Tuesday, January 25, 2005

The Fast Food Gods Hate Me

I had a meeting at the end of the world today, a.k.a. Fort Worth, a.k.a. 54 miles away one way from my house. It was a good meeting and I'm thinking it will be worth all that time in rush hour traffic and the gas. However, on my way home, it got to the point where I hadn't eaten in three hours, and that meant I was starving. And all of a sudden, an apple pie from Whataburger was what I wanted. I told myself that I would wait until I got to the one that was in The Colony near my house.

Well, after speeding there and running over three old ladies, two dogs and a squirrel, I managed to make it just as my eyes were bulging out of my head. And that's when something really strange happened.

I took the first bite of my junior burger and a clump of mustard landed on the collar of my white jacket. A few bites later and just about all of the toppings had landed in my lap, meaning that my crotch will permanently smell like a mix of onions and lettuce.

But then the apple pie attacked me. I don't know what temperature the pies are when Whataburger finishes frying them, but it must be close to the temperature of the Earth's core. Because it took me about 10 minutes to devour my burger, pick off the toppings from my lap and then inhale my large order of onion rings.

Yet, even 10 minutes after receiving my order, I took the first bite of the apple pie and permanently injured my tongue, which now ressembles a burnt piece of beef brisket. Just as I was silently screaming at the searing pain, a glob of filling landed on my lap, scarring me for life and apple filling permanently becoming attached to my thigh flesh. I tried to blow on the demon pie, but unfortunately that caused another drop of filling to latch onto my chin, making me dangerously swerve off the road as I screamed at it to get off me with my arms flailing in the air. Despite ignoring the pie for close to five minutes, the next bite made my lower lip automatically blister, a glob attacked my left wrist and another squirt of filling the size of a large slug launched itself next to the mustard stain on my jacket, to ensure that I could never wear this outfit again.

I don't understand what went so wrong. All I wanted was to eat. Instead, I received enough third degree burns to warrant a trip to the hospital. My favorite jacket is ruined and my jeep will forever be stained by this incident.

Enough to say that you won't catch me eating fast food again for a while. I need to heal first.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, January 24, 2005

Hello Baby, It's So Nice to Meet You!

I had the most bizarre dream last night. I don't know where I was, but I was laying down minding my own business when someone came over and told me they wanted to introduce me to my baby. And they gave me the most adorable little baby, wrapped in a blue blanket. Now yesterday, I had brunch with my SITC girls, because there's four of us and even though none of us are slutty like Sam, but instead we're all old married farts, it still feels like we're cool, hip and out of a TV show when we get together. Anyway, my friend N. said that she had a feeling that my baby would be a boy.

Now, I really don't care what it is as long as it's healthy, although little girl clothes are much cuter than little boy clothes and I'd love to have someone else to shop for obsessively than myself so I think I might be 52 percent hoping for a girl.

So anyway, now I have this dream where I don't have to deliver the child, which is really nice, and then it turns out to be a boy. So the question is premonition or not?

I remember once having a client who referred to her fetus as a parasite. She would tell us for hours about how the baby did nothing but feed off of her. It gave me chills when she said that, because I couldn't believe that anyone would even think of their baby that way.

But now that I'm pregnant myself, I can't help but be amazed that the fact that somebody else is hiding inside my body for 9 months. Someone that by the end of the process I will know more intimately than anyone else on Earth and yet I won't know them at all. The whole thing is so interesting to me. But probably not to you dear reader. I've also noticed that baby talk is so common with all of my friends now that it seems we don't end up talking about anything else. Now I realize that I probably initiate a lot of this, but at the same time, even I get tired of speaking about it. Which leads me to say a few things to those of you who have never been pregnant and either know me or know other people who are pregnant. I'm only 7 1/2 weeks into this process, so I'm not claiming to be an expert by any means, but I just wanted to share with you my list of the top five pet peeves of pregnant women as experienced by me so far:

#5 -- Asking me how much weight I've gained so far. Guess what, my pooch is not the baby. It's the belly fat I had before I got pregnant. The problem is, unlike before, I'm no longer able to suck my breath enough to suck in my stomach. You pointing it out to me, is likely to create an Incredible Hulk-like rage. Just like it's not ok to comment to people about their weight at a Weight Watcher's or Jenny Craig meeting, don't talk to pregnant women about it either.

