Monday, November 29, 2004

I'm Pessimistic and Argumentative...

Which really just sucks.

In his book "What Flavor Is Your Personality?" Dr. Alan Hirsch,
neurological director of the Smell and Taste Treatment and Research
Foundation in Chicago, outlines the key personality traits associated
with liking a particular type of ice cream. Here's what your favorite
scoop (and mine) says about you:

Vanilla: Ambitious, impulsive and colorful with a busy schedule
Chocolate: Charming, engaging, creative and attention-seeking
Butter Pecan: Orderly, fiscally conservative and ethical with a strong
competitive drive
Banana: Laid-back and generous
Strawberry: Shy, detail-oriented and self-critical
Chocolate Chip: Successful, generous and competitive
Rocky Road: Interesting, charming and professionally goal-driven
Mint Chocolate Chip: Pessimistic with an argumentative streak
Coffee: Lively and flirtatious, but often stretched too thin

At first, when I saw vanilla, I'm like, yup, vanilla's my favorite. And then I saw chocolate and thought, well I love chocolate even more, and I am charming and creative, although I'm not certain about attention-seeking. Shut up, I can play coy.

But then I got to mint chocolate chip, which truly is my favorite and my stomach dropped. This is bull****. All of them say really nice things about people, except for my flavor. Obviously the supposed Dr. Hirsh hates mint chocolate chip. Or even worse, his cheating bitch of an ex-wife who slept with his brother, cousin, father as well the mailman and pool boy loved mint chocolate chip and ate it all the time and his feelings for her are coming out in this retarded quiz of his.

I hate stupid quizzes that make me look bad. Stupid quiz on Monday morning... Now I'm really feeling down. Way to go stupid Dr. Hirsh.

Love,

Catwoman.

Sunday, November 28, 2004

F****** Stupid Game!!!!!

Some people go to church on Sundays. Here's what I've been doing all morning.

I've only been able to get to the booby stage. Here's a hint: you must have at least two lives when you get to the 8,000 point level, or else you'll never live to 10,000 points when the booby reveal happens. Also, stupid ho does nothing but prance at the 6,000 and 8,000 point level.

Somewhere in a small village, German parents are weeping that horrible people like me are making their daughters strip online. But to me, it brings back happy childhood memories. When we got our first computer in 1986, it had the cool green screen. The concierge at my dad's hotel gave him all sorts of games on floppy disks, including strip blackjack. My dad, not computer savvy, gave us all of the disks and never supervised our playing on the computer. My sisters and I soon discovered the strip blackjack game and I was the only one who seemed half good at it, so my younger sisters would make me play while chanting "Take her top off! Take her top off!"

It's really not that disturbing when you realize that I was 11 and they were 8.

Oh, wait... It is that disturbing.

Anyway, this game reminds me of those happier times. I just wish I could get to the beaver stage, like I did when I was 11. Maybe I could have my sisters fly in to chant me on. Maybe that's the missing ingredient.

One more thing... The blonde ho is the easiest one. The other two wear way too much clothing. I mean what the hell is that all about.

Love,

Catwoman.

I Wonder If I Should Drink More...

I'm only worth
$2,212,454.84. I wonder if I drank more and had less premarital sex if I'd have been worth more.

Sigh... I wish Koree hadn't made me ponder this so early on a Sunday morning, when I'm trying to gather up the willpower to get on the scale when I haven't followed my diet all week...

Love,

Catwoman.

Saturday, November 27, 2004

Now This Is Heaven...

Today, Sweetie Pie left me. Not in that permanent, marriage over kind of way. Just in that "I have to leave for the day to look at ranches with my dad" way. Which I have to say was fine by me, because the thing I loved most about being single was having me days. And I had them once a week and I have to say that being married, me days are what I missed most, besides the electricity that precedes a first kiss with a new love.

Me days aren't very exciting. But they're my favorite. Me days are also not cheap. Because very often they involve shopping.

I told myself I wouldn't buy any new clothes until I lost another 10 pounds, but today I broke my rule and I have to say, I'm mighty glad I did. Because right now, as I'm sitting here in my new jeans, new tanktop, new bra, new jacket, new socks, with new nailpolish on my fingers and toes, I look pretty damn hot if I may say so myself.

The thing is that after Sweetie Pie left very early this morning, I needed to go to Blockbuster and return two very overdue movies. And once I was out, I decided to remain out. So I went to the post office and that made me want to go somewhere more exciting. So I went to Bed Bath & Beyond where I fell in love with... are you sitting down for this? A trivet. Two in fact. This is the kind of purchase that you deem exciting when you're an old married bitch like myself. When you're single, sexy lingerie is exciting. When you're about to turn 30, all of a sudden your heart leaps at the sight of a gorgeous trivet.

