Tuesday, July 26, 2005

If You Want My Body, and You Think I'm Sexy, Come on Baby Let Me Know...

I know that all two of you faithful readers just can't get enough of my graphic descriptions of the changes in my body. In fact, I'm pretty sure those are the reasons why the other one and a half readers I had have probably stopped reading. I'm starting to think that this blog is only read by my friend M. and no one else, which is funny because I spend most of my days talking to my friend M. by IM and always end up blowing my load by talking to her about what I posted about that day. So that when she gets around to reading this page, it's anticlimactic, because it's a rehashing of our conversation.

But whatever. It's my space and I'm sure someday I'll go back and read many of my lame hundreds of posts and roll my eyes about what a nerd I really am.

Anyway, here are the biggest and latest changes to my body brought on by Baby Boy.

1) My belly button has morphed into a gun shot scar. Which makes me look really bad ass. In fact, Fifty Cent has asked me to tour with him because my belly button now rivals his scars. It's weird, in every picture of pregnant bellies, women with innies end up getting outies, but mine's just not ready to face the cold world, and so it remains slightly tucked in, but really just flush with the rest of my stomach, so that it really does look like scar tissue. I haven't worn a crop top since I was like 18 or 19, but I have to say that I'm really tempted to buy one, because this thing is cool looking. I wonder if the bloods or the crips are recruiting. Word to your mother.

2) I now have sausage toes. I've never claimed to have attractive feet. In fact, I'm sorry to diss all of you, but everyone has ugly feet. I hate feet. Feet are ugly, they smell and to me, the worst job on Earth (besides the portapotty guy I saw this morning on our street removing the dirty portapotty from the construction site across from us) would be to give people pedicures. Or to be a podiatrist and have to treat people's feet with weird growths on them .

The point is, that it's not like I'm claiming I had model-like feet before. But I am now retaining water, which I was wondering when that would occur, since I hadn't until this point. Well, it's happened and it's basically made my toes look like ten cocktail wieners with old nail polish on them. Bet you're hungry now, eh?

3) I have a misshapen belly. It's not round. It's kind of oval. But worse than that, because of my sheer lack of height, baby boy is just out of space in there. And so at times, in an effort to stretch me out I guess and not be so crowded, he'll push out on one side of my belly. Which leaves me looking like I have some strange hump or tumor.

Enough to say, even the oil change guys don't hit on me anymore. But at least I look like a Buddha and I can rub my own belly for luck!

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, July 25, 2005

I Think I Love You, So What Am I So Afraid Of

Nothing like starting a Monday with a Partridge Family Song, is there? I have to admit I'm a dork, I love "I Think I Love You." In my defense, it's the only Partridge Family song I love. Back in the days of illegal downloads, I remember finding and downloading a punk version of the song. It might be the mose awesome thing ever. And now it's stuck in my head.

One thing that I'm cherishing as I get closer and closer to Baby Boy's arrival when my whole life will be changed forever (can you feel the terror in that sentence? Yeah, I'm getting freaked out as this pregnancy is getting close to being done), is my lazy Sunday mornings. Every Sunday, I make myself my morning cup of General Foods International Coffee French Vanilla (I've plugged those bastards so many times, you'd think a lifetime supply would show up on my doorstep one morning, sigh) and while the water is heating up, I go get the Sunday paper way, way, way at the bottom of our driveway.

Which brings me to a side point. When the hell did paper boys stop trying to throw the paper on your front door step? I mean, they don't even try anymore. I realize that paper boys tend to now be 40-year old men who are trying to keep a roof over the heads of their families, but still. At least try to get it within 25 feet of my front door.

Anyway, I then read the whole paper cover to cover, starting with the comics. I know, I know, that makes me a shallow, uninformed person. But frankly, I don't give a crap. The Dallas Morning News puts the comics section at the top on Sundays, so obviously I'm not the only one. And it's Sunday. I want to relax and be happy, not start off by reading about murders, terrorism and Republicans . I save that for the middle. And finish with the food section, because it's yummy.

Yesterday was the bestest Sunday ever though. Because there, in front of the comics section was an IKEA catalog. Insert sounds of angels singing here.

For the past five years, there are many things I've missed about living in Canada. The real beer. The jokes about Americans. The CN Tower. And IKEA.

I couldn't understand how Toronto had two IKEAs, but Dallas/Fort Worth, the 5th largest market in the country had none. Yet Houston has one? Unfair.

But on August 3rd, my life will be right again. IKEA will open its doors and I will once again be happy.

The ironic thing is that our old house in Frisco was literally 8 minutes away from the new IKEA.

By moving, I'm now 20 minutes away. I moved away from IKEA. I hope they don't kick me out of their Swedish Cult where you have to wear an allen wrench around your neck and eat stuff with weird berries in it. Because if I were to join any cult, it'd be the IKEA cult.

I'm not just a believer of IKEAtology, that a huge blue and yellow spaceship with arrows directing you all the way around the store forcing you to buy more stuff even though you came in for a watering can that's right next to the cash register will come some day and drop onto your home large cardboard boxes filled with pieces of furniture and vague directions that only make sense once couples have consulted a divorce lawyer.

IKEA may be one of the greatest stores on Earth. I'm not kidding. And when I saw that catalogue, it took a lot of restraining of the hormones to not begin to weep from joy right there. I actually clutched that catalogue to my chest and grinned stupidly in my new kitchen. I'm not kidding.