#4 -- Don't talk to my belly before you talk to me. First, I'm not even showing, so you just come off as retarded. Secondly, the baby doesn't even have ears yet, so leave it alone. Third of all, I'm right here and I can see and hear you. Plus, when you bend down, you're just tempting me to knee you in the face.

#3 -- Questioning my decisions on how to give birth. Whether a woman decides to have her baby pumped up on meds, naturally or among a pack of wolves, it's none of your freaking business. If you're going to ask the question, don't attack her as soon as she begins to tell you. Women are very smart. Women tend to research things and find out what's right for them. You've never had to look up the pros and cons of water births vs doing it in a bed, so that means you're not an expert on the matter. Pregnant women who've taken kickboxing classes at the gym before can suddenly pack a powerful punch when you add the cocktail of hormones coursing through their veins. Just nod your head and say "that sounds fantastic." We're freaked out about giving birth already, don't make us go home and cry about it with your judgmental views.

#2 -- Don't tell us horror stories about your pregnant friends/sisters/neighbors. We don't need to hear it. We need to be left in lala land right now where everything is sunny and happy and filled with bunnies. Telling us about your friend developing some weird disease that made her legs turn black and almost had to be amputated is not helpful. On the other hand, neither is telling stories about people who had it so much easier than us. If you ask us how we feel and we tell you "exhausted," don't tell us that your friend Cindy still runs marathons at 8 1/2 months pregnant and placed in the top 10.

#1 -- Don't make us feel like a shitty mother and tell us things that aren't true and you don't even know about. A friend asked me last week if I was craving anything. I told her that I'd lost my sweet tooth and only craved spicy foods, leading me to pour tobasco sauce on just about anything edible. My friend's reply? "Ooooh... That's really bad for the baby." This sent me in a rage because one, I have enough hormones in me to kill a horse. Two, by saying this, my friend was pretty much telling me that I'm a shitty mother who's trying to kill my baby. Three, it's not even freaking true. I've read about 5 pregnancy books and have read just about every page of babycenter.com and iVillage. The only thing spicy foods can do is give the mother heartburn. So guess what bitch who is 23 and can still wear size 4 clothes, if Tobasco sauce makes me and the baby happy, I will drink it by the gallon. I gave up booze, I buy organic meats and vegetables, let me be happy about this one thing.

Really, if I could offer you one piece of advice, it's just don't talk to pregnant women. Your odds of living to see another birthday increase dramatically each time you run the other way (discreetly though, if you get caught, this will anger her even more).

Love,

Catwoman.

Sunday, January 23, 2005

I'm All Man, 100 Percent Man, But With a Working Vagina

At least that's what this Web site says. I copied and pasted two of my blog entries in there and each time I came up male. I don't understand this when I call myself Catwoman.

Wow, is it already 8:38? I'm way behind on my harrassing chicks and making noises at them from a construction site. I'll see you men later (adjusting my package as I say that).

Love,

Catwoman.

Well This is Awkward...

Seems that my Friday post did come up after all. Guess the government must have given up on decoding my randomness. Maybe they'll offer me a job to teach their CIA agents to talk in circles like me.

OOOOH! That'd be fun! And I'll do it for only $150,000 a year, so that I can giggle every night on my way home. And get the new Burberry purse in pink, which is obscenely expensive and worth more than just about everything I own.

Anyway, by now I've been busted for saying it was the bestest post ever and you probably read it and said "uhm, yeah, that's not very good. If this is the bestest, I'm going to stop reading this stupid blog altogether."

And really, I wouldn't blame you. But considering that I misquoted myself in my follow up post, which I sincerely apologize to myself about and hope I can forgive myself, even though I can understand if I never speak to myself again, I don't think that I can be trusted as an unbiased media source of information.

If you thought FOX News was biased, welcome to Catwoman land! Also, if you thought Bill O'Reilly was pissy, you should have seen me last night when I calmly told Sweetie Pie I didn't want him wearing his coat with the dried deer blood on it to our friends' house and he replied to me "you and the damn mood swings."

If I hated the blood on the jacket before, I'm really going to hate it now.

Love,

Catwoman.

They're After Me! That's Right! All of Them...

Now those of you who actually bother to read this blog every ay (all one or two of you) probably got pissy during the last week because I hadn't posted.

