Decisions. Decisions.

“The only person you are destined to become is the person you decide to be.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson


So, asks Tilly, "Who ya gonna be, Mom?"

And I say... "Hm. I'm working on it. I really am."

And CatCon chimes in with: "Normally, I like to mock you in the midst of your navel-gazing ... What?! You didn't KNOW that?"

(Well. Yes. Yes, I did. I just never heard her actually admit it.)

"But," she continued. (Of course she continued.) "You've had your share of shit to wade through."

Uh, what?

"Seriously. You seriously think I ONLY think about ME?"

(It has been a lifelong desire of mine to be able to pull off a well timed one-eyebrow raise. Moments like these are why. A practically audible eye roll sufficed.)

"OK. Point taken. But I only exist in your imagination, so by default, thinking about me IS thinking about you."

Damn her and her logic.

Tilly concurred. Damn her and HER logic. (And damn if I'm not jealous of HER ability to raise a derisive eyebrow.)

"So?" In unison, no less.

"You're stronger than you think. And you're smarter than you know. And I think I stole that quote from Pooh, but he and I are tight. He'd be cool with it."

"Anyway," CatCon continued. "Life sure as hell may have shown you that it's not fair and it can be cut way too short way too quickly. And you sure as hell have done a damn good job of hiding from living these past two years. A damn good job. But — odds are pretty damn good that you're gonna be here for a while. So who are you going to be? And how are you going to live? Because. You. Are. Going. To. Live. And — what if you don't? What if life once again proves to be cut way too short way too fast? How do you want to be remembered? As you lived? Or that you chose not to? To just exist?"

At this point, we're past eyebrow raising. I'm in awe. Mouth agape. Ah-gape.

"Stop it," she said. "Stop being so shocked that serious thoughts actually roll around in my pretty little head."

That sounded more like the CatCon I knew.

"And stop being so hard on yourself. Yeah. I know what you think. You think you've already failed because it's still so hard. Guess what? It's always going to be hard. It will get easier. But it may never get EASY. But guess what else? You're still here. And you're moving forward. And shut your damn mouth before a bug flies in it."

I did.

And then I asked her what inspired this rare foray into adult thought.

She replied: "Because I'm stronger than you think. And I'm smarter than you know."

And Tilly nodded as CatCon slipped back into the persona with which I'm far more familiar and said, "Duh. I'm you."

Damn them and their logic.

Smack My Ass & Call Me Sassy

I? Am feeling cheeky. And feeling hair that's a lot less brunette around my sizable cheeks.


Something spontaneous in me (uh ... CatCon) decided we needed an adventure. Posted above is not the best photographic evidence, but I was, well, feeling spontaneous (impatient) and snapped it in the parking lot while there was still available sunlight.


There aren't many pictures of me here in Halfglassistan, which is in direct correlation to the reason I'm starting Weight Watchers next week. Yeah. Haven't been happy with the way I've looked and felt for a while. However, the ones that do exist show my natural chestnut brown haircolor. I have experimented — poorly — with peroxide in the past (An almost-platinum streak down one side in high school. In the eighties. Oh. And at my sister's wedding. Niiiiccce.), but never told a professional to go for it.


Until today. 


I love it. It's a blend of caramel and honey and a little creamy milk chocolate. I didn't want anything to clash with my brown Irish eyes, and my stylist didn't let me down.


The only downside? I came home and Mr. J wasn't here to say, "Oh. Yeah. Yeah. Turn around. I like it. She did a good job. Wait. Come here. Yeaaahh. I really like it. You look great." Insert kiss here.


That's just one typical male stereotype Mr. J didn't fall into. He never missed something new. That might have something to do with the fact that I made sure he knew something new was coming (I never understood girls getting pissed off because their significant other didn't notice that they just had an quarter-inch trimmed off their hair. Turn the tables. You wouldn't notice either.). Or it just might have something to do with why I love him. And miss him beyond description.


I'm going to be writing more about that. I'm going to be writing more, period. Those of you who are still out there reading — I'm hoping there are still folks reading — know that I've not chronicled much of life in Halfglassistan for the past year.