And then I sat out on my patio and read that catalogue cover to cover. An IKEA catalogue is a serious thing. Not something you just casually glance at. It's chockful of ideas, and stuff that you didn't know you wanted or needed.

I dog eared pages and overwhelmed at being five years behind the IKEA curve from being in a deprived city, I had many, many pages. Too many to just shop from the catalogue.

So I then had to take a notepad and write down everything that I need to get. Without Sweetie Pie knowing, of course.

And then what Sweetie Pie and I need to get when we go there together.

Only nine days... I just can't wait!

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, July 21, 2005

You Want Reality TV? This is Reality TV!

Now, it seems they've done shows just about everything now. People stuck on an island. People stuck in a house. People stuck with ugly faces getting their faces fixed so they look like creepy plastic aliens. Now they even have a show about brats stuck in the Oregon desert (I didn't even know Oregon had a desert, so this was most interesting to me.

But really, nothing can match the drama of Catwoman and Sweeti Pie this week. Picture this... Two. People. Stuck. In. A. Beautiful. New House. With. No. Fridge.

Before you roll your eyes and go "who cares!" let me have you do this. Padlock your fridge and pretend it's not there for three days. Now try to survive. Go out and buy just enough food to make your dinner that night and don't keep any leftovers of any kind. Don't buy mayo, milk or anything that requires refrigeration. If you like sodas, learn to enjoy them at room temperature. And now repeat. Every. Day.

Cool, eh?

Yeah, not so much.

I think the fridge gods had decided that Sweetie Pie and I had taken for granted our food cooling device and that we needed to be taught the daily importance our fridge has in our lives.

I mean, we've never bought a Christmas present for our fridge. Or offered it a glass of wine when we're toasting whatever the hell we happen to be toasting. Hell, we've never even taken it to Six Flags.

Really, we are truly, truly bad fridge owners.

And so when our old fridge died on Sunday night (actually, it went into a fridge coma and we made the hard decision to respect his living will and pull his little fridge cord), we truly learned very quickly how important that fridge had been in our lives. The laughs that we shared. The funny smells it would put out when something would be forgotten in the back and slowly left to rot to a putrid unrecognizable mass. All these happy memories are just that now.

But SPCF (The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Fridges) is giving us another chance. Today, the kind people at Home Depot are delivering us a new fridge and removing the carcass of our old one (we decided to do the viewing of the body of our previous fridge in our kitchen, since he's too heavy for us to move) and from now on, I'm bringing my fridge to parties. So if you invite me anywhere, don't be surprised if I RSVP for three, because I know my new fridge will like to boogie.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

Oh Please let Me Have Money...

I have to admit I'm a wimp. I think I may have been an ostrich in my last life, because I'm perfectly happy just burying my head in the sand and pretending there's no problem. Since we moved into our new house on Friday, we've been spending a lot of money. I mean a lot of money. It's amazing how much stuff comes up or that you end up needing when you move. And just when you think, ok, that's it, there's nothing left in this world for us to buy, your fridge dies.

Anyway, today I decided that I should check our checking account balance online to see how bad the situation was. As I logged on, I swear I was getting heart palpitations. I learned a new chant though "Please don't be in the red, please don't be in the red..."

And I have to say, the chant worked. We weren't in the red. In fact, although we'll be dead poor and officially out of money tomorrow morning after I make the next payment to the birthing center, it wasn't half as bad as I thought it was. Of course, that would probably be because just about everything I bought these last few days I put on a credit card, cough, cough. But hey, you got to do what you got to do to survive, right?

Which speaking of poor people, it seems their standards are becoming a little high these days. Back at the old house, we decluttered quite a bit. We got rid of many things, including this lamp that Sweetie Pie obtained when his parents decided it was too ugly for their house. This lamp had a very wide see-through glass base filled with twigs and in the middle, at one time, sat a stuffed quail. Well, the lamp had been shuffled around and at some point, the quail flipped over on its back so that the lamp was now officially a dead bird lamp, rather than a stuffed bird lamp.

I called the Salvation Army to pick up our second fridge and all of our crap. They came on Thursday and when I came out to our driveway, everything was gone. Except for the ugly ass lamp.

Apparently the Salvation Army driver took one look at that lamp and went "dude, we're not that poor!"

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, July 14, 2005

No, No, Let me Tell You About My God

You know what makes me laugh more than funny animal videos on America's Funniest Home Videos? Yes, I know, you probably now think my IQ hovers somewhere below 80 for making that statement.

Jehovah's Witnesses.

I don't know why I find them so funny, but I do.

However, I don't find them funny enough to want to talk to them when they come to my door.

I was sitting at home pretending to work yesterday, in my usual uniform of oversized T-shirt and maternity panties (I know, I know, I'm sexy), when the doorbell rang. I suddenly remembered that George W.'s minion was supposed to come by the house to make sure that we'd made it uglier to meet their loan requirements, so while the dogs barked at the door, I ran to my room to put on some shorts that didn't match for the record and fought the dogs off to open the door.

And there they were. Two smiling women. Like they didn't have a care in the world. Bible firmly clenched in their hands, the shorter one says to me "We're going door to door encouraging bible reading."

Right.

Ironically, I go door-to-door selling what many in the religious would be sinful items. Well, I don't actually go door to door, but people invite me to their homes, they invite their friends, I pass around items that violate at least one, but maybe up to three of the seven deadly sins and then I sell it to them. I am a panderer of sin, thank you very much, but hey, a woman's got to eat. And buy cute clothes.