Well I want you to know it's a consipiracy. You see, I did post. Some critics were already calling it the bestest post ever. But then, when I clicked submit, my whole world went dark. Well, maybe not dark, but I did get an error message.

My heart stopped.

I reanimated myself. Thinking not-very quickly, I finally thought to press the back button while telling a friend about the situation in wailing tones on IM.

And here's the part that's really difficult to say. When I pressed back, my posting still wasn't there. The title was all that remained. Now, as you know, I don't do short posts. I know I'm not the bestest at posting on a daily basis and all that stuff. But when I do post, it's never one or two lines. No, instead, I offer you a mile long diarrhea attack of randomness. And apparently somebody likes that enough to now want to list me on their site. Someone who's not a friend of mine. The whole thing would move me very deeply if I wasn't already so freaking hormonal and moved so deeply about the fact that I have a split nail again.

Anyway, that posting is gone. And the idea of recreating it just didn't work. I had to do that once and the posting ended up being lame and flat. Even more than usual.

So I just sobbed quietly, while hoping the world would just swallow me whole. But then, I realized something. Google didn't eat my blog. My Internet provider who overcharges us way too much but who Sweetie Pie, the supposed computer expert says is what we need for him to run his computer business, wasn't responsible for this either. It's the government.

You see, in my posting I made an Osama joke. I said something the lines of "unless you live in a rock (Hi Osama, please stop reading my blog you freaking bastard)" and now I think the government thinks I send the Bastard secret messages through my blog. Maybe they think "catwoman" is the plot to get all cats to act as Al Quaeda minions.

Which really doesn't make sense. I can't even get my cats to stay off the kitchen counters. Let alone convince them to attack. Now labs could easily fall under the influence of terrorists groups. Our lab is so insanely busy trying to please us, I'm sure they could all be used for evil instead of good.

I hope the government didn't see my previous post, delete it and are studying it in an FBI office somewhere going "look at the randomness of the thoughts. It's obviously not a real blog. We have to read between the lines."

So I'm here to tell you nice FBI people (who if Without a Trace is accurate at all) tend to be very hot and very intense that I'm just some moron who read a friend's blog and went "cool I want one!" and has had absolutely nothing to say since but gets yelled at if she doesn't post regularly enough.

Please don't make me have my baby in jail... I promise to only post about bunnies and rainbows from now on.

On another note, we had dinner at a couple's house last night and they gave us a pregnancy diary. I didn't know such a thing existed and I really thought I knew it all. But here is my concern with the gift. One, I haven't written for the first 7 1/2 weeks, so now the baby will think I hate it. And two, considering at how good I am at blogging, I'm now also going to have to remember to write in that every day.

The interesting thing about the diary is that it starts with day one of the pregnancy, which is the last day of your previous period, when you weren't even technically pregnant yet. So what the hell would I have written there? I need a pregnancy diaries for dummies people.

It's a very sweet gift though and I was very touched by it. Although at the time, I was more starved than anything, so I think I might have paid more attention to the guacamole on the table than the actual gift. But hopefully friends would understand this and not take offense to it.

The funniest part of the diary is our friends wrote the sweetest note inside the front cover of it to us. I'm talking so sweet, the kind that on an emotional day will make me cry. But then, they also included the gift receipt from Target in case we wanted to exchange it. Can you imagine somebody else getting this book as a gift and being like "who the hell are Catwoman and Sweetie Pie you cheap bitch?"

Reminds me of that Everybody Loves Raymond episode where Ray's parents return the toaster that he had engraved with his whole family's name and when they go to get it back, a lady is telling the clerk "you got the names all wrong on this toaster, my kids' names are..."

Probably not very funny if you haven't seen the episode and are reading it in this manner. It's also the episode where one of my favorite lines in TV history occurs. Marie fights with Frank in the store and tells him "I'm not just a trophy wife you know!" That line makes me cry every time. But then when Frank replies "If you're a trophy wife, what kind of sick lottery did I win." Ah, that is comedy greatness.

Of course, if you've never seen the show, once again, probably doesn't come off as very funny.

But I'm hoping the FBI folks are big fans and they're laughing so hard right now that they decide to let me keep my little green card.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, January 21, 2005

Well Then Why Don't I Trade You a Swift Kick to the Ass!

