Alaska, land of ...well, never mind.

Somewhere in our 4th year of marriage, Mr. Kat Lady and I got a wild hair up our butts about seeing the world, and working in new places. Starting over, really. Well, yeah, not so much, as you will soon see...

It was on the plane ride from Seattle to Anchorage that I began to have my doubts. I was scared out of my mind. How were we, two podunk midwesterners going to survive Alaska...IN THE WINTER!  Needless to say, that thought was too little too late. We landed in Alaska and the scariest and most messed up adventure of our lives began.

It was around 8 pm local time, and the airport was crowded with vacationers returning home and workers flying out to the crab, lobster, and salmon boats. We stuck out like sore thumbs. Luckily, we were rescued by a taxi driver. We instructed him to the hotel we were set to manage, and a short time later arrived at a three story, tow up from the flow up, massive motel.  The name alone gives me pause these days...The Big Timber.

What our new boss had neglected to tell us before we left the land of Oz was that he was adding a strip club to the back of the motel. Oh, and have I mentioned the mirrors? EVERYWHERE. It was my job to scrub them down every day and make sure all the rooms were comfortable for the "clients."

It wasn't long and our ethics cost us the job. We were now homeless in Alaska, as we had been staying in the motel until we found a place. Luckily we had made a few friends who helped us find a hotel room for a couple nights so we could call home and ask to be rescued. Another friend found out we were missing from the motel and spent two days going all over Anchorage looking for us. He drove us to the airport and made sure we got home safely. (Thanks Guardian Angel John! You made some awesome crab salad!)

We had lasted all of a month in Alaska.  When we got home we made a pact to always stay where we were doing well, and travel for vacations only. So why do you all care about this story? Well the moral of the story is: When trapped in foreign lands, follow the yellow brick road home. Someday I'll tell you all about the porn superstore that was a block from The Big Timber.

To taking CALCULATED risks, and sometimes failing,

Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady

The Nori Incedent. (FBI Follies with Kat Lady)

So you're probably wondering how I'm posting this when I don't have a laptop and I am out and about in that city, doing that thing. Well, I won't even try to hide it...I actually wrote this post on Thursday night. Also tomorrow's and Shirley Sunday.

I hope you don't feel cheated, but I really didn't want y'all to have to go without me for a whole 3 DAYS!  So yeah, I have spent the greater part of Thursday and today packing for our trip. I discovered Mr. Kat Lady and I have obviously different packing styles.

Mr. Kat Lady likes to shove it all in the bag haphazardly and hope for the best. Having learned my lesson while packing for a month in Korea, I tend toward the roll it or fold it method.That's how I packed 31 days of clothing, toiletries and shoes into the 2 bags that came with me to Korea. It's also how I have managed to get all of our clothes into one large bag and 2 back packs.

You know, thinking of Korea and packing, I have a funny story...

My host mother was nothing if not efficient. She carefully took note of those things she cooked that I liked, and those I did not. I may have been a little overzealous about my love for her homemade nori. (the seaweed wrap around sushi) She also was not shy. She had no problem going through my things while I was off teaching or sight seeing. I imagine it was a curiousity of America or some such thing. I had nothing to hide. The night before we left, the American teachers went out for one last night on the town. I had packed before leaving the house, so when I got home, I laid down and rested until it was time to go. I really REALLY should have looked in my bags, because there was a slight problem. (On a side note, I had been treated for thyroid problems with Radioactive Iodine just 2 weeks before we left, and had been stopped by the FBI in Minneapolis on the way there because I set off their detectors. I got to go on only when I showed the doctor's note and they called him.) When we got to Minneapolis on the way back, I was once again accosted by the men in suits and sunglasses and taken aside. "You are setting off our radioactivity meters, and we need to find out why." I told them about the treatment, and being stopped on the way to Korea also. Once again they called my doctor and got the okay.  Right as they were moving me on, they decided to search my bag.  Suddenly there was a commotion. They pulled two freezer bags of an unknown leafy green substance from my luggage. I knew right away what had happened, and hurried over to explain myself. It seems my host mother had seen how much I loved here nori, and wanted me to have some to take home with me.  Because it was in my checked luggage until Minneapolis it had taken a beating, reducing it to green shreds. Very Mary Jane looking green shreds. They confiscated it, and I was not allowed to move on until it had been tested. I ended up barely making the next flight, and could not get out of there fast enough. I'm probably on a no fly list somewhere...

To checking your luggage before you check your luggage,

Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady

Someone else's junk, my treasure.

