"He'll sit there and go, Dipsy... Po... Dipsy... Po. I honestly don't think he knows colors. Just Teletubbies."


Cate is depressed.

I feel awful. I keep going all Holly Hunter in Broadcast News for no good reason at all. I just randomly started tearing up in the middle of my (very, very painful and arduous) ortho appointment. Last night I cried so long I forgot what I was crying about. I'm not going to school until lunch, and even then I'm still not sure if I really want to. Plus, I have my frelling algebra testing tomorrow, as if that makes me feel even remotely better. Also, Vati was screaming at me because my band teacher is a dipshitz and Vati apparently needs someone to scream at. This really pisses me off and is not made better by the fact that my mouth tastes like glue and I have a tooth being pulled up from my gum with a 17-square steel nitrate wire. (I didn't have my usual braces lady today, so my appointment ran late, I missed the bus to my band trip, no one talked to me while I was in pain, and she popped off five brackets.) Also not making things better, the fact that I fell on my knee coming out of a booth-- frelling high heels-- at Zesty's last night (an incredibly stupid experience in itself) and it still hurts, and that I'm a female hormonal teenager.

I'm sorry to dump all this on you. It's just that I need the internet so I can download today's free Courtney Love song off iTunes. I also need a shrink.


A Love Letter to iTunes

Dear iTunes,

I am a pitiful, miserable soul. I am currently downloading something by Avril frelling Lavigne. And all because it is free. This is horrible. How did you know that I am free's bitch? If it is free, I take it. I take concealer samples that do not match my freakishly pale skin. I take lotion samples that dry out my freakishly dry skin. And now, I am downloading a song I hate because it is free.

God. I love iTunes.


Cate at Newspaper: April 28, 2004

Fametracker forums are back on Monday, happy happy joy joy. And on this Sunday, if I counted correctly, my article on the Academy Awards will be two months old.

BB and I realized today that things like dating will just never click in our heads. And we have the Problem Pow-Wowers sitting outside the newspaper office, inventing problems for the advice column. And a fourth-grader is playing a game that looks vaguely like Kill Bill, which evidently, made Princess Di say, "I want to puke my liver up." Or something to that extent. Nothing of that had any correlation.


"God in heaven!" "Yeah, that's where He is."

We have to do this frelling stupid, bloody awful kite project for graduation, largely because Jalonski thinks this will make our parents happy. I don't think my parents will be happy with all the distress and child labor she is putting us through, but Jalonski doesn't seem to care. So, yes, I have to find pictures that describe me, pictures cut from magazines or printed off the newspaper that describe my future (I'm looking for a purdy Vera Wang dress that I'll wear to my first Oscars at the moment and InStyle is not being much of a help), words that describe me, words that describe my future. I don't even know why I'm telling you this. I just have nothing better to day. Perhaps you can think of words that describe me and my future screenwriting/directing future. I'm thinking "stubborn," "controlling," "whiny," and "not very maternal except when it comes to King Oliver Shmu Bonsai the First" aren't going to make the cut.

BB and Me: This is going to be the coolest prison ever!
Mrs. W (no, not the math teacher): "It'll be the coolest prison ever!" People will want to come!
Me: Even the moldy bread will be cool!

Giseler: You gols are bwiwwiant. (Translation: You girls are brilliant.)

In other news, a very happy unbirthday to BB's little sister, who will not be given a nickname until further notice. BB's sister is a character. She calls Betty "the big gray blob."


Ancient Friday Fives on a Monday

Here are a few old Friday Fives, because I have nothing to write about and feel like I must write about something that isn't the script for this frelling play. So here it goes.

1. Where were you born?
Salt Lake City, Utah

2. What is your favorite number?
Three or seven. How about thirty-seven?

3. Vanilla or chocolate?
God. It depends.

4. What section of a bookstore would I find you in?
The section on movie books, the young adult section, the adult fiction section, and the multimedia section. Also, if we are talking about B&N, the Starbucks.

5. What kind of a mattress do you have on your bed?
A very old, not very soft one which I love. For no good reason.

1. What is one thing you dislike about your body?
My pointy chin, which I could probably use as an icepick if I really, truly wanted to. Oh god! And my fivehead.

