Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Oh Holy Hell!

Did that just really happen? Did some chick just ask me about my weekend then try to trump my fabulous graduate The Girl and  party like a rock star three day crazy town tour? Well guess what Downer Debbie, you didn't make me jealous- you scared the fuckity bejeezus out of me! As if I wasn't stressed enough! Now please call my pharmacy and ask them to have my Xanax prescription ready STAT!

The weekend was a whirlwind. Friday I resigned from my sure thing paid gig then Carrie got put in the hospital because her appendix up and exploded more than 3 DAYS before that. How she is alive- we have no idea except I am writing the Pope because she has to be a miracle. I will ask him to start the process to make her Saint Carrie of All Things Sparkly & Exploding Organs. Then I went to Jamba Juice to get her dinner, a smoothie with orange and pineapple. Simple right? No- it's like I asked them to please make a 2 fruit smoothie while standing on their heads and singing Ave Maria in Pig Latin.  So the jack hole at the register says to me that they don't have an orange & pineapple smoothie and she will have to look at their recipe chart to figure out which smoothie is closest to what I asked for. Uh oh - oh man there goes the look and my face just went from Bubbly Rescue Friend to Come Closer So I Can Strangle You Psycho. Really?

There are oranges, like 300 of them, behind your head. Take those and blend with pineapples or pineapple juice and throw in that sherbert and we are good! Right? Nope. Those oranges are not real. What. The. Fuckity! Idiot at the register says to me, "Will you step aside so I can get the customers behind you and then I can help you?". Are you shitting me? NO, no I will not. Like I have a spare 15 minutes while the 6 people behind me get their juice and I wait because you can't figure out how to get a couple of pieces of fruit in a blender meanwhile my friend is in the hospital possibly dying and all she wants is this fucking Jamba Juice! No way, Ass Munch, you help me now. Right now. Mean face sure makes things happen because Carrie got her dinner and I avoided a free trip to city jail.

So Saturday we get up at 7 AM to get The Girl ready for graduation which started at 1:00 but we had to be there at 11:30. So that means because the geniuses at her school thought it would be super awesome to have their graduation in the middle of fucking downtown we had to leave at 10:00 to make sure we could get there and park legally then have time to sprint the 6 freakin miles and jump gosh only knows how many bum hurdles to the auditorium in the central Texas heat. In heels. Yeah! They better be selling beer at this joint or else! She graduates, we scramble to get outside and meet her and the rest of our party- we lose some of them and it becomes every man for himself in the sea of freaked out oh my God I have to fend for myself now newly freed graduates and their holy hell I am finally free from the financial shackles families.

Let me just politely point out something here, when your child/friend/relative graduates- please do us all a favor and do not dress as though you are stopping by before you head over to the porn star convention. I'm just saying, if your dress sausage skin is so tight and short that I can see the bottom of your ass cheeks and the outline of your lady-scaping , then your dress is not for a family centered function. Okay? And Carrie is still in the hospital.

What not to wear to the high school graduation.
 Or anywhere else.
Sunday we run around like crazy people who just busted out of the asylum running errands and so on. We go to a party at our friends house and it is fabulous, as always. Until I feel something on my lip. It's a piece of glass. Oh shit, there is glass in my beer. Guess where else there is glass? In my throat and possibly maybe traveling to my intestines! Oh goody! The Man says we must go to the ER now to make sure I am ok. So I text Carrie, who is still in the hospital, to tell her, "Good news! Maybe you won't be lonely anymore because I have been drinking glass and maybe I can be your roomy!". Awesome. I just drink another beer though, because Carrie already told me the food sucks and the nurse is mean. Plus she's bored out of her mind and the bathroom provided is hardly princess worthy. At least at the party there is good stuff to eat and if anyone is mean you can claim drunk and kick their ass for them. So far, no internal bleeding. Winning!


So we get to Debbie Downer who after I tell her about my insane weekend she looks me in the eye, leans on my desk and smiles all snippy and smuggy-like and says, "Weell Iiiiii started my Christmas shopping". After I pulled myself out of the fetal position and climbed back onto my chair I told her to beat it. And do not ever mutter those words to me again. Ever. Christmas shopping in May? MAY! Really? Dude I am so revoking your cool chick card because you just made the rest of look like selfish losers because we partied and stuff while you were all martyrish and went shopping. For other people. Way to ruin my holiday rush. Fucknut.

Friday, May 27, 2011

I Quit You

Why is it so easy to figure out other peoples' problems? When one of my best girls ask me for advice- I am laser focused and seem to come up with a brilliant answer AND a plan (that's what they say out loud anyway). What should I do about a boy who won't call back? Oh, you put his sorry ass on ignore and move on, get that calendar full of fabulous and if he wants to catch up with you- will he'll have to work harder to get back into your good graces. Done! My mom is nagging me about getting married and I so don't want to - like ever. Well you tell her she raised you to be an independent woman and that's exactly what you are doing- she can't argue with a compliment! Next! My kid won't clean their room and I am so tired of nagging them. Empty that little shits room down to the items the state says you have to provide and let them earn a toy back for every good day of behavior (my big sister taught me that one- works like a charm). See- I can figure out your life but mine stumps me. Did you read all of the advice I gave The Girl yesterday- yeah- that sorta got rubbed in my face last night by a good friend.

If you've been stalking following my blog for any time- you know there are a few big deals heading my way. One- moving out of this great city and setting up shop elsewhere. I've been here since I was 7 and you can all do the math on  4  fuckity 0 - 7.  I don't think I know all of Austin yet. Just today coming back from lunch with some awesome work friends- I didn't know where I was- a whole new place I never knew existed. So much more to explore here. I will have to do that as a tourist when I come back to visit. I feel a little sad leaving- like i'm kissing an old friend good bye.

The Girl is not moving because her life is squarely here and she's off to school in the fall. This is the hardest part for me. It's been 18 years of me and her & her and me. This freaks me out. Freaks. Me. Out. Mostly because as bad ass as I strive to be- living hours away from The Girl kicks me over the mildly worried side of the line to the freak the fuck out side. It kicks me hard- right in the uterus. But you know what that kid said to me after I asked her for the 2,000,000,000,000 time if she is SURE she will be ok? She said, "Mom, you've put everything on hold for me your whole life- I want you to go do this for you. I'm proud of you for doing this even though you are scared to be away from me. YOU said to not be afraid to move on- so go. I will be ok". She's only 18. How did she get so smart?

There are two things I have always wanted to be but never did it for a million reasons. Sometimes because I thought maybe I would fall on my face and be an epic embarrassment to me and the planet. But mostly I needed a steady income. Something safe and a guaranteed- that the hours outside of Mon-Fri from 8-5 would be for my daughter. Period. Mission accomplished. I always had my heart set on being a lawyer- but now I am very glad I didn't follow that path. The other- well i'm doing it now- I am going to write full time. I have a couple of other ventures ahead of me. I will help launch The Man's real estate brokerage in the new city. That is his calling- I have never seen anyone make so many impossible transactions happen. He has a natural gift for the art of the deal. But I will spend most of my time writing. This blog, the truth about being 40 and now a children's book in the work. I just launched a small publishing company and you will read more about that later. You have front row tickets to my epic adventure- feel free to laugh at/with me, pipe in with advice and share my work. All of you Kittens that have been reading along have inspired me- both with your praise and your nasty grams- because whether I made you laugh, made you cry or pissed you off- I got you. And that means the world to me.