Ok, so I love to go to garage sales. Other people's stuff fascinates me. When did they use that mobile stripper pole? Why are they selling all their bar equipment? (Probably has something to do with the stripper pole...) Why are there size 13 women's shoes when the only women holding the sale are barely a size 7? Why does that guy keep blushing every time I pick up the shoes?

Sometimes you can figure out a person's whole dietary history by going through the cookbooks.  Usually there are several diet cookbooks, at least a couple vegetarian, and then a few crock-pot books.  To me this says: "I dieted for a week then became vegetarian for a week. Then I quit. Hail the Golden Arches!"

There's always some obscure piece of exercise equipment that looks used and abused, and then ignored. Usually there are at least a few CD's, or DVDs, or even VHS tapes. The VHS tapes are usually child related or feature Susan Powter or Richard Simmons. That's sweatin' to the oldies alright, because I'm usually sweating from the heat when I burst out laughing at their exercise video choices.

And then there are the clothes. This is how you tell a decent garage sale from a "let's get rid of the useless crap" garage sale. If you see anything polyester hanging on the clothing rack, drive on by! These people usually also have an unreasonable attachment to their crap and will charge up the nose. 

I got lucky today. Mom and I stumbled across a garage sale that had several pairs of shoes in an awesome gym bag that were Mr. Kat Lady's size. His birthday is Sunday and I am not above buying him used shoes.  He's sleeping right now, so he'll have to try them on when he wakes up, but 50 cents for a few pairs of shoes is a deal!

We stopped at the Dollar Sense on the way home and picked up some decongestant for Mr. Kat Lady and I, and I picked him up a root beer to cheer him out of his congestion. There's nothing cuter than a stuffed up grown man suckling a root beer bottle like a sippy cup.

Well, I guess that's all for today...On Sunday we will discuss my mother's views on mental illness...and her mental illness. ;)

To Bargains, Bargains, Bargains!

Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady

Now? Really? This is SO not happening!

To whomever infected my husband with the ick...you are on my list. When he arrived home last night from work, he dropped his bag in the entry way, and ran to the bathroom with nary a word to me. This was followed by retching. (Which still makes me shudder when I think of it.)

He feels much better today. The down side? I feel like crap. My throat feels like it has been misused by a fire swallower. My stomach is rebelling all entry. And I am SOOOOOO tired. This is one of those moments in which I declare war upon my illness.

In two days I will be on my way to my first honeymoon (8 years in the making), and I staunchly refuse to let this illness ruin that for me.  Therefore I shall retreat to the couch, suck on flavor-ice and force my body to reboot in healthy mode.

As nice as that sounds, it's only a brief respite, as I have 2 loads of laundry to do, and a living room to pick up, so it's go go go until I'm done. If I stop now I'll never start. I would kill for some chicken noodle soup and gatorade right now. Even Sprite.

Wow, I am one whiny little crank when I'm sick.  I apologize for whining, because nothing irks me more than being whiny to strangers. On a side note, someone found my blog by searching little hairy girls. Dear god, why?

I hear the ice cream truck outside. I never realized how creepy their songs were until today. All they need for a complete creepfest are a clown and a mime. Ick. "Come Heeeeerrrreee little Chilllldrennnn..."

I must look pretty bad, because my cats are glued to me and purring. All three. At once. Either they are concerned, or they want to smother me while I'm weak. Oh, that's a comforting thought. Moonie just licked his lips. Now I CAN'T sleep for fear of becoming a cat appetizer.
Fabulous!

Ok, that's probably enough illness induced rambling for today...

To Midol Cocktails and Creepy Cats,

Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady

The Anniversary...oh the humanity!

Yep, today's our 8th Anniversary. Yes, I am home alone typing a blog post while my husband works until midnight. Yes, mother nature has bestowed the giant red flag upon me so I am officially out of the game until she lifts it. So yes, I am pretty blah today. However, I am spending today finishing the plans and packing for this weekend.  I have discovered that I am an over packer.

I firmly believe that when you pack, you should pack accordingly, so that if the apocalypse were to happen whilst you were away, you'd have the appropriate Zombie killing supplies. That being said, I am packing neither guns nor knives. I figure a can of hairspray and a lighter should do the trick if I am facing down a zombie.

Mind you, we are going to a REALLY nice hotel, and I am sure the employees could be paid to fight off the zombies for us if necessary. So, I'm not too worried.

