Monday, August 29, 2005

My Review of Life as a Pregnant Lady

I figured that since my days are numbered as living my life as a member of the weird cult known as pregnant women, that I would give my review of the whole experience for those of you who are about to get pregnant, are pregnant or think you might be pregnant some day. Those of you who have been pregnant in the past, this is probably nothing new to you, and you may disagree with some of the thoughts below, just like I think that Ebert and the other guy (who I can never remember because to me it'll always be Siskel and Ebert and the show should have retired in Siskel's honor when he went to the big movie screen in the sky) sometimes give two thumbs up to some of the worst movies.

So here goes.

Things I will miss about pregnancy:

- The belly: I have spent more than half of my life mastering of sucking in my gut so that I could actually look thinner than I am. Not having to do this for the past six months (I still did it the first three months when people would curiously peer at my stomach area when finding out I'm pregnant) has been the best vacation ever.

- The pregnancy clothes: Many of my outfits have been worn so many times that they could burn in a fire and I wouldn't shed a tear. But how can you not love jeans with elastic waists that just pull up no matter how many times you go to the bathroom? And those pants that have the adjustable elastic in them so you can make them as big or as small as you need? All pants should be like that.

- Hearing the baby's heartbeat: There's just something very surreal about hearing that sound for the first time and trying to fully comprehend that it really isn't yours, that there's something else in there. Actually, there's still something surreal and wonderful about hearing that sound at every appointment.

- The right to be completely irrational for no reason. I thought PMS was great, but now I know that it's for beginners. Once you've experienced hormonal rage without training wheels it's hard to imagine going back.

Things I'm not going to miss about pregnancy:

- The giant belly: Lugging around a gigantic watermelon around is exhausting. And lying down has gotten to the point where it's so excruciating, that I dread nighttime more than someone who's home is the target of vampires. No, I'm not exagerating, when my belly has caused me to sleep a total of 16 hours for the past 7 days. You try living on that little sleep and thinking life is swell.

- The lack of sleep: See above. It just needed to be its own category.

- People judging every damn decision I make regarding my body and my baby: "NATURAL BIRTH??? Oh honey, that's a huge mistake!" I'm sorry lady at the spa, what was your name again?

- No sushi and alcohol: How can anyone not have hormonal fits when they're banned these two wonderful items?

- Protecting your precious cargo in crowded malls or any other busy place: When you're carrying around a Faberge egg strapped to your body and people seem to swing their arms around wildly everywhere you go you're constantly feeling tense like some football player holding the ball only inches away from the goal line. The public at large should be forced to walk carefully in a straight line with their freaking arms strapped to them in a straight jacket. No exceptions. If you people can't be careful with your damn appendages and almost elbow me in the stomach on a regular basis, then that's just the way it's going to have to be.

Love,

Catwoman.

Saturday, August 27, 2005

Lost: Sense of Humor. Large Reward if Found

I'm to the point now where you're just better off not messing with me. If you see me, just pretend you didn't, cross the road and run about 10 blocks before turning around to make sure I didn't spot you.

I'm not kidding.

Because if you don't and you happen to say the wrong thing, you will be killed.

I've been blessed with a really great pregnancy. No morning sickness, no nausea (except for the time Sweetie Pie didn't empty the trash for a few days and the smell of rotting limes made me hurl food consumed 10 hours previously), reasonable weight gain (which considering I lived off cans of Pringles my first trimester is truly amazing) and very high level of energy.

But now I'm in the homestretch, and I'm like one of the last few people left on Survivor island. I'm weathered and tired of living off coconuts and rice and I'm wondering who I still have to destroy to win this fucking thing and get to go home.

Really, I'd be fine if I could sleep my usual eight hours a night (which I didn't do for three days, then actually got a whole night's sleep Thursday night and today, I'm up after only 6 hours at an ungodly hour for no reason), didn't have a 22 pound watermelon strapped to my stomach that makes laying down or sitting in a relaxed position uncomfortable, didn't waddle everywhere and feel like this baby is going to fall out of me if I stand too long, and if it wasn't hotter than freaking hell all the freaking time. I mean why oh why does Satan choose Texas as his summer home? 110 degrees with the heat index is not human. And with pregnancy hormones, it feels like about 130.

