Wednesday, June 29, 2005

How Bored are Thee? Let me Count the Ways...

I think today is going to be one of those clusterfuck days... I'm looking at my to-do list and it's half a mile long (hey, I don't have that much work to do, I can't exagerate to you sweet reader and claim that it's a mile long, because that would be wrong). Now if I put my mind to it right now and bore down and got motivated myself to get this work done, I could be done by 3 p.m., just in time for the Ellen Degeneres Show.

But as I look at this to-do list, I see each item as something that I just don't want to do. Draft bylined article? Uhm no thanks. Finish other bylined article that I started two weeks ago? No thanks either. Call reporters who don't give a shit about new client's story? No danke. Edit press kit (which literally changes are so small I could get this done in under five minutes flat)? Not right now, ask me later.

And so instead, I've packed up four boxes for the move. At least I consider myself to have been productive with my procrastination, because really, I could have spent it watching Designing Women on Lifetime Television. Which really, no offense to any rabid fans of Designing Women (if there is such a thing), but the show is really not very good. I've been desperate enough in my procrastination in the past to actually watch it and not once have I laughed, chuckled, or even smiled during a single episode. So my question is why was this show ever on and who the hell watched it?

Anyway, the big move of Catwoman, Sweetie Pie and our army of pets is still 3 1/2 weeks away, but I figure that surely we don't need to use anything until then. And if we do, well, I guess we can just go buy a new one.

Yesterday was also a procrastination day, although I did manage to get some work done. Please, hold the applause...

In fact I was so desperate for doing something other than work, that I actually got half of my 33 thank you cards done. Well, that's a lie, I didn't write 17 yesterday. I wrote nine. I'd written the other eight on Monday night, making it my goal to write that many a day so that I'd be done by the end of the week. The problem with me writing thank you cards is that, you know me, I can't write short things.

After my bridal shower, one of Sweetie Pie's aunts actually made fun of my thank you card to her, saying that she'd never read a thank you novel before. This requires me to write in impossibly small print, so that anyone over 50 probably gets the card, attempts to read it, fails and throws it out without ever knowing it came from me. And then six months later they're probably thinking that I'm really rude and never sent them a thank you card.

Sweetie Pie actually came up with a great shower idea. He said I should have printed from my computer some "fill-in-the-blank thank you cards." Basically it would say something like this:

Dear _____________,

Thank you so much for the ___________________. I'm sure baby boy will think it's the greatest ______________ ever. We know that we'll get to use _______________ every time we __________________. Please know how much this ____________ means to us. _________________, (insert love, regards, or God Bless depending on who it's for) Catwoman

And Sweetie Pie said I could have my shower assistant fill in the blanks for me as I open the gifts and then hand them to the person when they leave the shower.

Which I have to say, is not a bad idea efficiency-wise, but etiquette-wise, I'm sure Miss Manners would totally have a cow over.

Thank you cards are a funny thing though. I had to go to a bridal shower on my birthday last year. Not exactly how I wanted to party on my last birthday in my 20s. And especially when it's for one of Sweetie Pie's cousins on the side of the family nobody likes. But I went to make his grandmother happy.

Anyway, months go by and no thank you cards. Then, all of a sudden, in March or April, the cousin announces she's pregnant. And two weeks later, boom! Here comes the thank you card for the wedding present. Now call me cynical, but right away I thought that the only reason we got a thank you card was to ensure that she received a baby gift.

Yes, I think evil thoughts. But I don't care. If she has a girl, the only thing she's getting from me is the pink blanket somebody for some unknown reason gave me at my baby boy's shower.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, June 28, 2005

Belly Flops are a Bad Idea...

I've been a klutz for as long as I remember. I'm sure that when I was growing up, the adults around me would think "she's growing up and trying to get used to her growing body, it's a phase that she'll grow out of." But I only grew to be 5'3" (161 cm for those of you who don't understand that other non-metric system, like me). Actually, I recently found my Canadian citizenship card which was done when I was 13 years old. Let's forget the fact right now that I had the worst haircut ever (no really, I look like a gay boy on it) and that I have a giant red zit on the tip of my nose so that I look like I could lead Santa's sleigh during a power outage (or whatever the reason for him using Rudolph was), but what amazed me most was that in the info section, it said that I was 159 cm at age 13.