2. What are two things you love about your body?
My bone structure is rather nice, especially my vertebrae when I wear a low-backed dress, and I have a nice neck.

3. What are three things you want to change about your home?
My bedroom, the hideous Wizard of Oz kitchen, and the windowsills, which have been scratched up and mutilated by my dog.

4. What are four books you want to read this year?
Pamie's book; The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, The Virgin Suicides, and the Pieces of April screenplay book.

5. What are five promises you have kept?
Oh, god. I have kept a lot of secrets. I promised that I would find a way to make a few of my CDs work on iTunes and I did. I promised to make my bed on a daily basis. I promised to write on a daily basis, not necessarily in the blog. I promised to stop calling strangers "fools" and calling this group of people I don't particularly like "the Eggheads." Although I didn't keep that last one. I can't fucking help that they have egg heads, yo.


Help Kidnap Angie's Cat, Who Is Cate's New Friend!

Angie's cat, King Oliver Shmu Bonsai the First, alias Cate's New Friend!, is the cutest frelling thing I have ever seen. He BRINGS OUT MY MATERNAL INSTINCTS. I know, ::gasp::, I actually do have them! It occurs to me that I may become a crazy cat person when I grow up. I hope not.

But, anyway, help me kidnap (or, as I almost typed it, kidman) Cate's New Friend! Angie's house, ten o' clock, tonight. She's leaving the dining room window open for us. You got that? Good.




You give your love and friendship unconditionaly. You enjoy long, thoughtful conversations rich in philosophy and spirituality. You are very loyal and intuitive.

Find out your color at Quiz Me!

The Completely Pointless Personality Quiz
The Completely Pointless Personality Quiz

find your inner PIE @ stvlive.com

discover what candy you are @ quiz me

I don't really have any comments on these. Go take them.

Also, I love Strangers with Candy. Funniest. Shit. Ever.


Because it needs to be said yet again.

Grammar God!
You are a GRAMMAR GOD!

If your mission in life is not already to
preserve the English tongue, it should be.
Congratulations and thank you!

How grammatically sound are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Oh, yeah. Go me.

A Present for BB

I wrote this for BB today, in this exact grammar and lack of sentences:

"Okay butterflies once when I was little I had a butterfly named Annabeth after BB but we called her Anna b/c a 3 syllable name got too long after a while, you know my hand hurts oh! holicia was looking thru my notebook today and it really "cheesed me off" as our band teacher would say as his scalp turned red and exploded, shooting his ugly woodshop glasses off his face across the room while BB and I got the giggles as we are prone to do okay, that didn't hapen but it would have been very, very funny like a bong hat now i'm going to go give this to BB."



BB and I had the giggles so frelling bad today. We were told to stand still during rehearsals, and I said, "It smells like dentists. It smells like Jerry Beene." and we giggled nearly half an hour, including full-blown shouting embarassing things such as "DENTAL TART!" and "FUT THE SHUCK UP!" and "I AM DEMENTED" in front of the preschool room.


Cate at Newspaper: April 21, 2004

Anyway, since I promised, I'm going to explain Poop the dog and calling strangers "fool." And it occurs to me that my newspaper article is two months old. Good god. I hope no one who's part of this ever grows up to be in journalism.

Poop the Dog

Our neighbors have decided to name their dog "Poop." It's short for some offensively long Polish name, but Poop? That's just mean. Mean. MEAN. Poor dog.

"I'm Coming, Fool!"

We were at ShopKo the other night, poking around in the makeup section because Vati has a cold and he sent Mutti and I to go get his prescription. So, some lady who sounds exactly like my madre, shouts "Let's go!" and I shout right back, "I'm coming, fool!" (Mutti and I use "fool" as a term of affection. Really.) Except it wasn't Madre. Madre, rather, is laughing her ass off one aisle over.

I really am a fool.


Happy Dance, Happy Dance, Cate Loves to do the Happy Dance!

And BB was probably the only person who understood that title.

So, anyway. Good news for my day:

  • Oliver Beene is coming back! And BB will also understand my excitement! This means that, although I'm still writing my Sad Letter to Charlotte Beene, I'm a bit leses distraught.