The first thought that I popped into my head when the lady told me about her bible reading quest was that our bible was actually already packed away, since the big move is first thing Friday morning. Then I wondered if I'd committed yet another sin, if maybe your bible is the very last thing you're supposed to pack in case occasions such as two random women wanting to read from it with you present themselves.

But all I could think to say was "This actually isn't a good time, I work from home and I'm on a long distance call with a client right now."

Right. Says the woman with the two barking dogs, because really that would be professional. But in my defense, the dogs wouldn't have been barking, interrupting my made up phone call if they hadn't shown up. So there.

But the women continue to smile at me. They're happy for me and my made up phone call. "No problem! Here is a pamphlet about shoplifting."

And before I have a chance to react, they're gone.

Shoplifing????????????? Excuse me? Who told you I was a kleptomaniac, bitch?

And this isn't the first time that I've had an encounter with a Jehovah's Witness that left me with strange literature. Last time, about four years ago, the woman at my door gave me a brochure about bulimia. Which also angered me. I couldn't believe she's think I was bulimic and still have the gut I've had for years. I mean, if I was bulimic and not 20 pounds lighter, I'd honestly be really, really pissed.

But here's the odd part. Is that I always end up reading the materials they hand me. I can't help it, they make me laugh. And I know that's probably wrong. But these people are funny.

The first article that caught my eye was written for young men. It was all about what to do if a woman was romantically interested in them. And the part that had me rolling was the following excerpt:

"What she mentioned, though, has left you stunned. She is interested in a romantic relationship and wants to know if you feel the same way. This may surprise you if you are of the opinion that the man should initiate a courtship. While such is often the case, keep in mind that in taking the first step, she did not violate Bible principles."

Well, isn't that a relief! That whore! I mean, what are we? In the 1850s? Women have gone to fucking space, we're in the Senate, we have football teams and most of all, we still have the power to grow another human being in our bodies. But we can't ask a fucking guy out?

Thank goodness the Jehovah's Witnesses are telling young kids, who are now known for having blow job parties from the age of 12 up, that it's not in violation of the bible to approach a guy.

I'm glad to know that when I was in my early 20s, got wasted and invited some hot guy at the bar back to my apartment, he wasn't worried about me breaking the bible's principles. Because I know that was a nagging thought in the back of my mind when I was horny and sowing my wild oats.

But even better, further on in the publication there's a great story telling kids how they too can spread the word about Jehovah's Witnesses at school. My favorite recommendation is that the child bring a shitload (my word, not theirs) of J.W. written materials and sprawl them out on their lunch table and sit there, alone reading their favorite books.

The article goes on to say that other children will be curious about the child is doing and inquire as to what the reading materials. When the child shares their passion for what they are reading, the other children will want to read the books as well.

Now, I was a nerd, geek and dork rolled into one, growing up. I got picked on, shoved, psychologically abused and even beaten up a couple of times. But never, ever did I bring religious materials to school and try to convert people to a religion that doesn't allow you to have a birthday party, my one chance to redeem myself each year and try to woo over people to be my friends.

Here's how I picture that scenario happening in 98 percent of schools, dear Jehovah's Witnesses with bad advice.

Scene: A typical middle school or high school cafeteria. Tables have initials and curse words engraved in them. An overwhelming scent of b.o., fart and bad food lingers in the air. Kids begin to pour into the room at the sound of the shrill bell.

A boy walks in, his little skinny body weighed down by 30 pounds of books and magazines. He neatly arranges them on a table and smiles at himself. He is pleased and knows that his God must be as well. He sits down and begins to read.

The cheerleading squad walks by. They spot the boy and begin to whisper. The head cheerleader walks up with her tray, containing a power bar and a can of diet coke.

"Hey freak, what are you reading? Comic books?"

"Oh no, my lady, these are materials about God and they make me oh so happy." (the child talks like he's from the 1800s because of what he's taught. He's also surprised that a girl has spoken to him without being spoken to first a la Alice in Wonderland).

"You're a freak, freak."

Cheerleaders walk away.

Moments later, the cool boys walk up after asking the head cheerleader why she was talking to the boy. They come over, knock over all the books, drag the boy outside and beat the shit out of him for no reason, other than because they can.

The end.

And if the above didn't happen. Don't you think that some kid at school would come home, say to their parent "some guy at school tried to convert me to Jehovah's Witnessing. Apparently I'd get to trick or treat every day or something, because they go door to door all the time."

And the parent, whether catholic, baptist, muslim, jewish, scientologist, atheist or whatever other religion you want them to be would flip out, call the principal tell them how their child should be able to go to school without trying to be recruited by cults and then the little boy with the reading materials would get in trouble.

I wonder if you can get a subscription to the Jehovah's Witnesses magazine. Because me likey.

I have to end this post apologizing for my making fun of another religion and if anyone of my three readers is J.W. then I'm sorry, but it's all in jest, really. I really don't know much about J.W.'s except for the whole birthday not-celebrating thing. Oh, and once I saw a stand up comedian tell this joke about how J.W.'s believe that only like the first 200,000 people make it to heaven and how if he was one of them, he would never go door to door or tell anyone about the religion, so that he'd increase his odds of heaven still having room for him when he died.

Don't most people base their religious knowledge on what they heard from a stand up comedian?