My cats know something is going on. They have decided that the best way to keep us from leaving is to cover every nice outfit we have in cat hair. Our nice friend Biker Babe was kind enough to give us a dresser to store our things in, so now the kitties are plotting a new revenge. I sincerely hope it doesn't involve cat urine and our freshly steamed carpets...

Man, I'm tired. Probably because of the 14 loads of laundry I completed in the last two days...and now I have two more loads in various stages of launder-osity. It never ends! Oh, well, I am going to grab some chocolate truffles, watch Biggest Loser, and veg out. Happy Anniversary, Hon, I'll think of you as I snarf down my weigh in cocoa. ;)

To Wedded Bliss and Chocolate Trysts,

Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady

Feet. Eww.

I hate feet. Specifically I hate my husband's feet. And especially after he's been standing on them for 8 hours or so. Unfortunately, that is exactly when he wants me to pay attention to them. The moist and smelly monstrosities at the end of his legs make me want to dive into a bucket of sanitizer after I touch them. I mean, I can't refuse to rub them, he works all day and I am sure those puppies are yelping.

His feet are not the only ones I have a problem with. I have a classification system for feet, ranging from cute and pretty to hobo chic to OMG EWW!!!

Some feet are not disgusting. These usually belong to infants, toddlers, and foot models. They fall into the cute and pretty category. I have never seen a foot model with a callous. Of course baby feet are adorable...baby everything is adorable. (except vomit and poop)

Then there are the feet I like to refer to as "hobo chic." You can find these feet on hippies, farm girls, and young boys. Hippies tend to run around without shoes, so their feet are usually dusty or really tan, sometimes very callused. Farm girls have hardworking feet, but take care of them when the work is done, so they are usually in ok shape. Young boys tend to spend more time outside digging up worms and other gross things than inside, so their feet are usually fair to middling gross.

And then you have the OMG EWW's. These generally belong to big hairy men, big hairy women, and teenage boys. Big hairy men and women tend to have big hairy jobs, so they are on their feet a lot in boots. Boots do not make for a smell friendly environment. Teenage boys are a category upon themselves. They have so many new smells and hairs that they tend to forget their feet are getting rank.

There is one category I left until last, just in case you are eating. If so, come back later after you have digested your dinner. Ok, you've been warned.

The final category is rotting off at the ankle. These feet belong to those people you see on the internet with the super overgrown toenails and excessive toe jam. I honestly do not know how someone could let their feet get that bad, and I would think that they would need some sort of foot removal surgery to cure it.

I would post a picture, but I really don't want you to ruin your keyboards with what's left of your dinner. Just trust me, the feet I found on google images have scarred me for life.

(On a side note, check out my friend Gay Guru's blog...give him some love. Gay Guru's blog )

To Toejam, Athletes Foot, and Gold's Foot Powder,

Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady

Shirley Sunday: Lady in red...and green...and purple...plaid.

My mother is what I like to call "fashion unconscious." Sometimes I wonder if she's colorblind, or if she really thinks that day-glo green and vomit yellow go together. As an artist, it makes me a bit nuts.

Along with an amazing inability to recognize color complements, she has no idea of flattering cut or patterns. At my high school graduation she wore a blazer that was smattered liberally with giant pink roses. From the stage the jacket looked as if she was wearing a bunch of giant vaginas on an ill fitting suit jacket.

Mind you, she thinks she has an idea of what's current and in fashion, and wants to bestow her opinions on whoever she can. At my wedding, she changed my wedding colors so that they matched the ugly PINK AND MAROON silk bouquet she wanted me to carry. My bridesmaids dresses were ungodly ugly. They ended up with a floor length maroon gown with maroon lace cap sleeves. I was ashamed they had to wear that for me, but by the time I saw them there was no time to redo things. I later found out that mom picked out my flowers to match her dress, which was maroon, and she wanted the bridesmaids to look like her. Ick.

My mother has an unnatural attachment to wearing suit jackets and slacks. Not just any normal suit jacket either. I have counted, and the number of black and white checked suit jackets she owns is astronomical. She pairs them with bright red or navy pants. Then there's the ill-fitting grey suit, that probably would look better on her if she gained 100 pounds. It would also help if she would stop pulling her slacks up to her nipples. (OH GOD! I just talked about my mother's nipples! Where is the bleach? I need to pour some in my ear to make the image go away!)

So yeah, when I was growing up, my mother liberally sprayed my wardrobe with ugly and unfashionable. I cannot count the number of polyester train wrecks that I wore because she said that was what was in style. She had me so brainwashed back then that I actually believed her! Yes, this means that up until about sophomore year of high school I dressed like a douche canoe. (That one's for you Bloggess...)