That means that during the rest of my puberty I grew by exactly one inch or two centimeters. I guess the fact that I pocketed the lunch money my mom gave me by buying just an icecream bar and a small container of chocolate milk has come back and bitten me. Goes to show, you can't live on dairy products alone.

But I diggress... The point is that growing up with my bad hair cuts, awkward personality and passion for reading the dictionary (I'm not making that up. I started when I was 7. Yes, I was a nerd), I was also defined by my extreme klutziness.

Amazingly, I've never broken a single bone. My guardian angel has been trying to get unionized for years due to the extremely long hours and lack of vacation time this feat has involved. I've sprained one knee skiing, that's it.

Now, you probably think "oh catwoman, all kids are clumsy! That's part of their charm!"

But I tell you sweet reader, I am a whole new level of clumsy. When I was nine, I fell into an empty pool. In the deep end. No one to this day understands how I managed to do this. A friend of mine at the time was having a pool put in at her house (well, she was nine, so I'm fairly certain this was her parents' decision) and I was over there, obviously not to swim, I guess just to hang out or whatever nine year olds did back in the early 80s. We were standing in her yard and her large dog was standing beside me. The theory is that he must have wagged his tail (he was a mastiff in my defense) which the motion of that large tail either pushed me in or cause me to trip into the under-construction pool. The doctor claims that the only thing that saved me from paralysis, broken bones and death was my little sundress, which acted as a parachute.

All I got out of the deal were two VERY skinned knees. I had wounds the size of 45 records on my little bony knees.

I also have a history for running into door frames, as if I was 400 lbs and was too wide to go through them. I slam into walls regularly, trip over perfectly flat carpet, fall down stairs and the list goes on and on.

But being pregnant, I've been extra careful. Becoming a sort of bubble girl if you will. I mean, I've still managed to run into a number of door frames. But hey, no one's perfect.

But Saturday night, I managed to lunge myself over a box. I'm not kidding. I got more air than the Dukes of Hazard in General Lee.

Most people upon walking into a heavy box would stub their toe, curse, and move on. No, I take that back. Most people wouldn't even walk into the box.

Me, being the graceful creature that I am, when encountering a box, I manage to hit it in the right way so that I can be ensured to flip over like a politician during election season.

See, what happened is that earlier in the day, I'd packed a box since we're moving into a bigger house with all of my cookbooks and then some of my mixes that I know I won't be using before we move. This box is very heavy. I don't know how much, but I know it's too heavy for me to try to lift it. So I just pushed it out of the way, a.k.a. in the middle of the hallway and figured I'd get Sweetie Pie to move it into the garage. Well, Sweetie Pie either didn't see the box for the rest of the day, or just thought I was redecorating and wanted the box there. Either way, that night, I was carrying the Saturday newspaper's pieces, which as we all know is 1,000 pages of newsprint that won't fold back together and therefore you're forced to carry it in front of you and have no field of vision left. I was also carrying on a conversation with our dogs, probably finding out more about their new quantum physics theories or maybe about whether Beggin' Strips really do taste like bacon. Either way, I was distracted. And being forgetful, I'd forgotten about the 300 pound box in my hallway.

The next events are a little blurry. I'm thinking some part of my body caught the box, which somehow caused me to fly in the air and land gracefully draped over the box after coming down hard from 8 feet above (pregnant women can get major air). I was hurting all over and at first it felt like I'd landed stomach first.

Sweetie Pie who was happily sitting in his recliner watching TV heard the following: Me chattering to the dogs, thud, WAIL!!!!!!!

After rushing over (the dogs beat him to it even though they had no clue what to do) all I could say to him was that I'd killed the baby. I was pretty much inconsolable.