The reason is simple. Since Mr J's death, I've spent an awful lot of time in the other half of the glass. It's something he wouldn't have wanted. But — and this is up at the top of the list of "Reasons I Love Jamie Wedding" — he would have understood.


So I'm going to show up around here a lot more, regardless of in which half of the kingdom I'm residing. And I hope you will, too.


I need you.


And don't think that mention of Weight Watchers was inadvertent. No. A fab new 'do can only take me so far. I'll be posting WW progress here as well. (Aw hell. I've really gotta do it now.) 


Hopefully, as time passes, my cheekiness will be more attitude, and less assitude.


Keep coming back. (See three paragraphs up. Really.)

With Apologies to Misters Simon & Garfunkel

"Hello bronchitis, my old friend. 

How I detest feeling you again, 

With your hack-ing a-a-nd wheezing,

You pre-vent thinking o-o-or sleep-ing ...

But now with two shots in my bum, 

z-pac and codiene on its way —

It's safe to say (I pray),

I'll hear the sounds ... of silence."

This post has been brought to you by CatCon,

who is quite used to finding herself among 

"people talking with-o-o-out speaking (to her), 

people hearing without-o-o-out listening (to her),

and people writ-ing songs that her voice should never share, 

and yet she dares, disturb the sound of of silence."

Cake. It's What's For Dinner. (And Breakfast. And Lunch.)

HRH Princess Snarkerella has declared today the official start of Birthday Week 2011. Typically all of May is Birthday Month, but everything in Halfglassistan has been wonky these past six months.


(CatCon and Tilly, however, would like it noted that they began celebrating my existence at 12:00:01 EDT May 1 and haven't stopped. Which isn't much different than the way they act every day. So I've got that going for me. Which is good.)


I may be getting a bit of a slow start, but by the order of HRH (you might not think so, but she can really be a bitch when she wants to), I am commanded to have fun. So a little less than 36 hours from now, I'll be with one of my ATL munchkins, who just happens to be the most awesome boy one of my siblings has ever birthed. The fact that I get to watch the eerie reincarnation of my sister as a toddler giving herself hell is just icing.


Then less than 24 hours later, I'll be on my way to my Midwestern tribe of munchkins in Chicagoland — provided the TSA, ATL and MDW all cooperate. And no random atmospheric activity mucks it all up. (Iceland? I'm talking to you.)


You can call it running away from home. It's OK. I am and I'm lucky enough to have my choice of awesome homes to which to run. I need tickles, giggles, oohs & ahhs, sister, cousin and munchkin therapy. And lots and lots and lots of love.


And cake.

"cake." (c)2002-2010 natalie dee

BREAKING NEWS: Renovations in Halfglassistan

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
MAY 1, 2011 - HALFGLASSISTAN


HRH Princess Snarkerella has announced that Halfglassistan is expanding and undergoing renovations to better express its ideology and full potential. Immediate increases to the kingdom's Gross National Product will be largely fulfilled by Half-glassed Design. 


"The time is right to go public with our graphic design for print, web, wearables and home decor," stated HRH's official press secretary CatCon. "Lucky customers also receive three decades experience of professional writing and editing." The outspoken CatCon went on to add: "Win-win, no?"


Improvement projects are already underway, and announcement of official launch date is expected imminently.


###

Cat Con's Show Tune Applicability Axiom (aka Step 4.5 and/or "So Change Your Dream")

"There is no life situation to which a show tune (or tunes) does not apply. Find one, two, 10 or 20 and sing them. Loudly. Repeatedly." — Cat Con's Show Tune Applicability Axiom

"What do you mean, amend that to add 'Sing well'? Are you implying that I don't sing well? (Insert withering eye-roll here) Really?" — Cat Con, when approached by a quickly retreating editorial board.

What we're singing most lately is I Dreamed A Dream from Les Miserables.

Applicable? Check.

Belt-it-out-loud-able? Check.

Tear-inducing? Abso-freakin'-lutely.