By now, unless you've been living under a rock somewhere (hi Osama! Please don't read my blog anymore you evil bastard) you've probably seen at least a couple of episodes of Trading Spaces.

Here's what I don't get. Why in the world would anyone go on this show? The rooms never look great. Sometimes there might be one or two things that look ok, but for the most part, 80-90 percent of the rooms you think to yourself "what the f**k!"

Take this room for example.

If that was me, first thing I'd do is sob uncontrollably.

Second thing I do is kill my neighbor, right there on the spot for not having enough balls and boobs to say "this is retarded. I'm not doing it." But no, they grinned and painted everything I freaking own in white for 48 hours.

By killing them, at least I'd be sent to a lime-green painted cell where I wouldn't feel like I was in a straight jacket. That room looks just like an asylum in any movie! Just watching it makes me anxious and picture little men with big needles.

I think that my shock at the Trading Spaces concept stems from jealous feelings on my part.

You see, I don't have any neighbors. Well, I do. I don't live in the country for crying out loud. What I mean to say is I don't know any of them. Our neighbor across the street once saw Sweetie Pie in the yard working by hand and lent him a tool. Since then, no communication. I've gotten their mail a couple of times and brought it over there. I rang the doorbell to give it to them myself and say hi, but they didn't answer, despite the lights being on and me hearing someone breathing behind the front door.

Maybe we're just not likable enough to have neighbors we're friends with. But every time I turn on Trading Spaces, I'm awful glad we don't.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, January 17, 2005

Things That Make You Go Blah!

I don't know if I ever bought into the myths of pregnant women and the crazy cravings. Every time a friend of mine would be pregnant, I'd ask them about the crazy cravings, but none of them ever reported wanting to suck on oak tree bark or wanting trout with peanut butter.

And still, I know that I'm still very early on in this process, but I have yet to crave anything in particular it seems. I do however know that more than ever now, when I need to eat, I need to eat NOW!!!! We went out to eat on Saturday night at this local restaurant that we enjoy very much, me particular because they have the best chicken fingers in all of Texas. They also have awesome freshly baked bread that they bring out to you almost as soon as you sit.

Well, Saturday night, I was feeling ravenous. We sit down to order and our waitress walks away. But no bread. I'm standing up to see if the people around us have bread, but I can't seem to spot any. The waitress comes back, drops off Sweetie Pie's salad, but doesn't bring any bread. At this point, watching Sweetie Pie eating his salad makes bright spots explode in my eyeballs. I have to have f'ing bread, and I have to have it now! Can these people not tell the urgency of the freaking situation? If you think the tsunami was pissed off, just wait another minute to bring me bread bitch!

All of a sudden, the waiter for the section across the room comes out WITH BREAD! Houston, we have contact! Like a person at sea, I begin dramatically waving my hands above my head, knocking the table and Sweetie Pie out of my way (forget the fact Sweetie Pie offered me his salad. It has 1,000 Island Dressing on it. YUCK! How desperate do you think I am? PFFFFF!) And miraculously, the waiter, seeing the beads of sweat pouring down my face comes over. "We don't have bread," I tell him, lips quivering. Sensing the potential drama (he was wearing a wedding band, so maybe he's been through this at home himself), he reassures me he'll be right back with bread. And he was. The world was saved from nuclear destruction for another day.

On the other hand, I have begun to notice certain aversions to things. For example toothpaste. I've always loved the minty feeling I get from toothpaste. Nothing wakes you up like a good toothbrushing. Yet right now, it's 9:15 in the morning and I think I will continue to keep the fuzz on my teeth just a little longer.

You see, for the past few days, every time I've brushed my teeth, my eyes have watered, my throat made horrible gagging sounds and I could feel old food try to climb back up the digestive system. And those symptoms have gotten a little worse during each morning and evening tooth brushing incident. Now the idea of not brushing my teeth for the next 7 1/2 months horrifies me. It also would pretty much guarantee that I would never get pregnant again. But at the same time, I'm becoming more and more frightened at the sight of my toothbrush.

I read online that if mint toothpaste started freaking you out, that you could try kids' toothpaste. So I'm going to go try that and have the great breath of freshly chewed bubblegum for the majority of 2005. Oh goody!