But the baby boy's fine and kicking up a storm. Although he's moved to the other side of my body, figuring that the left side is bad news. I managed however to get two gigantic bruises, both the size of a very large man's fist on my left inner thigh, which leads me to believe that I somehow managed to land on my thigh. How one accomplishes this, I'm not sure.

But if anyone can do it, I can.

So now Sweetie Pie is looking for an infant carrier that, like the IBM laptop, has "bracing for impact" technology that will protect the carrier (and the baby in the process) when it feels it's dropping.

And I have to say, I don't really feel like I should be offended by that...

Love,

Catwoman

Friday, June 24, 2005

Tom, Please Shut Up Before I Go Hormonal on Your Ass...

OK, that's it... I've had it this time, really had it.

At first the whole Tom Cruise thing was amusing. The whole Katie Holmes thing (exactly what drugs is she on to think this is all perfectly normal behavior.) The Oprah incident with couch jumping... And I mean I'm one for peculiar behavior. At least once a week I say or do something that makes me cringe right away and wish I could wipe out the memory of those who witnessed it like an etch-a-sketch (or even more modern reference, a magnadoodle, which actually requires less effort to erase your mistakes.)

But let's face it the couch jumping was odd. And then the proposing at the top of the Eiffel Tower to an actress 16 years younger than him only six weeks into your relationship, well that's typical Hollywood, so we'll let that go.

But then, he really flies off the handle, and my annoyance has simmered for the last few weeks, but today, I have officially reached boiling point. Those of you lucky enough to work at an office and not watching the Today Show at 8:30 in the morning will have been lucky enough to miss Tom Cruise's interview with Matt Lauer. Honestly, I don't know how Matt, the pussy cat of interviewers, sat there and took that bullshit from Tom.

Fine, you're a scientologist. A religion started by a freaking science fiction writer. But I'm sure he's a science fiction writer with all the answers. Fine, you believe that vitamins and exercise are a better cure than drugs. If you happen to become the 1 in 3 people who get cancer during their lifetime, I'm sure running a triathlon will get you right over that. I mean heck, Lance Armstrong almost died of cancer, and I'm sure he didn't take vitamins or exercise and that’s why he got cancer in his testes in the first place. And I’m sure that despite the cancer spreading to his brain, if he’d just taken more folic acid or iron, he would have beat this thing, instead of having to take harsh drugs and probably losing a testicle in the process.

But then Tom, you go and talk about postpartum depression, something that as a man who's never given birth you know nothing about and go and say that you know that Brooke Shields doesn't feel better, that she only thinks she does? Brooke Shields, like her or hate her, is a smart enough cookie to have gone to Princeton University and graduated. Tom barely finished high school and can obviously be easily brainwashed. Somebody blow in the guy's ear to change his mind again so we get this over with.

But then, this is the part I find the funniest, is that he claims there is no medical or scientific truth behind psychiatry.

Really? Thousands of really smart men and women go to college for like 10 years for something that really doesn't exist? That's incredible! And so I laugh at them for becoming hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt to study something that is fictional.

I mean, hell, I went to school for a political science degree. Now there's definitely no science behind politics, I can guarantee you that. Why don't you pick on us political scientists instead Tom? And at least, I only blew four years of my life for my meaningless degree that I haven’t applied the theories I learned from one day in the past 10 years.

I have a number of friends who I know anti-depressants or other drugs have helped them. And because it's such a taboo, I'm sure I have many more who've taken these medications before and who just don't discuss it.

I'm a strong believer of never judging people when you've never been in their shoes. And Tom Cruise claims a doctor wanted to put him on ritalin and his mother refused. Is there anyone out there looking at his behavior now who doesn't think she made the wrong decision?

But the funniest part is that Tom Cruise had the nerve to call Matt Lauer ignorant for not believing that psychiatry is a fraud. He claims that he's done the research and that Matt needs to do the same. But have you really researched something if all the material you've read is from your freaking cult?

I'm going to start writing random ideas in my blog and not allowing any of my readers to get information elsewhere and telling them that I've done the research for them. I know, I'm sweet that way. I mean, hello Tom, are you that much of an idiot?