Able to get through it four or more times during traffic-jammed commute without tears? Finally.

Able to do the above without giving a thought as to what anyone around us thinks? Puh-lease. Give us a hard one.

Able to do all of the above and appreciate both its apparent applicability and simultaneous lack of same? Check.

"I dreamed a dream in times gone by

When hope was high and life worth living

I dreamed that love would never die

I dreamed that God would be forgiving.

Then I was young and unafraid

And dreams were made and used and wasted

There was no ransom to be paid

No song unsung, no wine untasted.

But the tigers come at night

With their voices soft as thunder

As they tear your hope apart

As they turn your dream to shame.

And still I dreamed he'd come for me

That we would live the years together

But there are dreams that cannot be

And there are storms we cannot weather —

I had a dream my life would be

So different from this hell I'm living

So different now from what it seemed ...

Now life has killed the dream I dreamed."

So Cat Con and I do what we always do. When we're challenged. When we're confused. When we're sad. When we're happy. When we're wondering. And especially when we're figuring it all out.

Like now.

We sing.

©1980 CLAUD-MICHEL SCHOENBURG (MUSIC); ALAIN BOUBLIL (LYRICS); HERBERT KRETZMER (ENGLISH TRANSLATION FROM FRENCH) Any errors are wholly mine and, by no means, any responsibilty of Cat Con's.

Step Three

"Twenty years from now you will be 

more disappointed by 

the things you didn't do 

than the ones you did do. 

So throw off the bowlines. 

Catch the trade winds in your sails. 

Explore. Dream. Discover." 

— mark twain

("and never forget you may not have 20 years to wait" — cat con)

Wild Thing. You Make My Heart Sing.

CatCon lost her voice last weekend at the beach. In fact, it's still gone, or she'd be posting this herself.

What's that? What does not having a voice have to do with being able to rock the keyboard on your best friend's blog, you may ask? You may ask, but I don't have the answer. She's pouty that way. Probably because I took away her whiteboard because I was tired of seeing her write:

"WHY? Why CAN'T we live at the beach? Give me ONE good reason. I could sing at that dive by the pier. TILLY could frolic in the dunes. MR. J could let his hair grow long — well, longer — and sell friendship bracelets. YOU could do whatever it is you do." (It was a very large whiteboard. She's now trying to master the art of lettering on an Etch-A-Sketch. It's not looking promising. )

So. CatCon lost her voice. No easy feat, but probably attributable to the ingestion of many hops and much tequila.

Or maybe multiple scoops of ice cream overcoated her vocal chords.

And definitely the sand. She swallowed a lot when she face planted on the shore. No connection whatsoever with the hops and the tequila, however. She was just giving the beach a hug — a big one — when we first arrived.

And the beach hugged her back. And said, "CatCon, I think I love you."

A girl could get used to that.

Everybody Move Over — CatCon's Taking Over

me-me-me-me-me-me-me ... [dum-DUM] me-me-me-me-me-me-me  ... [dum-DUM]

No, not vocal warm-ups — pfft! like I need them? — just clearly stating what's the what here in Halfglassistan right now: It's. All. About. Me.

Miz CCW is prepping for her big holiday weekend, as tomorrow is, of course, the actual date of Cathleen Day on the calendar — the High Holiday of Halfglassistan. It's observed nationally (we're working on a global campaign) Monday.

So, that three-day weekend you're looking forward to? The fireworks? Parades? General merriment to be had by all?

Umm, yeah — you're welcome.

But for now ... follow my lead, and ONE AND TWO AND THREE AND FOUR:

Happy Cathleen Eve (hey)! Tomorrow's her birthday (hey)! We're going to the beach (YAY)! ... and, all together now!

A-HEM — I said, all together now ... Thank you. That's more like it.

Happy Cathleen Eve (hey)!

I Squee(!) For Glee(!)

I am tone deaf, can't carry a tune in a bucket, couldn't hit a high C (or any other, for that matter) if it slapped me in the face, and am more like Meadow Soprano than a mezzo soprano (whatever that means).


In short, I can't sing to save my life.