No? Really??? Huh. Who knew.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

Addition to Today's Post

Call me crazy... OK, not all at once, it's just an expression people, jeez.

Does fruit of my loin actually mean my unborn baby?

Or does it refer to my genitalia? All of a sudden I'm having doubts as to whether I used the expression correctly.

If I did, indeed, use it incorrectly, I apologize. I was referring to Baby Boy. I'm sure George W. has no feelings towards my genitalia whatsoever.

And if he does, then I suggest he focus on the larger issues at the G8 Summit rather than my "down there." Unless the whole G8 Summit is discussing it, which then is really embarrassing.

That's it for now, children. Hopefully I've clarified things, and not confused you more.

Love,

Catwoman.

George W. Hates Pregnant Women

I've always tried to keep politics out of my blog. Unless you count my recent rants about bad airline passengers and Tom Cruise as politics. If so, I'd suggest you give up your voter registration card, back away slowly from the table and poke your eyes out with a hanging chad.

But today is the day that I am obligated to discuss politics. Because I found out yesterday that not only is George W. out to get me, but he's making sure that the fruit of my loins (which is such a creepy expression. Mental note to self: do not use the words 'fruit of my loins' ever again.) pays for whatever sins or un-American thoughts about the crappy health care system (which all I have to say to that is I'm Canadian! I've had free health care my whole freaking life and now I've been charged $950 for a freaking sonogram. You'd bitch too!) I've had.

In case I haven't mentioned this before (notice how I have no recollection of any previous posts of mine, well, that's not true, I did remember that I posted about flight attendants and Tom Cruise, but that's all I remember), we are about to move. Now don't freak out, you two readers of my blog. I'm moving nine miles away. And I'm pretty sure that this new far, far away place will have Internet access and be able to connect to blogger.com since I've already contacted my provider and moved my account over beginning on Friday.

In order to move, we had to sell our current home, simply because houses are expensive things and money is something that we don't have a lot of, unlike Bill Gates and Donald Trump. Which is also why they never come to any of my parties. Bastards that they are.

Anyway, we were very lucky and happened to sell our house on the first day. Joy ensued, because as you know by now, I'm a ticking time bomb with some kind of human being expected to come out of my body within the next nine weeks. Anyway, the person buying the house apparently is poorer than we are, because she cannot get a normal loan and instead is borrowing money from Uncle Sam, a.k.a. you and me and the rest of the kind tax payers to buy our little shack.

I didn't even know Uncle Sam lent people money. If I'd known this before, I would have borrowed $50 from him last week to get these really cute sandals I saw and figured we couldn't afford right now due to the move.

The point is, I don't have anything against Uncle Sam's money. I'll take anyone's money if it means that I can move into our new house, which is really my dream home. But the thing with the government, and when I say government I mean George W. because we all know that as the head honcho, he's involved in every single decision that's made by his five million government employees, is that he is very anal.

First he had us change out electrical outlets in the garage. Which Sweetie Pie did himself, and only lost half an index finger and now vaguely smells of bacon. Then he wanted us to add some kind of pan under some unit that I'd never heard of. Whatever, done. Then George was all like "hey, you guys have 11 defective windows" and we were like "nuh-uh George. Or else all of our shit would be wet." The window guy came out to look at the windows W. claimed were bad and he was all like "uhm, despite the fact that I could easily make over 1,000 bucks off you guys right now, there's nothing wrong with those windows and I'd feel bad ripping off a pregnant barefoot woman standing in her kitchen." Ends up George W. doesn't know anything about windows and only one needed to be replaced.

So all the stupid repairs are done, the house is just about completely packed up, Sweetie Pie and I are living off of paper plates, when all of sudden, George W. makes another request on Monday, two days before we sign the papers officially selling our house to this new girl, saying that he didn't like the siding on the house. You see, the previous owner had a dog that repeatedly peed on the siding and our two dogs took over that duty when we moved in six years ago, and so in a couple of spots, the siding looks like a very small shark took a small bite from it. Purely cosmetic. The house isn't about to collapse because of this mild damage to the siding.

But George W. was apparently very upset that he was buying a house with slightly damaged siding. Even though Sweetie Pie and I had hired a handyman to fix all the minor cosmetic stuff before putting the house up for sale and he couldn't find the exact siding to match, since the house is 12 years old and told us that if he fixed it, it would look worse.

But George W. is creative. He now demanded yesterday that we buy 1x4 boards, nail them over the offensive piece of siding and paint them to match.

I tried to reason with W. via our realtor. "But it'll look ugly!!!! And it's a tiny cosmetic flaw! All of our friends who've come over to the house haven't even noticed it! And if they have, they haven't stopped being our friend because of it! And we're closing in two days!"

But to no avail. Despite the buyer hating the idea and basically saying she'd tear the boards right off the second she'd move in, George W. wouldn't budge. We had to make our house ugly, or else, we'd get no money.

And so yesterday afternoon, I sat in the backyard with 30 feet of 1x4 boards painting away in the hot Texas heat, trying to hold my breath so the dangerous fumes of the paint wouldn't hurt my unborn child.

Apparently George W. was told this at the G8 summit. That I whined about the heat and the fumes. But he didn't care. He said he was pleased the work was done.

I have to go now. The Secret Service is at my door, something about my blog being anti-presidential or something and me taking a trip to Guantamo Bay. Which I hear is really pretty these days, especially with the hurricane season upon us.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, July 12, 2005

You So Funny... Oh, Now You Let Me Down...