But here's my idea now. If any of you know someone who knows someone who knows someone who's ever been a crew member on a Tom Cruise movie or will be one on a future Tom Cruise movie, please pass along my idea... I want a bunch of the crew members to sue the bastard and what the hell, the producers and the studio for compromising their religious freedom.

Because Tom Cruise has a scientology tent on the set of each of his movies where he offers "massages" while scientologists try to convert those with tight muscles. Which seems to me I'd come out more tense than when I entered...

What other workplace would allow such a thing? An agency I worked at was owned by a Jewish family. We didn't have a rabbi on staff trying to convert us every day to Judaism. That's just not allowed! Just like people would take offense if the gay owner of another agency would try to "convert" someone to homosexuality, since those Christian fanatics treat gay people as if they have a "condition." Just like I can't walk up to you at work and say "hey baby, nice tits." Well, more likely, being a woman I'd say "wow, check out that package" or "let me see those soccer buns you piece of yummy ass, you." That would be sexual harrasment. So why is it Tom Cruise is allowed to religiously harass people at work and be allowed to say to them that their religion (which has probably been around for thousands of years) is shit and his, which has only been around for like 30 years is the right one.

I'm officially pissed. And I will make it my mission in life to get Tom Cruise to shut his big trap. Keep making your shitty movies Tom and spare us your opinion on things you know nothing about.

And Katie, don't convert from catholicism for this idiot. Our high school uniforms are the fantasy of millions of men. How many Playboy shoots involve scientology high school uniforms?

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, June 23, 2005

It's All About my Navel

Most people say that they look back on their years before motherhood and can't believe how self-obsessed they were. Me, it's the opposite, I wonder what the hell I used to do and talk about before I got pregnant, because now, the only thing I find fascinating is my own belly button. Well, that and Beauty & the Geek on the WB.

But this post isn't about the amazing makeovers of nerds, even though I could technically fit that profile since anyone who has seen pictures of me at 14 would agree that I looked (and dressed) like I was doomed to remain a virgin for life.

No, this post is about my navel because this is my blog and I can be narcistic if I want to. I mean, really, all blogs are narcistic if you think about it, because it's a bunch (10 million people according to a survey put out by a company I previously worked for and mentioned in USA Today) of people who feel they are interesting enough to write about their lives online. And then some people actually read the posts and pretend to care and the world keeps going round and round until some meteor decides to crash and take us all out of our misery, except for the cockroaches who no one understands why they're so creepy looking and so resillient. (random factoid: a cockroach can live a month on a piece of confetti. I couldn't live 15 seconds on that... Not without having a hissy fit demanding a can of pringles anyway).

The point is, that I don't think it's overly narcistic of me to post about my belly button, since this whole blog is just one large exercise in narcisism. And a few of my friends actually pity me enough to read this space regularly and now some new friends (a.k.a. strangers who I guess read this so they can think to themselves that there's always someone weirder (a.k.a. me) out there).

So back to the real subject of this post, my belly button, instead of my discussing the philosophical reasons of this post.

This is something I didn't really know until you got pregnant. I knew your belly got bigger, but I'm not smart enough to realize that this would impact your belly button. Yeah, I know... Watching too much reality crap like Beauty and the Geek is rotting my brain...

For those of you as ignorant as me, what happens when your pregnant is your belly button pushes out, kind of like that little plastic thingie on a turkey that when it's completely out means the turkey is fully cooked. So you can have a belly button that is so deep it's permanently attached to your spine, it doesn't matter, it will become an outie.

And so I've been monitoring the progress of my belly button very carefully, because this is really fascinating to me. And now, it's getting really good. You see, the first fold of my belly button has come out. I thought the whole thing would pop out at once. But once again, I'm ignorant in the belly button department. Instead, it's like a plant growing from a seed, you see a little bud push through the dirt at first, like some sort of alien thing. And that's what the top of my belly button looks like now. There's one little fold of skin poking its head, admiring the world (which for it, mainly consists of the inside of Sweetie Pie's old shirts. Must be quite the let down after all that work to get out).