All these things add up to me not having much of a sense of humor these days and being ultra sensitive. My parents live far away, since I'm obviously not from here if you haven't been keeping up. This is their first grandchild and I expect them to want to take the four hour flight and spend every possible minute with what will surely be the most perfect baby in the whole world.

My dad happens to have a business trip end of September in Dallas, so he's using that as his opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. Which is fine by me. Except that I would have thought that he would have extended his trip through a weekend to spend more time with us. But apparently my father's a busy man, which I understand, but not even one day??? And then I would have expected him to want to stay with us, since we have a brand new guest room that my boy cat has not had a chance to deface yet, since we keep the door closed to it. But my father claims that he'll just be in our way and it's much easier for him to be at a hotel 45 minutes away from us (because apparently there aren't many hotels in Dallas, don't you know) and that his company's paying for it anyway, so it's better this way. So he told us originally that he'd come by two of the evenings he was in town to see us and the baby. Not exactly grandfather of the year stuff, but hey, it's what the man can do, right?

But then last night, he sends me an email letting me know that he'll come by to see the baby on the 20th and that if we can find a babysitter, we can meet him for dinner on the 21st.

Excuse me????

A babysitter????????????????????????????????

I'm going to be induced on September 8th because it looks like baby boy's managed to get himself a 50" big screen TV in my womb and has no interest in coming out into the real world.

And so my own father, the man who supposedly rocked me for hours on end 30 years ago is now expecting me to find someone to watch my 13 day old baby, his grandson, who will be nursing and who's mother has been told repeatedly by the midwife, the birth instructor and most of the world not to even attempt to bottle feed him until he's a month old or else he'll need a lifetime of therapy to get over his nipple confusion. Not that my father knows about nursing, but still.

I want to give my father the benefit of the doubt and think he was joking or is simply a man. But somehow I don't have this in me right now. Instead I want to let out a tirade that would make pirates and the parrots on their shoulders blush.

It would be one thing for a friend of mine with no kids and no interest in mine to send me an email and say something like "hey, I figure you could use a break from the kid by the 20th. You want to find a sitter and I'll take you out for hard alcohol?" I'd laugh at their attempt to be a good friend and tell them sweetly that not only will I still be adapting to the world around me by then, that I won't quite be ready to leave my new baby with someone but that I'm sure sometime in October I will be ready for a couple of hours away and will definitely want hard alcohol.

But coming from someone who Baby Boy will be calling some French version of grandpa? Nope, can't find the humor there.

I actually called both of my sisters to cry about it. That's how upset I was. I just couldn't bring myself to call a friend, because I felt like I'd be admitting my father's a horrible grandfather and one of them would report him to the bad grandfather government branch. But now I've done that here, so I guess I did it anyway.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

Yeah I'm Pregnant & Barefoot... Go Ahead, Make a Freaking Joke, Smart Ass

Just for the record, I'm on a shoe strike. I know that I'll probably lose my woman card for saying that, but I don't freaking care. Shoes suck. Shoes are the devil. And I'm no longer going to abide by their shoe rules.

Now, I admit I've never been a shoe girl. I own maybe a dozen pair total of sandals, dressy shoes, boots, workout shoes and flip flops. That's not a dozen of each. That's a dozen total.

I've heard of Manolo Blahnik, thanks to Sex and the City. But I can barely warrant spending 30 bucks on a pair of shoes, so the idea of something that costs more than my entire collection of shoes blows me away.

The point is, even though I've never been gaga for shoes, I've never been anti-shoes before either. I mean, really, there has always seemed to be more important causes for me to take up if I was going to make this my cause. Like, I don't know... Anti-poverty or anti-cancer maybe? It just seems it'd be easier to make myself be heard that way.

But I'm not going to take the easy route no more. No sir-ree!

From now on, I am refusing to wear shoes. And you should too. Because they are evil and they suck and they make my sausage feet hurt.

Because in case you didn't know, I have sausage feet now. Not just sausage toes. No. My feet figured that ressembling bratwursts looked like fun and they were getting jipped. And so now they've swollen up like somebody blew really hard into both of my pinky toes.

