly love the CW’s Hart of Dixie. (Shut up! Summer Roberts is a DOCTOR, y’all! In Alabama! I know, right?!) I’m pretty sure it qualifies as a “guilty pleasure,” but I have to say its charm and general predictability are comforting. Then again, I am still much more emotionally attached to Veronica Mars than a grown, sensible woman should be. I have strong opinions about The Secret Circle being cancelled. I own all seven seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on DVD and still call shenanigans with the whole “Willow is gay!” retcon. (Whatever. I loved me some Oz…) I’m just saying that sometimes I get obsessed with shows… some of which are not terribly cerebral.

Plus, there is an entire Hart of Dixie Fug File at GoFugYourself.com! So there you go. Good times, y’all, because those Fug Girls are fuh-HUNNY.

So back to the show… I mean, I don’t even care that my willing suspension of disbelief is stretched almost to the breaking point every week (Summer Roberts is a DOCTOR, y’all! In Alabama!), with Dr. Zoe Hart running around Bluebell rocking the formal short-shorts and high heels, because Rachel Bilson is HI-larious as Doctor Zoe Hart, Cress Williams is perfect as Mayor Lavon Hayes, and Wilson Bethel absolutely brings it as Wade Kinsella. And by “it” I mean the OhSOPretty. (Google him. Go on. You’ll see. No, I can wait.) Oh, and there is a main character named Lemon Breeland who is engaged to Golden Boy George Tucker (AKA Jason Street, also AKA Scott Porter). Yes, Lemon! As in Lemonade! Or Lemon Drop! I just think that’s swell.

And did I mention that Summer Roberts is a DOCTOR? In Alabama?!

Yes, I know she isn’t really Summer Roberts, but I can imagine that Summer went off to NYC and became a surgeon if I WANT to, okay? Deal with my delusions.

In any event, one of my favorite thing about this show is its randomness. (See? I had a point! And there’s more where that came from, buster!) It’s a lot like Gilmore Girls, in that respect. And Gilmore Girls was awesome. Mostly. Except that whole mess with Christopher at the end. HATE.

Where was I? Right! Randomness! Focusing! I love the random moments on this show. For instance, there was a couples counseling session between Lemon and a reluctant George a few episodes back (“The Race and the Relationship”) that I must have rewatched eight times before I could stop laughing long enough to wipe away the tears (of hysterical laughter) and catch the whole thing. See, there were these ridiculous yellow Nerf-style sticks/bats involved… but you probably had to be there. All I’m saying is the random, montage-esque sequence worked. I think I would montage my own counseling moments, too, if that were a viable option– although I’m still debating the soundtrack…

And then there was the scene in the finale this week (“The Big Day”) when Zoe was trying to get a stubborn Wade into her car before a huge storm hit. I’ll just transcribe the random conversation in it’s entirety:

(Zoe drives up alongside Wade, who is stranded on the side of the road) “There’s a big storm on the way, so I’m here to give you a ride.”

“Go. Away.”

“Look, I promised Lavon, okay? So I am just going to sit here until you get in the car…”

(Wade pointedly ignores her, but she perseveres)

“…Staring at you. Sitting… and waiting…(now in a sing-song-slash-white-girl-rap voice, bopping her head to the beat) Staring… and waiting… I’m staring!… And waiting!… I’m–”

“All right! Fine! Okay? I’ll ride with you… Just STOP singing.”

Along with the “HA!” factor, the best part of this random moment for me is the truth in it. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been talking, when suddenly it occurs to me that whatever it is I’m saying would make a killer song, so of course I start singing what I’m saying and maybe even choreograph some moves to it until my kids are like, “MOM!” or TGIM is all “CAT!” or Paige is all… well, Paige usually starts singing along and slapping her butt to the beat and stuff, but you get the idea. We all have a little bit of randomness in us. Don’t fight it. Embrace it. Love it.

At the end of the day, I’m no dumber for having watched the show, and I usually come away with a smile, so bring it on Bilson and Co. I’m looking forward to season 2.

One last bit of Hart of Dixie randomness: Hart of Dixie – Call Me Doctor *NSFW (Not Safe For Work)

WARNING: This (TOTALLY NSFW) video made me laugh. So SO much. But Bilson doesn’t hold back with the profanity, just FYI. Don’t judge me… because seriously, how can anyone not laugh when she raps, “Get a pap smear with an oven mitt, bitch!” She’s so fierce! And teensy! It’s adorable… and a little off-putting. Dude. More cognitive dissonance! What?!

In other news, ofttimes I am random and inappropriate.

More than a month ago my sister-in-law– gathering responses from all my sisters-in-law for a Mother’s Day gift she was working on– asked me what I thought were the most important attributes a mother should have.

Besides an affinity for nagging and mastery of the wordless, steely gaze of guilt? I wondered.

But I dug down deep– DEEP, I tell you! Like, Challenger Deep deep!– and dredged up from a somewhat eclectic host of obscure memories my succinct thoughts (I know, right?! Brevity, son! What up!) on motherhood:

A mother needs patience (until her children realize mom IS NOT, in fact, clueless), a selfless nature (kids don’t understand “your ice cream” vs. “Momma’s ice cream”; dessert is dessert, so share!), steadfastness (for courageous parenting and discipline), and an unflinching ability to listen to Justin Bieber.