Well, if any of you are still awake, I apologize deeply for the lack of interesting of this subject. I just had to get it out of my system I guess. Only 2 1/2 months left to go until I have baby boy, so that hopefully I'll have more interesting things to post about like the consistency of my newborn son's poop.

Just kidding!

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, June 20, 2005

Maybe She Meant Phat Lady...

OK, new rule of pregnancy... If a pregnant woman wobbles towards you, don't say "Hey, check out the fat lady!" This will never be taken well by someone, whether they've gained two pounds or 100 because of their unborn child.

Luckily for this person, they chose to say it in a church (actually, in an elementary school where my in-law's new church is meeting, a phenomenon I had never seen before I moved to Texas), so I felt it wouldn't be right to kick the shit out of them in front of the Lord.

But fleeting thoughts of very bloody deaths did go through my mind as I somehow curled my lips into a smile and replied a polite hello.

It's funny, because you hear all these stories about post-partum depression and one of the theories is that it occurs because all of the attention is on the woman when she's pregnant, but once she has the child, nobody gives a rat ass about her and it makes her depressed.

If that's the case, hold the Paxil, because I will be the giddiest person alive to have the baby boy to distract people from me. I mean, it's funny because I've loved being pregnant. I've had an easy pregnancy, nausea free, no real food aversions, no stretch marks so far (knock on wood on that one because I'm not done), but I've had absolutely none of the advantages. No one oohing and ahhing over me. Or worshiping me for the powers of my uterus. Or talking to me endlessly about my glow.

Hell, no one even opens doors for me, carries my grocery bags to my jeep for me or pulls chairs out for me. Zero special attention. Which makes me sad and feel like I'm ripped off.

But now with nicknames like Fat Lady, I'm going to cry with joy the day I have this baby. He'll be like my shield against the cruel world, because I'll become invisible and people can just ooh and aah over his cuteness, greatness and gummy smiles. And every day I will hug him and thank him and tell him his fat mother loves him more than anything else on Earth for making me "normal" once again.

And how can that thought make anyone unhappy?

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, June 17, 2005

The Power to Crush One Man's Dreams

I seem to never learn anything... It doesn't matter that I'm approaching a rather momentous birthday that is supposed to officially make me old and no longer a young hip person, if I ever was one. It doesn't really matter what my age on paper is, because I don't learn from mistakes, I just happily make the same ones over and over again. Kind of like how my dog will still chase the beam of light when the sun hits his ID tag. It doesn't matter that he's chased it a hundred times and that it's light, he'll still go after it like if it's a life or death matter.

In my case, the thing I seem to never learn is to not get excited about new business calls that sound like a dream come true.

The other day, I received an email from a filmmaker located in this area and I was so excited about it! After all, I am a Hollywood entertainment junkie (although I loathe the papparazzi and think they should all rot in hell). I know more about my favorite celebrities' lives than anyone should. Ask me anything about Hollywood gossip, if there was a Jeopardy! just on that, I would be the new Ken Jennings.

Anyway, the filmmaker gave me a copy of his movie and there's only one way to describe it. The. Worst. Movie. I. Have. Ever. Seen.

Now this comes from someone who has seen just about every Lifetime Movie that has aired and loves them. Who when she was first in college would see every single movie because her and her best friend weren't big party animals then (a.k.a. we were nerds) and would go to the movies, sometimes twice in a weekend. Heck, I even saw Free Willy 2 and Addam's Family Values in the theater. Insert shuddering here. And yet, no horrible movie I have ever seen could prepare me for this.

And the filmmaker had one request of me. That I tell him what I honestly thought of his baby. That I be honest and not work with him if I didn't love it. And Sweetie Pie told me I needed to just tell him this was the biggest piece of shit I had ever seen. And that sitting through the first half hour was so painful, that when the ringing phone interrupted our viewing of his work, I was convinced we only had a couple of minutes left to watch, when we were exactly 28 minutes into it.