Now, here's something I'm going to tell you if you promise not to tell anyone else. I'm really a size 7 1/2 when it comes to shoes. But I've been able to squeeze myself into a 7 if a cheap pair of shoes that was cute and on clearance was available. Except that my new fat feet are probably a size 8 or 8 1/2. So trying to squeeze them into my shoes makes me feel like one of the ugly ass stepsisters in Cinderella desperate to get the prince (little known fact: in the original written story of Cinderella, the stepsisters cut off their toes to try to fit in the glass slipper. Yeah, I'm full of useful trivia like that.) I can no longer fit in my close toed dressy shoes that I usually wear to meetings. I mean, technically I can. But the pain becomes excruciating within two minutes and the wailing sounds I make during the entire meeting freaks my clients out.

So today, since I had a meeting, I figured that I'd wear my dressy sandals (which are unworn by the way because I was keeping them for my sister-in-law's wedding later this year) figuring that those would be fine, since there was less shoe to stifle my clown-size feet.

Yeah, except for one problem. Mother. Fucking. Straps. The thing when your feet have grown half a size and are swollen is that the straps will penetrate the first two layers of the dermis. So the straps finally nestled somewhere in the depth of the top of my feet, I think right up against all the bones.

And in case you were wondering, when the straps of your shoes barely show, because they're hidden away in layers of retained water and skin, this makes your feet look even fatter. Not an attractive look.

What I'm saying is, don't expect me to quit my day job and become a foot model just yet.

But if the horrible fashion faux-pas I made today wasn't bad enough, there was the excruciating pain of walking from my Jeep to my client's front door and then having to smile as I stood back up and walked out again.

And then, there was the excruciating pain of removing the shoes once I got home. And yes, I know I could have taken them off in the car, but I can't drive barefoot. It's one of my many quirks.

I've now been home for over an hour, and I still have deep indentations where each of the straps were. I'm pretty sure they may be permanent. And one day Baby Boy will notice my deformed feet and say "what's wrong with mama's feet?" And I'll tell him "you did this to me you little bastard! Now become a plastic surgeon so you can fix them and support me for the rest of your life. And while you're at it, do my boobs, they're starting to sag a little."

So from now on, I ain't wearing shoes no more. I going to be like Britney Spears, and go everywhere barefoot. Except public bathrooms, because that's icky on a whole new planet of ickiness. And when I'm driving, because I can't get over that.

Love,

Catwoman

Monday, August 22, 2005

That's Just a Lot of Pressure on One Uterus...

First of all, I would like to point out that it is 4:20 in the morning right now. It's 4:20 in the morning. I am awake. And I am blogging.

So don't you bitches ever tell me I'm not committed.

Yeah, here's a tip if you ever think of getting pregnant. Don't.

Well, that's not true, I take that back. I've really had an easy time with this pregnancy, but when you're new wake up time is 3:30 every morning to pee, which causes you to eat, which causes the baby to start breakdancing, which causes you to officially be wide awake, you'd get a little pissy too and think that God is punishing you for being non-Christian like in your early 20's. And late 20's, but that's another story for another sleep deprived morning.

So in case I haven't actually posted this here before, my due date is September 9th. But if anyone asks, it's September 8th, because that's my father-in-law's birthday, and at first some Web site had proclaimed the 8th as my due date and that made my father-in-law happy and then the clinic where I'm giving birth said it's actually the 9th and I didn't want to crush his excitement, so I've lied to the hubby's family this whole time, because I figure, it's just a fucking day! And only 5 percent of babies are actually born on their due date, so what does it matter?

Anyway, September 9th, or there about is the big day. So really, it could be anytime.

Except that now, my mother, who always means well yet just seems to stress me out has booked her airline ticket. And she's coming late night September 7th and leaving mid-day on the 11th. 3 1/2 days to meet her newborn grandson.

Except for one problem. This isn't a freaking movie premiere. This is a baby.

And there is the potential risk that on September 11th, when she boards that plane back to the land of maple trees and beavers that the baby will still be some vague concept associated with my growing waistline.

And so now I feel stress. I feel like some princess in the olden days who needs to produce an heir.

I must have this baby by September 7th.

The midwife, feeling my pressure has recommended herbs to help the process along (without getting too graphic she said something about ripening my cervix, which made me feel like having a pear for some reason). She also said to have lots of sex. Which is the equivalent of telling someone who just burnt their hand on the stove to touch the burner repeatedly because it will make it better.

If you ask me right now if I'd rather have my foot chewed off by rats or have lots of sex, I'd ask you how many rats are involved.

I've heard spicy food can help, and I think I may go have myself some thai curry sometime this week and ask them to make it unbearably hot to see if that works. My friend M. said that her sister-in-law went into labor after washing her car. Once Sweetie Pie comes back from his one-day business trip Wednesday, the Jeep will be getting washed.