As crazy as it may sound, that trivet made me see a whole new way of life for me. If I could be the owner of a gorgeous trivet, then I had to become gorgeous myself. And so the trivet led me to the Mecca a.k.a. Ulta.

Now most men probably won't know what Ulta is. When you're a woman, it is only the greatest store on Earth. Even non-girly women like me see stars and hear angelic music when we step into Ulta. Ulta has make up and beauty things that you didn't even know you needed until you see them.

And so I grabbed a basket and I walked into Ulta with greasy hair that hadn't been washed in two days in a non-sexy Gap T-shirt and I walked out a goddess. Well, not quite, since my hair was still unwashed, my eyebrows still not tweezed and my skin unmade up, but the point is that I bought the supplies to turn me into a goddess.

Ulta is the kind of place that you walk into and think to yourself "I'm going to cash in this coupon for a free mascara" and then you walk out 60 dollars lighter. I bought shampoo, conditioner and smoothing cream specifically made for brunettes. I never knew that as a brunette my hair had special needs, but Ulta has taught me that it does. I also bought four nail polishes because they were having a two-for-one sale. I also bought eyebrow mousse. I never even knew eyebrows had their own mousse, but it was only four dollars and my eyebrows never seem to want to stay put, so I thought I'd make an attempt at domesticating them.

Well, after that, the shopping demon in me was released. I couldn't possibly have gorgeous hair and a gorgeous face and not have the clothes to match. So off to Willowbend mall I went to the clothes mecca: Forever 21.

I love Forever 21, because I figure that as long as I shop there, I can feel forever... well, you know.

The bad thing about Forever 21, is that despite the fact that its name sounds like they're targeting 30-40 year old women who are desperate to be ID'd once again by bouncers anywhere they go, in fact, the clothes can only fit prepubescent girls, so that those of us with curves, even on a diet, need to buy clothes two to three sizes larger than what we wear.

But the clothes are damn cheap and they actually make me look like I have some kind of fashion sense, so I love the place.

And I tried and tried and tried some more clothes on. I found the cutest pair of jeans that make my butt looks like anything from quarters to pennies can be bounced off it. Of course, if I was still single, some poor sucker would pick me up based solely on my butt in those jeans and boy, would they ever be in for a sad surprise upon the removal of said jeans. But the great thing about being married is that your other half understands that it's all an illusion and is just pleased that you're fooling his buddies into thinking you're hot.

I have to say that the makers of prozac have some competition with jeans. There is nothing that can make your worse day become your best day like the perfect pair of jeans. When you put them on and turn around and there's a butt that doesn't look like yours smiling its sideways grin at you, it's enough to make you weep. But of course, on those days where you try on 30 pairs of jeans and all of them make your butt look like two pancakes or two wobbly water balloons, then there is nothing that can make you consider suicide faster.

Jeans are definitely the ultimate friend or foe. You never want to piss off jeans, because they will crush your self esteem the next time you need them if you dont' treat them with respect.

So what have we learned today children?

1. Sweetie Pie will never leave me on my own for a me day ever again once he sees the credit card statement.
2. My ass looks great. Next time you see me, you better say so, even if you think otherwise.
3. Don't apply nailpolish in a dimly lit room, especially when you don't tend to wear nailpolish.
4. Shop at Forever 21 and cut out the tags so you never have to think about what size you're forced to wear.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, November 24, 2004

Half-Baked... Yes I am

Well, the good news is that my pecan pie didn't burn. The bad news is that Thanksgiving is upon us, which means that I've decided to make recipes that are way too complicated for me and that I've lost a whole day and a few hair trying to impress people who really, being family have no choice than to pretend to be grateful if I'd bought a pie bought at Walmart.

Even though I have no baking talents and only recently developed passable cooking talents, I volunteered to bake two pies for Thanksgiving at my mother-in-law's. It seemed like a good idea at the time and I'd gotten two recipes that just sounded oh so yummy: a sugared latice apple pie and a maple pecan pie.

After much worry and consideration, my friend S. told me that it was in fact ok for me to make the pies the day before Thanksgiving. Although I was doubtful, I figured that it beat getting up at the crack of dawn tomorrow.

