SCENE: Five minutes ago. My apartment. Out loud.
ANG: “Dude. Angela. Chocolate? is. not. a. food group. Stop eating it like it’s candy.”
CASEY: Withering stare. Slow blink.
ANG: “Okay. So it is candy. Shut up.”
CASEY: *Squeaks*
ANG: “They’re gonna come and take us away pretty soon at this rate, aren’t they?”
CASEY: Hops down from couch. Trots briskly out of living room dragging shoelace from mouth.
ANG: “Right. Just me, then. Traitor.”
Possible new goal-slash-gimmick for April: Every blog post title references either a song title or lyric. I seem to be trucking full-steam down that road without intending to do so — might as well make it official.
Anyway, no searing social commentary today… just a round-up of the things that have caused me to smile or (*gasp!*) break a giggle in the past 24. Enjoy!
left shoulder: "strength"
And most importantly:
What’s been YOUR secret weapon for today’s final Manic March Monday?
as promised: kitties!
I’ve spent the first quarter of 2010 feeling awesome and optimistic and loved and ready to take on the world. After a seriously dark 2009, the change of pace was practically tackled in welcome, and I’ve been making serious efforts to cultivate a healthier approach to life: Health. Finances. Relationships. Self awareness.
The ultimate goal is to be honest and fully present in my own life, rather than always and immediately choosing escapism. Sure, I still fuck up colossally from time to time (see: yesterday’s disastrous post-birthday weigh in — sheeeeeeeeit) but the good has by far outweighed the bad.
Until yesterday.
If you’ve read Thursday’s missive, you may be wondering from where the bloody hell I’m pulling all this talk of positivity, since there was certainly none of it flowing yesterday. And you’d be right. Without getting into the specifics behind the outburst (sorry; it’s not a topic for the interwebs at large), I will say that the situation pulled the drain plug right out of my big bathtub o’ happiness. *Yoink!* All that enthusiasm and self confidence went swirling right down the drain with a *glug* and left behind a bare tub of ugly. I’m mad. I’m hurt. I’m embarrassed. I’m feeling exceedingly vengeance-minded, and it’s taking me to a place I haven’t gone in quite some time.
I don’t like it, but oh god — does it feel safe & familiar. A combo that is my personal kryptonite.
So there are warring factions playing out in ol’ Ang’s brain right now. The maturity and self preservation being advocated by the angel on the left shoulder is in direct conflict with advice coming from the devil on my right. He would have me dive headlong into the rabbit hole of drama and confrontation, knowing that walking away without having the last word is one of my most difficult challenges. (He’s a plucky and convincing little bastard, that devil.) And yet. . . I don’t know exactly what becomes of the positive momentum if I choose that route. My best guess? Nothing good.
So for the moment, I’m trying to let the sunshine course through my veins as I put one foot at a time along the high road. Always with the damn baby steps.
Pray for a weekend without rain and stay tuned.
*Title obviously borrowed from Al Franken, whom I also referenced in today’s FGG post, though this message is directed elsewhere. (Technically, the FGG reference was to Stuart Smalley. But still.) That’s two today, Al — Thanks.
—–
Dear Sir:
It has come to our attention that you are a liar. Further, our records indicate that you may also be one or more of the following: a douchebag, a lowlife, an asshat, a weasel, a jackhole, a scum-sucking vermin, and a mother-effing bastard.
We cordially invite you to go fuck yourself at your earliest possible convenience. Once this has been accomplished, you may move on to the dual tasks of getting hit by a bus and rotting in hell. Should you somehow survive all of these endeavors, please do not make any further attempts to peddle your sorry BS in our offices. Guard dogs will be summoned, and livers will be eaten (by said dogs) with fava beans and a nice Chianti.
In short: you suck.
Best regards for a door-hitting-you-on-your-way-out moment of epic proportions,
Management
—–
Legal Disclaimer (particularly if this is your first read here at Cirque): On behalf of the Management, we ask that you excuse the vitriol. Please understand that Management is *not* routinely in such a snit, but an associate peed in the Cheerios today (big time) and the result was a curse-laden rage not seen around these parts since The Great AT&T Installation Odyssey of ’08. Please accept our humble apologies and try reading Tuesday’s post for some balance. Please do not send Management a straight jacket or any meds; we have the matter firmly in hand and promise to have something a little more sunshine-y (possibly including kittens) posted tomorrow.
Paying gigs are fantastic. I’m still on cloud nine that people are willing to pay me good money to write and edit… and that I’m not currently living in a cardboard box under the Foster Avenue/LSD overpass.
The only slight problem is that, between the association work I’m doing and the deadlines for FGG, my time for self-indulgent blogging has pretty much been zero. Which of course means this is when the anvil of inspiration has thunked me on the head and there are 7 or 8 posts I’m suddenly dying to write. Seriously, the writer’s block gods have a funky sense of humor.
I promise to have some hi-larious tidbits to share over the next week; in the meantime, though, try this on for size:
ANG: “I’m writing about spring cleaning your closet this week.”
KATIE: “Nice. Are you gonna take your own advice?”
ANG: “Touché. And probably not.”