And if neither of those works, then I guess this bitch is putting out.

And I've just noticed that this is just an excessive use of the word bitch in one post, so I think I should go back to bed and try to get some more sleep now.

I have a deep dark secret to share before I do... I spent close to $200 on scrapbooking supplies today! :-O

Of course I told Sweetie Pie that I spent $50. Which he was pissed about me spending that much, so really, it was for his own good. I heard yesterday on some show that the number one lie couples tell each other is how much money they spend. The way I look at it, I'm just being a good wife then if that's the number one lie. Call it protecting the innocent. I'm like the Robin Hood of this relationship.

I'll just go rob a bank tomorrow and pay off the credit card. That way Sweetie Pie will never need to know.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, August 18, 2005

It Really Doesn't Take Much to Make Me Happy...

I mean I know I can sound difficult sometimes. But really, overall, I think I'm quite easy to please. Unlike J. Lo, I don't have an eyebrow lady flown into town once a month. Hell, half the time I forget to get my eyebrows waxed until I see myself in the mirror and begin flailing my arms around thinking furry caterpillars have claimed my forehead as their undiscovered land. And right now, I'm sitting here typing this in an old t-shirt of Sweetie Pie's and a ponytail.

Although, I could spice it up for you and admit that I am not wearing a bra.

But then you'd remember that I have a giant gut protruding underneath said boobs, and you probably wouldn't think it's so sexy.

Back on track. All of these things prove I'm not high maintenance. But what I'm really wanting to talk about is that I'm easily happy.

For the most part anyway.

But if you want to make me unhappy, here's the secret. Don't let me sleep.

If I don't sleep one night, I get cranky.

Two nights, bitchiness is something you wish I'd be, because I reach a whole new stratosphere of bitchiness.

But three nights without sleep and the world begins imploding on itself.

But last night, after three nights being way too pregnant and uncomfortable and unable to sleep, I slept... All night.

And today, I might as well have won a million dollars. Or an Oscar. Or Brad Pitt on a leash.

I'm blissfully happy, content, at peace. The world is good again.

See? I told you. It's really quite easy to make me happy.

Love,

Catwoman.

Sunday, August 14, 2005

Another One Bites the Dust...

Back around mother's day, I posted about this bitch hole who called me the fat lady when she saw me at church. Don't ask me to find the post and link to it, because you'll unleash my wrath and trust me, you don't want that today with how cranky and sleep deprived I am. Find it yourself.

Anyway, I allowed this woman to live, partly because she was helping to plan my baby shower and it would have seemed a little ungrateful to kill one of my hostesses. Plus she's friends with my mother-in-law who I'm hoping will watch Baby boy as often as my job might require it.

But as of yesterday, letting that woman live has come back to bite me in the ass. You see, my sister-in-law had a bridal shower yesterday. Because my sweet, sweet sister-in-law is getting married exactly one month to the day after my due date. Leaving me one month to not look like a beached whale in the pictures. Oh and did I mention I'm a bridesmaid? Yeah, because I'm a dumbass that way. The correct answer to being asked would have been "I don't want to leak milk at the altar during the vows, I think I'd be better off hidden in the audience." But no, me and my lack of being in people's weddings made me go "oh golly! Let me spend $150 on a dress I'll never wear again." And then I had to order said overpriced dress 10 sizes too big because the David's Bridal lady couldn't predict how ginormous my boobs or my ass might be that soon after my due date.

But that's a whole separate suicide-inducing story. And if Tom Cruise leaves a comment about how I should take more vitamins, I'm going to kick his gay ass out of the closet. Because maybe he'd be a little more fun if he'd just come out already.

Anyway, back to the evil bitch who must die. Yesterday at my sister-in-law's shower, everyone is being polite and sweet to me, telling me how I look great, despite the fact that I have this giant belly and am wearing this bright red outfit that makes me look like a red flag at a NASCAR race. Until the bitch. Who walks over to me and says "OH MY GOD! Look at how big you've gotten!!!!!"

Silence from me as thoughts of skin removal, eating of internal organs and scalpings flash through my brain.

I'm somehow able to meekly smile at her, while Sweetie Pie's cousin who was standing by me talking before we were rudely interrupted simply stands there, her jaw quickly getting a rug burn from having dropped so far open.