Love,

Catwoman

Friday, January 14, 2005

Amendment to Previous Post

I just realized that The View is on ABC. And Desperate Housewives is on ABC. I love Desparate Housewives. I love Desperate Housewives more than I hate Star Jones. Therefore, I will make one exception and watch Deperate Housewives every week. But that's it, no other exceptions.

Oh, except for Lost. I really like that show too. And there's nothing on when Lost is on.

Oh, and Jenn is on the Bachelorette this year. And I really like her.

But that's really it. I mean it this time. Everything else, I'll watch on the WB. They don't like Star either.

Love,

Catwoman.

I Hate Star Jones

I don't get the whole Star Jones thing. She's morbidly obese without an attractive face. She makes everything about being black (why can't we all just get along bitch?) and she has the greed and personality of a troll.

Me, me, me, me, me, me, me. That's all I hear when Star Jones opens her mouth. Why on Earth would Continental Airlines accept to sponsor her wedding? And why the hell would they think "ooh! by being the official airline of Bitch Jones' wedding, millions will think 'I want to fly Continental too!' yes, that's it!"

Makes me convinced that I will never fly Continental again. And forget the fact I swore that four years ago when they stranded my husband, then my boyfriend, in Columbus and made him buy a ticket for $400 on a better airline so he didn't spend one of his two nights with me in Columbus rather than in Toronto with me.

But if there was ever a chance for me to change my mind and fly Continental again (oh, wait, I just realized that I did fly them because they had a dirt cheap fare to France when we got married), it will now never happen again.

I really hate Star Jones. If I had the choice between spending an afternoon with Star Jones or Satan, I think I would choose Satan because I figure at least he'd have interesting stories to tell. And good gossip. I'm sure he'd have good gossip.

But Star, which first of all has got to be the stupidest name ever for somebody, and her parents should be thrown in jail for calling her that if that is her real name is taking over the red carpet at the Golden Globes this year, and it makes me want to hurl my TV across the backyard. Luckily, pregnant women shouldn't lift heavy things, and that's the only thing preventing me from doing so.

But I'll tell you this much. I am done. I am starting a boycott of Star Jones and any network she's on. You're not a celebrity Star. And your decision to wear fur all the freaking time and cause the slaughter of thousands of animals just to distract us from your ginormous ass make me even angrier. The fact that you have no personality and choose to just suck up to all the celebrities cause me to spontaneously spew vomit just at the mention of you and an awards show.

So get off my screen. I want a no-Star Jones on TV week. I'm going to write to president Bush and tell him to forget about the rest of the world's problems and starting wars and all that stuff for a week. Give us something that will really bring all Americans together once and for all. That's right: the deportation of Star Jones on some desolate island.

And if you don't believe in my cause, just visit this. If it doesn't make you gag, then you have an iron-clad stomach.

Oh, and by the way Star, if you're reading this, I have one more thing to tell you: your husband's gay.

Love,

Catwoman

The Cost of Constipation

The past few days have been very difficult for me. You see, my oldest cat who I've had exactly half of my life this year hasn't been feeling well. And when an older cat doesn't feel good and you've had to make the difficult decision to euthanize two pets before, all you can think of is "please don't make me go through this again."

Me being the positive thinker that I am though, I have to say that I was expecting the worse. The cat had been throwing up for a couple of days, and the night before I took her to the vet, she was puking pure water, no traces of food or anything. But worse, the water was a pinkish tinge by the end of the night, which I took to be blood.

So the next day, off to the vet I went, in tears, with my wailing cat. The vet checked her out and said that she'd lost a lot of weight, 15 percent of her body weight, and recommended we run blood work. I took the cat home and Sweetie Pie and I woke up almost on the hour as the cat laid next to our bed throwing up regularly. Most people would be horrified by this and would have suggested the cat be locked in the laundry room, but considering it was just water being thrown up and the cat was refusing food anyway and the carpet needs to be replaced before the baby arrives, it just didn't matter to us.

I know, that makes us one of those weirdo pet people. But whatever.

And the lab results came back yesterday and showed absolutely nothing. So my vet asked that I bring the cat back and suggested we try X-rays. Well, I hate to get graphic on this blog, but what he found made me feel like the worst person in the world. Ends up my poor sweet cat is constipated. Not just constipated, but she has a poop blockage that goes all the way back to her small intestines. How horrible is that? (Even worse, how horrible is it for you that I'm blogging about my cat's pooping problems? But think about this, my poor cat will forever be known on the Web as the blocked large intestine gal.)