So it is time. Job- I quit you. This girl is going to go blaze a path in bad ass stilettos.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

A Soft Place To Fall

I can't believe you are graduating Saturday. Where did those 18 beautiful years escape to? It’s unbelievable to me sometimes that your are 18 and an independent young woman now. You are a beautiful and mystical creature to me: graceful, super model hair, sparkly bright blue eyes that always have a mischievous glint, curvy figure, abundantly long lashes, satiny smooth skin, sometimes soft and loving and other times fierce and protective – there is no one else quite like you. The obstacles you have overcome are huge- to say the least- but you owned  them and smashed them to bits. Each time crossing over the heap of pointy splinters to reveal a stronger, smarter more fierce you. To say I am proud of you is an epic understatement. I want to say a few things to you and leave a little advice in your tool box for life:

My vision for you is for you to continue to love yourself, take pleasure in small things, lose yourself in a great book, share a delicious meal with friends and continue to show compassion and love for everyone- including those that have hurt you the most. Have no regrets, follow your guts and take no prisoners.

I remember being your age and thinking there wasn’t much in the world for me and feeling like I had to make things happen all of the time. What I regret most is not living in the moment, feeling panicked and not exploring the world. I was so concerned with the future and my place in it that I forgot to luxuriate in being young. Dream big and live your life with no regrets. Your soul will thank you when you are 40 and you look back  and feel comfort in the memories wrapped around you.

Be good to yourself. I never want you to deprive yourself of a meal or commit yourself to a crazy diet fad, don’t waste a minute criticizing who you see in the mirror, give yourself the luxury of good health and education. Eat well. Sleep well. Continue to grow.

Take risks in love and life. Seize opportunities, face everything courageously, follow your dreams and don’t be afraid to change course if you want to. Nothing is set in stone so feel free to chart a new course, live for your pleasure and don't fear change.

Travel, uproot and try on a new city. The world is too glorious to stay stagnent in one place for too long. I often think about the dangers waiting for you in the world, the experiments with drugs and drink and men. When I take stock of your peers, some have discovered just how easy it is to get pregnant, others failed to say no to a group of popular kids and paid the ultimate price, and some breaking your heart because they did not have the back bone to face their own demons. I feel secure in knowing that you are wise beyond your age and have spent your life making good decisions, walking your own path and following your own moral compass. Stay true to who you are. You are beyond magnificent.

Whatever I want for you, I know you’ll go your own way- and I hope you do. While most daughters fight with their Moms just for the sake of disagreement- I have the luxury of enjoying a very close and special relationship with you. I love that you will still sit in my lap and tell me about your day, that you text me to chat about the latest gossip and ask about my day. That you tell me your secrets and trust that I will always keep them safe. No matter what and no matter where we are in life- I always want to hear about your day. Always.

I am always on your side. There is no problem or mistake too great that will ever sway my love and support for you. I will always be that Mom who will have no problem protecting you and going to battle for you- even when you are 50. I will never hurt you, say unkind words to you or abandon you. Even if you are making a choice I may not like- my love for you is much too strong to allow me to be on anyones side but yours. However independent you become, I am always here for you - whether it’s a broken heart, worry consumes you, your job is making you crazy, or you just need a coffee and an ear- I will be there. Your calls, your texts,  your requests and needs will never go unanswered by me. Never. You always have a place to come home to. You always have me to come home to. I will always be your soft place to fall. Always.

I am awed by your compassion for others. I have seen you have more compassion for people than I ever could- especialy when they have hurt you deeply. Watching you last week at your FFA banquet really broke my heart. As you stood next to best friends that broke you this year- heartlessly left you with no explanation and engaged in classic mean girl behavior- you held your head high and continued to be the FFA Officer you promised to be. As you handed your post to the incoming Officers and began to cry- those girls offered you no shoulder and no support. Neither did their parents who have known you since elementary school. How they can look themselves in the mirror is beyond me- I sincerely wanted to dress them down and protect you. But did not- because you  are better than that. You are better than me. You continued to behave with dignity and honor. I could not have been as strong as you were that night. I could not. Please always remember to show that same compassion to yourself.

Please share your burdens with me- I will hold you and listen- then remind you of middle school when you beat Dyslexia and said, “I would rather fail an AP class than get an A in a regular class”. I will remind you of all of the animals you saved and healed. I will remind you of the people who broke your heart yet you continued on and refused to hurt them back. I will remind you of how in gymnastics you attacked the uneven bars as I watched and hoped you would land unbroken. I will remind you of how lost friends have come back to you and thanked you for treating them well even when they did not give you the same consideration. I will remind you of how strong you were when you took me to the ER and stayed strong while thinking I was not ever coming home. I will hug you and remind you that you have always been fearless and courageous and that you always will be. This world is yours for the taking and I know you will continue to make it a better place to be.

I imagine you over the next 10 years immersing yourself in animal science, surrounded by adoring friends and boyfriends- perhaps finding the love of your life, negotiating your way through life to get what you want and to be who you want to be. It’s funny the amount of times I have said silent “I’m sorries” to your future admirers as I have watched you swish through the house, honing your flirting skills and sharpening your tongue, mastering high heels and the art of makeup and hair. You are pretty magnificent and I see a trail of broken hearts in your wake of those daring to hurt, cheat or hold you back. When your heart is broken, give it time to heal and then be open to new love. I really believe that things happen for a reason and when something falls away it is because something better is waiting to take its place.

Embrace being in love and all of the wonderful things that come with it- but do not marry or have children until you have your feet planted solidly inside living your dreams. Find yourself before giving yourself to anyone. Live for you first and then you can live for your children.

There are no words to express how proud I am of you. None. You have been worth every sacrifice, every tear and every celebration. Because of you- I am a better person. Because I have you- all of my hurts and disappointments have been healed by your hugs, laughter and shiny bright light that shines from within you. I grew up with you and you graciously shared your milestones with me and let me come along for many adventures. I am grateful that somehow the universe dropped you into my arms and gave me the great honor of being Mother to you. I never forget how lucky I am that you are mine and I say thank you to the world everyday.

Finally- once you asked me when you would be a woman. You have been one for a while , my sweet. Your uncompromised integrity, compassion and fierce constitution has earned you a place at the Epic Woman's Table. It's up to you to train up and love up the next generation.

Please always love yourself as I love you,


Tuesday, May 24, 2011

What Are You Trying To Say Exactly?