And so I began baking. The first recipe seemed simple enough. And it was. Until I had to take the pie out 20 minutes into its cooking time and apply foil around the rim to make sure the crust doesn't burn. Especially since our oven gets its power from Satan's own personal supply and burns any food that even passes in front of its glass door.

Since I don't have a pie protector thingie and the recipe said I could use foil, I ripped little strips of foil to wrap around the edge.

Sounds like it would work right? Except that the pie plate is at about 450 degrees, the foil won't stick and everytime I put another piece on, the others fall off the pie. Which led me to say all sorts of words that begin with the letter "f" and I don't mean "Frankfurt" or "Fido."

20 minutes after the pecan pie had come out of the oven and was probably close to room temperature, probably forever affecting the chemical balance that even heat for 50 minutes was suppose to create, I finally got the foil haphazardly straddled on and the pie went back into the oven.

It came out and I have to say that it looks pretty good. Well, the top of it is a very dark golden, think... Hmmm... What's a dark golden... Oh, I know, think of a beautiful blonde who's hair has just been blowtorched. That kind of dark golden.

Anyway, overall the pecan pie turned out ok.

So then, it was time for me to get started on the apple pie. And if you think slicing thinly six apples sounds like it's an easy job, let me just tell you that it somehow took me close to an hour. Thank God my husband has a small family, because there was no way I could have possibly found the time to make two pies of each.

My friend M. after telling her of my pecan/foil frustration told me that I was supposed to create a ring with the foil before putting the pie in the oven, so that I could just place it on top when the time came.

Huh. Who knew my friends had freaking Nobel prizes in baking ideas. And why the hell would they not share their expertise before the neighborhood children all began to sound like they had Turrette's syndrome from my influence?

Tomorrow I make the Mac & Cheese. No, not the kind that comes out of a blue box. Really fancy kind with fancy ingredients like "gruyere" and "prosciutto ham." It's very delicious and very fattening as all great foods should be. I've made this before and it has become somewhat of a tradition for me to make it. I don't even know if Sweetie Pie's family enjoys it. I just know that I do and when I tell them I'm going to bring it again, they seem to frightened to suggest otherwise.

Happy Turkey Day everyone! And be thankful on this day that our white ancestors brought disease to the Indians and stole their land even when they were invited to dinner, so that we may have the opportunity to stuff our faces and blow our diets. Isn't the world fantastic?

Lots of love,

Catwoman

Tuesday, November 23, 2004

Well There's a New Sensation...

I'm always up to experiencing new things. For example, my diet said I was allowed to eat five wheat thins with a certain recipe. I can't recall which one, but I did buy a box of wheat thins. Although the diet specified that I was supposed to buy the low sodium ones, I decided to buy the ranch flavored ones instead, because they just sounded better. And boy did they ever.

I have a new love: Ranch-flavored wheat thins. Which is funny, because I don't really like ranch dressing. I like Cool Ranch Doritos though, so I thought that if the wheat thins were half as good, I'd be ok.

Well, they're not half as good. They're a hell of a lot better. I have since amended my diet to allow me to eat a box throughout the day and skip the other meals. I'm calling it the wheat thin diet. Although I didn't lose any weight last week and had to lie on my ediets profile, I didn't gain any weight either. So I think it'd be a good maintain my weight diet. The trick with the wheat thins diet is to eat a handful every five minutes, so that you're grazing all day. It keeps your metabolism up, while your tongue has the opportunity to kill taste buds one by one as they get overexposed to the fabulousness of the ranch flavoring.

But Ranch-flavored wheat thins are actually not what this post is about. Even though I really could publish a whole book about my love of wheat thins.

No what this post is about is a new sensation I experienced this morning in a torture class called Body Blaster.

First of all, I have to say something about the name. I love to have a blast. Because that means I'm having fun. However, the words "body" and "blaster" just don't sound like they should be together. And this class was anything but fun.

Now when I say anything but fun, I don't mean it was boring. Oh God, how I don't mean it was boring. I mean it wasn't fun in a "holy shit my whole body hurts" way.

And I kept thinking to myself as we worked each muscle until it snapped off from the joint so that I couldn't move it anymore that it was almost over.

But just when I thought I'd experienced everything I ever was going to, a new sensation took over my body. It's called a butt cramp.

Actually, I don't know for a fact that this is the official name for it, but that is what I have decided to name it. I've never experienced a butt cramp before. I've had gas, and other feelings in the buttocks area, however no cramp. You see, I'm not certain I've ever used my butt for anything except to remain in the seated position as long as I can.