So now I'm torn. I figured I had to tell the guy something, so I told him something about it being thought provoking. Which it was. Sweetie Pie and I really thought about how horrible it was and why would anyone quit their day job when they have so little talent.

But then the baby boy kicks constantly, and I'm reminded that he will need a pony, go kart and miniature porshe in the next few years. And that money would go a long way towards paying for these things. Although, more than likely this money would just pay for the Mac & Cheese we'll be living on now that we bought a new house at the top of our price range.

So what do I do? Do I do the ethical thing and tell him it sucks and walk away from the business? Or do I work with him and take his money and represent him the best I can, when he's not expecting me to sell that movie, but rather help him get more exposure?

This is why I need to learn not to get excited. Whenever I'm sent a cool sounding opportunity like this, I always forget that it's God's way of messing with me. All I could think of was my friend J. in NYC who is also working in the film industry (he's not a filmmaker, but I'm sure if he was he'd be much better than this guy) and how there might be opportunities for us to work together if I got this account. Is that selfish of me?

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

Adios, Mexico...

I can never go to Mexico ever again. Not that I've ever been to Mexico on vacation ever. But now, I won't be able to cross the border without the entire population of the country laughing their heads off the second they see me.

Yesterday, the carpet company finally came to tear away our three rooms' carpet with its 11 years of stains, use and general ickiness. By the way, I'm not a scientist, but I can tell you from having torn out myself our living room carpet with Sweetie Pie that carpet might be the nastiest thing on Earth. Cooties abound in carpet and it's really disgusting.

But enough about my preaching about the grossness of carpet.

The point is that because we're selling the house, we were having the carpet replaced. See, we've happily lived with nasty ass carpet for five years, but now that we're leaving, new people will get to enjoy a freshly painted house, with no cracks or stains, while we lived in a shithole. Really, it's quite unfair.

So anyway, yesterday, my doorbell rings and when I open it, half the male population of Mexico City invades my house and begins moving all of my furniture into our living room, so that it's now a multi-purpose room, a.k.a. office, master bedroom and baby room all at once. The ultimate lazy person's dream room in other words. Carpet gets ripped out, new one gets put in at dizzying speed. It's all good and dandy.

Since my Spanish is quite rusty, every time I'd hear laughter, I'd be convinced they were talking about the fat white woman in the kitchen (a.k.a. me). I know, it's stupid, but it's that leftover anxiety from high school that people must be making fun of me if they're laughing. And in high school, I was always right. So why would it still not occur as I approach my 30th birthday?

Anyway, after they had left and replaced our furniture mostly where it belonged, Sweetie Pie and I began the task of cleaning and making the house look good once again so the for sale sign could go up in the yard.

And that's when we uncovered a couple of horrifying things. It started with Sweetie Pie coming into the kitchen dangling my trashiest bra (and I mean that in a good way) saying "look what the workers found!" I must admit I haven't seen that bra in months, maybe even years. But let's just say in my defense that during the last six months, I sure as hell haven't cared where the hell that bra was.

And so begin the feelings of mortification. That a dozen men who don't speak English have discussed my bra that would make Frederick's of Hollywood blush. Well, probably not, but in my head it all gets blown out of proportion, due to the embarrassment of the situation.

Then a few minutes later, I'm cleaning off the bathroom counter where the workers dumped all the random stuff they found under furniture and in corners and buried in the pile is a tube of Good Head. Which is, ahem... An oral arousal cream. You know, you put on his private parts and it makes him all tingly and it's flavored, so that you don't have to taste penis when you're doing a certain deed.

Now I just want to fall off the face of the Earth, despite the fact that I will more than likely never see any of these men again. It doesn't matter! They know!

Sweetie Pie, of course, is laughing at me, telling me that this ought to teach me to be so messy. I tell him that they must have been saying "no wonder she's knocked up!" But Sweetie Pie's interpretation of their reaction to the Good Head tube is "Poor bastard, the tube's full!"

Typical man...

Love,

Catwoman.