Four enemas later, my cat's pile of poop still wouldn't budge. When the vet told me this, all I could think of was my poor cat, who's led a blissful great life until then sitting in a cage as somebody's squirting water up her butt and she must have been thinking "what the f**k did I ever do to deserve this????"

Here's the worst part. My vet called me this morning and told me he was able to sedate the cat and manually remove the crap from the cat.

MANUALLY people.

Now here's something you might not know about me. I dreamed of being a vet my whole life. It was in my essence, my soul, every membrane in my body that my love for animals translated into me becoming a vet. But unfortunately, a sub-par understanding of complex algebra, trigonometry and a supposed talent for writing meant that I had to give up my dreams of vet-hood. Which devastated me.

But as I sat in my pajamas in front of "A Baby Story" as my very educated vet told me about successfully removing crap from my cat, all of a sudden I thanked God I ended up in PR.

So at this point, I've already spent $130 on my cat as of Wednesday on labwork and the exam. The mental tally in my head isn't sure of what all of the enemas, the X-rays and the manual poop removing will cost, but I'm thinking that the money that was going to go towards a new laptop for me is now going to go into paying for my cat's butt hole.

So next time my computer crashes, I think I'll expect my cat to crap me a press release. Because at the price of her butthole, I should get something better out of it than little turds.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, January 12, 2005

Knock Knock. Who's There? Your Dog. Your Dog Who? Your Dog Who's Running Away.

My dog has this horrible habit of scratching at the door. I don't know where he gets it from. Actually, I know he gets it from me, because I can't stand people being in another room or in the house when I'm outside, especially if there's a doorknob I'm not familiar with standing in my way.

But anyway, the point of the story is, my dog was scratching yet again at the door, when I was in the middle of eating a mini pizza in front of the Young and the Restless. Or maybe it was the Bold and the Beautiful. Either way, I'm sure that something half interesting was happening and that was why I was choosing to ignore my supposedly favorite dog.

The good news is that I have a cat who's smarter than me. Some would say that's not difficult, which to those people I would respond two minutes after their comment "hey! that's not nice."

You see, I was assuming that the scratching was coming from the back door, which is located against the back yard where the dog can be fenced in. It's also where he poops, but he'd be embarrassed at the thought of me sharing that with strangers. My cat, being smarter than me quickly realized the scratching was in fact coming from the front door, a.k.a. where no animal has ever been before, and was probably very pissed that the dog was getting to go there, when he in fact had been meowing in front of that door for years waiting for someone to open it and was always denied the priviledge.

After a couple of the cat's meowing being answered by scratching, the disturbing thought of the dog being at the front of the house, a.k.a. the big unfenced world slowly entered my mind.

I jumped up, opened the door, and in strolled my dog. As I stood there in shock by the potential gravity of the dog having the opportunity to run for his life, my very smart dog saw my mini pizza and gobbled it up in one bite. He then jumped up on the couch and went to sleep.

I was too stunned to even be pissed about the pizza. After all, my dog for the first time in his five year life had the opportunity to run away and instead, threw a fit to get back on the couch where he spends 90 percent of his life. It made me feel good to know that the idea of running away crossed my dog's mind and then the realization that this would actually involve movement made him go "screw that" and knock on the door.

But enough about my pets. I have a mystery that I can't seem to resolve. It seems that it doesn't matter how close I come to paying off my credit cards, each month, the balance climbs up to a level that's impossible to pay off again. And I don't understand this. I really don't buy very much stuff. I mean, I have been spending more than my alloted grocery budget and charging it on the credit card to get Upromise dollars for my future children and I have gone shopping for clothes that I will now not be able to wear in a month or two, but neither of these activities should add up to the balance I have. Also, I've learned that you can't cancel a credit card. It has taken six months and six calls for me to cancel a credit card with Bank One that I really didn't want anymore, because it gave me Southwest rewards and I never fly on Southwest anymore, so I could never get a free trip. I cancelled it the first time and I was proud of myself, because I did it only a month before I was going to be charged the annual fee.

Haha! I thought to myself. I'm so good!