But today, it was forced to move in positions that I didn't think were possible until it finally cramped up. Now the thing with a cramp butt, is that you can only work one cheek at a time, which means that while my right cheek stood rigidly like an old man on viagara, my left one was having a cigarette and a cup of coffee.

I had to stop the horrible cruel exercise the instructor was asking us to do, but then I realized I couldn't just stand there and massage my butt...

And here is the really scary part. As I sit here, waiting to get sorer and sorer with each passing minute, I realize that this class could be what I've been looking for and will definitely go back. Anyone got the phone number for a good masochist club?

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, November 22, 2004

Do I look Mystically Tanned, because I sure feel that way

Well, thanks to my job as a secret shopper, I had the opportunity last weekend to do an assignment in a tanning salon and I was given $10 to tan. Since I didn't have to pay to tan, I figured, what the heck, I would try the Mystic Tan. For those of you not familliar with Mystic Tan, think back of the Friends' episode where Ross goes into this booth to tan and faces the wrong way each time, so that only his front side gets sprayed with the self-tanner. So he comes out looking like a massive freak.

Why I'd choose to try this after seeing that episode is beyond me. But in my defense, the Mystic Tan people think that Ross's hijinks were great publicity, because they list it under their coverage section on their Web site. That would be like me mentioning in my blog that I was called a pizza face by my supposed best friend in grade 9. Being in PR I'm not absolutely 100% sure about this, but shouldn't you only list the positive things that were mentioned about you? But what do I know...

Anyway, I decided to do the Mystic Tan thing, because after years of laying in a bed feeling like I'm beginning to smell like a roast chicken, I have begun to worry that my boobs are going to look like the ones of the old woman in There's Something About Mary.

I know, it's all about shallowness in my world. But dang it, it makes me happy.

The girl at the tanning place was very nice. She showed me the video about Mystic Tan and then decided 30 seconds into it that it was too boring and that she'd explain it all herself. I had been taking copious notes until then and I became worried that this 20-year old very tanned girl with five percent body fat would leave something important out and that I would turn glow-in-the-dark orange like John Kerry did (note: Sweetie Pie only told me after I got home and told him what I did that Mystic Tan was why John Kerry was that odd color for a week).

Putting my life in the hands of that perky 20-year old girl was a leap of faith, but I felt ok with it. After all, I work from home now. So more than likely, I wouldn't have to see anyone but my husband for a week if I needed to.

Thirty minutes later, I felt qualified enough to be sprayed down like a cow at an auction. I began to undress (yeah, I know, I should not have put that horrible visual in your head) and without my glasses on, began looking for the barrier cream and the nose plug and the goggles and the biohazard suit that were all supposed to protect me yet allow me to be evenly tanned.

Well, here's what I've learned. If you're going to put something that sounds as important as "barrier cream," keep your glasses on. No questions about this please, just take my word for it.

Now here's the problem. I couldn't find the goggles or the nose plug anywhere in the room. Even once I put my glasses back on.

So here I was, naked as a plucked chicken wondering what to do.

And so I had no choice. I put my clothes back on over the barrier cream and went to find tanned girl to ask her about the goggles and nose plug.

"Oh, you don't need those," she replied.

I DON'T NEED THOSE???? What the hell is she on???? The video and the brochure both mentioned them. And then they both said something about how it would take inhaling 500 sessions of Mystic Tan to begin growin a furry tumor on the side of my neck.

I didn't know what to do. So I just crawled back to the booth, gulped and went into the torture machine.

There I stood in the weird position that the girl had demonstrated, my arms sprawled out like some inactivated puppet, naked, goggle-free and noseplug-free.

An ominous voice told me that my tanning would be activated in 5-4-3-2-1 and just as I was taking my last breath, an icy cold stream of some liquid began spraying me down from top to bottom. And just when my lungs felt like they were going to explode (a.k.a. 30 seconds) the ominous voice told me to turn around and that my tanning would be activated in 5-4-3-2-1 and then my backside was sprayed down.

Now here is why Lakik surgery is a good idea. Blind as a bat, I stood in front of the spray. Not in the back with the non-slip strip like I'm supposedly supposed to do.

This didn't cause death or anything like that. But it did cause me to develop racing stripes on the back of my leg. As weird as this might sound, it's really not that odd looking. And I'm pretty sure that if I chose to go for a run, I would be very fast now.

So how did it turn out? Well, when I woke up Sunday morning (the tan takes 6 hours to come in), I asked Sweetie Pie how I looked. He was blown away! All he could say was "whoah..." Which I think is a good thing. He told me my face was awful dark. Which really, is the best compliment a girl can get, right?