First of all, I want to mention that next week will be the one-year anniversary of my little blog. Which means I have made this last longer than 96 percent of my romantic relationships, 93 percent of my extra-curricular activities as a kid and it's also outlasted 62 percent of pilots that the four networks churn out every fall. So I say not bad at all and a pat on the back to me. Blogger is actually able to count again and said when I logged on today that I have 103 posts up. 103 posts over just under 365 days. That's almost an average of one in three days. Which ain't too shabby. I realize that the early days of this blog helped the average, considering I had dry spells of months at a time. But hey, you think Hemingway didn't have dry spells? And at least he was allowed to drink. So bite me and my expanding-no-alchol-allowed butt.

Anyway, yesterday I literally saw the funniest thing I'd ever seen on TV. I can't remember the last time I cackled so hard. I was laughing so hard that at times my diminishing lung capacity (because of baby boy's growth) couldn't keep up.

If any of you watch the A&E show Airline, you'll know exactly what I'm talking about. The rest of you are doomed to hear my lame recollection of the episode.

Now, I can't remember if I've mentioned this before, but in a previous life, I was a flight attendant. A job that I both loved and loathed more than life itself. I did it for three and a half years. Long enough to develop a deep hatred for all of humanity and want to move to a deserted island with nothing but a dog and a lifetime supply of chocolate. Well, and maybe a vibrator, because it would get a little lonely out there after a while.

But back to my flying days. As a sky hag, as we called ourselves, (but if you ever dare call a flight attendant that on one of your flights, prepared to be arrested at your point of arrival. We hate you mouthing off bastards who tell us we're flying waitresses. Because we're not. We're there to save your fat ass over ours in case this metal bird goes down and you're making it really easy for us to decide to save ourselves first you moron. Do you also yell at firefighters on a regular basis to make sure they don't save you when you fall asleep in your trailer while smoking crack and set your duct taped recliner on fire?) I've pretty much seen it all. I've had my ass grabbed more times than I can count walking down the aisles; a pregnant woman took a swing at me; a man was videotaping sleeping teenage girls' clevage; a man stripped down on landing so that he was wearing nothing but his seatbelt; a couple handed me their blanket before landing with a suspicious white stain after an overnight flight; a lady yelled at me because her window on the plane wouldn't open and called me a liar when I told her none of them do because we'd all get sucked out at 35,000 feet.

And the list goes on and on and on. But really, if there's anything I've seen way too many of is drunks. In fact, I've seen so many obnoxious drunks, that you'd think most flight attendants would swear off alcohol forever.

But quite the contrary. The best part about being a flight attendant, especially when you worked for a young charter company like myself is that everyone was your age and that you got these awesome lay overs all over Europe. And by lay over I mean you are given an hourly allowance to shop, eat, party and sleep with the straight members of your flight crew. In my defense, I never did a pilot. But I've fooled around with enough really hot straight flight attendants to start my own airline someday.

But back to my original point. Airline, the show. The point is that when I watch Airline, I get pissed most of the time, because half of the people on it are drunk white trash that remind me of my horrendous flying days. And the other half are belligerent idiots, who once again remind me of my flying days.

In other words, I just shouldn't allowed to watch Airline, because even if somebody from Southwest set a passenger on fire with a blow torch for no good reason, I'd still take the side of the airline.

But yesterday, I was actually giddy and enjoying myself. You see, in one incident, a male passenger was asking the girl at the boarding gate counter for permission to pre-board his wife. The girl responded she needed to see the wife to make sure she did in fact need to pre-board. He responded by saying "she's right here, next to me."

But there was nothing there.

The guy's wife was invisible. And although the girl kept trying to keep a straight face and telling him she couldn't see the wife, the guy kept getting more and more aggravated and upset. She asked how he got a boarding pass for his "wife" and he said they always use self-check in. The girl told him that she needed to see the wife's ID. The guy replied that she had put it in the bag which she checked.

The girl kept telling the guy that she was sorry, but she couldn't see the wife. Every time she'd ask him to say something to her, he'd reply "ask her yourself! She's right here!" And then he told her that she might be crazy if she couldn't see someone standing right next to him.

She finally came around the counter and walked right up to the guy, sending him into a complete fit "YOU STEPPED ON HER FOOT! OH MY GOD, YOU BROKE HER FOOT! GET HER AN ICE PACK AND ASPIRIN RIGHT NOW!" Now, this poor Southwest girl was really beginning to lose it. She calls her supervisor down to the gate, because she's concerned this guy is going to freak on the flight if someone happens to sit on his "wife" not realizing the seat is already taken.

By this point I am in tears I am laughing so hard. The manager comes down to the gate, the girl explains the situation to him and the manager begins to crack up. "Is this some kind of joke?" he says. "No," she replies "and here's her ice pack, I broke her foot apparently."

The guy tells the manager that his wife has finally stopped screaming. "She's always on me! If somebody's not stepping on her and crushing her feet, she's just constantly yelling at me." The manager tries his best to keep a straight face and finally gives in and tells the guy he can pre-board as long as his wife takes the window seat, explaining that pre-boarding is for people with disabilities, but the policy doesn't say anything about it being just for people with physical disabilities.