  • I found out that not only is Holly Hunter "slightly demented" in The Big White, her character also has Tourette's. For some reason, this makes me very, very happy. Since I am a very mean person, Tourette's makes me laugh quite a lot. And since I also like Holly Hunter quite a lot, she's one of the few actors I'm going to let run away with letting me laugh at faked Tourette's. Oh, I hope it's the kind of Tourette's that makes her shout random swear words.

  • Angie is back! And she's bringing me a copy of her Texas Greatest Hits CD!

  • Diana has a blog! I must pimp. It is my rightful duty to pimp Diana's blog. Diana's Pimplicious Blog!

  • Anyway. My next entry will either be about the dog named Poop, shouting "FOOL!" at complete strangers in ShopKo who I mistake for my mother, or it will be my newspaper entry and be about both of these things. Unless something interesting happens before I actually act out my plan to write that entry.


    Dear Madonna

    Madonna recently abandoned her best friend, Debi somebody (Kozer, I think), because she doesn't believe in the Kablahblah. I mean, oh, jesus. That is just wrong on so many levels. You don't reject your best friend just because she doesn't have a red string that looks like a fucking hair tie around her wrist! Jesus! I mean, who's gonna be Madonna's best friend now, Demi Moore?

    That really pisses me off. If I ever dump any of my friends for a trendy religion, please shoot me. In the head, not in the foot. With an Uzi. Really.

    I Can't Write Letters for Beans. Truly.

    I'm writing a letter to Emma Thompson. Or trying to. I'm explaining that I mean to harm by my adaptation of her writing, and that I'd write a letter to Jane Austen, also, if Jane Austen wasn't so dead. In case you couldn't tell by the last sentence, it isn't going very well. Here's what I've got so far:

    "Dear Emma Thompson,
    I am adapting a play of Sense and Sensibilty using your script. I mean to harm to you or Jane Austen. I'm doing a bad job and I'm really really sorry."

    As you can see, I've written myself into a dead end. Perhaps I should write the last sentence out.

    And, for a different Emma: The midgets are coming.

    Top Way to tell if your Brother has ADHD

    Bro: Where's Mom?
    Me: She's upstairs getting ready.
    Bro: Who is?


    Cate During Computer

    I'm quite sorry. I haven't blogged much lately. It's easier to blog when interesting things are actually happening, you know.

    We're ungodly short on talented guys for our play. It's insane, really. I'm a bit depressed over this.


    Hm. Or, for Angie: Hrm-diddy.

    Hello all. I can't really think of anything to say.

    Oh! Wait! I'm feeling very Joan of Arcadia, so here it is: A Letter to God.

    Dear God,
    If I could be Stevie Nicks, Joan Cusack, Holly Hunter, Emma Thompson, Patricia Clarkson, Emma Thompson, Charlotte Beene, and Hallie Todd when I grow up, that would be great.
    Thanks much,

    Yeah. Because I can't just list my idols like a normal human being. Oh, no. That would be way too difficult.

    Cate at Newspaper: April 14, 2004

    Hello, bitches. We're in newspaper. Franny B. just announced, "I'm not burping. I am making a tiny noise with my body." Sadly, this is the highlight of my day.

    My dad called "www.amazon.com" "www.SigourneyWeaver.com" the other day. Yes. SigourneyWeaver.com. Get it? Sigourney Weaver, amazon? Hahaha.

    My family is warped.


    Memes Kick Ass

    Who is in your celebrity family? by cerulean_dreams
    User Name
    MomMeryl Streep
    DadSean Connery
    BrotherSean Everette Scott
    SisterDrew Barrymore
    BoyfriendOrlando Bloom
    Best friendJohnny Depp
    Created with quill18's MemeGen 3.0!

    My mutti is Meryl Streep. Apparently, I am the only person who gets slightly demented vibes from Meryl Streep. Good-demented, though. The rest of it is worrysome, except for Johnny Depp being my best friend.