I have a white spot on my right arm, like I've been hit by white paint, but besides that, the tan is very even.

And no, I'm not orange.

The craziest part is I'm definitely doing this again. I'm looking about 2 pounds lighter tanned, so I'm thrilled.

Love,

Catwoman.

Amendment to my post on Saturday...

Well, I was wrong... (don't expect me to ever say this again...)

Ends up Sweetie Pie wasn't freaked out by my pseudo-slutty past (which really, compared to just about anything on TV these days is oh so tame). Ends up he was drunk. As in sickly drunk.

Apparently while I was getting ready for bed, Sweetie Pie went outside to put something away and threw up. And apparently, that one puking incident led to many more. Which after I passed out led him to grab a couple of pillows and lay down on the couch so he could be closer to the guest bathroom.

Yes, I'm paranoid. And no, my husband is not a drunk because of me.

Love,

Catwoman.

Saturday, November 20, 2004

How to Turn a Relationship to Crap in One Evening Flat

Well, Sweetie Pie slept on the couch last night. I have to say that in 2 1/2 years of mariage and almost six years of knowing each other, that's a new one. I think I slept on the couch once when I was sick as a dog. Oh and a couple of times when I was really mad at him I went to bed in the guest room, but Sweetie Pie came and got me.

Well, there was no getting anyone for me. Because really, I was already asleep in a red wine haze when Sweetie Pie decided me he hated me so much he couldn't stand to be in the same bed as me.

The thing is, that technically, I'm mad at him. Well, not really mad. I was irritated, but now my head pounds and I'm over it. Point is, I was never mad enough to even consider sleeping in another room. Or maybe I was just too drunk for the idea to cross my mind... Either way, this wasn't my doing.

Let me explain what happened... Last night, good friends of ours, A & B came over for dinner. It was a nice dinner. We had beef wellington with scalloped potatoes and I made a caramel nut tart for dessert. Everything was homemade and everything turned out fantastic if I may say so myself!

We were having a great time. The wine that A & B brought over was drank rather quickly and the boys went out after dinner to get another bottle and get some cigars. Beer was drank as well. Everything was fine, until we started playing one of the games that I carry in my other gig. It's called Bottoms Up. It's made by Hustler. 'Nough said.

Basically what it is, it's a dirty version of the famous Cranium game. So categories are "Perverted Pictures," "Sexy Charades" and things like that. There are also truth or bare squares around the board. And one of those caused the end of my marriage.

You see, Sweetie Pie and I have always had a rule that we don't need to know about each other's past when it comes to sex. We have a don't ask, don't tell rule. Well, last night he broke that rule. And I can guarantee you that should our marriage survive this, he will never ask me anything else again.

The question the boys decided to ask us was how many guys have we slept with. I'll be honest with you, since you've faithfully read my blog this whole time, despite the large gaps in between postings. I lied about the number. Actually, that's not entirely true. I responded that I didn't know. Which the response I received to that answer made me realize that just saying any number, even if it'd been 10,000 like Will Chamberlain, would have been better than that answer.

But see, I always had a rule back in my single days that I would not keep track of the number of guys I've slept with. I figured out that as long as I didn't know it, I could never be called a slut.

Now some people who've only slept with one or two people would say "uhm... It's not hard to know." But the thing is, once the number reaches eight or double digits, unless you have a notch system in your bedpost, you don't really keep track. I'm sure most people on a rainy Sunday afternoon have sat there and counted out there guys or girls and have figured out their number, but not so for me, because of my rule.

So anyway, Sweetie Pie was really freaked out by this, so much that I finally said, "it's definitely lower than 15." Now here's the thing... I don't know if my number's 15, but just on casual estimations, I think it might be a little higher than that.

Well, apparently 15 wasn't the right number to say either, despite Sweetie Pie earlier saying that he'd slept with 12 women before me. So see, his number isn't far off from mine and yet I'm the whore. When will those stupid stereotypes stop?

So flash forward to the end of the night and Sweetie Pie saying a number of times that he didn't know his wife is a whore and I went to bed without saying goodnight. Once company had left, of course.

I fell asleep right away, since it was 3 in the morning and Sweetie Pie at this point decided he didn't want to share a bed with me, for whatever reason.

Which really, if the whole number thing is the reason, I don't even want to talk to him. I mean, I can't change it, you know? It's what it is. Why do couples choose to do this to themselves?

Love,

Catwoman.