Well, I've been crying for about 10 minutes now at this incident, because this might be the funniest thing I've ever seen, when all of a sudden the crazy guy tells the manager, "gotcha!" and come to find out it was an elaborate prank that the counter girl came up with and asked this passenger to volunteer to do to get her manager.

And although it might be one of the best pranks in the history of pranks, I felt quite let down by the conclusion, because I wanted it to be so real, to remove my feelings of cynicism that tell me that I could die today, because I've seen it all.

All of a sudden, there was the chance that I actually hadn't seen it all.

But ends up I've been right all along. Which, for once, really, really sucks.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, July 08, 2005

When Did I Turn Into a Supermodel?

I've always hated those girls who whine all the time about how they can't gain weight. First of all, why would you want to gain weight? I don't care if you look like an anorexic freak, you're probably guaranteed a career in Hollywood if you disappear when you stand sideways. But second of all, stop rubbing it in the face of those of us who look at a Kit Kat and gain a pound.

But after years and years of worrying about gaining weight and pants not fitting and dieting to look good for special occasions; years filled with South Beach Diets, crash diets that consist of only lettuce and vinegar (hey, we've all been young and stupid, give me a break), low fat diets, gazpacho diet (don't ask), I find myself pregnant, allowed to get fatter by the minutes and supposed to enjoy this break from the whole diet and body image thing.

And yet, for the past four weeks, I have been in a tizzy because my weight gain has stalled. Last week I told my midwife "I haven't gained a pound in three weeks!" I was convinced I had somehow managed to stunt the growth of my child and would have a Mini Me come out in September, evil finger planted against his evil puckered lips.

The midwife actually looked amused and said "then consider yourself lucky." But now, a week later, still no weight gain.

And despite people telling me that I'm fine, I can't help but worry. Why am I not gaining weight? I've been supersizing my McDonald's for God's sake! I had fast food two meals a day for three straight days to purposely gain weight and yet nothing!

It's like my body has become this efficient calorie machine, out of the blue, on a mission to ensure that my baby isn't given the ability to grow at the right rate.

Why couldn't my body be this efficient when I was 21 and began developing a serious pooch, forcing me to spend my whole night in clubs holding my breath so that I'd look 10 pounds lighter. I'm sure the lack of oxygen couldn't have been good for my brain cells.

And I'm sure that once the baby comes out, I'll mysteriously begin gaining weight again, for no reason at all, except for my body realizing it didn't make me pay for all of my pregnancy's excesses.

This is how I picture the conversation going: My ass talking to my stomach:

Ass: "Hey stomach, how many calories does those 80 double cheeseburger combos (editor's note: with no cheese and no pickles, which leads me to ask, why does McDonald's not have a double HAMBURGER combo??? And then offer the cheese as an option?"), 32 Taco Bueno Mucho Tacos, 128 fried items combos at Chili's, T.G.I. Friday's and Bennigans add up to?"

Stomach: "Well ass, that's an interesting question... If you multiply the items by an infinite number and carry Pi squared and divide by the bad roots on her head, that would be about 100 billion calories."

Ass: "So should she weight 50 pounds more tomorrow then when she weighs herself?"

Stomach: "I say we give her a break and make it 48, it is her birthday after all."

What pisses me off more than anything though is that I've been turned into one of those whiny chain-smoking (minus the chain-smoking, I'm not a horrible mother, thank you very much) Brazillian (minus the Brazillian look or Brazillian wax) supermodels who do nothing but complain about their lack of weight gain.

And I'm wanting to beat the shit out of myself because of it.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, July 07, 2005

I Think I'll Pass on the Turds, Thanks...

I was at the mall this past weekend, and all of a sudden had to screech to a halt in front of the Godiva window. Well, screech to a halt is probably a mild exaggeration, considering I've got a gigantic belly now and don't tend to exactly sprint anywhere.

The point I'm trying to make is something caught my eye in the window.

They were turds. That's right, long pieces of shit.

Or at least they were something that was chocolate covered to ressemble turds.

And I laughed. Hysterically. I stood in front of this Godiva store window and laughed while people stared at the crazy pregnant lady.

And then it occurred to me that the turds actually looked like crazy black dildos, and then I was really, really gone.

When the paramedics finally revived me, that's when I realized that they were actually chocolate-covered bananas. Who has ever seen such a thing! I mean, I've seen banana splits before. I love chocolate-covered strawberries. But chocolate covered whole bananas??? Disgusting, phallic and obscene is what I say!

Maybe I just need to get out more!

Love,

Catwoman.

Sunday, July 03, 2005

My Dog's In Eskimo Porn

Any one of you with pets all suspect this. That when we humans leave the house, the pets let out a sigh of relief and go back to their real lives.

I've always wondered exactly what my pets did, but now, I finally have proof for one of my dogs. He's an eskimo porn director.

Now some of you might say that that's a very niche market. And I would tend to agree. But that's where my dog's brilliance lies, is that he's managed to find a whole new niche. Forget girl-on-girl, anal, interracial, S&M and whatever other hundred of porn movie niches there are.

My dog's found his calling and now, he's probably considered a porn industry trailblazer.

Let me reverse a little bit and explain how his career began and how I came to unravel his true identity.

Last holiday season, I was at Target, my mecca, doing some shopping and saw these huge doggie stockings. I thought they were funny and since it was only $14, I figured what the hell, I'm unemployed and hardly making money, I must have this. In the stocking was different toys and a few bones, all of which have been destroyed by my weapons of mass destruction dogs, who don't rest until every single thing given to them is shredded. They may have also worked at Enron for a while. Which would explain their desperation for money and their switch to the sleazy porn industry.