    Get to know the REAL you by crash_and_burn
    Your Name
    You Are A:Indie Elitist
    Your Favorite Band/SongColdplay - Yellow
    You Like To Read:Horror books
    You Firmly Believe In:God
    Everyone Thinks You Are:A cheap bastard
    You Were Conceived:In a record shop
    You Will Marry:Ghandi
    Created with quill18's MemeGen 3.0!

    Hey. I probably could be considered an Indie Elitist. Indie Elitist Feminist.


    Cate: Your Future Theater Diva

    Margo (formerly Hallie) and I are starting a play over the summer. We've decided to take Sense and Sensibility and modernize it. We're going to be collaboratively writing, directing, and acting, as Ellie (moi) and Maria (her.) So...yes. And many of the people we know will be participating, whether they wish to participate or not. We're excited, yes. And if this makes you excited, too, send us money. We love money. It will help pay for... something. Probably doughnuts from the Krispy Kreme of the future. But, hey, if it improves the work ethic, it's worth it, right?

    And, it's two-for-one entry day!

    Princess Di is Priceless

    Di: My grandmother is a trash-talking card princess.

    [Diana's family is playing Taboo, and Diana on her family playing Taboo]

    Di: Beloved Aunt Cheryl seemed to think the Amazon river was somewhere in Africa.

    "Boys wear these to prom."

    BAC: You've heard a lot of these in your life.
    Di: Lies?

    "Boys do this a lot."
    Di's Mutti: [after cackling] You're going to have to give us a lot more than that.

    New LJ Entry

    100 Things About Me: 1-53

    Me: [reading off a pamphlet.] "Booby Fisher." How much do you want to bet that was supposed to be "Bobby Fisher?"

    Betty did her round off-back handspring-back tucks. Let's all clap for Aunt Betty, she just did something really hard! (Those of you who don't get it, it's from Return to Me, the cutest girl movie ever made.)

    Happy Easter

    I can swear again, you bitches. Haha.


    Yu-Gi-Oh. That's all. Just Yu-Gi-Oh.

    In eight hours, I can swear again. This is, sadly, the highlight of my day.

    Mom: [on her cell phone at Target] Do you know what kind of Yu-Gi-Oh cards your brother likes?
    Me: Um. [Very long pause.] No, actually.
    [Mother proceeds to rattle off about forty bizarre, pretentious names that one can assume is the product of Japanese words being lost in translation. Are Yu-Gi-Oh cards even made in Japan? I don't know.]
    Me: I have no clue.

    I have convinced my dog that I am the weirdest human being in this house. This morning, I put one of her toys on my lap (I was kneeling the lazy way with my knees on my butt.) Then, I proceeded to wave my arms in the air for no good reason at all. She just looked at me in this hilariously blank way and my mom yelled at me because I'm mean to the dog and I was, apparently, confusing her. But, seriously, if you have a dog that doesn't have fleas (::cough::Betty's dog, Fleabiscuit::cough::), try it. It's worth it all for the blank dog stare.

    Cate Has a LiveJournal

    Okay, sometimes my posts get a bit long to be blogged, or I have something a bit more indepth to say. So now I've got a LiveJournal. I'm only going to use it for long entries; I'll still use the blog primarily, but when I do have an entry, I'll post a link to it on here.

    Here it is.


    The Door Incident

    My mom's friend came to drop off this wonky machine that puts holes in things today. Unfortunately, it's very dark out and my dog started barking maniacally, so I panicked a bit. I was in the computer room, and there's a swinging door between the computer room and the kitchen. And I walked right into it. And, of course, my mother's friend saw.

    Mom's Friend: Sorry I scared you.
    Me: Yeah. I walked into a door.
    Mom's Friend: I saw that.

    My mother thought this was absolutely hilarious.

    My blog has been a result of searches for "Lesley Ann Machado," "Kelly Ripa's baby names," "Oliver Beene," "how to fake sick," and, famously, "Patricia Clarkson naked." Oh, gods. Is it sad that I'm more worried about the Lesley Ann Machado bit than any of the other ones?

    Then again, I just walked into a door. How the hell would I know?

    [Insert Title That Made More Sense in my Head Here]

    Okay, even that title made more sense in my head. But you can feel free to shut up about that bit.

