Jan
25
January 25, 2007
So you want to hear about Cat, do you? Let me tell you about Cat: I am about one more cat-yowl away from shoving her in the microwave and turning it to the “Repulsive Meat-Gobbet Explosion of Fur-Coated Internal Organs” setting.
She’s always been a vocal, demanding, bitchy cat, but lately it’s like her mission on this earth is to 1) trip and kill her owners so she can feast on our tender, accessible flesh, 2) howl at top volume to be either let in or let out, 285728103 times per night, and 3) wake up Riley by standing outside his room, pawing at the doorknob (I am not even making this up), and yowling over and over until one of us scurries down the hallway hissing obscenities, picks her up by the scruff of her neck, and eighty-sixes her obnoxious ass outside. Where she immediately starts yelling at the front door again.
We have this bell hanging from the front doorknob, and for a long time she would reach up and ring it when she wanted out. I thought it was a cute trick, except for the part where I found myself instantly, mindlessly rising from the couch and heading for the door each time I heard the bell tinkling. It’s kind of disturbing when your cat uses Pavlovian conditioning on you in order to develop involuntary reflexes that work in her favor, you know?
But she doesn’t do the bell thing any more, now she just yells. All the time with the yowling. And as some of you know, there’s nothing quite like having something threaten the sleep of your small child. It solicits a sort of wartime response, an I-wouldn’t-normally-stab-you-with-this-bayonet-but-we-are-in-trying-circumstances kind of visceral reaction, and just because my tormentor has the comprehension skills of a cantaloupe doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel good to cuss her right the hell out.
Every night, I unleash a festive string of expletives at Cat. I tell her if she doesn’t quit yowling I’m going to rip her head off and shit down her neck. I tell her I fucking hate all cats and I think the government should explore using their carcasses as alternative fuel sources. I tell her to fucking shut her fucking cat-hole for fucking fuck’s sake (may I remind you my innocent child is asleep at this time so it’s okay to use questionable terms such as, you know, “cat-hole”) or I’m going to beat her ass like a dusty rug, and if that doesn’t work, I get out a plastic bag and give it a good shake because that always scares the crap out of her and ha ha haaaa, you should see her try and run on hardwood floors.
On the off chance this wasn’t quite what you meant when you said you wanted an update on Cat, let me assure you she’s the picture of robust good health, she cuddles with JB on the couch every night, and in the morning I often find her curled against my feet. Oh, I love Cat, despite her many, many flaws.
You know what – I bet she’s still getting revenge on me for this:
It’s another low-key weekend ahead for us. Saturday I think I’ll be cleaning and hen-pecking JB to help me clean, and Sunday JB’s parents are coming to visit. JB has an Alki dive planned, and I have a freelance project to finish and submit. Oh, and tomorrow night is the once-every-two-months “parents night” at our daycare, so we can go on a DATE. Woo! I’m trying to decide: dinner or a movie? Has anyone seen Children of Men and thinks we should definitely see that (note: I am a rabid fan of dystopian movies, plus Clive Owen is some tasty manbeef, is he not) — or some different movie? Or should we go to a restaurant where, praise jebus, someone else does the cooking and cleanup?
And here’s the same question as I always ask: what are YOU doing this weekend? I don’t know if I say it enough, but I love hearing your answers.
Lastly, the suctopus:
Which reminds me, go check out my enormous (partial) list of the books you recommended a while back!
Jan
24
January 24, 2007
I am trying to eat better.
I can’t type the words I am dieting because I feel like that will instantly jinx me and I’ll find myself eating fistfuls of Krispy-Kreme-and-bacon sandwiches while power-chugging melted lard. Or something.
God, that was gross. The melted lard part, I mean. Because Krispy Kreme and bacon? Together? Clearly I have just invented some sort of culinary holy matrimony! In fact, let us all just take a moment to let the angelic chorus reverberate through this web page. Boowaaaaaaaaaaaaah.
It’s been nearly 17 months since Riley was born and it’s taken me this long to feel anything more than a fleeting sense of unhappiness about my body. Nothing much has changed, I haven’t gained or lost any weight to speak of, but I think it’s finally time to be serious about getting in shape.
JB and I have created some really unhealthy eating habits — mostly stemming around nightly “treats” that involve baking cookies or having ice cream or whatever. It’s like…this thing we do together, that is fun and indulgent, after the boy is asleep and we both feel, however briefly, like our responsibilities are lifted.
We don’t drink, after all. We don’t smoke. What do we do? Eat cookies, that’s what.
Well, the food-as-reward thing might work long term if I had the metabolism of a toddler, but sadly I do not. Plus, it gets kind of pathological, feeling destitute if you can’t access the magical combination of sugar and bad television, you know?
So I’m cutting that shit out and substituting healthy snacks and I’m trying to make sure our dinners do not include an actual square foot of melted cheese and etc, etc, etc. I’d like to fit back into a size 8, or at the very least be a leaner, healthier size 10.
I want to feel more attractive, basically. Right now, I feel completely invisible: out of shape, sort of frumpy, nothing particularly pleasing to the eye. It’s spectacularly unsexy.
I just weighed myself (am I really about to type this oh my god I am) — after dinner, but also after peeing, and on a questionable scale that had an embarrassing amount of dust on it, I weigh 148 pounds. I’m going to check back in with you on my progress or lack thereof, not because I have any misconceptions over your level of interest (I know, blogging about dieting is about as thrilling as blogging about children, which is to say I should really starting writing about Cat more often because hoo boy, TRIFECTA OF SUCK HERE I COME) but because I am going to hold myself accountable, by thunder.
:::
My friend Jen came over today with her 10-month-old son Theo, and while Riley was pretty interested in Theo’s presence (“BA BA!”), he was awfully possessive about his stuff. God forbid another baby drool on one of his eight thousand plastic blocks, you know. It was sort of funny to watch him manufacture a deep and emotional attachment to some toy he’d been ignoring for the past month, but at the same time I was a little dismayed by his bogarting ‘tude.
Luckily, we discovered the perfect activity for the two kidlets:
Of course, it would be nicer if that were Riley pushing Theo around, being as how Theo was the guest and all, but maybe next time.
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