Anyway, our smaller dog (if 45 lbs can be called small. We're not talking yap yap lap dogs here) fell in love with this stuffed plush toy shaped like an Eskimo. It amazed me the stocking even had something like this in it, because despite the winter theme of all the toys, it did seem this was kind of racist with it being almost 2005 and everything. This little eskimo is wearing a blue parka and has this perma-grin on his face with very slanted eyes. See for yourself, I'm not making this up.



The point is, despite the offensiveness of the toy, our dog fell in love with that eskimo. He carries him around everywhere, sleeps with him, usually with a paw around his little Eskimo body, it's really quite sweet. But at some point, our dog decided there was more to this than just weird dog-on-stuffed animal love.

I got home yesterday from shopping and there it was, that little eskimo, propped up in a semi doggie-style position on one of our pillows on the floor. I mean, if anything, you'd expect a dog porno director to go for the doggie-style position. It's quite clicheed, but he's a dog, he doesn't even know the word cliche. But notice from the picture below how the Eskimo is still smiling, even in the doggie-style position. See, he likes it, it's not Eskimo abuse.



I swear that if Sweetie Pie had been home, I would have thought he'd placed the Eskimo that way. But this was 100 percent done by the dog. Or the ghosts in the house who have apparently one wicked sense of humor. Or maybe another three-foot cockroach found its way into our house and avenged the death of his cousin by violating the eskimo. Which just isn't cool, man.

Love,

Catwoman.

Saturday, July 02, 2005

Could This Day BE Any Weirder?

That's my Chandler from friends imitation. If you didn't figure it out until now, please re-read the title in a Chandler voice. There, now you have the full effect.

Not that it's that great of a title, but hey, you get what you pay for.

Anyway, I'm just sitting here in my maternity shorts with black socks and I realized that the further I get into this pregnancy, the less I care if I'm breaking fashion rules.

But that's really not what makes this day weird. If that was it, well then I guess I'd have a very low threshold for weirdness and then my head would probably explode just from having to be around myself.

Today has been a productive day, starting at about 6 a.m. since Sweetie Pie left really early to go to do manly things with two buddy of his somewhere next to the Oklahoma border. Something about four wheelers and deer leases, I didn't really pay attention to what he was saying when he told me. It might involve strippers and hookers for all I know. I was talking to his mother, a.k.a. my mother-in-law this morning and she asked me when he would be back. That made me feel really shitty, because I don't even know. I think it's today. Sometime. Maybe tonight. Not past Monday for sure, since he's got to earn money to pay for our new mortgage.

Anyway, while Sweetie Pie's been away today, since I couldn't go back to sleep I started doing stuff around the house. First, I washed all the dishes so I could then pack them, only to re-wash them at the new house, since I'm packing them in newspaper. Which is always ironic to me, that you have to wash your dishes twice. You really can't get away from only washing them once, because your options would be to pack dirty dishes. A great way to introduce the new house to mold and cockroaches. The other option would be to risk cancer and eat off the newspaper print covered dishes and try to remove from your mind that burly men in the newspaper factory had their nasty hands all over the paper and their butt coodies are probably all over your dishes now.

Lovely conversation on a long weekend, isn't it?

Anyway, I got bored (I know, I know, shocker...) and decided to go to my mother-in-law's to get one of baby boy's gymnasiums that I got at the shower in duplicates and return it to the Baby Mecca, a.k.a Babies R' Us. If you've never been, imagine a place the size of three football fields filled with baby things you didn't even know existed, let alone needed.

Since I'm borderline diabetic (or so my gestational diabetes test claims, but that's a non-fun story, so we'll just only talk about that when it's to my advantage, shall we?), I got hungry from talking to my mother-in-law and decided to have lunch at McDonald's at 10:45 in the morning. I know, a little early for lunch, but all I'd had all day was two slices of toast at 6 a.m. and well, I am borderline diabetic, you know?

By the time I get to the nearest McDonald's, it's 10:55 a.m. Well, actually on my clock it's 11 a.m. but that's five minutes fast so that I can get to places on time. So I place the same order I've placed a million times and there's silence on the speaker for what seems to be an eternity. Then finally a timid voice says "ma'am? We're still serving breakfast. Lunch time starts in five minutes." I tell him that I thought breakfast ended at 10:30. He responds that's only during the week and today is Saturday. I was turned away from McDonald's people! TURNED AWAY! Did they look at the camera and think "ok, she's getting awful chunky, let's cut her off before we get sued again?"

But now for my very scary story... Now there's a blog that I read just about every day that is just hilarious. I'd tell you where it is, but if I did that, you'd probably all stop reading me thinking to yourselves, oh this girl is so much funnier than Catwoman. And so much hotter. And so much smarter and more literate. So I'm not going to risk that, no sirree. The point is, this other blogger had a hilarious story yesterday about an incident with a spider that actually made water squirt out my nose. A story about a spider (which she's deadly afraid of) leaping to her face while she was trying to kill it.

Well, here's the bizarre thing... The same thing almost happened to me today. Except that it was with a three-foot tall cockroach. With really large fangs. I'm shivering just talking about it again. Let's just all be thankful this didn't send me into labor.