    Fracking church. I have to go to stupid Stations of the Cross tonight. Because, apparently, my parents do not care that my brother and I had to do this yesterday morning. They just don't want us to be left home alone. (That was a joke. They love to leave us home alone. I think sometimes they just drive around, polluting the ozone layer and wasting gasoline, for the sake of leaving us home alone.) I don't understand why they're doing this. I mean, we have to sing these stupid haiku songs at the end of each station. It's like bad Goth poetry for catholics, really.

    Anyway. I saw Miracle again today. Such pretty people in that film. Ungodly attractive, really. Well, some of them, not so much. But the pretty people just make up for their comparitive less-attractiveness. ::Cate sighs wistfully.:: I love pretty people.

    Dear Anne Heche: Must You Talk Like You Are on Crack?

    Anne Heche is a weird one. She talks faster than I do, for gods' sake. And she seems so spacy. Not Daryl Hannah-spacy, mind you. Daryl Hannah-spacy is when you go on talk shows and tell stories about how you had to pull over on the highway because you forgot how to drive it. But, Anne Heche, you are spacy enough.

    In other news, I don't have to go to church today. I *heart* having working parental units.


    Chicka, Chicka, Chickabee

    I just took Entertainment Weekly's 90s Pop Culture quiz. Well, now I know where my 90s strengths lie: identifying the Hansons (with Hallie's help), identifying the Spice Girls, identifying the artists of one-hit wonders, identifying Alanis Morisette's ironies ("Isn't it Ironic"), Seinfeld, the Teletubbies, John Grisham novels (well, the titles are so obvious as to the plots), the names of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (and their favourite food), what Forrest Gump said to the president at the White House, and the secret basement meeting held on The West Wing. But, shout out to Jodie Foster's demented Nell lexicon made me obscenely happy.

    In other news, I love Jolly Ranchers. I am thanking Jolly Ranchers in my acceptance speech, because I am orally fixated (don't get any ideas, perverts) and need to have something sugary in my mouth to write well. So: Thanks, Jolly Ranchers.

    Hm. Can't Think of a Title.

    Hm. This day was excruciatingly dull. Except getting yelled at by the substitute, hereafter known as Mrs. Gibbles, again today. This time for screwing around with Betty and BB. Betty started laughing uncontrollably, so did BB and I, BB left the room and Betty and I managed to control ourselves but then she walked back in and she got the giggles again. I have no idea what we were laughing at anymore.

    Did anyone else catch Lorraine Bracco on Conan last night? Her story about Salvador Dali and the painting of the man with the red penis was hysterical. Albeit not as good as Allison Janney's Getting Mugged in L.A. Story, which is a classic. So many of my favourite people give good, charming, witty interviews, though, so it's rather hard to pick just one favourite. For example, Holly Hunter has the best story about being deficient in athletic ability, the Bad Pitching Story. And Patricia Clarkson has the best (only) Hockey is Sexy story. And the best Scary Clothing of the 80s Story. And Emma Thompson tells the best stories ever. So it's quite hard to pick just one, you see. Although I assure you that Lorraine Bracco is the official champion of Salvador Dali stories and Offensive Pictures of Men with Red Penises stories.

    I Lost Out on my Nerds Blizzard Last Night

    I'm peeved.

    And now I have to leave for bloody school. I think I will only get through this by remembering that I have five days off beginning tomorrow. Somehow, that doesn't seem like enough.

    And we get bloody report cards today. Gods. My parents already said that they know I've been working my butt off and don't really care if I fail algebra (I won't, but still), but the thing is that I don't like doing bad in math. I just don't like math in the first place. I think, really, that I would do better if I actually gave a flying crap.


    The Neighborly Lawn of Terror

    It occurs to me that my screenplays will be full of bizarre things BB says throughout her day, such as "It's times like these when I wish I was a dinosaur."

    But, also, I must also add a new element to my screenplay: the Neighborly Lawn of Terror. BB knows the lawn; as does her mother (her mother says if she ever got cancer and had a last wish, she'd like to pick through these people's basements because it would make her feel better about her own.) They have numerous strange things in their lawn. Multiple aquariums, a plethora of computers, bowling balls in the garden. They cut down a perfectly nice tree and replaced it with more bizarre things. I mean, they're very nice people, really, but... they live in Lawn Hell. You know it's getting sad when I'm wondering why we have a screen by our trash cans and BB's mom says we could just put it in their lawn and they'd never notice and it's the absolute truth.