My mother raised me to be polite. And so I didn't say what I should have said. Which would have been "well, that's true. But it's because I'm pregnant. What's your excuse?"

Actually my mother and politeness have nothing to do. The one thing that really sucks about my life is that I only come up with the ultimate comebacks later. I think there was a Seinfeld episode about that where George Costanza had the perfect comeback much later and kept trying to get the guy to say the same thing so he could use it.

Except next time I may be hormonal enough to cause physical damage to this woman and forget about the ultimate comeback again.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, August 11, 2005

I Just Don't Like Blood in My Gravy

And that, children, is what they call an intriguing title.

You probably read that and went "what? Blood? Gravy? Oh, I must read that post now."

And read you shall.

You see that sentence was uttered by none other than my Sweetie Pie, who I made chicken fried steak for late last week. Chicken Fried Steak, for those of you reading this outside of Texas, might just be the most horrifying culinary creation ever. It almost killed my dad, a French chef, when I told him what it was. You see, you take a piece of crappy meat, a.k.a. leather. You pound the shit out of it for a mallet, teaching the dog in the process that today is not a good day to fuck with you. You dip it in eggs or some kind of other liquid. Then you cover it in some kind of crumbs, batter, whatever. And then you fry that piece of beaten meat/leather.

That's right. It's a batter-coated steak. That you fry.

And then, just to make sure that any ounce of health benefit has been sucked out of the dish, once the meat is cooked and fried to complete stillness, you smother the whole thing in cream gravy which consists of vegetable shortening, milk and flour.

It's Sweetie Pie's favorite meal in the whole wide world.

With one caveat.

He loves it, loves it, loves it, at just about any restaurant. Roach infested diners? Loves it there. Five-star award winning restaurants trying to cater to rednecks by offering one disgusting common dish? Loves it there too.

But every attempt at my making it, makes him look at it like I've served him raw snails smothered in haggis.

I figured I hadn't tried it in possibly years. So that maybe, just maybe now I would be able to perfect that ideal level of fried crispiness.

Alas, once again, Sweetie Pie was kind of picking at his food, moving it around to make it look like he was eating, but no food ever really making it past his esophagus.

So I made the mistake of asking him if he didn't like it. Which of course, having given away the punchline to this long story about two hours ago, you know that his reply was "I just don't like blood in my gravy."

You see, it's hard to tell with the greasy fried crispiness if the steak is done. I thought it was. But it was still quite bloody in the middle. So what happened is that when we cut into our steaks (our own, not each other's, we've been married for three years at the end of this month, there's no romance left people), blood squirted out and began mixing with the perfect creamy-white gravy.

Which apparently is not appetizing and will make a grown Texan want to go vegetarian.

Earlier this week, I got to babysit a friend's six-year old daugther for a couple of hours while she went to the doctor's. I figured this would be a great opportunity for me to find out if I should just hand baby boy over to CPS the second he's born.

It went well. The child was still alive after the two hours. So I think I got a gold star for that. I did learn a few crucial lessons during those two hours, which I thought I'd share to any of you who may consider having children some day and maybe like me thought they'd enjoy whisky and tittie bars (which by the way, they don't, that should probably be lesson one.)

Lesson #1: Children don't like whisky and tittie bars.

These are things that like scrapbooking and reading a good book in the tub you just don't learn to like until you're a grown up.

Lesson #2: Cupcakes that someone gave you at your housewarming party that came from Walmart and are covered with half a pound each of frosting made of half sugar, half fluorescent food coloring, is not a good snack for a six-year old.

Things that are now permanently pink:

- Child's face
- Child's hands
- Child's white pants
- Table cloth
- Kitchen chair fabric
- Powder room wall
- Top of my dog's head

I'm still confused as to exactly how the dog managed to get pink frosting on his head, but he now has a permanent mark that advertises his gay tendencies.

Lesson #3: Polly Pocket is one nasty nymphomaniac.

I have to say that I was ignorant about Polly Pocket. I'd heard her name, but just like Condoleeza Rice, I was only vaguely aware of her existence and unsure as to what she did besides fly all over the world and grin. I was always a Barbie girl myself growing up. And my Barbies were really, really dirty. They were always naked with Ken, because I'd lose their clothes constantly. I'm pretty sure my Barbie was also either a madam or a drug dealer, because she drove a ferrari despite her only "apparent" income being that she ran a hot dog stand in our basement. Quite fishy indeed Barbie.