I am slowly encouraging mom to recycle her old wardrobe into quilt pieces and wear some things I have found that actually complement her skin tone, color range and body type. I'm not asking for Cindy Crawford, but I'd be satisfied with Betty White.

To Golden Girls and Old Biddies,

Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady

How to be BFFs with an LGBTQ...AKA The fag hag.

As you all may have seen, I have a very diverse group of friends. Many of those friends are LGBTQ. For those of you who aren't sure what that stands for, it's Lesbian, Gay, Bi, Transexual and Queer. Those are all different types of homosexuality, and they are all ok with me. Having "collected" gay friends for a while, (they flock to me like moths to a flame) I have come up with several guidelines in becoming a successful fag hag. This is all meant in fun, and is not intended in any mean spirit.

There are many ways to meet your new gay best friend.

1. Any bar with Rainbow or Man Hole in the title. Also giant roosters as images on the sign.

2. Males who work at a lingerie store. I don't know any boss who would hire a straight man to help women choose their underwear.

3. Concerts. Specifically Barbra, Cher, or GaGa.  Also, Joan Crawford movies.

4. Video store. Renting Joan Crawford movies.

and finally,

5. The Grocery store. They are the ones comparing the size of the cucumbers and sniffing the melons for ripeness, not size.

Once you've met your gay, you now begin the process of becoming besties. My suggestions are late night brownie sundaes at Dairy Queen, followed by a morning working it off at the gym, or a Judy Garland and Bette Midler movie marathon.

If your gay is of the femme-ish variety, have a fashion show. You wouldn't believe how natural your new friend can be in your 4 inch heels. Go get Martinis and kvetch over the hotties on Survivor.

If your gay is of the masculine sort, take him to a football game and point out the butts on the players. Also, gymnastics and swimming are great to watch on TV.

So...now your gay is your bestie, and what do you do?

Introduce him to all of your friends! By this point he has given you a fashion makeover/under and it's time to release him to the rest of your buddies!

Remember, the best gay best friend is one you can share!  Also, don't confuse best friend with boyfriend. That's a common mistake. Their may be a guest post in the future about how to tell if your boyfriend is gay...so keep your eyes open!

To Queers, Steers, and Rainbows,

Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady

The elusive and captivating Vangina...

I have noticed a disturbing (read train wreck) trend in reality tv for the last few years.  While for a few years the reality tv community was focused on something I find captivating (LITTLE PEOPLE!)...recently I have been disappointed with the excessive amount of shows featuring a) multiple births and b) largely over producing families and c) multiple spouses.  While one or two shows featuring unique families of this nature is acceptable, the copy cat effect makes them completely nauseating to me.

She looks mighty comfy with those fake babies...

I call it the Vangina effect.  There are multiple versions of the Vangina  effect. First there is one time use Vangina, also known as the mini-Vangina (as in Ford Birthstar). The mini-Vangina is most often associated with the Octomom, Kate Gosselin, and Bobbi MacCaughey.

Another well known Vangina is the CaraVangina. Like a line of semis, this Vangina is in constant movement. (See Michelle Duggar) This particular Vangina disturbs me mostly because with each delivery the carbon footprint of the Vangina increases. (It is Earth Day after all...)

Ah-choo! Oooo...number 20!

Finally, the MovingVangina. This is associated mostly with fundamentalist polygamy and the show Sister Wives.  I see nothing wrong with them loving each other, but seriously, those kids are gonna need some therapy.

These shows are encouraging women to use their women parts as a long term parking lot. And I do have a problem with that. I understand different beliefs dictate different standards, but lets be serious. It's 2011, the world's already over-crowded, and it's gonna end next year anyway....:)

To less Vanginas and more responsible breeding practices.

Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady

I got my first Blog Award!

I'm all smiles because L.A.C.E. @ My Glass House deemed me worthy of the Versatile Blogger Award!

So, now, in the tradition that goes with this awesome award, I will tell you 7 great things about myself and award this honor to 7 of you!

1. I have more clothes than I can count, and I'm donating half of them to the local homeless shelter.

2. I have the most loyal friends in the world. They are my lifeline when I'm down.

3. I have an unnatural attraction to Nestle Drumsticks. You know, the waffle cone with icecream, dipped in chocolate and rolled in nuts?  Yeah. That's my Kryptonite.

4. I have worked in 3 different hotels successfully, but had to quit due to health issues.

5. I started blogging because my husband bet me I couldn't keep up a blog for more than 5 days. (Going on 6 weeks, and have had over 1700 views! Thanks, loyal readers!)