    My new motto is, whenever I say something mean, "That was mean and horrible and catty, but I meant it."

    Cate Continues the Circle of Pimpage

    Miss Paprika, or Karianne D. 2's, journal kicks arse. And she pimps me. So I pimp her. So go. Because her journal kicks all kinds of arse. It is the shiznit. So go, bizotches.

    Untitled to Encompass the Vast Dullness of my Day

    I don't know what to say, so I'm saying something from yesterday when BB and I walked past the preschool room.

    Me: Oh, sitting in a dark room with a bunch of preschoolers. That looks like a blast.
    BB: But they're eating cupcakes!
    Me: Oh! Eating cupcakes in the dark! My favourite hobby!


    Cate Defends Her Playlist, or Why Joan Cusack Rocks My Face Off

    The 6ths, "As You Turn to Go": Just an excellent song. Stephin Merritt is the best songwriter. And it's on the Pieces of April soundtrack, which is a fabulous album.
    Stevie Nicks, "Edge of Seventeen": Okay. I know what you are thinking, that I secretly worship Stevie Nicks. That is not so. I not-so-secretly worship Joan Cusack. Cello, School of Rock? It's not as good without Joan's crazy hand gestures, though.
    PJ Harvey, "Good Fortune": Just a good song. All of her songs are good, but this is one of my favourites.
    Wilco, "Heavy Metal Drummer": This is the best song on one of my all-time favourite albums ever made.
    The Shins, "Young Pilgrims": These lyrics are the best strange lyrics ever. Stephin Merritt's are all deep and sensitive and whatnot, but sometimes, I need my weird musical people.
    Elliott Smith, "Baby Britain": Very upbeat, and, although I've never been there, I love Britain.
    Travis, "Flowers in the Window": Also quite upbeat. I don't usually like Travis but this is just a good song.
    Sam Phillips, "I Need Love": I've heard it in a couple movie trailers and was surprised by the title because it's mercifully un-cheesy.
    Weezer, "Island in the Sun": Possibly my favourite song of all time.
    Imperial Teen, "Ivanka": Actually, "Island in the Sun" is probably tied with this song as far as my favourites go. They played this in the thirteen trailer and I just loooooved it. It sounds like the theme song of a great 70s spy show.
    Jane's Addiction, "Jane Says": Fantastic song. A classic, really.
    The Pixies, "Monkey Gone to Heaven": Another classic from my other favourite alt-rock band of the 90s.
    Sparklehorse, "Piano Fire": I originally downloaded (shut up, I'm doing it legally now) this song because the title fit with a great inside joke of ours, but it's also quite upbeat except the lyrics are incredibly depressing.
    Fleetwood Mac, "Rhiannon": Okay, this is just a good song, even if it did inspire a bunch of hippies to name their children after it. (Sorry if your name is Rhiannon. It's a very nice name. Just tends to be found on the children of hippies.)
    Cake, "Short Skirt/Long Jacket": A fun, fun song that also has great crazy lyrics. I love Cake.
    A Band of Bees, "Sky Holds the Sun": A calm song. To wind down with.
    Her Space Holiday, "Sleepy California": McDitto.
    Suzanne Vega, "Tom's Diner" : This is less calm, but it gets me all revved up for when I restart the playlist.

    I don't know. I had a really crap day and I don't feel like talking about it. So if I don't write as much today as I did yesterday, you know why.


    Playlist Mixes and Why I Adore Catherine O'Hara

    The Onion: Who could you take in a fight?
    Catherine O'Hara: A physical fight? Um, someone sleeping.

    Here is the article. Hugh Grant's answer is also quite good; so is George Carlin's.

    Okay, as Princess Di already knows, I've become addicted to making iTunes mix playlists. They're the new mix CDs, which were the new mix tapes. So, here is a sneak peek into Cate's Driving Music Playlist. Not that I drive anything but go-karts and bumper cars. But if I could drive, what I would listen to while I crashed into a vast number of stationary objects.