Note I said "can't," not "don't." Because I sing all the time. I don't let minor things like talent, or skill, or humiliation stop me. 


I did when I was younger. And wisely so. I may have rocked through the '80s in middle and high school singing in my room, and later in my car (OK, my friends' cars. I didn't have a car — or a driver's license — until college.) — but never on the stage. Oh sure, I was in the drama club (Really, with the surprise on that? Really?), but I favored and won the dramatic or comedic or even dramedic roles. Never the musical ones, because I knew better than to audition for them.


I have absolutely no desire to revisit my adolescence. It was awkward enough the first time around. But ... But ... If there were any way to go back and actually have the voice that I've always wished for — the kind of voice that brings an audience to its feet (and not to walk out) and tears to its eyes (for all the right reasons) and makes my peers (if anyone really could be my peer) so envious they have no choice but to misguidedly express it by throwing a Slushee® in my face — I'd do it in 4:4 time (whatever that means) and be more obnoxious than Rachel Berry dared dream to be.


But alas! No matter how fervently I wish for that alternate reality, it shall never be. My only hope to even approach that level of musical fulfillment would be to create an imaginary friend through whom I vicariously rock.


And what rational, sane, mature adult would be so desperate, er, silly, um, absolutely brilliant willing to do that?


Hmm.


glee logo ©FOX Broadcasting Company

Wordless Glee(!)ful-High-School-Adoration-of-Madonna-Flashback Wednesday

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?"

I Want You To Want Me

Oh, I am feeling all kinds of special.

Halfglassistan is becoming quite the not just my imaginary kingdom of all things awesome destination of curious bored work-avoidant discerning loyal subjects minions readers within six degrees of anyone everywhere.


Which is, ummmm, just freakin' awesome.


Because, as CatCon would tell you — loudly — if she were here: I want you to want me. I need you to need me. I'd love you to love me.

'Cause I'm just a needy obnoxious melodramatic attention whore an extrovert like that.

We Wish You A Tilly Christmas And A Sappy New Year

Hullo, all!

Elf Tilly here. Mom is busy making cookies. And spinach dip. And a cheese ball. And a mess.

I offered to help, but she says I do not have the dexterity to roll one-inch dough balls. Clearly, she has never seen me rock the keyboard like I am right now. Huh! No dexterity, my sweet nub-tail!

If I don't look like my usual charming self in the picture above ... well, you try to be cheery with elastic pinning your ears down and tickling your chin, all while you're balancing the jingle-belled felt equivalent of a Vegas showgirl's headpiece on your noggin. I thought so.

Actually, this shot was taken a few years back, when I was young and naive and didn't realize I had a choice in the matter. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice ... well, no one's ever fooled me twice, so I don't know what comes next. Just shame on you if you try to dress me. I may be a licensed home healthcare worker, Broadway-caliber singer and dancer and quite the wordsmith — but wearing doll clothes is where I draw the line. (I do enjoy a snazzy little collar, however. I do. A girl has to be able to get her cute on somehow.)

Anyhoo — Team Wedding HQ is quite the place to be today — it's Cat Con's Christmas Rockin' Eve. While Mom is busy cooking and what-not, CC sits on the kitchen counter and serenades us — and clues me in when a drop or dollop of something edible (or not) hits the floor. CC and I have no "five-second rule." More like a "it-didn't-roll-under-the-stove-rule." 

Mom doesn't mind. That's one or two or 10 fewer things she has to sweep up. Just one of the many services I provide. Like being the ever-so-modest guest blogger extraordinaire.

May your heart be merry and light, and may all your Christmases be bright.

Merry-merry, happy-happy, and many, many, many blessings to you all,

Elf Tilly out.

Nurse Tilly Reporting for Duty

Hullo all. Nurse Tilly here.

Just taking a quick break from tending to Princess Funky McFunkenstein to help my loyal assistant Piggy reach the tissues off the shelf. Seems it was a better idea to send the 4-inch-tall purple plush pig to fetch them rather than the 5-foot-5-inch-tall grown-up.