6. I am, in fact, a feline in a human body. Not to be confused with a furry. My reaction to being startled is to hiss and growl. I know, weird, but it's who I am.

7. I have the world's most blogable mother. It's like she does things just so I'll have an interesting blog. Fortunately, she is technology incompatible, so I can blog about her without being laid upon the coals. My dad finds my blog hilarious. :)


Ok now for the 7 worthy bloggers!

1.  Amanda from Adventures from Amandaland

2. Sarah from La Casa Di Frigerio

3. Alisha from Musings of a Manic Momma

4. Tina from I'm Prepared For All Emergencies But Totally Unprepared For Everyday Life.

5.  Tim from 12threefour-dot-com

6. sorry4disappointingyou from http://sorry4disappointingyou.blogspot.com/

7. Shannon from Heels in the Rain

Oh and a bonus two because I think they deserve it...

7.5 Suniverse from The Suniverse

7.75 Don'tMakeThatFace from Don't Make That Face

Check them out to continue laughing!

Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady

Shirley you jest....

I have been listening, and it seems you all want to hear more Shirley stories! To thank you all for reading and sharing and laughing with (and at) me, today I am rewarding you with a bonus Shirley story.

Today I will take you into the country, to my uncles private lake, and to our old pop-up camper. I was probably no more than 14 when this happened.

My mother is afraid of most reptiles, but there is one particular reptile that sends her into conniptions. She can't even watch them on TV. Snakes. Any kind of slimy living object comes in a close second. Whenever we went camping, we'd wait until it was dark, and take out our flashlights to go look for bait. You know what I'm talking about...frog gigging. You shine that flashlight into their eyes and they are paralyzed. Well between my mom and my aunt we lost a few frogs. Every time they'd paralyze one, they'd go to pick it up and then scream and drop it. It was decided they would be better at fishing.

Mom was insulted that she was not considered a prime frog gigger, and decided to SHOW those men what she was made of. Late one evening she sneaked away from the camper with her fishing pole, and headed to the little cove that my dad and uncle had cleared. Now for mom, this was a miracle in itself, because snakes are hard to see in the dark and she was so scared of getting bit.  Dad and my uncle went out to check the trout lines on the lake that night and heard her screaming bloody murder.  I didn't actually SEE this, but my dad described it to me in detail between guffaws. There, on the bank stood my mother, screaming her bloody head off, standing ON a fish attached to her line. I say standing, but what dad actually said was JUMPING UP AND DOWN! It was a big fish, at least 10 pounds, and my mother was desperate for the men to see her catch before it escaped back into the lake. My dad and uncle pulled the boat over to the cove, and got out on shore. They asked mom how long she'd been doing that, and she said she'd been stuck there for over an hour. She didn't want to touch it, and carrying it on the line would have broken the pole, so she decided just to hold it down with her feet and wait. She desperately wanted to cook the fish for breakfast, but unfortunately that was out of the question. She was so afraid that the fish was going to escape that she didn't notice that she had brained it to death with her feet  almost immediately. The fish was covered in dirt, detrius, and what I assume used to be it's insides. Dad decided that since it couldn't be cooked, that mom could use it for bait.

Dad hooked up mom's pole with the squished fish bait, and instructed her to blow  a whistle if she caught something. 10 minutes later we heard a shrill whistle. Then another. Then a barrage of shrieks from the whistle. We went running! We rounded the tree break and what did we see? My mother, in tears, in a stand-off with a snapping turtle. Dad took one look and sent me for a camera and a hammer. First for pictures, then for dispatching the obviously disgruntled turtle. That sucker had to be at least 2 feet in diameter. It was safe to say he'd been eating well in his lake for a long time, and was having none of this shrieking, crying, freak show. He'd shoot out his head and snap, and mom would scoot back.  The only problem is that somehow, he'd managed to get my mom between him and the lake. So every snap took her one very precarious step closer to a dunking. I got back with the camera just as mom lost her balance and dunked herself in nasty lake water.  (Yes, this is what I think of when I am spitting mad at her. Somehow it always make me feel better.) The picture of her sputtering and soaked is in my photo album and Mom tries to steal it every time she gets a chance. That's SO not happening!

So yeah, if you want a good laugh, take my mom fishing. Also bring a rubber snake, that would definitely spice things up!

To fish stories and turtle dips!

Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady

The fairies ate my homework...and my pen...and my willingness to do it.

