Because I'm Lazy And I Like Alliteration ...

 ... I declare today Flashback Friday. (And, of course, because I can.)


If you're new to Halfglassistan, you may not have been properly introduced yet to my alter ego Cat Con. Following is a shameless rerun on my part an accounting of one of her appearances this past summer.


And now, for your adoration entertainment, may I present the obnoxiously awesome delightful legend in my own mind.


Enjoy your weekend, my loyal subjects minions devoted followers friends,
HRH Princess Snarkerella

A Legend In My Own Mind


Cat Con showed up one day last week to multi-task for me. She does the laundry here at TWHQ. Frankly, she is as slack about it as I am, but I hate doing it that much. Enough to make my imaginary best friend do it.

Mr. J was the chief domestic engineer before going and getting cancer and needing to move to the first floor. The laundry room is on the second floor. Coincidence? I think not. Great! Way to ensure that laundry never rarely sometimes only in cases of no underwear and clean towels gets done.

So, of course, Cat Con was singing. The Beatles popped up in a three-song set on my player. Which had the randomizer set. Random? I think not. I think it was a sign from the rock star gods that Cat Con was to kick it.

So she did. Warmed up with "Let It Be." Got slow and soulful with "Yesterday." And belted out "Hey Jude," right down to all the "judee-judee-judee-judee-judee"s and even had the crowd waving their arms back and forth to all the "na-na-na-nananana-nananana-he-eey-jude"s.

Wait. What? Ye-e-e-e-s, there was a crowd. On the second floor of TWHQ. In the laundry room. (Was there a crowd? What the hell kind of a rock star do you think Cat Con is?)

Worn out from that jamming set, the randomizer went off spinning in search of something equally awesome. In the absence of music, Tilly had taken the opportunity to run an obstacle course over, around, and through the piles of laundry, running to the bed and taking flying leaps in between each pile run. (The crowd loved it. Really.)

With Beatles on the brain, a riff from "Baby, You Can Drive My Car" popped into Cat Con's head because it fit Tilly's pace perfectly: "be-beep, be-beep, YEAH!"

So we've got a Tilly running, jumping, leaping at a manic pace. Cat Con is at her loudest pitch with all the "be-beep, be-beep, YEAH!"s. Tilly begins to harmonize with a few barks, and just as she's ready to vault into the sea of fans for some crowd-surfing — (YES, THERE'S A CROWD. sheesh) — I hear Jamie call out from downstairs.

JAMIE: "Are you OK?"

ME: Silence

THE CROWD: Silence

CAT CON: Silence

TILLY: Panting

JAMIE: "CATHLEEN?"

ME: "What?"

JAMIE: "Are you OKAY?!? What's going on up there?"

ME: "Yeah ..."

THE CROWD: Silence

TILLY: Panting

CAT CON: "I'm singing!"

JAMIE: "What?"

ME: "Umm..."

CAT CON: "I! AM! SINGING!"

JAMIE: "Are you sure?"

Wordless Attempt-to-Overcome-My-Fear Wednesday

When I Was Seventeen ...

Me, circa 1985-86 — a lifetime ago.

... it was a very strange year. 


And — one I've been revisiting this past week. I do it every year at this time, but 2010 marks 25 years of time's passage.


It is amazing to me how parts (both good and bad) of that 17-year-old girl still are inside me. 


And I like it that way. She keeps me honest. And she keeps me strong. Stronger than she ever knew was possible.


I'm glad she grew up, and I wish she could meet who she grew up to be. She'd ask where her two children are (twins, boy and a girl), is her S-class Benz being detailed, why is she not working for the Trib — and, wait! what the hell happened to the Trib?! What the hell happened to all the newspapers?!


Over a cup of coffee — two sugars, cream (still) — I'd tell her all about the last quarter-century. To which, she'd probably say, "Damn, we're old."


To which I'd shake my head, smile, and say: "Nope. Not at all. We're here. We're still here."

Blockhead

Well, hello there. How'd you slip behind the curtain?


You are getting a rare glimpse at the command center that powers Halfglassistan. The only thing missing are my fingers dancing in the key of A. 


