11.05.2007
10.16.2007
6.12.2007
In Other News...
Today was my 2nd wedding anniversary. My husband and I have been married for two years. We went to Spago in Beverly Hills (yes, I took the bus to Spago, I am ghetto) and, as is customary, we ate way too much.
Our meal was awesome. I'd post pictures but I forgot my camera.
Our meal was awesome. I'd post pictures but I forgot my camera.
A Brief Respite From The LOLanimals...
One thing that a lot of people don't know about me is that I've got a bit of an aversion to talking on the phone. This poses few issues socially, as most of my close friends know not to take it personally when they call and I don't call them back. They know this Cat is not one for idle chit chat, and that they'd be better off trying to find me online on one chat client or another. They also know that there is some futility in leaving me voice mail as it often goes unchecked for weeks.
The situation however, is a bit more urgent career-wise, as you'd be hard-pressed to find any office job that doesn't require some sort of telephone servitude. As it stands, even a (low-ranking) Mistress of Propaganda has to make phone calls during her short work week. And in this context, what can be otherwise be described as a mild aversion in my personal life has somehow mutated into a grotesque subtype of social phobia.
To make a long story short, I need to make a shitload of phone calls and I haven't. I'm terrified of calling people I don't know and calling them on behalf of a company I represent. I've totally procrastinated, and I'm totally fucked!
As the moment clearly calls for some amateur psychology, some friends and I trawled through my colorful childhood memories and identified a few risk factors for developing telephone phobia. At the risk of sounding like a socially-inept wuss, I have listed them for your perusal:
First, we start with what is already there, that is:
1. My personality in general. Overly serious, extremely self conscious, solitary. Even now I think about mistakes I've made (even stupid ones) replay them in my mind, and consequently die a thousand deaths. I also blush for no reason in social situations.
And then... the bullshit:
2. Having an unusual name, and being forced to repeat this name ad nauseam during the "May I ask who's calling" bit of the calling process.
3. Having a mild speech impediment. Boy, did I st-st-st-stutter. It's virtually indiscernible now, but back in the day I could have passed for a Porky Pig impersonator.
4. Being the most ridiculed fat girl in my class... and the prank phone calls that came with that honor.
Put 'em all together and what have you got...
Yes, I know you were expecting something like "My father beat me with a telephone." And I know I have to get over it at some point and you know what, I probably will. I'm not going to get my ass fired, it took me eons to find this job.
It really frustrates me how I take this sort of garbage with me and turn it into neuroses. Some people get bullied, beaten and raped and still go on to become CEOs or movie stars and I (with my asinine traumas and relatively cosseted childhood) can't even make a FUCKING PHONE CALL?!? WTF?!?
I don't want to think that I'm organically predisposed to social phobia but when you have a brother who is uncomfortable calling for pizza delivery, you begin to wonder...
What this all boils down to is the fact that I really need to stop being my own worst enemy; I create this hell in my own head and then I die a thousand deaths and with each death cast myself into the flames.
Dramatic much? Go Cat Go!
The situation however, is a bit more urgent career-wise, as you'd be hard-pressed to find any office job that doesn't require some sort of telephone servitude. As it stands, even a (low-ranking) Mistress of Propaganda has to make phone calls during her short work week. And in this context, what can be otherwise be described as a mild aversion in my personal life has somehow mutated into a grotesque subtype of social phobia.
To make a long story short, I need to make a shitload of phone calls and I haven't. I'm terrified of calling people I don't know and calling them on behalf of a company I represent. I've totally procrastinated, and I'm totally fucked!
As the moment clearly calls for some amateur psychology, some friends and I trawled through my colorful childhood memories and identified a few risk factors for developing telephone phobia. At the risk of sounding like a socially-inept wuss, I have listed them for your perusal:
First, we start with what is already there, that is:
1. My personality in general. Overly serious, extremely self conscious, solitary. Even now I think about mistakes I've made (even stupid ones) replay them in my mind, and consequently die a thousand deaths. I also blush for no reason in social situations.
And then... the bullshit:
2. Having an unusual name, and being forced to repeat this name ad nauseam during the "May I ask who's calling" bit of the calling process.
3. Having a mild speech impediment. Boy, did I st-st-st-stutter. It's virtually indiscernible now, but back in the day I could have passed for a Porky Pig impersonator.