Procrastination is my middle name. Always has been, probably always will be. In fact, I procrastinate so much that by procrastinating writing this blog, the blog became about procrastination! How Inception of me! A delay within a delay within a delay.


Ok, so I believe that genius comes in spurts. (OMG that sounds downright dirty!) I have about an hour each day where I feel motivated and inspired to write another funny anecdote from my life. So, ladies and gents, here's what today's hour of motivation has created...

I have gotten in SO much trouble for procrastinating. In school it was because I never had an assignment done on time. I could blame the condition of the house I lived in, or my mother, but honestly it was because I was bored. Idle hands and an active mind can lead to many misdeeds and in my case I was given in-school suspension at least once that I can remember.  My brain was not interested in doing boring assignments and pointless projects back then, all I wanted to do was be an artist and jump out from under my mother's thumb.

The more trouble I got in for being late with assignments, the more obstinate I became about not doing them until the last moment. It was like my own personal mini-rebellion against societal rule! Unfortunately, as soon as I would be punished for my procrastination, my mother would come flying in with her fangs out, ready to devour whoever was  keeping her precious diamond from her potential.  And that's how I graduated with a 3.6 and got a full ride scholarship. Unfortunately, mom's interference kept me from learning the important lesson of deadlines and I managed to fail miserably at college.

Now mind you, I know that procrastination gets you nowhere, but ironically it brought me here, to blog for you! I procrastinated for so long about getting a job that Mr. Kat Lady dared me to create my own career! And you know how well I resist a good dare...

Nearly the only thing I didn't procrastinate about in school was getting sit out passes for gym. I could look at my mother, fake a cough, and she'd have an excuse for me to sit out gym in 30 seconds. There are advantages to having a hypochondriac mother. Again, I should have just toughed it out, but the gym teacher hated me, and I had about the same feeling for him, so I really don't feel THAT bad.

You know, procrastination isn't that bad sometimes.  Why? Because often after a bout of procrastination, we are struck with an unquenchable need for completion. I once spent 3 hours scrubbing my bathroom floor after ignoring for 3 months. I have figured out that if I work the procrastination just right, I can have my house clean in 2 days! Just not today. Or tomorrow. Maybe next week...

To waiting until tomorrow....

Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady

Guest Post: Online Bullying Annoys Me

  Now normally I am all for free speech on the internet, and for having my privacy protected, But Anon I know who you are.  You have posted two comments on my wife's blog and they are indicative of bullying high school style, just with better language but not much.
For those who don't read comments here was the gem from the last post:

 When did u ever live in a foriegn country for a month or clamour in to a van for a 10 hour trip in Highschool...you never went anywhere or did anything in School...u were more of a social wallflower than I was. You did not become involved in any church groups or team sports...you just hung out in the art room and complained about how you never got to do anything...

Is this a truthful blog post or a vailed attempt at fiction? I was under thimpression this Blog was about u honestly putting yourself down on paper so u could better understand yourself. If you make idle fibs and tell tall tales....how is that being honest with the world and putting your TRUE self out there....
Just a thought.

So anon since you wish to hide behind your wire, and throw your poo like an untrained monkey I will now divest you of your innocence in this regard.  On the web you are never Anonymous.  You leave a trail of 1s and 0s all over the place no matter how well you think you clean up after yourself.  no i have done no hacking or tracking of your IP nor have I illegally monitored anything but I know who you are.  Honestly It was not difficult, pathetically simple in fact.  First I checked the traffic report on the blog this was easy to do as you left a nice little time stamp down to the second on your comment, never noticed it?  It's at the bottom and in orange.  You were the only visitor at this time so I was able to tell you tripped in from Facebook.  In your comment you mentioned your age in concurrence with my wife's age and the class you took together.  Also since you came in from Facebook you had to be on her friends list.  Now able to eliminate her church friends as they would have all known of the many church trips, and her friends who were in 4-H with her, and anyone who would have been in a club, sport, or extra-curricular activity with her.  Honestly that only left a few suspects (very detective like ain't I).  Then out of those three people only one person had the vernacular of one who types like a 12 year old, and sound like a man attempting to hang onto his youth and failing and i was left with U.  My god man at least use a spell checker and take the 3 seconds to type you instead of U and perhaps even use the dictionary. most modern computers have it in-line with the posting.  Even on the mobile platforms,  Hell your spelling and use of grammar is on par with Shirley her own bad self.