    -The 6ths, "As You Turn to Go"
    -Stevie Nicks, "Edge of Seventeen"
    -PJ Harvey, "Good Fortune"
    -Wilco, "Heavy Metal Drummer"
    -The Shins, "Young Pilgrims"
    -Elliott Smith, "Baby Britain" and "Rose Parade"
    -Travis, "Flowers in the Window"
    -Sam Phillips, "I Need Love"
    -Weezer, "Island in the Sun"
    -Imperial Teen, "Ivanka"
    -Jane's Addiction, "Jane Says"
    -The Pixies, "Monkey Gone to Heaven"
    -Sparklehorse, "Piano Fire"
    -Fleetwood Mac, "Rhiannon"
    -Cake, "Short Skirt/Long Jacket"
    -A Band of Bees, "Sky Holds the Sun"
    -Her Space Holiday, "Sleepy California"
    -Suzanne Vega, "Tom's Diner"

    I'll explain my attachments to these songs in a later entry when I have more time. (I really do not have a Stevie Nicks addiction. I swear.) But in the meantime, feel free to tell me how much arse my playlist goes around kicking.

    I'm on my way to natural superstardom, bizotches.

    Someone linked to my blog! On their website! (It works better if you read that in your head in a squealy little fangirl voice. Although I'm sure that no one but Holly Hunter has the natural little-kid-osity that my voice has.) McYay! Thank you, Miss Paprika. Or, as your pretentious folk singer name seems to be, Karianne Darlington. I am the lunatic who replied to your post about the Lizzie McGuire movie with the demented snark of myself and my cousin.

    On top of being salmon-colo(u)red and having irrevocably strange hair, Kenneth Branagh talks even more than I do. Except pretentiously with lots of swear words thrown in for good measure.

    Cate, Meet Blushing.

    I blushed for the first time in my own recorded history today. As we all know, I do not have many epidermis-related pigments in my body and am, in fact, just about as white as you can get without being considered albino or medically dead, thus, I do not blush much. Today in language arts, Pat 2 and I were quoting O Brother Where Art Thou? and he said the line (in a very bad accent, may I add) "I've stated my piece and counted to three." To which I replied, "Son of a b*tch!" But the class decided to synchronise their awkward silence with my stage-whispered expletive. And we had the Stupid Swearing Sub, who told me, hypocritically, that I would be left with a warning. Well, she's sworn dozens of times and no one's given her a warning, ever, as she is obviously still invited to teach at this school.

    According to Tickle.com, my IQ is 117. Which is inaccurate because: a) I got mad at the last page and guessed on the answers and b) I have already taken the government-standard IQ tests and it's much higher than that at 178. (See? I'm not just a pretty face...) Although my extended family occasionally does not believe this and immediately buys into the fact that my other cousins are smarter (well, some of them) largely because their parents do nothing short of posting their report card grades in the newspaper. And, well, I'm sure their kids "apply themselves" in math. Which I don't. Because math sucks. (Another fallasy from the IQ quiz: I'm good at math problems. Um, no. Logic problems, yes. But not math. I guessed at the math ones.) And that is why you should not take Tickle.com's IQ test. Because it sucks and it will only tell you that you're good at guessing at math problems.


    What's Your Pretentious Folk Singer Name?

    Find out here on a name generator your very own Cate made. I'm Lilith Vale, in case anyone was wondering, and, no, you can't yell at me if your name sucks. It is wont to do so.

    "Is gassy spelled with two S's or three?" --Beans on Even Stevens

    B-squared and Betty will get that one. Those of you who don't, you really, truly do not want to know.

    I am trying to think of something more interesting to say. I got nothin'. I spent all my free iTunes songs. "Girl from Mars" by Ash is quite a good song; so is their song "A Life Less Ordinary" on the soundtrack of (duh) A Life Less Ordinary.