Most of all, a mother needs to have a sense of humor. Life is hard. Bad things WILL happen. A mother who can find the humor and laugh when life throws curve balls at her is a mother who may be battered and bruised… but never broken.

Bam, said the lady. There you go. I’m finished. C’est tout!

Yep. That is all I have to say about that.

I’m not going to lie. I’m a little freaked out right now.

Because it’s no secret that there was a time– a brief moment!–when I was somewhat fond of High School Musical. For the children, obviously. Some might say I leaned less towards “fond” and much, much more towards “obsessed,” but it’s okay because I totally nipped it in the BUD. Whatever. It was a sickness, y’all. Yes, a SICKNESS, so stop with the judging. (Judgers! Judgers!) But hello?… there was a Bop to the Top dancing tutorial! And they were all so CUTE! And the music was so CATCHY! Shut up! It’s true! It is! I don’t care!

And now I can’t even go see Nicholas Sparks’ latest movie featuring a misunderstood character with a dead lover, or amnesia, or an amnesiac lover that is dying, or whatever. I can’t do it. Not now. It’s just too upsetting.

Because this? Is so NOT the cute little Troy Bolton I remember. See?

(Bieber Hair Before It Was a Thing)

Nope. Not even a little bit.

Thanks for the cognitive dissonance, Nicholas Sparks! GOSH.

__________________________________________________

Breaking news:

Ohmygawsh! Warner Bros. thought it would be fun to create a flash app thingy that lets you put yourself in the poster for The Lucky One.

No, for real.

Honestly. Not helping, WB.

Because not only do I totally miss the interaction with my blogosphere friends (good times, those…), I NEED this space. I need this outlet!

I admit, I thought jumping into blogging again would be like riding a bike. No matter how many years pass, you just hop on and pedal like crazy, and ZOOOOM, off you go! A blur of blonde curls and pink pedal pushers, with sparkly iridescent ribbons streaming from the handlebars… You know, like that.

Turns out? Not so much.

I keep having these total blog-perfect moments, you know the ones, and they are screaming, “Blog me! Good LORD, what are you waiting for?!” and I’m like, “Okay! Maybe I will! Shut up now!” and they are all, “Fine, I will!” and I’m like, “Fine!” and then we kiss and make up because, honestly, it’s silly to fight with those moments because they are only trying to HELP.

But the moments pass and I can’t get them back because that’s what moments DO. They pass. They fade. I totally missed them, and since time travel is not yet possible, I’m going to take a stand and say this is not good.

So, like I said, I need Desperate Working Momma. Like, a LOT. So we need to put our differences behind us, my blog and I. Because while I don’t wish to be inscrutable, ofttimes I am exactly that.

For instance, when “things” are going on (you know the things, those sad or confusing or downright hurtful things?) and I am faced with two choices– to express myself in a direct manner or in a humorous, playful light– I inevitably choose to joke. It’s what I DO. I laugh, I joke, I play it off like it ain’t no thang, but it is TOO a thang–it is!–a whole big thang! Whether life brings me gifts of joy neatly wrapped with sparkly ribbons or bitch-slaps me and hands me bitter disappointment, I laugh and laugh and laugh. Then snort and laugh some more.

(ASIDE: I once said that my youngest has inherited this trait from me; she is the one who when she falls and hurts herself will more times than not jump up from the spill, all, “I’m all right! I’m okay! That kind of tickled, actually!” even though we all know it hurt her and there are tears welling up and she is just saying it didn’t hurt so everyone will leave her alone so she can escape and cry in peace. I think in a way we are trying to let the world know, “You can’t hurt me. Nothing can hurt me. I laugh at pain! Ha ha!”)

So I’m silly and whimsical and manic and almost always utterly tongue-in-cheek, and though I quite often express exactly what I am truly feeling, it is more often than not hidden away in evasive verbiage. Linguistic smoke and mirrors, if you will.

This can (and has) caused people to misunderstand what I am feeling, to doubt my sincerity, to think I am stronger or more resilient than I really am, and while it may sound counterintuitive, I’m starting to think that encouraging this impression may actually be worse then admitting I feel pain.

So (even though I know that poignancy and humor are not mutually exclusive) there are times I wish I could say what I really mean without resorting to silliness and feigned unconcern. To be starkly honest, to lay out my heart in words so clear you could actually feel it beating if only you listened closely enough, and then you would KNOW. You would feel me. Hear me.

Which brings me back to why I need Desperate Working Momma.

Because once upon a time it provided a genuine venue for me. Carefully woven into the haze of my sardonic humor, you could sometimes catch a true glimpse of my life–my family’s life–spilling out in my writing. If you were paying attention, of course, because truth? Is scary, y’all. Duh.

And honestly, I think there were times that my blog posts truly said something that was slow and thoughtful and sometimes even deeply affecting. Like Lost in Translation, without the icky Bill Murray May-December romance part. Because gross. And I need that honesty. I need people to see it. To know me. I think, maybe, I’m finally tired of hiding.

Okay, now I’m bringing it home.

Finally, there is this. The incredible, surprising thing I realized about blogging here is that capturing those moments and writing about them allowed me to enter imaginatively into my own life, as if it were someone else’s, and learn truth about myself, about my life, that I couldn’t– or wouldn’t– see before.

And my family and friends, looking in, sometimes experienced these rare “Ah-ha!” moments with me. And maybe–perhaps!–learned their own truth.

Which, neat, huh?