  Now for those who think this was a bit overboard I apologize but no-one calls my wife a liar and gets away with it.  I have not posted your personal details for the world to see Anon, but I could.  I don't want anyone here to think I will do this every time you disagree with her posts, or post a disparaging or disagreeing comment, I promise I will not.  But bullying and extreme trolling will not be tolerated one iota.  Keep the name calling and poorly spelled psychological insults to a minimum please.


Love, laughter, and thinly veiled anger

MR. Kat Lady.

A lighthearted look at traveling!

With Mr. Kat Lady and I soon to depart on our weekend away, which we have lovingly dubbed "The Honeymoon Adventure Part Deux," I have sat back and realized that the way I travel today is much different from the way I traveled 10 years ago.

10 years ago it was nothing to drive 4 hours to an airport and board a 20 hour flight to a foreign country then stay for a month. (And pack it all in two bags!) Now as I pack for a weekend, I am on bag 3 and already wondering what I am going to forget. Did I pack the pills? How about the bathing suits? My nice outfits?

Back then I would sit back, and even maybe sleep until the destination was reached. Now I spend the majority of the time finding the coupons for the events we will be doing, and begging for a bathroom rest stop every 2 hours. Apparently my bladder has aged with me...lol!

Travel food was different then too. A bag of peanuts and a couple stops for fast food were the norm.  Now, when we make a stop I have to find the least terrifying place to eat. Depending on my choice we will now be stopping every hour to find a bathroom.  And forget getting a drink...something about the motion of the car sends that drink straight from my mouth to my bladder!

Somehow mother nature always knows when I am going to be traveling, because she often likes to give me a present for the road, if you know what I mean...

Do I think I could go back to the days when 15 rowdy teens would clamor into a van for a 6 or 8 or 12 hour trip? Not a chance. I'm happy to ride with just me and the hubby, stopping at interesting places and enjoying the scenery. (And the rest stops.)

My only problem now is that I am an over-planner. I must have every second of every minute of every hour scheduled so that we optimize our trip to the fullest potential. This makes vacation very stressful for me. Mr. Kat Lady has instituted a new rule for this trip though. I just get to tell him what I want to do and he will plan our weekend out this time.  Do you think he understands how absolutely crazy that makes me?

I know, we already talked about me being a control freak...

Well, we'll see how this goes,  hopefully I can relax long enough to enjoy myself!

Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady

Shirley Sunday: My foray into child pageantry...FAIL.

Ok, first, I apologize for this post being late, as I saw many people stopped by hoping to see this weeks funny Shirley story. Well, due to my untimely surprise nap, it is now Monday, and I dropped the ball. I hope you, my faithful readers will forgive me for my slip-up.

Ok, enough butt-kissing...let's get to the meat and potatoes of Shirley Sunday! On with today's story, "Child pageants almost killed me." Also known as "Shirley, judge, jury and executioner."

Sometime around my 10th year, someone gave my mom the bright idea to enter me in child pageants. Now I know you've all seen those shows about toddler pageants, and that is normally how it goes. At least most of the time, unless your mother is so determined for you to win that she sabotages the other contestants. I am NOT kidding. Shirley sabotaged 10 year old girls to improve my chances at winning the crown. It wasn't until much later, when I was 15 and in my last pageant that I heard the pageant moms talking about my mom. I asked the girls what was going on, and they said, "Nothing against you, you are really nice, but your mom ripped the seam of my dress when she stepped on it. I think she did it on purpose." I went on to ask the other girls, and found 5 that had been sabotaged in one way or another by my mom. Some of the stellar shows of integrity I learned of were: switching a girl's hairspray with clear gloss spray paint, "tripping" over a girl and breaking the heel off one shoe, spilling peroxide all over another girl's dress, "losing" a girl's music CD 5 minutes before she went on, and melting a girls lipstick with a hairdryer while "warming it up" for my hair.

One or two of these things happening may have sounded like a clumsy oaf, but all of those things equaled one seriously twisted mother. She didn't take it any easier on me either. I was brushed, hair sprayed, shellacked, and made up to within an inch of my life. I probably could have made a decent living selling myself on the day of pageants. You see, my mother is fascinated with makeup...only one problem...she doesn't wear any, so has no idea how it goes with skin tone, or how much to put on, or what colors to use on a child. I have several pictures of myself "tarted up" and ready for the runway.  Somehow a 10 year old in bright blue eyeshadow, orange blusher, and florescent red lips looked like a mini-hooker. I always won the consolation prizes because they felt sorry for me. I was not an unattractive child, but in that much makeup I looked like a badly disguised midget trying out for Striptease.

