Wordless Cancer-Warrior-Mojo-Turned-Up-To-Eleven Wednesday

(Don't try to tell me it doesn't exist — or work! — CVZ' ass-kicking grandmother, 1; cancer, 0. Yeah. That's what I thought.)

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

Here I Am To Brave The Day

(c)2002-2010 natalie dee (who rocks, btw)

Tee Gee Eye Eff Eff

(lace up your roller skates and cue Donna Summer and a spinning disco ball here)


"Friday. Thank God It's Flashback Friday!"


Yes, my darlings, I am once again feeling:

A. Lazy; 

B. In need of yet another dose of alliteration; 

C. Smugly satisfied (see B); 

D. Like I am the undisputed queen of my universe and all that revolves around it (see C); and/or

E. All of the a-freakin'-bove

Ding-ding-ding! If you chose A, B, C, D, or even E, you also may revel in your own sense of smug satisfaction, for you are correct. Today we'll revisit the first appearance of HRH Princess Snarkerella and her establishment of one of Halfglassistan's many arbitrary and capricious holidays.


Enjoy.

By Royal Decree ...

As Her Royal Highness Princess Snarkerella, it is my duty (one of many) to consider (many applicants) and determine (eeny-meeny-miney-moe) the High Holidays of Halfglassistan.

[trumpets sound]
[trumpets sound again, as HRH is late to the podium]
[trumpets playing a light jazzy number while HRH is delayed behind the velvet curtain as she fiddles with her hair]

And ...
[TRUMPETS SOUND]
Ahem.

I — your humble leader — declare (-are, -are, -are) — today (-ay, -ay, -ay)  Overflow Day (-ay, -ay, -ay) — upon which (-itch, -itch — OK, kill the echo effect) — upon which we fill the official drinking vessels of Halfglassistan (Libbey®) until they overflow with hope. 

Why today? Why today? 

I say, "Why not today?" 
We overdose on hope, not because it is easy — but because it is hard. 

Hmmm? What's that, you say? Ummm, yeah — no, I can't take credit for that last turn of phrase — good catch. But — I like it. And — it fits. 

So — go forth, and — hope. 
That is all. Carry on. 

CROWD: "Snarkita! Snarkita! Snarkita!" 
ME: "Don't cry for me, Halfglassistanita ... " 

Oh, please — you didn't see that coming?

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

Still Hopeful, Still Other Things

Dear Universe,

I've been talking to you a lot lately about my plans.

I'm pretty sure you're listening, because I hear an awful lot of laughter. I'm trying very, very hard to understand the messages you're sending back my way, but I'm having some trouble. The only one that's really coming through clearly is the repeated admonition to be patient.

I think I've got that lesson down, thanks. Well, I'm at least clear on the concept. The application is a little more tricky, but again, I'm working on that.

I'm certain you are well aware of my fondness for euphemisms, metaphors and symbolism, clever or otherwise. However, those means of expression tend to work best for me if I'm the one employing them. When communicating to me, perhaps a straightforward approach would be best.

Otherwise, I'm gonna sit around and deconstruct every little message you send me, analyzing your tone, facial expressions, posture, eye contact (or lack of), what you're wearing, what time you showed up (or didn't), and just why you chose that bit of news to be delivered at that time. Or why it hasn't been delivered yet. Or ever.

Because I'm a girl. And that's how I operate. Perhaps you should consult my instruction manual. You wrote it.

You'd think one of us would have figured all of this out by now, and clearly, it's not me.

Something to think about, Universe.

Sincerely,
Me

p.s. I did get the message about the amount of snark I'm putting out there in your atmosphere. Seeing as you have this increasingly annoying habit of being vague in your missives, I am not quite sure though if you, too, were being snarky. So. Until I'm convinced otherwise, I'm sticking with what I know.

Under Pressure

(cue David Bowie and Queen here)

This is my one hundredth and ninety-ninth post. Or 199th, depending on how (melo)dramatic you're feeling. Whatever shall I write for the oh-so-monumental two hundredth (200th) post?


Should I be inspiring (or at least as inspiring as I aspire to be)? Should I be sentimental (or as sappy as I can tend to be)? Should I be retrospective, introspective (or at the very least, somewhat circumspect)?


Should I celebrate my awesomeness (or should I exercise a little restraint)? Should I celebrate all those who have recognized said awesomeness by bestowing awards and recognition on Halfglassistan, and whose acknowledgement is sorely overdue (or should I continue to feel guilty — forgive me, Dame, Belle and Laura — for not having composed the perfect appropriate response yet)?


Should I stop shoulding all over myself? (And, thank you, Stuart Smalley for that kind reminder.)


Or — before I get all worked up about how I've procrastinated considering this monumental topic until now — should I check my figures? And realize that I've composed 199 drafts. And published 179 posts.


Oh. Well. Whew! That gives me 20 more posts to continue procrastinating figure this thing out.


Or finally figure math out. Whichever comes first. Hmm.


Carry on.

Employing Humor

I certainly can take the mythical credits this tax form touts. I cannot, however, take credit for its content.

A Tax Form for the Marginally Employed (via Sam Potts in The New York Times)

Enjoy.

(and thanks, SGC, for sharing)

Wordless Omigosh-SO-Cute-In-The-OshKosh-B'Gosh Wednesday

Color Me Hopeful

I have many strengths. I do.


Clearly, modesty is not one of them, or I wouldn't have founded my own imaginary nation ... queendom ... empire community and invited you to adore join me in it.


Patience also is not one of them. But I'm working on that.


Nor was humility, for quite some time. But I have been humbled, just like millions of other folks just like me looking for work in this strange new world.


I have been interviewing with Anonymous Communication Company (ACC) and Anonymous Public Service (APS). Many times throughout my career I have found myself progressing through round after round after round of interviews. And I have have felt many things, both pre- and post-process.


Confident. Excited. Invigorated. Certain. Proud.


And, more often than I'd like to admit, I have felt entitled. Because of my education, my experience, my background. Hell, maybe just for being me. I don't feel that now.


I feel lucky. I feel scared. I feel anxious.


Perhaps one day soon I'll be able to report that I'm a proud, excited and confident new employee of either ACC or APS. Or, perhaps it will be of some other arbitrary acronym.


But until then, I'm trying really, really hard to just focus on one emotion: hopeful.


And I'm hoping really, really, really hard the whole patience thing kicks in, too.