I don't know if it's Spring or maybe people looking forward to Summer vacations but holy shit alot of them are jumping stupid these days! From stretch pants lady to extra super dumb asses on the road- folks are just yammering away and begging for an ass beating! There a few  of them in my office. These people leave a slick trail of inappropriate comments, insults and bewildered WTF's behind them. Usually when they say things that make my manners jump Ship Cat and run away on fire- I fix them with a stern look. Fake smile, head cocked to the side and one eyebrow locked and loaded as if to say, "Mother fucker you have like 5 seconds to say ooops, kick yourself in the man sack and remove yourself from my eye site or I will dish out a verbal ass beating to you that will be so epic that Jesus won't want to be near you in case the butt hurt is contagious". I don't have to do this much- I reserve it for REALLY dumb people. Like the Ass Hat that mistakenly thought I invited him to comment on my reading material yesterday.

I read alot. ALOT. It's an escape mechanism for me plus it inspires me. Sometimes I read a little fantasy to be inspired to think differently and dream. Sometimes I accidentally select a bad short story which inspires me to write because if that book is sold at B&N's then I am so fucking going to be published! Most of the time I read political material. I love politics. I don't care which side you wet your panties over- just be able to hold an informed conversation about it and engage in a little verbal arm wrestling now and again. And by informed I mean your information comes from a source other than your lying candidate (mine lies, too...they all do) and the main stream press (they all just regurgitate the scripts the liars give to them). One of my favorite publications is Foreign Affairs. This little publication takes you to school on uprisings, policy, economics and world affairs as they apply to America. It's not skewed one way or the other - it's a "here's the information now go apply it" type magazine. Enter Ass Hat- or as I now call him- That Guy That Avoids Me.

I don't know if it's that I have boobies, that I have blonde hair or maybe that I sit at the front desk- maybe that is the trifecta of strike outs that can only equal stupid. News flash for him: the blonde and boobs- well those are epic and I suspect he's just jealous that he is not The Man. As far as my job goes- and I hate to have to feel like I have to defend it- but it's easy, a strict 40 hours a week and I am not busting my ass and giving up my free time anymore for anyone's business but my own thank you very much so I am essentially a highly paid Receptionist. I am ok with this because while people like Ass Hat are here until 8 PM, on call 24/7 and working through holidays on tech support duty- I am  anywhere but at work enjoying the sun, some wine and generally living it up. For the same amount he gets  paid (insert evil laugh here) . Who's winning now- Jackhole! I don't know- but I do know this- a certain someone here will never make that assumption again. So there I am , minding my own business in the kitchen sipping a delicious cup of free coffee and reading the latest edition of Foreign Affairs...

AH: "Are you reading THAT?"

ME: "Well, i'm not just staring at it."

AH: "I didn't picture you being the type that would read about foreign policy and politics."
Me: "Oh?" (You can picture that look described above now)

AH: Blink. Nervous Twitch.

Me: "You picture me doing things? Like reading Good House Keeping and ironing man shirts?..."

AH: Silence

Me: "Maybe reading Cosmo and cooking fabulous pot roasts?"

AH: "Never mind, I just..."

Me: "Just what?"

AH: " I thought maybe you were more into the royal wedding than world politics"

Me: "So what do you think about Israel reverting back to the 1960's border?"

AH: Blink. 

Me: "How about the pending sanctions against Syria?"

AH: Blink blink. Looks at ceiling.

Me: "How do you feel about Germany's immigration dilemma in comparison to ours?"

AH: "Uuuhhhh." Looks around- nope- no witnesses and no paramedics here- " No comment?"

Me: "Perhaps you would better enjoy discussing mufflers, swim suit models and jock straps?"

AH: Leaves kitchen...never to be seen again.

I am so glad he was stumped because I had not yet read the article on Syria.  But I will still count the day as a win for Team Lady Bits!

Monday, May 23, 2011

Whine & Stinky Cheese

Why are women called the fairer sex? As if we are dainty little flowers that need a wire up our asses to keep us standing up straight. I don't know about you guys, but my day kicks my ass daily and no way would a fair, dainty woman with the propensity to faint from a cool breeze handle my day. Oh hell to the no she could not! Bet that mythical creature couldn't handle yours, either. Neither could a man. If a member of Team Stix had to live even a quarter of my day- he would lose his fucking mind and go crumble into a corner to suck his thumb while smothering his hurt feelers in Super Man Band-Aids. That's right boys- I just said YOU are the fairer sex because you can't be an epic woman. Sure, you may be able to get a few tasks done and make some calls. Maybe even manage to look nice for the majority of the day up until someone asks you to make coffee, do 10 random tasks and listen to their whining- which all fall squarely out of your job duties- but you're gonna listen anyway and try to be helpful because you are trying to be a member of Team Ladybits today. If you don't- you will instantly be elevated from "always helpful" you to "always distant, bitchy and not a team player" you and can bet that will be brought up, noted and entered into the Who We Can Count on Bible at the daily  jackass  man manager lunch. But hey- at least you get paid more for having a penis and ball sack! Oh, and you can stand up to pee- I am genuinely jealous of you for that.

Right now- this moment- I have a very close friend crying at her desk. Crying. She doesn't cry. Ever. She gave birth. Twice. No tears. You can say mean shit to her- like really insult her- and she won't cry. You will though, because she will dress you down so badly with a verbal barrage of noun and verb bombs that you will wish you could somehow Star Trek your ass to Libya for a break from the beat down. She is at the mercy of some Jack Hole who is in a shit storm because he is not doing his job and woke up pissy. So he yells at her and throws her under the bus. Just a note-  don't you dare imply she doesn't do her job because she will literally throw a fucking book of emails, notes and proof at your head  that she did her job and you epically failed at yours. Then she will step on your head with pink painted toes, sharp stilettos and throw a handful of glitter on your stupid sad injured self so you can sparkle like the pansy you just proved yourself to be. See a pattern yet? Shes bust ass. Hes cry and throw a tantrum.

She is also a single mom- which really doesn't matter because when she had a husband in the house her schedule was the same- so you know what that means right? Her day starts like at 4:30 AM. Get the kids up and  dressed, then wrestle food into them and explain that they will march out to her giant truck like cute little pony tailed soldiers or else. Somewhere in that every -school- morning precision march- she manages to get herself ready (hair, make up, iron outfit, accessories, perfume) and make sure her fabulous shoes match each other. Because god forbid she show up to work sans makep and her hair pulled back. That's a professional woman's kiss of death- because that means she can't handle her job and her life and she must not care anymore.  No breakfast or coffee for her though- she was sorta too busy. Then she drives the kids to school- because there is no busing for this Mommy- she will not function if she doesn't see with her own eyes that her babies actually got to school safely and made it through the front door. Then the marathon sprint to work while whiners at the office call her cell and ask her questions about files she doesn't have with her because hey- the files are in her office- where they belong! And no one would have to call her anyway if they had prepared last week for the meeting they are now sitting in and can't answer the questions they are being asked by their bosses. Work is a fucking hell hole some days. People pointing fingers, bosses throwing people under the bus, paychecks being shorted and some dumb ass keeps using her creamer so still no fucking coffee for her. By now- Team Stix would be hiding in the back seat of their car choking on snot and tears while texting some random female to conjur up an at-a-boy or random cheesy compliment and hoping no one thinks to look for them in the parking lot. It's not even fucking noon yet and her day will not end until 11 tonight.!

Honey Badger, you got got this. And I got you. Always.