4. Being the most ridiculed fat girl in my class... and the prank phone calls that came with that honor.
Put 'em all together and what have you got...
Yes, I know you were expecting something like "My father beat me with a telephone." And I know I have to get over it at some point and you know what, I probably will. I'm not going to get my ass fired, it took me eons to find this job.
It really frustrates me how I take this sort of garbage with me and turn it into neuroses. Some people get bullied, beaten and raped and still go on to become CEOs or movie stars and I (with my asinine traumas and relatively cosseted childhood) can't even make a FUCKING PHONE CALL?!? WTF?!?
I don't want to think that I'm organically predisposed to social phobia but when you have a brother who is uncomfortable calling for pizza delivery, you begin to wonder...
What this all boils down to is the fact that I really need to stop being my own worst enemy; I create this hell in my own head and then I die a thousand deaths and with each death cast myself into the flames.
Dramatic much? Go Cat Go!
6.11.2007
6.10.2007
Wedding Anniversary Countdown
My husband and I were married on 12th June 2005 at his parents' duplex in New York City. To commemorate this joyous event, one capybara. Photo taken at the Santa Barbara Zoo during our pseudo-honeymoon:
To My 2.5 (or so) Readers...
Just when this blog was starting to look like just another of the many things sacrificed to the Temple of the Easily Distracted...
The extent to which I enjoy doing absolutely nothing disturbs me more than you'll ever know. There's just nothing better than opening a can of Diet Pepsi, watching a few crime shows, talking to your friends on the Internet, and hugging a dog or two... all at the same time. Yes folks, in this world of compulsory utilitarianism, "nothing" has come to mean "that which is not productive" as opposed to actually, well... nothing.
Unless, of course, you're Paris Hilton, for whom "nothing" means "that which is between one's ears". Or, "that for which one is famous." Hyuk hyuk, I couldn't resist. The brain dead blonde is currently incarcerated at the jail near my house, which really isn't as foreboding from the outside as you'd expect a jail to be.
(Yes, we are starfuckers, we did a driveby.)
Anyway, as this whole "nothing" business gets quite old, I decided to scrape the barnacles of ennui off my lazy ass and get myself a job. Which I eventually did, after 3 or so months of believing that no one would actually hire me. Suffice it to say, I will not be hawking my body in uncomfortable shoes under the freeway any time soon.
So I now work part-time for an educational company that will remain unnamed, a place where I have silently dubbed myself "Mistress of Marketing". It's a great place to work, and I'm quite glad to be there. And while I'm not exactly raking it in at the moment (being part-time and all,) hopes remain high for the future!
At any rate I'll make a serious effort to update more frequently.
The extent to which I enjoy doing absolutely nothing disturbs me more than you'll ever know. There's just nothing better than opening a can of Diet Pepsi, watching a few crime shows, talking to your friends on the Internet, and hugging a dog or two... all at the same time. Yes folks, in this world of compulsory utilitarianism, "nothing" has come to mean "that which is not productive" as opposed to actually, well... nothing.
Unless, of course, you're Paris Hilton, for whom "nothing" means "that which is between one's ears". Or, "that for which one is famous." Hyuk hyuk, I couldn't resist. The brain dead blonde is currently incarcerated at the jail near my house, which really isn't as foreboding from the outside as you'd expect a jail to be.
(Yes, we are starfuckers, we did a driveby.)
Anyway, as this whole "nothing" business gets quite old, I decided to scrape the barnacles of ennui off my lazy ass and get myself a job. Which I eventually did, after 3 or so months of believing that no one would actually hire me. Suffice it to say, I will not be hawking my body in uncomfortable shoes under the freeway any time soon.
So I now work part-time for an educational company that will remain unnamed, a place where I have silently dubbed myself "Mistress of Marketing". It's a great place to work, and I'm quite glad to be there. And while I'm not exactly raking it in at the moment (being part-time and all,) hopes remain high for the future!
At any rate I'll make a serious effort to update more frequently.
2.14.2007
Too Full To Fuck
It is one of life's harsh realities that whenever I go out to eat for Valentine's Day, my mate of the moment (yes, the tradition predates my husband) and I always return home stuffed to the brink of explosion. My friend Miriam earlier pointed out that she would sooner forgo the fancy dinner aspect of V.D. (opting instead for a quick Thai meal with her boyfriend and some strippers/Mexican wrestling after), as the fancier places are quite often filled with "sappy, smiling couples."