While Piggy drags them back to PFF's lair, I thought I'd post a quiz for you dear readers:

WHO is a big ol' whiny crybaby when she's sick?

1. CCW
   
2. CatCon
   
3. Her Royal Highness Princess Snarkerella
   
4. NOT me (nor Piggy)
   
5. All of the above
   

DING-DING-DING! YOU ARE CORRECT.

Wait! What? You say you didn't choose an answer yet?

[sigh]

Like it matters ...

Nurse T OUT.

Chucktown

So. It turns out TAHITI* bears an uncanny resemblance to Charleston, South Carolina.

Huh. Who knew?

Charleston was a favorite jaunt of ours back in our dating days, and we didn't realize until we were making our plans for TAHITI* that we hadn't been there since before the Wedding Wedding. 

Over the years, we'd spent time in the mountains, and at various beaches, sure. 

But not back on cobblestones of old Charles Towne? Not listening to the water beat against the retaining wall as we gaze out at Fort Sumter where that Citadel cadet fired the first shot in the War of Northern Aggression? Not listening to the ghosts whispering in the Live Oaks in Battery Park? Not reveling in the architecture, and breathing deep the air of courtyard gardens on Rainbow Row?

Well, that just needed fixing — and quick-like.

So we sauntered on down to the Lowcountry ... OK, we didn't saunter, we zipped down the interstate in a Toyota truck. (But doesn't it seem like we should have sauntered? I thought so.) No worries, though. We slowed our steps and strolled at the appropriate pace once we arrived in the Holy City.

First stop was James Island and Folly Beach because Cat Con was with us and we were forced to obey her Saltwater Proximity Axiom. The law simply states that if an ocean shoreline is within 32 (give or take) miles in any direction, she must go to it, strip down (at least her tootsies) and become one with the beach. 

Hours, days, weeks, all are preferable timeframes for worship, but a surprisingly small exposure can actually get the job done:

Cat Con has been known to admit to depression, frustration, melodrama, fear, angst, insecurity (Yes, really. Her ego does have some boundaries.) and all forms of melancholia at many different points in her life. 

But she has never, never, never — never — been anything but at peace on a beach.

[sigh]

As for all those other Charlestonian delights mentioned above, I've got some sweet pics of those, too.

I think (if we're lucky) Miss Almost-Boundless-Ego might be done gazing at her toe ring in the sand before Wordless Wednesday rolls around, and I can wrest the images from her (if we're lucky).

Stay tuned.

Insert Fingers in Ears and Commence the LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA's (aka code name: TAHITI*)

Today is one of the high holidays of Halfglassistan.


If you've been paying attention, you knew it was coming: I began a sentimental journey at the beginning of the month, added to it, sprinkled in a few wordless clues here and there, and had the intention of telling the tale of the Wedding Wedding today, its 10th anniversary.


Then we were taking off for TAHITI*. 


Now, before you go getting all worked up and wondering how the hell Team Wedding can come up with that kind of coin (you know who you are) — let me explain.


Yes, Tahiti is a real place. No, TAHITI* is not. Except how it exists in my mind. Kinda like Cat Con. (In fact, she made all the arrangements. She has the best taste.)


TAHITI* is where there is no cancer. No unemployment. No bills. No agonies of aging parents. No chemo. No scans. No tests. No fevers. No antibiotics. No tubes. No migraines. No scales. No thinning gray hair. No chipped teeth. No weird aches. No insomnia. No fears. No hate. No confusion. No changes. No passive-aggressiveness. And no cancer. Did I say no cancer? That's OK. TAHITI* so doesn't have cancer, it doesn't even have a word for cancer. You can see why I'd be confused.


In TAHITI*, we are always young and beautiful (or, as Cat Con says, younger and beautifuller — because we're never not beautiful). We are always laughing. We are always singing. We are always dancing. We are always loving.


Hmmm. If you've spent any time at all in Halfglassistan, I think you'll realize we've been to TAHITI* before. We do a lot of laughing and singing and dancing regardless of what else is going on. And the loving? Well, we're all about that around here.