Friday, May 20, 2011

Ugly Reality Wreck

I am so irritated right now and I may stab myself with a paper clip. Guess I am not that mad- or I would of picked scissors. Does anyone else have a job that is perfectly ok but once you log into your computer and start working the fucking clock slows down to the speed of a turtle walking  to a slaughter house? Backwards. Anyone? I swear- once I wake up, time is moving so fast that I nearly have a damn stroke trying to make coffee, shower, shave, blow dry, iron, hot roller, hair, make up, dress and get the hell to work. But I get here and the time. Just. Sloooowwwss. Down.

I know what it is- I need to break up with work. Work is not meeting my needs. It's perfectly fine. Nice people, good pay, excellent hours. I have little supervision (jokes on them!) and pretty much come and go as I please. Plus free coffee. Can't beat free coffee. But don't ask about that to the last idiot guy that assumed it was my job to make the coffee. Clueless walked to my desk to ask me to make some for him because one carafe wasn't the flavor he likes and the other was not hot enough. Uh oh- I see an epic butt hurt coming that guys way....I'm sorry Ass Hat, just because I have boobies doesn't mean I am the designated work wife for you. Do I ask you to carry my papers, fix my chair or tell me I am pretty. No, I do not. So let me drag your lazy neanderthal man ass to the kitchen and show you how to push a button for fresh coffee. One. Fucking. Button. I bet he doesn't like the free coffee anymore. I haven't seen him in a while. Must be in a storage closet crying to his mommy on the phone. Ass. 

But, it's not what I want to do for a living. I want to write full time. Is that just an ugly reality vs. dream train wreck that I can only watch but not participate in? I have crap to say and two books to finish. The Girl is graduating next week which frees me to live on noodles and wine until I can sell a book. I don't want to sound like I have crawled up on a cross here- but it's been 18 years of breathing, eating, doing all for her. Working as an Executive Assistant instead of being a lawyer, writer or traveling- because a kid requires steady income, health benefits and weekends off. That's what good moms do- I think- suck it up and drive on to ensure the kid can have a clear path to her dreams. But more about that on next Friday's post. I want my turn now. I have enough shoes to stay fabulous until I make a little change. So why not. Why not just blow this popsicle joint and take a big leap of crazy and pursue my dreams. That's what I do all day anyway - except this job gig and all of the tasks I complete in case you're reading this Mr. Supervisor. I think up things to write, find interesting topics, work on my book out lines, look for funny shit to share with you and maybe shop. Ok I do shop. That'll have to come to a screeching halt. I am oddly ok with that if it means I can sit in the sun with my laptop and write until the battery dies or my drink needs to be refilled. Is that too selfish? Can I be me now?

It's Fixation Friday, Kittens: Meet My Super Twin, Carrie

Happy Friday, Kittens! In keeping with Fixation Friday tradition ( a whole 2 weeks of tradition) I am going to introduce you to Carrie- my BFF for 20 years and one of my fixations. I totally love love Carrie. You know that if you have been reading this blog at all, she is partially responsible for who I am now and for all of the times I might have had to beg a nice police officer to not arrest me. She has a mad amount of dirt on me and can likely name every skeleton in my closet and tell you a funny story about him. If The Man would let me pick a Sister Wife, I would pick her. She is an epic woman AND she wears the same size shoe as me AND she can color hair AND she is an artist. Holy crap it would be winning all around if The Man would just let me keep her! She is put simply- a bury a body friend. And that says everything!  So without further whatever- Kittens- meet my Super Twin- Carrie Ryan!

*Applause* Glitter* Pink Sparkles*

Look at me, I’m a guest author! Makes things so official, like I’m an actual “somebody” who people want to listen to. Whatever, I’m having one of those all about me days, so I’ll run with it. Although, today I’m supposed to be writing about my friend, Cat and it’s supposed to be all about her… this could
get tricky. Watch me somehow manage to make my blog about her somehow also be all about me without anyone noticing. This is kind of a gift I have. Gather round, Cat’s Kittens, for this story, we’re going to go back to the beginning. We like to call this “The Early Nineties” or “When The Claws Came Out”…See, I was all barely 21 and just starting at a new job while I finished college. Cat was (barely, just like, a day or two) older than me, and had been there for a bit. She couldn’t stand me. Instant, deep,
want to bury a stiletto into my forehead hated me, as matter of fact. Now, here’s a little secret about your Auntie Carrie. When someone doesn’t like her? She either decides they have vanished from the planet, only to be cold shouldered any time they make contact, or it drives her NUTS and she is determined to make friends.

We Then: Carrie & Cat

This was one of those “must make friends” instances. Somehow, we ended up out somewhere with a group of folks, enjoying adult beverages, had one of those silly drunk girl “I love you man” fests, and were inseparable from that point on. Our nickname was “Double Trouble” and we earned that badge of honor every day. We learned really important things like when you’re out of beer money, two hot blonde chicks who kiss at the bar don’t have to worry about drinks for the next 4 hours… or weeks. During those first few years, I found out what an amazing, talented, bad ass, take no prisoners woman my friend Cat was. We went through some serious shit together, and she always pulled herself up, got stronger, kicked whatever ass needed kicking and did it all while looking uber hot. Those are skills few ever are able to pull off. She’s got a razor sharp tongue (and if you’re just now finding this out, you have obviously been reading someone else’s blog… maybe some grandma talking about crochet and shit), fashion sense to be rivaled by none, and one of the biggest hearts I’ve ever seen. She doesn’t let a whole lot of folks in there, so those of us who are blessed to have some real estate in the fair city of Cat Gives a Rat’s Ass About You, consider ourselves damn lucky.

We Now: Carrie & Cat

Here we are, a couple of decades later, still able to pick up where we left off on a conversation that happened weeks ago without a hitch in our step. I still occasionally find myself in a situation like this:

Carrie – (Insert something stupid or borderline insulting)

Cat – “Excuse me?” (Fixes Carrie with piercing stare/head tilt/here’s your chance to backpedal before I throw you off the balcony of the restaurant and drink your margarita)

Carrie – “What? Who said that? OMG, look at those shoes, I think they have diamonds on them!”

Cat – “Ooh, sparkles?”

Carrie – (to the waitress) “Can we get another round here?”

Cat – “What were we talking about?”

Carrie – “I’m pretty sure we were talking about how dumb boys are”

Cat – “Yes, you’re right”

You have to love a woman who can tell you there’s something in your teeth, balance a job/family/ incredible sense of style, curse like a sailor, shoot a big gun, make you laugh when you’re down, help bury the body of the person who let you down, and be there every single time you reach out… even those times when you didn’t know you needed someone.

See Carrie's awesome art here:

Follow Carrie's Rocker Mom blog here:  http://www.rockermomrambles.blogspot.com/

Thursday, May 19, 2011

Bacon, Zombies And Sunshine Whore

I may need bail money today. First I did not sleep. I had really heroic intentions to sleep. Eat early, wash face, get in jammies and settle in for night at decent hour. I usually stay up late and stare at a laptop screen. Mostly looking at gross stuff. Because gross stuff like hoarders, weird surgeries, reattached penises and pictures of freakish diseases delight me. Between train wrecks and pictures of what mustard gas does to your skin, I  tweak my bloggity, Face Book, Twitter and  wonder why my checking account doesn't have a million bucks in it yet and am I past the appropriate age to start a stripping career.  But mostly gross stuff keeps me up. And coffee. And zombies...I heart zombies!