Folks, some people were made to live out of neatly organized and color-coordinated closets that would make Martha Stewart proud. Others are destined to keep their clean clothes in the over-sized IKEA tote that serves as a laundry bag. It takes diff’rent strokes to move the world, yes it does.
Attention, Readers (all 10 of you):
Today, at the mere age of 33 (and thanks to one awesome interview with my new BFF & esthetician extraordinaire, Daniela @ Daniela’s Facial Studio), I accomplished a feat that most people never manage in a lifetime.
Curing cancer? Well, no.
Running a marathon? Please.
Getting one of those grabber-machines to actually pick up a stuffed toy? Okay, now you’re being ridiculous.
Who are you talking to? Hey, snippy! My blog, my rules.
Anyway, friends…This milestone was so out-of-the-blue I didn’t even know it was a goal until it had happened. Are you ready?
Today, as a writer, I was paid to use the word labia in context. And it wasn’t even porn!
God, I can’t wait to tell my parents. I can just hear my mom now: “Fuck that ‘be a lawyer‘ advice we’ve been handing you all these years — this is the real deal!”
They’re gonna be so proud…
Heh.
I should probably say up front that I haven’t seen Precious yet. It’s not that I don’t *want* to see it or that I think I won’t like it. And I can name at least two friends who’ve probably rolled their eyes more than once at my hesitation. (Hi, guys!) It’s just hard to prepare for that deep a dive into such a painful onscreen portrayal. I’ll get to it eventually, when my mood and mindset are just right to appreciate the film without being overwhelmed by the story.
In the meantime, my movie-going laziness hasn’t kept me from falling crazy in lurve with the delightful Gabourey Sidibe.
It’s hard to miss Gabby in the media these days — whether the discussion involves her out-of-nowhere catapult to stardom, the award nominations and wins she’s racked up for Precious, or (*sigh*) the subject of her weight, people can’t seem to stop talking about her. Ordinarily, the pop culture saturation might mean she and I were destined not to click. Anyone who knows me can vouch for the fact that I often get turned off to media darlings or current “It” movies/people/books/trends on account of the overexposure (or, occasionally, just out of sheer stubbornness). But I haven’t been able to summon any backlash against Gabby. She’s too vibrant, too inspiring and too damn fun to dismiss.
And when she jumped right into cursing on Craig Ferguson’s show during a February interview? I knew it was love.
Honestly, I dare you to listen an interview, a candid question on the red carpet, or even a sound byte of this woman ordering a latte and not want to immediately take the Fug Girls’ lead by adjourning to the wine and industry gossip.The fact that, in addition to being bright, witty, hilarious and down-to-earth, she’s also a full-figured woman who doesn’t give a shit if you think her arms should be covered up? Just icing on the cake.
So it was a pleasure to get a little gushy about the Gabster in my latest FGG column, which notes the multiple plus-sized actresses featured on Oscar night and asks about the state of normal-to-big girl representation in fashion and the media. [Props due to L-Bags (L-Wass?) for getting me noodling on the Christina Hendricks item a few weeks back.] It’s a lot of subject to tackle in just over 800 words (especially when you’re supposed to clock in closer to 400) but I’m really happy with the way it turned out.
And hm… I wonder if Gabourey needs a shopping buddy these days?
Things I have learned in the past 24 hours at Casa Parental:
And finally…
Hello, Library.
Sneaking this in under the wire…
"Barnaby men as Barnaby boys" by Katie, June 2008
My Dad turned 61 today.
This photo, in addition to perfectly, candidly capturing the essence of my father and brothers, is my favorite present-day representation of my father: vital, outdoors, genuinely laughing, proud as hell for his newly married youngest child (Oam, center).
Every time I see this picture, I’m reminded of my dad’s laugh — two parts refined British, one part Ernie from Sesame Street — and the way it causes his eyes to crinkle up so he looks like he’s sharing a secret with you. It brings to mind his impish sense of humor, evidenced by his love of old SNL, Blazing Saddles, Seinfeld, and the fact that in all my 33 years on this earth, he has never once sat through a kissing scene on television without making farting noises.
Seeing Anton mid-laugh reminds me of the way he saves random bits of TV he thinks you’ll find funny on the DVR for 3 months until you’re home next, and how ridiculously proud of himself he is when these bits elicit a giggle. You don’t have the words in that moment to tell him that, yes, you’re entertained by the humor of Craig Ferguson or Steve Martin or the antics of Chumlee on Pawn Stars, but more importantly, you’re amused and touched by his display of affection… Because you’ve come to understand that he loves with humor the way your mother loves with random worrying, and that television is his preferred method of connection with others.
When I was home at Christmas, he worked himself up into such a laughing fit that tears began to pour from his eyes and he had to remove his glasses while he wiped them away with a handkerchief and caught his breath. It took him several minutes to regain composure, and even then he was chuckling under his breath. If you held a gun to my head, I couldn’t tell you what we had seen or said that was so funny. It didn’t matter; What I remember is his glee.
This year, I’m lucky enough to get to see my parents the day after Anton’s birthday. Spending a (carless) week in my childhood home is never without its stresses, but knowing it will also be peppered with opportunities to glimpse my father as carefree as he is in the above photo makes it all worthwhile. I hope he finds need to break out the handkerchief once again.
Happy birthday, Dad.