Well, the following month, a statement came and there it was: a charge of $39. So I called again, and the card was cancelled again and I was told that the annual fee was taken off. But the following month, I received a new invoice, this one for more than $55, which encompassed the $39 annual fee, a $15 late payment fee and interest. Another round of listening to Bank One's wonderful selection of muzak and I was assured that it wouldn't happen again. Until yesterday, where I received a bill for $72. And I laughed and laughed and laughed. Until I called them. And then I wasn't laughing anymore.

It just seems funny that I get four to five credit card applications a day and I'm sure that if I applied for all of them, I'd probably have five new pieces of plastic. But try to leave them and oh boy.... Bank One kind of reminds me of this guy I went out with named Greg a long time ago. I don't think Greg had many girlfriends before me. He was obsessed with me and I could make him cry at the bat of an eye. I'm not kidding. I made him cry once a week just to see if I could. Eventually after three months, I got tired of Greg and his being the world's biggest pussy and I broke up with him. The break up didn't go well. I witnessed the seven stages of grief over half an hour. Shock, anger, denial, tears, the whole shebang. When I was finally rid of him, I was so relieved. I felt like Greg had turned me into a massive bitch because he let me push him around so much. Happy to be only a half-bitch again, I went back to my normal life. Only the next day Greg called me again and my call display didn't work, so I didn't ignore his call. And when I realized it was him, I had an "oh shit" moment. Except that just like Bank One, Greg acted like we'd never had the conversation. Like surely I hadn't meant to say everything I'd said and we would just continue on. At least, Greg, unlike Bank One didn't say that I owed him $72.

Which actually, I'm starting to think I still haven't gotten good at breaking up with people, because I switched to Cingular two months ago and T-Mobile didn't take to my unfaithfulness very well. They sent me a bill for $200 for emotional distress. I tried to tell them they have Catherine Zeta-Jones now and she's a much better catch than me, but they're insisting.

This is why it's better for everyone that I'm off the market permanently. I can't do very much damage this way.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, January 10, 2005

My iPod Has a First Name...

Ever notice that once you reach about 16, Christmas gifts just aren't any fun anymore? You get gifts like socks and sweaters. And yet you're supposed to act just as excited as you did when you got the scented My Little Pony that you asked God for every night (just in case Santa let you down).

But this year was different. I actually got stuff I wanted. Mostly, I got an iPod! It's not baby pink like I asked Santa and God, mainly because it was bought by Sweetiepie who's way too manly to ever buy something pink. But it is baby blue, which would have been my second choice, if I were given one. But here's the best part... My iPod has my name on it.

Some would say that's so I can remember my name more easily, since I had to ask Martini Gal what my blog's address was to blog today. Yes, insert your own joke about me not being good about posting here.

The only thing I always forget about Christmas is never to even look in the direction of something if I don't want it. A good friend of mine happened to get a poncho a month or so before Christmas, and I thought the polite thing was to go on and on about it. It did look cute on her. However, I'm of the belief that ponchos look like blankets. And I don't have enough cuteness in me to putt off wearing a blanket.

Sweetie Pie happened to be there during the poncho oohing and aahing, so guess who is now the proud owner of a poncho? No, not her. Nope, not her either.

Never mind. Stop guessing! I'm serious. Shut up right now. It's me you moron! ME! I'm the owner of a poncho now.

Anyway, you just ruined a perfectly good story. So the point is, I now have a poncho that I have to wear with a smile over perfectly normal looking clothes.

The story would have a very tragic ending, if it wasn't that my life, in the typical sitcom fashion that it's always followed where things magically resolve themselves during the 26th minute, Sweetie Pie decided he didn't like the way the poncho looked on me either. So I've been saved!

Well, this posting is probably a real let down. The thing is that I am keeping a very dark secret in right now. And it's kind of controlling all of my other thoughts.

It's the kind of secret that you're supposed to wait a while to tell.

Plus, I don't know if those of you who read this even care...

What the hell, I'll tell you anyway. Catwoman is pregnant with her own litter of catbabies. Well, hopefully not a litter. Hopefully there's just one in there. Because, really, there's only so much chocolate one person can eat!

I just hope I'm pregnant with a four year old, because that's the age I get better along with. Sweetie Pie always tells me babies don't like me because they tend to wail every time I get within six feet of them.

So now you guys get to live through my quirky thoughts on morning sickness, swollen boobies (should someone's mother really use the word boobies?) and other fun stuff like that. Hang on, it'll be an interesting ride!

Love,

Catwoman.