In bed by 10:30. And by in bed I mean I had my soft fuzzy blanket wrapped around me and tucked under my feet so the creepers under the bed can't get me and my pillow tucked under my head just right so my hair doesn't tangle into my new ear bar that hurts like a mother fucker because I was trying to be a cool mom and got my ear cartilage pierced with The Girl. I also have this annoying J.O.B. that wants my ass in a chair, perfectly coiffed and smiley by 8 A.M. so I really need to sleep because no one has deposited a gazillion dollars into my bank account yet. Masochists. Selfish masochists. But then I couldn't sleep. I kept waking up. Twice I got up and took a night time tour of the house. Maybe I shouldn't have had those two Shiner Bocks. Maybe I shouldn't have had bacon on my egg salad sammich because I know bacon especially gives me creepy dreams and  then I wake up and i'm afraid to go back to sleep. So then I go get a drink and sometimes maybe it's a little tiny glass of wine. But I am guessing it was bacon's fault. Clearly I have not headed the pig karma message I received (that story here) . Life lesson last night: bacon hates me, wine loves me. Loves me hard.  I am dead ass tired today. I didn't even bother with hot rollers or eye shadow primer. I wore flats today. Cute flats- but not stilettos. I am at my desk- barely awake. Friend asks in a creepy what kind of fun did you have last night tone, "Wow, you must of had a good night?". "Bacon", I answer in a go ahead and say I don't look cute and prepare to feel the wrath of my pink pedicured size 10 foot on the under side of your ball sack tone. Friend leaves. Quickly.

Enter Miss. Sunshine. She's perky. She's smiling and spreading warmth and glow all over my fucking cubicle. Go away Sunshine- before I duct tape your lips shut and set you on fire.

Miss Sunshine: "Hi how are you? OMG, it's almost Fridaaaaaay!"
Cranky Cat: "Yep. That's what the calendar says."
Miss Crack Whore Sunshine: "Aw, did you have a bad evening?". (Note: I hate baby talk. HATE. It.)
Cranky Mildly Homicidal Cat: "Bacon" out loud. "Bacon, Bitch", in my head.
Crack Whore Sunshine: "Is there anything I can do to help you?"
Mildly Homicidal Cat: I hold out my empty coffee cup and point to my cute but not stilettos flats.
Crack Whore : Looks at me and walks away. Scared.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Coffee, I Love You So

Hi my name is Cat, and I am addicted to coffee. I drink alot of it. I drink it in the morning, lunch, afternoon and dare I say, before bed.  Hope Mr. Man isn't reading this because I am about to be in trouble. If I go out with Carrie, you can bet after happy hour and me begging her to carry me down the stairs because I can't navigate them in 4 inch stilettos- there is coffee. Lots of strong Italian coffee. It's not about being able to walk in said shoes, because I can strut so bad ass in them that Naomi Campbell flys into a  jealous rage and throws  phones at my head. Well, that's what would happen if she was rolling with us but our Honey Badger Bus is already full of glitter,crazy and fabulous- so she has not been invited. It's because after Carrie makes me drink 3 margaritas and a beer, she makes the stairs go all steep and wobbly. And after she makes me scoot down them on my ass I always get a cup of coffee or two. Followed by a time out on the park bench while we heckle the security guard and anyone else in the parking lot. We know the coffee has done it's job once we don't think we are funny anymore. And now I will have my Carrie pass revoked, again, by Mr. Man. Again.

Because I love the bean so much- I took an epic dive for it this morning at work. At. Work! You see, some ass munch keeps taking the holy grail of free office coffee (that would be Folger's) up to the second floor. There were pissed people in the kitchen- going all Sparta because we only had Starbuck's to drink. Bet Folgers wishes they had a camera rolling here today!

I was feeling  heroic in my cute heels and spray on tan so I reached into  the back of the freezer to pull out my trump coffee card- a bucket of Folger's- look at me be fabulous fellow cubicle land prairie dogs. Look at me! So there I am, in a cute short khaki skirt, pretty coral sweater and of course, nude high heeled strappy sandals. I was having a moment- Office Manger saves the day AGAIN! So I go to open it- oh smell the coffee my followers - bow down and say thank you. As I am taking the lid off, the fucking bucket squeezes out from under my lady arm pit death grip, bounces off the table and skids across the floor- leaving a trail of wasted coffee and broken caffeine dreams behind it.

Tears , shock and horror all around. I go to grab the shitty Folger's bucket soft ball dive style and mid skid recall I am wearing a fucking skirt and these nerds awesome IT guys do not need to see my ass or my Hello Kitty panties so I attempt to stop and my fabulous heels. I do not stop. At all. They keep going. Without me. Really universe. REALLY!!!! Epic coffee save denied. On the bright side, I read that coffee reduces your chances of cancer! Holy crap- at the rate I drink coffee I am good for this and my next 10 lives. Hell, I bet if I go rub on you- you will be safe also. So just to be sure- I am going right now to meet my sweet but lethal Puerto Rican Sandra at Starbuck's to get a venti- non whip -soy-something -cancer blocker.  See the sacrifices I make for you guys? I love you like I love coffee!

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Warning: It's Raining Butt Hurt

I have made no secret that I am vain. I may not be a size 10 but that is no excuse for me to not keep myself solidly in the high maintenance category. I am not insulted. In fact- if you were to call me high maintenance I would say thank you for noticing. It's work people. Hard expensive work. It takes time and a budgetary ballet to pull it all off. So today, Kittens, someone in bad too small stretch pants and sporting a mop of wiry greasy gray hair dared provoke me and got to see the claws (well manicured-of course). Oh yes, I believe somewhere in this office area is a quivering Stretchapotumous sniffling about and licking her wounds.

My morning has been challenging to say the least. I slept very little last night. This is a repeat of the last month. No sleep. So I awoke late and had to jump to it in a spectacular way. Somewhere in the shit storm of ironing, makeup, hair and wrestling my work badge from my weekend purse- I managed to look pretty cute today. Great hair day. Epic! Short black skirt, leapord print sweater and cute black kitten heels. And as a bonus- compulsive lying scale finally told the truth and said I lost 2 pounds! Lucky bastard- I was so prepared to shoot it if it dared to tell me the same number it did last week. Well played, Lying Bastard Scale, well played!

Onto the office. I received compliments today..."You're looking great, Cat", "Are you losing weight?", "Your hair looks great"...yeah for me! A parade of sunshine and epic high fives. Oh yes, who's strutting on her very own personal cat walk humming Paralyzer this morning? This girl is! Oh what a glorious fucking Monday of all days! Are you people high? Know what- I don't care if you are- just follow me around today and call me fabulous and stuff. I can handle it, no really! Honey Badger doesn't give a care today- because I am fantabulous!