And so now, Barbie has been miniaturized in order for children to lose even more clothing pieces and shoes that are made to fit on an ant. And while the six-year old and I played with her Polly Pockets, I realized that unlike Barbie, who wore fabrics like cotton, polyester and fake wool depending on her mood (not the weather, because that's irrelevant in Barbie world), Polly Pocket's outfits are all made of rubber. Rubber dresses, rubber short shorts, rubber bikini bras. This girl has more rubber than a gay brothel.

Lesson #4: Children will always think you're cool if you torture your dog with them

I have to say that I have the sweetest dog in the world. He never complains, he never growls, he's just the most Zen dog in the world. He might be the Dalai Lama of dogs for all I know and maybe dogs around the world think of me as China and keep saying how I force the Dalai Lama to remain stuck in Tibet (my house) and they all hate me while my dog wears dresses and smiles.

The great thing about having a buddhist dog is you can do anything you want to him and he'll let you do it. In fact, last time the six year-old's family watched our dogs for us, she dressed up my buddhist dog in a tutu, slippers, a tiara and boa. And he's actually smiling in all the pictures, like finally, his true colors have been revealed and he is free to be Queen Lola, drag show dancer.

Since the six-year old had a bead machine (not to make jewelry, that wouldn't be fun, no this is to put beads in your hair so you can have that white trash on vacation in Mexico look constantly) and wanted to bead my hair. That was fine for a while, and I'm certain modeling agencies were beating down on my door once she was done with me.

The dog happened to get up to drink some water at some point, bringing attention to himself and someone (I can't say for sure that it was the six-year old, because it might have been me) suggested that we bead the dog's hair. Fast forward 30 minutes later and my dog looks like a rasta dog.

The top of his head, both of his ears and his chest have strings of beads on it. The dog keeps talking about how his shit is so much better than all the other dogs and asking about a bongo drum. Both the six year-old and I further crush his ego by laughing and laughing at him.

I think baby boy and I will be just fine.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

OK, OK, I Get It, I Suck

Yes, I realize it's been nine days since I've posted. And I have to admit that I did think of posting on more than a couple of occasions. But things have been busy. There is more to life than posting, you know? And really, when you have nothing interesting to say, it's hard to feel compelled to post all the time.

So here's what I've been up to:

1. Since the last time I posted, I've been busy putting on three pounds. That's right, baby. That's three pounds in only nine days. And the Supersize Me guy thought he had an exclusive on gaining too much weight, ha! The surprising part is that I have been eating no worse (and no better) than the rest of my pregnancy and last month it took me almost a month to gain one measly pound. But all of a sudden, my ass thought to itself "hey, we need to get bigger and tip the scales more." And all of my fat cells nodded in agreement. If I continue to gain three pounds a week, I will officially be classified as a beached whale when my pregnancy ends early next month.

2. Tying my shoes. This may not seem like it should take a long time. But trust me, it does. You see, I've been tying my shoes by crossing one leg over the other and tying my little heart out. Until a good friend of mine, who unknowingly told me this, since I was wearing flip flops on that day, happened to tell me how some women at her school were saying that you can always tell a woman's too fat if her shoelaces are crooked because they can't bend down to tie anymore. And I realized, that was me. So now it takes me anywhere from 15 to 30 mn to reach for my foot in front of me and carefully tie my shoelaces so that they are centered with the rest of the shoe.

3. Assembling a warehouse's worth of IKEA furniture. Last week, my life became happy again when IKEA officially opened its door. I have to say that I showed a lot of restraint and didn't line up three days before the opening. I did try to go during the afternoon of the first day, but upon learning of the two-hour wait just to get into the building, I wisely chose to come back the next day. I've discovered that a Jeep Liberty can hold the following: One armoire, five dining room chairs, one nightstand, one King-size quilt and duvet cover, four pillows, a shelf and a bunch of little knick knacks that somehow flew out of the IKEA bins and into my bag. Wait, that makes me sound like a shoplifter. I mean the IKEA shopping bag. I obviously paid for all of the knick knacks not wanting to be turned away from the gates of IKEA heaven.

So there. As you can see I've been way too busy to post. Plus, the Young and the Restless and the Bold and the Beautiful have gotten really good lately.

Love,

Catwoman.