Obviously she has never seen me and my husband at the trough at a fancy restaurant.
The evening starts out decently enough. We are seated, order wine (generally red) or a "signature cocktail". If we order different things, we discreetly trade sips. Then the dinner order is placed, after much deliberation, as I find it hard to commit to anything other than marriage. Prix fixe or a la carte, it doesn't matter-- whichever shows the most promise. We acknowledge that it's probably too much, but oh well... it's a special occasion! We munch daintily on bread; then, the amuses-bouches arrive. After the requisite feigning of surprise ("Oh, what a treat! Free stuff rules!"), the artfully-arranged morsels are popped into our mouths, and our lips smack in glee at the promise of things to come.
First course arrives. Shovel into mouth, crunch crunch, yum yum. Second course arrives; lather, rinse, REPEAT. At this point our eyes begin to glaze over and one of us will undoubtedly exclaim, "Wow, I think I'm a little full!" Gastrointestinal comfort and niceties, however, don't really hold much stock at our romantic dinner for two, and it is quite apparent to any casual observer that sappy smiles and googly eyes have no place at our table. Unless, of course, they pertain to nausea.
So, with the delicacy of wolves, on we proceed to the third course. After its perfunctory decimation, it is only then that there is time for smiles. Mouths half open, eyelids at half mast, smiles that say as much about the condition of our stomachs (painfully engorged) as they do about the quality of our meal (absolutely exquisite).
Needless to say, the last thing we want to do after this debacle is fuck. We arrive at home, staggering through the apartment with vacant stares; a little buzzed, a little sleepy, our tongues still warm with the memories of what we so wantonly shoved down our respective hatches a mere hour or so ago. Putting the remnants of pre-dinner lustful thoughts out to pasture, we amble off to bed, painfully sated. And it is here, facing away from each other in conjoined discomfort, that we most experience the pleasure/pain dichotomy of love, a sensation that will endure at least until the next bowel movement.
Obviously she has never seen me and my husband at the trough at a fancy restaurant.
The evening starts out decently enough. We are seated, order wine (generally red) or a "signature cocktail". If we order different things, we discreetly trade sips. Then the dinner order is placed, after much deliberation, as I find it hard to commit to anything other than marriage. Prix fixe or a la carte, it doesn't matter-- whichever shows the most promise. We acknowledge that it's probably too much, but oh well... it's a special occasion! We munch daintily on bread; then, the amuses-bouches arrive. After the requisite feigning of surprise ("Oh, what a treat! Free stuff rules!"), the artfully-arranged morsels are popped into our mouths, and our lips smack in glee at the promise of things to come.
First course arrives. Shovel into mouth, crunch crunch, yum yum. Second course arrives; lather, rinse, REPEAT. At this point our eyes begin to glaze over and one of us will undoubtedly exclaim, "Wow, I think I'm a little full!" Gastrointestinal comfort and niceties, however, don't really hold much stock at our romantic dinner for two, and it is quite apparent to any casual observer that sappy smiles and googly eyes have no place at our table. Unless, of course, they pertain to nausea.
So, with the delicacy of wolves, on we proceed to the third course. After its perfunctory decimation, it is only then that there is time for smiles. Mouths half open, eyelids at half mast, smiles that say as much about the condition of our stomachs (painfully engorged) as they do about the quality of our meal (absolutely exquisite).
Needless to say, the last thing we want to do after this debacle is fuck. We arrive at home, staggering through the apartment with vacant stares; a little buzzed, a little sleepy, our tongues still warm with the memories of what we so wantonly shoved down our respective hatches a mere hour or so ago. Putting the remnants of pre-dinner lustful thoughts out to pasture, we amble off to bed, painfully sated. And it is here, facing away from each other in conjoined discomfort, that we most experience the pleasure/pain dichotomy of love, a sensation that will endure at least until the next bowel movement.
2.12.2007
Stitching Myself Into An Early Grave.