Back to our dear friend,  Stretchapotumous. So there I am in the kitchen getting my 4th cup of coffee and chatting with four other office people and Stretchapotumous . Someone commented on my tan- and how it looks really nice. Oh thank you Someone, thank you for noticing. And then Stretchapotumous, "Is that a REAL tan?". Oh dear God- she said that out loud and by the look of Someone and the other people- it registered to my face faster than jalapenos can make a white man crap his pants. "Nope- it's a spray tan. I love it. Love. It. All of the fun and none of the cancer". Laugh out louds all around! You see, I am not embarrassed that my tan is sprayed on- because I totally love the color and that I will not look like old shoe leather when I am 40. Oh snap- did I just finally mention something positive about turning 40? Hallelujah and yeah fucking me!! A break through!! And then Stretchapotumous  says with a hint of vinegar and mostly piss, "Well, it must be nice to be so pampered". And so I count 1, 2, 3... fuck it. You know what Stretchapotumous - it is fucking nice and here's why you mean little troll.

I like being pretty.I am not what I would call a stunner and I may be fat but I am pretty. You can call me conceited if you like but I wear that as a badge, too , Ass Hat! A fucking badge of honor. Know why? Because looking like a confident woman is awesome. BEING a hot confident woman is epic. And that means I have to pamper myself to bridge the gap between "eh"  and pretty. Yeah- it's my  job as a member of Team Lady Bits to take care of me and make sure I am pampered. That makes me a better, nicer, more sparkly version of me.

I get my hair done every 6 weeks.
Cut. Color. Glaze. Repeat.
My nails and toes-every other week.
Spray tan -every 4 days.
Teeth cleaning and whitening- every 6 months.
Home facial-every night.
Exfoliate skin- every shower.
Super good exfoliating /nourishing/wrinkle killing face cream- every morning & night.
Oh- and I always wear fantastic fucking shoes.

There is zero excuse for looking drab, dowdy, road hard and put up wet. I make serious financial sacrifices to be the star of my cat walk- to the tune of roughly $400 a month. To top that off- now I make sacrifices by choosing a banana instead of a brownie. Tea instead of Coke. Salad instead of a perfectly grilled slice of steak. Salad! But you, my dear hater, do not have to spend that much. Maybe if you would haul your ass off of the couch and graze down to Walgreen's- you could visit the Cover Girl & Clairol counter instead of the Ho-Ho &  Poor Me aisle and be epic also. If you are not inclined to do so- don't make snarky remarks and imply you are some flavor of neglected to this bitch because I will be your new best nightmare. I own the patent on Catty Bitch. Now, about those stretch pants....

Monday, May 16, 2011

It's Been Lovely But I Have To Scream Now

Lately i've been all wrapped up in turning 40 and all of the fun that comes with it (see here). And by wrapped up I mean- twisted in knots with indigestion and abdominal instability. To make things worse, Mother Nature seems to have lost her ever loving mind and forgotten how to read a calendar.

Before I get too far into my epic adventure to the Gyno Monday- Team Sticks- you may leave the room. Really, pack up and run to the store for some random item you don't need. Avert your eyes. Go watch sports. If you should choose to stay put and read on - well don't ask me to refund the little piece of your mind you are about to lose. Team Lady Bits please read on. I need a hug. Or a margarita. Yeah- skip the hug and just send alcohol my way. Hugs are fleeting and booze sticks around for hours.

To begin this whole epic adventure in lady parts issues, that bitch Aunt Flo over stayed her welcome by 16 days. Six. Teen. (See here ) So I do what any rational woman (shut the hell up Team Sticks...they do to exist) would do and I make an appointment with the Gyno. Because unless Tampax would like to give me some sort of endorsement deal or a frequent flyer bonus, this crime scene has to wrap up already. Really, I have the super hot man and I can't do anything with him. It's like having a fucking Lamborghini in the garage and I can't drive it. Oh, and tan pants are off the wardrobe menu as are cute underwear and things that don't have Spandex in them. So I go- and the nurse does the usual thing: weight (bitch), blood pressure, questions all of my answers on the patient information sheet and then progresses to ask me what it looks like. Gee, I didn't know you needed a sample. Give me a fucking Etch & Sketch or some cherry Jell-O with cookie dough chunks in it and I will show you. WTF? Enter the doctor. Same questions- same answers- but less polite. Not because she's unlikeable- just the opposite- she's quite nice and has a great manner about her. It's just that freakin' Nurse Wrachet just revealed to me what was on the tray under the blue medical cloth. KY, gloves, a spilunkers light and 3 speculums. Pardon me but I only have one uterus and vag- not three. Unless you count the rest of my personalities and we sort of all share this one body. But, hey, thanks for the vote of confidence!

So we proceed with the groping examination and oh so fun pap smear with the fun house sized Q-Tip. No visible reason for the issues so lets get a pelvic sonogram and a biopsy. Now- ok I wasn't ready for that but since you're down there. But then I am directed to get up. "All done, let me go get the orders for you", she says.  What. Huh? As it turns out, those two things have to be done during my next period. Is she fucking out of her mind! Really? Let's think about this. I don't even want to be in that general area during that time and I am supposed to let some strange lab technician probe me with a pelvic sonogram wand while I am on the rag, bitchy, swollen and generally homicidal? Do they get hazard pay? Because if I get a man tech , or worse-  a hot man tech, that is supposed to assault me with the Star Trek Dildo Scanner I swear to Jesus and the Pope that he is going to wish he had hazard insurance because I will rip his head off and kick him in the nads. Oh and the biopsy, same place and day as the sonogram. Do I get a fucking steak dinner and a movie with this date? Because I am starting to feel like a hooker- except I have to pay THEM a co-payment.

So I grab my lab orders and say thank you for the most epically screwed up Monday ever and head for the door. "Wait", I hear, "One more order. You're turning 40 soon so we need to order a baseline mammogram. You'll get another one on your birthday". Great. I can hardly wait to have my boobs squished like crepes. Twice. Yep, fourty is all kinds of shits and giggles. Hoorays!

"No, Cat, it's not noticeable at all. Really."

Sunday, May 15, 2011

I Feel Pretty

Today- I just want to say thank you to all of you who follow along. It makes me all giggly with warm & fuzzies when I see my hit numbers rise, rise, rising! Makes me feel super special  and pretty and shiny- and that is one sentence that has zero sarcasm and all gratitude in it. Don't get all needy though- cause tomorrow I am back to sarcasm, piss and vinegar. Especially since it's weigh in day and my dinner will consist of Sprite & Cherry Vodka tonight so I don't have to royally embarrass myself with the number the fucking scale is bound to lie about. So....

