resentment

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Cool Cat?

Trust me. Once you get a cat, your cool status is over. You’re automatically labeled a “cat person”, which I personally don’t think is fair. At all. I mean, just because my kid wants a cat – and I indulge her – how does this make me a cat lover?

Just to be fair, what if I let you read the adoption form – the one that asks the question what we’ll do if the cat tears up the furniture and my husband M responded “hide from my wife” – would that influence your opinion? And what if you were privy to the many discussions – including my dislike for cats, cat posters, cat witticisms, etc. – that were part of the adoption interview process? What would you think now?

The only thing I promised was that we’d give the damn cat a good home. (I won’t turn any living being out onto the street, even if it’s just a cat.) But I never committed to belonging to a (the?) cat society.

Now, fast forward to PEOPLE. PEOPLE, the slobs of our society who judge us daily, will categorize you as a cat lover in an instant. (Particularly “Cat People” – they want you to join so badly it just kills them.) As an example, my mother – my own sweet (heh!) mother – has recently betrayed me by gifting me with cat crap. Actually, I should clarify. Mom gave the gifts to G, as she is Cat’s rightful mistress. And, despite G being a mere 5 years of age, she is now the proud owner of 1) 2 cat coffee mugs, 2) a cat plant hanger, and 3) cat book labels – (“Ex Libris”!).

So work with me, people. I’m taking a stand to say that cat owners and cool people can exist harmoniously – or bi-polarly – or whatever. What I mean is that we, as individuals, can live in both worlds. One minute I’m entranced by the cat attacking the Oriental rug, and the next I’m grooving to Ricky Martin and watching re-runs of the “Golden Girls”. So who says I can’t be both frisky AND super-cool? Give me some credit, folks. It’s called “dimensional.” DUH.

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Snobby Cat

I think I told you we recently got a cat. A boy one. Who likes to scratch the upholstery at 6am because he knows that’s a surefire way to get me out of bed, even if it’s only to hiss at him. (I mean, scratching posts abound in this house. Wouldn’t you think a catnip-laced ropey thing would be much more attractive than a needlepoint chair? I know, me too – but the cat apparently disagrees.)

Cat is also a discriminating eater. Although we’ve only fed him premium foods, he basically goes on a hunger strike anytime we stray from the most expensive brand. When we adopted him, we learned he was previously owned by an elderly lady who passed away. Do you think she fed him sushi, or what?

So anyway, tonight I’m pretty sure I recommended a CNN article to everyone I know. Not because I wanted to, but because the cat insists upon walking across my keyboard every few minutes. Y’all know I’m not so technically savvy, so I’ve never “recommended” an article in my life. But then, all of a sudden today I (allegedly) popped up with “The World’s Best Restaurants” (like anybody I know could get reservations at any of them). I’ve been a dog person my entire life, and have always suspected cats of undermining humans. So, do you think Cat is sending secret messages to the other snobby cats? And can these cats get a table at Per Se???

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It started off well enough, but now it’s time for it to end. Not being able to leave the house for four days is enough to disturb even a homebody like myself. I am beginning to act like Jack Nicholson in “The Shining”. My hair is even sticking up like his (although, to be fair, that could be because I haven’t showered yet today).

Monday was exciting because we woke up to a lot of snow and closed schools. The situation has somewhat deteriorated since then, as I have begun leaving threats on the school officials’ voicemails. They need to open those damn schools tomorrow or else, if you know what I mean.

Today we hosted a birthday party with 34 guests, although only 3 of us were real people. The party was for Petal, little G’s baby doll, and we entertained such notable guests as Grover, Minnie Mouse, Pocahontas, and Rapunzel. Not only did this soiree require us to make a fancy cake, we were forced to sing and blow out candles as well. (Not to mention serving pieces to each doll.)

In another case of the universe conspiring against me, our television satellite is out today. Why, Lord, WHY? You would think my good deeds of the last couple of years would protect me from such evils. But, what with birds falling from the skies and such, one can never tell what’s really going on. I am usually not one to point fingers, but I dare say this is the work of the North Koreans. If the schools are closed tomorrow, I may phone Pyongyang and give them a piece of my mind.

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When it comes to the use of technology, I am inferior to a 4-year-old. This is proven to me at least once a day as my daughter plays effortlessly on her Leapster kindergarten game while I repeat the serenity prayer over and over to calm myself enough to prevent the throwing my of my new book Nook through the window. Despite receiving this wonderful gadget the week prior to Christmas, I still don’t have a single book loaded on it.
Part of my problem is that I’m such a cheapskate. I refuse to buy a book before I see what I can load from the public library for free. Barnes & Noble is a lovely place to spend an afternoon, but they sure don’t make it easy to avoid buying their books. (Or at least not easy for me.)
I know what you’re thinking, as any rational person would. “Where is your husband? Can’t he help?” The answers are: 1)on the couch, and 2)he refuses. He says it’s my project and I need to figure out how to use it myself.
He says these types of ridiculous things when he gets frustrated that I don’t know how to use anything I have. A year after receiving a super-duper camera, I still take every shot on the automatic setting. (Who do I look like, Annie Leibovitz?) Two years after getting this Mac, I can only use a couple of the applications. And don’t even get me started on my iPod. iTunes seems to have a personal hatred toward me. I don’t know what I ever did to those Apple people to make them treat me this way. And now it’s Barnes & Noble, damn them. It’s like all of Corporate America is judging me and making my life as difficult as possible. “Why?” I ask. WHY???

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The Age Phase

When did I realize I was becoming an old person? It’s hard to say for sure.

I developed a penchant for sensible footwear several years ago when young people wore Tevas and Merrells. I only recently discovered those are the shoes of old people, when my mother-in-law was wearing a pair of clogs similar to my own and I complimented her on how hip she looked. It was then that I was struck by the realization that she wasn’t as “hip” as I was completely “unhip”.

Since then, I’ve noticed other odd things, like my personal struggle to stay awake until the sun goes down. And never mind watching prime-time TV; I don’t know why they have to broadcast the good shows in the middle of the night, anyway. And if not for my afternoon naps, I fear I’d go to sleep before Little G gets home from school. Is this normal for someone who has yet to hit the big 4-0??

Compounding these fears is the fact that I bought a large part of my Christmas gifts from the drug store. With dancing/singing penguins and cold-medicine and work gloves and Chia Pets all under one roof, I really don’t see the need to go to the crowded mall, do you? The only crowded place I can stand nowadays is the Olive Garden, where you can take home leftovers and feed yourself for days. I even ask for extras of those delicious little mints they give you…oh wait, this is making me sound old again, right?

With the recent cold snap, I have to double-up on socks and undies and layer a good three quarters of the clothes and coats in my closet just to go to the grocery store. Inevitably, I see a young person there in a t-shirt, mini-skirt and Uggs. It’s like the only cold thing on these girls is their feet.

Oh, and speaking of aging, M (who finally fixed my bathroom lighting) removed a bulb a couple of weeks ago. Apparently he saw dimming the lights as a legitimate way to ease my inner conflict about whether or not to inject poison to my face. (I have always planned on growing old gracefully; I’m just not ready to do it yet.) Amazingly, he was right. When not under a spotlight, I look much younger. Although I should give much credit to my facialist, whom I have on speed dial (if there were such a thing anymore).

I hope this old person phase passes quickly. I am not prepared to spend the remainder of my life sitting in rockers outside Cracker Barrell and tucking sugar packs in my pocket book to add in my Sanka.

Update: I broke down and went to the mall today. Ladies, are we not wearing Christmas sweaters anymore, or are y’all just behind the times???

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