In fact, there's no need to tell the story of the Wedding Wedding. Yeah, it's a good one, even in my not-so-humble, oh-so-biased, opinion. But, right now, what happened that day isn't what's important. What's important is that 10 years later, there is not just an anniversary of a beautiful fall evening, but — that there is a Team Wedding. And TWHQ isn't a figment of my imagination, but a real-live place. In the real world. Where all of those not fun things I listed above do exist. 


And we go on in spite of them. We are better because of them. 


We're not celebrating today that I put on a stunning rum-pink satin beaded dress 10 years ago and carried the most gorgeous champagne-colored roses with just a hint of pink at the petals' edges. We're not celebrating that I smiled and kissed Mr. J before our minister even began the ceremony — yet don't even remember doing it, because it was so natural. We're not celebrating that Mr. J and I, from memory, recited vows that each had written to the other. And cried through them, along with everyone else in the room.


No. I've realized that what we're celebrating today is that, 10 years later, I love and respect Mr. J even more than I did that night. Even more than I would have believed possible.


After spending the week among loved ones who, for whatever reasons, have forgotten who they are and what they mean to others — we're celebrating that we still can appreciate who we are together and what we mean to each other. 


After helping another loved one memorialize the husband she lost just five days after their 40th wedding anniversary, we're celebrating that we've at least had 10 together — and praying we have many more.


And, after meaning to leave for TAHITI* yesterday around noon, but being sidetracked — we're celebrating that we get to go to TAHITI* at all.


So, au revoir, y'all.


We're in TAHITI*. See you when (if) we come back.

Don't Stop Believin' ...

Cat Con has been holding out on me.

That's the only explanation I can come up with that I had not experienced the joy of "glee" until FOX rebroadcast the pilot last week.

I watched it, and just like that — with jazz hands — I was hooked.

Last night as I was watching the new season premiere of glee(!) emphasis added by me(!) and wondering how I had lived this long without it, I had a flashback:

One night, last spring, Mr. J and I are downstairs solving some crime with either the CSI crew in Vegas, the BAU team from Quantico, or the SVU team in NYC. (Our expertise is unrivaled, and my cell number is on all the top alphabet forensic and/or profiler teams' speed dial. But you didn't hear that from me. It's a secret. My other alter ego is similar to Garcia in the FBI tech lab. But brunette. Yet still wildly attracted to Shemar Moore. Ssssh.)

So-o-o-o-o, this night last May, we're all intent on saving mankind from some depraved mind, when I hear what sounds like music and dancing from the upstairs bedroom. I look over at J, but he's strung out on Phenergan, and of no use to me in any of the evening's investigations — including the one I'm getting ready to conduct in my own home.

I mute the TV, and just a beat later, the music and dancing stops. I turn the TV back on, it starts back up. I'm all "what the ...?" Tilly's all "what the ...?" Jamie's all "where's my Gatorade?" Hmmm.

I get up and get J a fresh bottle of G, and Tilly and I scamper (what? I can't scamper?) up the stairs to see what's going on. About halfway up, I hear the music and the dancing stop, and the sound of someone hopping on the bed.

I stick my head in the bedroom door, Tilly trots in jumps up on the bed where Cat Con sits all innocent-like, reading the latest issue of Cosmo, and looking at us like "what the ...?"

"What the hell are you doing up here?" I ask her.

"What the hell does it look like?" Cat Con says. "Reading."

I give her an "oh-really-Princess-ADD?" look, and she says, "OK, looking at the pictures."

"What's all the noise?" I ask and am treated to a "what-noise-you're-in-your-40s-now-and-quite-frankly-acting-like-it-Princess-Snarkarella" look.

So I go back downstairs. It starts up again, and I could have sworn I heard Journey (not usually in Cat Con's repertoire) up until around 10 p.m. And then it just stops.

It occurs to me now that Cat Con must have been watching the first episode of glee(!) that night. 

I should have known. May in South Carolina is much, much too warm for leg warmers.

glee logo ©FOX Broadcasting Company

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 imaginarybest 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?"