Thank you! To the 1,021 of you from the U.S.A...
Thank you & Merci! To the 41 of you from Canada....
Thank you! To the 27 of you from the U.K....
Dank u! To the 12 of you from the Netherlands...
Thank you! To the 10 of you from Australia...
Danke! To the 10 of you from Germany... 
Thank you! To the 6 of you from New Zealand
Thank you! To the 5 of you from Singapore...I couldn't figure out how to say thank you in Malay :(
Gracias! To the 3 of you from Spain...
谢谢! To the 3 of you from China...
Thank you! To to the 1 in Egypt...Babel Fish had no translation for you ,either :(

Thank you to those of you who are registered and follow my blog:
  • Blessedmommieof3
  • Deporto 87
  • Carrie F.
  • AJ
  • Christina R.
  • Kate
  • Brooks C.
  • Catherine S.
Thank you to those of you who have liked the Skinny Cat FB page...
  • Sandra O.
  • Katy D.
  • Holly S.
  • Cat R.
  • Sarah L.
  • Lynda D.
  • Christina R.
  • Sonya H.F.
  • Jennifer V.
  • Michele L.
  • Melia K.
  • Tara B.
  • Lisa L.H.
  • Debi S.
  • Daniell D. W
  • Cat R. S.
  • Mandy M.
  • Brooks C.
  • Will W.
  • Ariya V.
  • BJ & Mora G.
  • Carrie F.
  • Christina R.
And now- I am on Twitter ... http://twitter.com/#!/skinny_cat

So Thank you to the three of you there already! I just set it up last night!
  • SingleDad
  • Phoenix Pyra
  • SL Mother

Saturday, May 14, 2011

Just Scotch Tape The Dials, Why Don't Ya!

It's been quite a blast living with The Man. He's pretty awesome and makes me laugh all of the time. He's romantic, considerate, sexy and nice to my cat. He is nice to my girly bits, too. And he cooks! He's pretty much perfect to me and also refuses to put up with my bullshit. Life is a dream here. You may puke now.

There are a couple of things about him though, that always leave me questioning his sanity and possibly losing what is left of mine. I'm OCD- so is he. To the point that he will come unhinged if someone (read: me) puts the ketchup in the wrong spot on the wrong shelf or if I maybe put the pepper in the wrong cabinet. We also have the always popular war of the sexes lid up vs. lid down dispute. Not really a dispute from me - I don't care if he doesn't leave it down. I have never understood why that is such a point of contention for couples. If I stumble into the restroom at night to pee and get my ass stuck in the bowl and shoot pee across the room- well that's my fault. I know there is a standing pisser in the house and I should of looked first. Not him. He gets butt hurt if I leave the seat down- because he's used to always having it up and if he's too tired to check the lid-  he might pee on the floor at 3 o'clock in the morning. To which I say- ha ha I beat you to it!  I proposed one of those laser pens. We could mount it to the ceiling so it pin points the center of the bowl  so he can aim accordingly. Or maybe reaching down and feeling if the lid is in the take off position or simply turning on a light  to see! That did not go over well. At. All.

Then there is the toaster. I adjust the toaster to what ever I need: brown, crisp, slightly smoking and unrecognizable. He likes the toaster to stay on one setting so he never has to check it. Anyone see a pattern developing? So the other night, I made some frozen waffles for dinner (don't get all judgy- I was hungry and the kid already ate) and then I went about my business. The next morning he made eggs, bacon & toast for himself. After his eggs & bacon were perfectly fried he went to get his toast and it was cold. Dead cold- no toasty goodness. I got a phone call for that - one I wish I hadn't answered. Hope he doesn't get too crazy and "fix" the cabinets and toilet like he "fixed" the toaster.

Just scotch tape the dials , why don't ya!

Friday, May 13, 2011

It's Fixation Friday, Kittens!

I'm a little neurotic. I've tried very hard to be right up front about that and give fair warning to you all that I  like to cuss (the F Bomb is my favorite) and it will be an especially cussy day if the Xanax and Whiskey fairies fail to show up on any given morning day. I guess if we're going to be honest- and stick to this bloggity's* motto of tell it like it is- then I am cussy all of the time. I have made several somewhat honest attempts to stop- but then my friends ask me if i'm sick/depressed/suddenly mute if I am not my usual well accessorized colorful languaged sailor. So to put their worries at ease- I cuss on!

I have other fixations as well. Now let's reach into the crazy bag and see what we pull out! I am interested to know what level of neurotic you all are, also, so please do post and fly your freak flag along with me! Or join me on Face Book. (The button is over there ---->)

I Have No Filter. None. If it pops into my head I am gonna share it. Recently while out on a What  A Fucking Shitty Week date with Carrie, we were talking about baby arms. If you don't know what a baby arm is then you may be in danger of having your lady card revoked. Unless you are a virgin. Or a nun. At any rate, we were flashing a bunch of hand gestures...imagine our hands 4, 6, 8 and 10 inches apart while mouthing "this big"...and laughing. Maybe some snorting and generally sneezing our margaritas out of our noses. We also discussed various dismounts but more about that later. People were watching: the man stuck with two brats seemed interested and maybe like he wanted to come sit with us (sorry- we don't like REAL baby arms), the chicks next to us seemed perturbed that we out good-timed them and the waiter was looking at us as though we just let lose the most obnoxious fart known to man kind. Pretty sure we are  banned from the inside of that restaurant- because the next time we went they were sure to seat us outside on the most secluded corner.  Like distance is any challenge to us!

I Tell It Like It Is: I think I have always done this to an extent. But lately- I just go balls out. I'm annoyed by political correctness. Just say what you mean- and mean what you say! Holy shit- I can't stand it if people will not just say what's on their mind or their real opinion of whatever subject. Part of my motivation for this blog was that I am freaking out about my weight and turning 40. Like some switch in a deep unreachable corner of the universe will be flipped off and I will never be able to lose another ounce come August and aging will accelerate. Crazy much? While digging around the interweb- all I was able to find was bullshit advice like: this will be the best decade, embrace the new softer you, men love you droopy and all, you will find your true self, 40 is radiant, you are a beautiful butterfly emerging. What. The. Fuck! Stop blowing fucking sunshine up my ass and tell me the truth. After that, quickly tell me the recipe for the "Holy Shit I'm Fucking 40" cocktail. I am certain- that once I am 40- I will sail smoothly. However, right now, I am trying to figure out: why my period is all wonky, what can I do about my skin  drying out,  why the mustache, how do I keep my boobies from trying to hump my knees, why do I gain weight by simply reading a menu and why this all happened suddenly at one time and holy shit WHAT could possibly go wrong next? Can't I have a decade to adjust? So here I am- telling you- exactly what to expect and what I find out. No sunshine. No mincing. Just the truth. This is scary. And I am only usually afraid of the boogie man and the dark. And people with bad hygiene. And ugly shoes. *Shiver*

I'm All For Feedback: Some people like this blog- some people like Jeanne09 do not. She emailed me about my last post- in which I described my recent party at the Gyno's. More like panic than a  party. Sorry you were offended Jeanne, but I did give fair warning to not read on. Love it when you guys comment, post on my Face Book page or email me . I have had some awesome email conversations that have made me feel fantabulous and one that made me cry. I cried because this woman emailed me and told me thank you for being so honest and open. That she wished her girlfriends would be - because she is struggling with 30 and they think she is weak. WHAT! Pardon me while I step up on my soapy box: Always be a good girlfriend and listen to your posse. If someone is struggling shut your pie hole and hug her! Do not tell her she is whining, weak, less of a woman or over reacting. Or worse, don't tell her about the time you were in her shoes and coasted through the same situation singing  Zippity Fucking Doo Dah while unicorns shit rainbow cupcakes down on your picnic! If your girl confides she is on the verge of a nuclear fucking freak out- drop your fork and listen to her. M'kay? As far as feedback- i'll take what you have to say but if you email me and call me names, tell me Jesus hates a cusser or act like you shit sunshine- i'm gonna get all pissy and post your user name. Meow.