And S, D, F, J, K, L and semi. (I did learn something in typing class. Thank you, Mrs. Thompson).


What I haven't learned? Is how to force those fingers to perform on command. Oh, I can make them tap out a message, sure. Like this one you're reading. It speaks. 


But it doesn't sing.


Verses, notes, stanzas and refrains. Churning, swirling, whirling in my brain.


Meh. I got nothin'. 


When all those ideas decide to organize, I'll let you know.


Assuming, of course, they let me know.

Abstract Threats Too Noble To Neglect

"... Yes, my guard stood hard when abstract threats
Too noble to neglect
Deceived me into thinking
I had something to protect
Good and bad, I define these terms
Quite clear, no doubt, somehow.
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I'm younger than that now."


"MY BACK PAGES" LYRICS ©1964 BOB DYLAN

Wordless "Hm. Um. No. No, I don't think like this at all." Wednesday

Of Auras and Absolutes

"I can't go back to yesterday — because I was a different person then." 
— Lewis Carroll 1832-1898

Daylights, Sunsets, Midnights and Cups of Coffee

Apparently, there are 525,600 minutes in a year.


This information is in no way attributed to my questionable poor non-existent math skills. Rather, my love of musical theater brought this little gem of chronology into my knowledge base. (Thank you, Jonathan Larson)


Five thousand. Twenty-five hundred. Six hundred. The number seems even larger when written out. Then you add the word minutes, and it seems to shrink again. Minutes seem to give that number the power to fly — fly by, as if when one, two and three of those 525,600 units were just yesterday. Yet they also seem a lifetime ago.


One year ago today, Mr. J was with Dr. C and his miracle hands. 


Life as we knew it was ending, and Team Wedding 2.0 went live.


It's been one hell of a launch. Thanks for being part of it.


"SEASONS OF LOVE" LYRICS ©1996 JONATHAN LARSON

Wordless (kinda-sorta) Wednesday

Of Fat, Fun, and Football

Team Wedding is not a big proponent of New Year's resolutions.


Rather, we are of a mind that if you mean to do something, then you can make up your mind to do it any day of the year.


Having said that, it has come to my attention that we do, perhaps, subscribe to the theory of resolutions made at the dawn of a new year. Only, our year doesn't necessarily end on December 31. Rather, it ends when football ends.


So with the high gridiron holiday approaching, we have a kitchen stocked with meats, cheeses, salties, sweets, crunchies, chewys, and all manners of numminess. And, a fully appointed bar stands at the ready to take us from breakfast Bloody Marys to midday brews to Kentucky nightcaps.


We've got all-day SportsCenter, pre-pre-game, early fringe ad time, pre-game, kickoff, halftime, post-game celebration and post-game analysis.


We need sustenance, people.


And, going forward, we need to consume far less of it than we'll be devouring this weekend. And we need to get off our collective masses and exercise more than jumping up and down when the Colts pound the Saints.


And we will. Right after the new year.

Wordless WHAT-A-Little-Looker Wednesday

Punxsatawney Till

Hullo, all. Tilly here.


Um. So. Here's the thing:  I wear a lot of hats in Halfglassistan. 


If My Half-Glassed Life were a sitcom, and if this were a very special hour-long episode, right about now would be when the grainy clip montage would run.


But it's not. And we don't have that kind of budget.


So you'll just have hover and click on these highlighted words to check all my mad skills out for yourself:

• See how I am a licensed home healthcare worker here, here and here. 
• Read press releases and snippets from news conferences that reference my status as an internationally known network news CEO here and here.
• Be inspired by my turn as a motivational guru here.
• Delight yourself with my wit as a guest blogger here and here — and, well, right here.

You see? I pull my weight (all 17 pounds of it) around here. Happily. Very happily.


So today, when HRH Princess Snarkerella asked me crawl out my warm toasty bed to see how many more weeks of winter there might be, I was somewhat confused. 


First, that guy in Pennsylvania already has that gig. Second, South Carolina likely only has days of winter left. And third — well, I don't know that I have a well-thought-out third reason.


So. Well. No. Just no.

I suggest you call that fellow in PA. Tilly out.