Basically, here's what happened. I was packing up the rest of our books from the top shelf of our fancy-schmancy built-in book shelf in our hallway. Anyway, when I removed the last of Sweetie Pie's three dictionaries which he doesn't use just like the other two he owns, I spotted it in the corner. Way, way up there, antennas moving, sending evil signals to the rest of the colony about being discovered and losing their only source for checking their Scrabble words. I screamed silently, because if they hear you scream, then they run and it makes everything so much worse. I ran to get the wasp killing spray, the only thing I have that will kill without me having to use a paper towel or a shoe and have to hear that horrendous crunching noise they make to punish you for murdering them.

Well, since I had to spray way up on the top shelf, about two feet above my head, I put my arm up and blindly sprayed. Well, apparently I sprayed too much and the river of wasp poison acted like a white water rafting adventure for cockroaches and made the eight-pound beast fall directly in front of me, narrowly missing my face.

How weird is that when I just read this other person's blog yesterday? Do you think the cockroach has Internet access and read this competing blog and thought "hmmm... Aim for the face, that's a good strategy." Or even worse, is there an insect Internet and the spider from the other blogger's story has its own blog and told its version of the story mocking the human's panic and that made my cockroach plan its near-miss attack?

I can't think about it anymore. It's too traumatizing.

One final thought today. What is with this whole Oprah Winfrey and Hermes incident? For those of you who haven't heard, Oprah was in Paris and decided to go shopping at the Hermes store, unannounced, 15 minutes after it closed. There were customers still in the store, who I'm sure had been there since before closing and who the poor sales staff were glowering at thinking to themselves "I want to go home you fucking snob! I don't get paid overtime and I still have to vacuum this place filled with purses made for pennies by children in Pakistan and sold to you morons for thousands." And then, all of a sudden, there's Oprah. And being good retail people and highly underpaid, they thought to themselves "fuck that! Desperate Housewives is on tonight" (having not been in France this summer, I'm not sure what the big hit over there is that the employees were wanting to get home in time for). Next thing you know, it's this huge PR nightmare for Hermes. Oprah is telling everyone that this is the most humiliating incident of her life. This from a woman who was once the victim of incest.

Don't get me wrong. I love Oprah. Most of the time. I love her show, although I think being a billionaire has made her a little too full of herself at times and she goes over the top with enthusiasm on her show at times. And the whole thing about her being on the cover of her magazine every single month? Not even with another celebrity! Just Oprah! Month after month after month. But that's not my point. My point is I like her.

But I'm sick of these celebrities thinking that they get freaking perks all the time. If I show up 15 minutes after a store's closed, even if there are still customers in there, they won't open the door for me. So why would celebrities, who get everything handed to them on a silver platter all the freaking time be treated any different?

Shop during business hours like the rest of us Oprah. And for those of you screaming racism, saying that if she were white, the doors would have been opened for her, well, I call phooey on that. When I was a flight attendant and treated like shit all the time, I didn't bend the rules for people. Their color had nothing to do with it. If you wanted to smoke on the plane, it didn't matter if you were white, black or a one-eyed midget. I was going to have your ass arrested. period. I mean, why not take it a step further? Why not claim that it's sexism, that the door would have been opened for a man, because all the male employees who work in an Hermes store must be gay.

Hollywood, I've been your trivia queen and biggest lover for a long time. But you're starting to get on my last nerve.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, July 01, 2005

The Loss of My Bikini Line

OK, first a really, really, really terrible admission. I'm not very good with the whole shaving thing.

I know that that's a horrible thing to say, but you men out there have no idea what's involved with being a woman. I mean, you guys get off so easy: you shave the face. That's a surface of less than a square foot. About 1/20th of your body. Us women, we're expected to keep half of our eyebrows off our face as well as regularly remove chin hairs, arm pit hairs, arm hairs for women who are very dark and very hairy, stomach line hairs, bikini lines and leg hairs. This adds up to about 70 percent of our body.

And that hair can grow faster than anything. There wouldn't be a deforestation problem if we could just plant a bikini line in the forest let me tell you.

So the point is, that considering most girls start shaving their legs at the age of 12, this means that we spend most of our lives removing hair in one way or another. You know the old statistic that we spend 25 years sleeping, 8 years in line. Well, I'm sure that if you total all of the time I've spent waxing, shaving, plucking and using whatever other products I've used in my time, I could have a Ph. D. in rocket science by now. But no, instead I'm a lowly PR person with constantly prickly legs.

Anyway, the problem with my expanding gut is that I can no longer see my bikini line. Three weeks ago, I attempted to shave/trim it down/weed whack it by standing in front of the bathroom mirror. The result did not turn Sweetie Pie on like I expected it to. It only made him laugh and laugh hysterically until he passed out and had to be revived by Dr. Patrick Ramsey on Grey's Anatomy. OK, I made that part up, but hey, let the pregnant lady fantasize a little bit, ok?

But it's funny, the one time I actually have an excuse for not shaving "down there" and I'm freaking out about it. You'd think I'd be on cloud nine. But no, all I can think of is that at some point in the next 12 weeks, a bunch of people in scrubs will be inches from my bikini line trying to yank baby boy out of me and I don't want them standing around the water cooler saying "man that is the hairiest bikini line ever." And I don't care that more than likely I won't be able to hear them, I don't know how I'm supposed to relax through the pain and push out a watermelon from my body if all I can think about is my overgrown bikini line.

Love,

Catwoman