I'm Damaged: If you read this blog at all - you know that. 'Nough said.

Lastly- I love you all. Because this makes me feel better- that I am not alone. Or I made you laugh. Or think. Or waste your lunch hour. Thank you for your support, your cheers, tears and smart ass responses.

bloggity's* Stole this from Carrie. Makes me laugh everytime she says bloggity blog. Like it's her retarded pet.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Well, At Least I'm Not Pregnant

I had this fabulous intention to write a Mother's Day entry Sunday. To celebrate a few great mom's I know (Ugs, Bugs, Gator & Bear) but then I stepped on the scale. Major shit attack. Hysteria ensued, I stopped breathing and if I had clothes on - I maybe would have let myself pass out in hopes I would knock myself into a fucking coma and wake up 60 lbs. lighter and with super long Barbie hair. But alas, after the soul killing news the scale gave me, it is more likely I would of been all sprawled out on the closet floor with a black eye, a missing tooth and broken arm. Naked. For The Man to discover. Sexy. So I had a little cry (read:  silent, blood curdling bitch fit) and kicked the scale. Just as an aside: the scale does not care when one kicks it- it does however- ensure your perfectly pink new pedicure is chipped. Since I don't have Opi's Hot In My Cabana at home- I was pushed further off of the WTF cliff. The fucking scale calls me a fat pig AND I have a ghetto pedicure. Mother's Day was awesome!

"For reallies? I have to write about this?"
I am plus 9 pounds- moving me back up to 220. Now I could cry or I could just go ahead and call an official Come to Jesus Meeting and see what all of this fuckedupedness (thank you for that word, BFF Carrie) is about. As it turns out- it is all my fault- shocker, I know! I have not been true to my mission or to me. So, the meeting is officially in session and let the butt hurts begin. And no crying, it's not like the Pope came and stole all of my stilettos. Just my ass is a little bigger. At least my feet didn't gain weight. And i'm not pregnant. See, shining fucking silver lining in everything. Yippee.

1. I have been eating chicken. And tuna. Seems restaurants thinks a shit ton of cheese is an acceptable meat substitute. So I figure a little chicken or fish is way better than eating a 3 pound glob of melted franken-cheese that is likely hiding all kinds of weird hormones and rocket fuel. Don't believe rocket fuel is in the cheese? Go read this . I may have had some cow. No pork though, because it gives me night mares. No really, like spring out of bed, scream my head off and piss myself nightmares. Don't know why that happens but it is an excellent deterrent. If only all of the other farm animals made me wig out- well I guess I wouldn't have anything to blog about. Except my shitty days and generally craptastic experiences. I digress (I always wanted to say digress- sounds fancy- so there I said it. Golf clap). At any rate- back to NO MEAT. Period. If I must- I will make an exception for fish. Nothing from the land. That is all.

2. It's possible I have been so happy at happy hours- that I have eaten way too many chips, drank too much queso and perhaps have learned that just because margaritas have plant juice in them- does not make them a healthy salad.

3. I started drinking soda again. Soda hates me and my hips. I hate you back soda- for reallies this time.

4. I have not taken my ass out on a walk for a week or two. I started up again last night. The Girl and I walked 5 miles. Five. I spent most of the walk near cardiac arrest but I made it. I shall repeat this tonight.

5. I have to break up with Starbuck's. It was a lovely affair and I will miss the most delicious icy cold frappaccinos. But all good things come to an end or they will go to my end.

6. The next time I am tempted- I will ask myself, "Do I love this food more than I love being a size 10?". That answer will always be a resounding no followed by me sprinting away. Ok, not sprinting away- I don't sprint. I will walk quickly- like I see a 80% off Coach bags sign ahead.

Come to Jesus meeting is adjourned. Nothing like a little honesty to make me feel all ass hurt- but it had to happen. Here's to a happy weigh in on Monday. Speaking of weigh ins- I look forward to telling you about my Dr's. appointment I had yesterday. Oh yeah- God hates women for sure!

Friday, May 6, 2011

Tweezers, Clairol and Bras! Oh My!

There is no gentle, slippery, flowery, tingly way to say this - so I will just tell you. Bad things will happen to you when you turn 40. Especially if you happen to be on Team Girly Bits. If you happen to be in the Stick club- well don't get all smuggy just yet. The shit ton of stuff that happens to us at least has creams, tweezers, Clairol and Wonder Bras to correct it. Our 40 comes with white out. Your balls are going to drop to your ankles. Pretty sure I haven't seen any magic products being pushed on late night t.v. to help you out with that issue.

I am personally in high freak out mode. I don't know why because 40 is the new 30- and I really liked 30. I should just be skipping along thinking I get to be 30 again, hoorays! Right? No. Whoever started the cruel rumor that 40 is the new 30 is a lying son of a bitch that I would like to stab in the head with my stilettos while I can still wear them. For example, when I turned 30, I finally came to terms that I have a curvy figure and learned to love it. Love. It. What's not to like about having a chest that Pamela Anderson paid thousands for...mine was free, natural and traffic stopping. This decade the girls are still there- but they sorta need a shelf to sit on. Which is fine because I can buy an awesome shiny pink plunging cleavage shelf at Victoria's Secret.  I didn't have to work out at 30 either. And I had nice arms. Now, my arms are going South and everything else is playing follow the leader. My sister says the flab under your arms just tells everyone what direction the rest of you is falling. Goody.

"Happy fourtieth, Cat. I'll take the muscle tone in your upper arms, the girlish timbre in your voice,
your amazing tolerance for caffeine and your ability to digest french fries.
The rest of you can stay."
I also am having a hard time remembering things and I feel all wonky sometimes. I don't forget big stuff. I can still find my way home without the DPS having to flash a Silver Alert with my license plate number on giant signs along the interstate asking every commuting zombie in rush hour to look out for me and call 911 if I happen to crash into them. It's small stuff- like walking into a room and having no idea what I went in there for. This is especially bad at work. I have walked into conference rooms only to become painfully aware that I have no idea what the meeting is about and can't figure out why everyone is looking at me with crazy eyes. That's when this internal dialogue flashes through my head in a second:  "What? Do I have chocolate on my shirt. Shit- is my boob out and now it looks like I have three boobs? Do I have a booger? I swear that noise was my shoe and I didn't just drop a cabbage bomb in here. Is he looking at my boobies? Fucking pervert- I always hated that guy. You wish ass munch. You. Wish."....oh holy shit snacks, I think this is the wrong fucking room. My bad. Now I have to trot my pissed off self back to my desk to figure out where the hell I am supposed to be. And try to remember write it down this time.

Four fuckity zero is gonna be a shitastic year!