    Gods. My life is boring. I cannot even think of something witty to say about its dullness. I need some sleep. I think I have slept all of six hours this week. I only sleep like a normal human being when I need sleep desperately. Usually, I will stay up all night until about four in the morning just reading or writing or doing friggin' crossword puzzles. I don't need the sleep, really, to run like a healthy human being, so I utilise it in slightly more useful ways, and, when I need sleep, I will sleep normally. So it's not that freakish, just a bit hyperactive. Although there was one night on vacation when I could not sleep because I kept hearing these very realistic (read: not in my head) cat noises outside on the deck. So maybe my sleep habits are freakish. I don't know.

    What is happening to my writing skills? I'm discussing my warped sleeping habits as if people actually care. Perhaps it was all the gas I was exposed to last night. (Yes, I Febreezed my room. It doesn't smell any better.)


    My Wonky Clock

    I stupidly threw away my digital clock last year and bought a very cheap one from IKEA that is not digital (which would explain it's ninety-nine cent cost) but very cute. This new, non-digital clock is usually quite accurate, but it told me I had woken up at quarter to seven this morning (it was really 9:30) and I left my bedroom at what the clock said was 8:45 but was really 6:15. Screw you, wonky clock.

    Why Hollywood Video Hates Us

    Madre: (on why The Missing has an "R" rating) It's just scawy!
    Me: Oh, yes. Scawy indeed. If by scawy you mean Tommy Lee Jones' hair.
    (Maniacal laughter.)
    Me: Oh my gods! We're talking like Homestar Runner ("homestaw wunnow")!
    Madre: Sowwy. We'we all out of tape.

    (Moments later)
    Me: Oh my gods! Pieces of April! I love that movie! "Oh, mother, isn't every day just beautiful?"
    Madre: No, not really.


    Diana's Mutti Says I'm Gunna Be Famous

    And that just made my day so much better.

    "You are number 365. On a scale of one to ten, that is how much you are overacting." -Lars von Trier


    Betty will not be at school today and B-squared is probably ill again. Which means I could very well go insane if Franny B. is not there. And that my plans to go see my idol (okay, one of my idols) Patricia Clarkson and my boyfriend Patrick O'Brian-Demsey for the low, low price of $2.25 have likely been squandered, squashed, ruINed.

    [sarcasm] You know, I think the print on Ain't it Cool News needs to be a bit larger. I can't exactly read it. [/sarcasm.]

    So I'm bitter because I had a very very sucktastic night last night and my brother just had to squander my plans for tomorrow night (again, I cannot wait until I am shipped off to film school in four years) all so he could see LeBron James. I mean, come on, LeBron James will fade and die but my childhood will likely be immortalised on film forever.



    My Madre Can Totally Beat Up Your Madre

    Me: The Budget is a stupid arsehead theater!
    Madre: Why?
    Me: The dip I just spent half an hour getting through to announced that they won't have their schedules for tomorrow until eight o'clock tonight, because, you know, they plan ahead so well.
    Madre: Whoa, what? Did you just call the guy a "dick"?
    Me: No! A dip! With a p! As in penguin or poop!
    Madre: [laughing] It would have been funnier if you said "dick."

    Debra Winger is a spastic die-er.

    Urs-jalon had a minor nervous breakdown near the end of the day which led her to dumb the trash can out all over the floor. I don't know why.

    I did quite well on my memorisation of the Gettysburg Address today, which proves that doing yoga, memorising, and watching a very bad episode of The West Wing all at the same time is fantastic for your report card.

    According to amazon.com, Jessica Simpson's new CD is going to help me survive high school, and Shadowlands is a great film about greiving. In which Debra Winger, not surprisingly, dies. I am not sure why I hate Debra Winger and her compulsive deaths so much.

    A Love Letter to Yahoo TV Search

    Since I have discovered Yahoo TV Search, my television life is looking much more optimistic. O Brother Where Art Thou? is on tomorrow night! I am immensely overjoyed. Then, at eleven the next morning, my favourite episode of NYPD Blue is on the telly. Then, that night, Junior is on but, as much as I adore Emma Thompson, I don't know if I am willing to sit through two and a half hours of the worst movie ever made (with the small exception of Honey.)

    Anyway. I am trying think of a great O Brother... quote to wrap this up, but all I can come up with is: "R-U-N-N-O-F-T" and "You two are dumber than a bag of hammers." And those really aren't working for me this morning.