I love clothes. From sample sales in dusty warehouses to digging in the racks of even dustier thrift stores, one could say that I definitely go the extra mile to find one-of-a-kind pieces. This involves much more suffering, tissues, and Claritin than one would normally associate with shopping, as I am ridiculously allergic to dust. In my search for easier, less sniffle-inducing ways to acquire vintage clothing, it was only a matter of time before I became interested in the fine art of sewing. What's more retro than DIY?
So, with visions of the exquisite creations I would undoubtedly churn out in no time (HA HA HA!) dancing in my head, I eagerly signed up for my first sewing class last December. To my dismay, I soon discovered the dark side of this quaint little hobby, the traditional domain of quilters, of the grandmothers of yore.
If you have any doubt in your spatial reasoning abilities, RUN. Run fast, hard, and in the opposite direction of the sewing table. If you are the sort who cannot cut in a straight line to save your life, I would encourage you to run even faster. And finally, if the idea of being ridiculously meticulous makes you break out in hives, I would strongly suggest attaching rockets to your back to speed you up on your way out.
As the proud owner of all three of those dreaded traits I struggled horribly through that first class. Four weeks later, however, I was the proud creator of a pair of pajama pants. So far, they have been worn and washed 6 times or so and are still in one wearable piece. Just last Tuesday I completed my second sewing class and my second Fabric Baby, an A-line skirt. Both projects were tinged with the stench of frustration as my lack of innate sewing sense battled with my strong desire to get to the point where I'd actually be producing clothes that I could wear in public. Almost too frequently, I found myself staring at the heap of fabric and cloth on my table with the unpleasant feeling that there might as well be a large blinking neon sign over my head that said, quite clearly, "I SUCK." And I was haunted by the spirits of a million cursing sewing grannies as my already extensive use of profanities increased exponentially every time I came face to face with a sewing machine.
Yet, for some reason, here I am, with 6 more weeks of sewing to look forward to, and a DRESS which I have yet to construct. There are measurements to be taken, fabric to be purchased, patterns to be cut out and pieced together. And, glutton for punishment that I am, there will be pain, lots of it, frustration by the gallon, and a dollop of despair to top it all off. There really is nothing more depressing than attempting to do something at which you so innately SUCK, and ultimately, nothing more rewarding than completing a project that more or less resembles CLOTHING.
So, with visions of the exquisite creations I would undoubtedly churn out in no time (HA HA HA!) dancing in my head, I eagerly signed up for my first sewing class last December. To my dismay, I soon discovered the dark side of this quaint little hobby, the traditional domain of quilters, of the grandmothers of yore.
If you have any doubt in your spatial reasoning abilities, RUN. Run fast, hard, and in the opposite direction of the sewing table. If you are the sort who cannot cut in a straight line to save your life, I would encourage you to run even faster. And finally, if the idea of being ridiculously meticulous makes you break out in hives, I would strongly suggest attaching rockets to your back to speed you up on your way out.
As the proud owner of all three of those dreaded traits I struggled horribly through that first class. Four weeks later, however, I was the proud creator of a pair of pajama pants. So far, they have been worn and washed 6 times or so and are still in one wearable piece. Just last Tuesday I completed my second sewing class and my second Fabric Baby, an A-line skirt. Both projects were tinged with the stench of frustration as my lack of innate sewing sense battled with my strong desire to get to the point where I'd actually be producing clothes that I could wear in public. Almost too frequently, I found myself staring at the heap of fabric and cloth on my table with the unpleasant feeling that there might as well be a large blinking neon sign over my head that said, quite clearly, "I SUCK." And I was haunted by the spirits of a million cursing sewing grannies as my already extensive use of profanities increased exponentially every time I came face to face with a sewing machine.
Yet, for some reason, here I am, with 6 more weeks of sewing to look forward to, and a DRESS which I have yet to construct. There are measurements to be taken, fabric to be purchased, patterns to be cut out and pieced together. And, glutton for punishment that I am, there will be pain, lots of it, frustration by the gallon, and a dollop of despair to top it all off. There really is nothing more depressing than attempting to do something at which you so innately SUCK, and ultimately, nothing more rewarding than completing a project that more or less resembles CLOTHING.
2.11.2007
Testing, One Two Three. First post for me...
Jumping on the bloggy bandwagon.
Gotta love this "Dear Diary" crap.
Gotta love this "Dear Diary" crap.
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