It wasn't just the makeup, or even the absurdly ugly dresses my mother picked. My mother was known for one other thing, besides her ungodly taste and sabotage. She has a temper that, when provoked, would explode. Anywhere, including in the judging room. I was drilled day and night for the month before the pageant and if I slipped up, there was no question what was going to happen when I stepped off the stage. Once I fell going up the stairs in my overlong dress and over high heels. Face first on the stage. I think even the judges winced at how hard I fell. I got up and did my piece, and left the stage. Before we hit the hallway I was under attack. "What kind of stupid move was that? We may as well just go home because you can't pay attention!" (Ironically, this pageant was my best showing- 8th out of 43.)

It was during child pageants I finally realized my life was not my own. My mother had found a way to live through me and was elated to receive accolades for any successes I had. Failures however, were mine to keep.  Child pageantry is a cut throat world, and had I not put my foot down I would probably have been miserable for another 4 years.  Luckily my mom got the message when I told her if she entered me in another pageant I would burn my dress in effigy. She didn't take me seriously until I started a fire in the trash can and went inside to get my dress. At that point I may have out crazied my mother just enough for her to back off...all I remember was standing by the trashcan sobbing "I don't want to look like a hooker anymore!" The neighbors started looking out their windows, and as they were the pastor and his family she promised me no more pageants. It was only then that I put the fire out.

I ran into the Pastor and his family not long ago, and he remembered that incident, and finally got up the courage to ask about it. When I finished the story he was laughing so loud that people were staring.

Now don't get me wrong...if a kid wants to be in a pageant, by all means let them. Let them decide when, and how long they want to do it. I know there are others out there who condemn the pageant system, but lets be honest...it's the parents who determine what a kid will get out of a pageant. What did I get? A complex. But that's ok, I'm in therapy....

To winning and bi-winning,

Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady

We so excited! Wait, it's Saturday...

As usual, Saturday is a typical day...unless you are doing covert ops! Can't say anything about it, but rest assured Commando Kat Lady is on the mission.

I promise I will give you guys a decent post tomorrow, but for today I am in the process of packing and so I don't have much time.

Come back tomorrow for Shirley Sunday! Unless I can convince my hubby to guest post...

Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady

Dear Shirley...A letter for all overbearing mothers.

Dear Shirley,

We need to have a talk. I'm writing you today to help you see and understand the things you do that make me want to commit matricide (or at the least be committed). Shall we begin?

It is completely inappropriate to walk into your daughter's house, into her bedroom and shake her awake at 7 am on a weekend. Firstly, when woken up and startled I react first and ask questions later. I keep a knife under my pillow when Mike works nights, and you have no idea how close you were to being a "Shirley-kebab." Secondly, always knock. ALWAYS KNOCK! One time of walking in on Mr. Kat Lady and I's marital relations should have been more than enough warning to you about just walking in. Thirdly, you do not get to lecture me about my marital aids being out in the bedroom. It's a bedroom. That's where they are supposed to be. And it is definitely NOT where YOU are supposed to be.

I am not your therapist. If you continue to call me just to complain, cry, and vetch about Dad, I WILL start charging you. I pay for my therapy and you can too. Also, do not look at me like an idiot every time we talk about my mental illnesses. I DO need to be on medication for them, and JEEEEZZZUUUSSS does not have nearly enough Serotonin in him to correct my bipolar issues. I'm on meds. You should understand this, as you think I'm on unnecessary meds, I too think this of you! It's called Hypochondriac Munchhausen Syndrome, and you have it. A LOT.

If I sound angry, I'm not. This is more of a freedom manifesto.  I hope someday you will be well enough to write your own. And speaking of writing your own, I will NOT type any more of your assignments for journalism class. I am tired of trying to polish a turd into a crystal. Your turds are YOUR turds now.

And don't clean my house when I'm not home. I love when you help me clean, but I don't trust you to stay out of my business when I'm not watching you. Also, don't bitch at me later about how my house is dirty. Your house is so beyond dirty that there are no words. You say you need to clean it, I say you need a dumpster, a vacation, and four men with shovels. Your children and husband have already made plans for cleaning the house when the time comes. I do have to thank you on that front however. I learned how NOT to keep house. I ain't perfect, but I am doing my best.

My marriage is MY marriage. You do not get to share intimate details with friends, acquaintances, and random strangers. Sometime these random strangers actually know me. I will tell you what you can and can't share. Just ask.

I don't wear polyester pants. I haven't since you last dressed me in them. I also do not wear houndstooth slacks, acid wash jeans, and scrunchies. Don't even try to sneak them into my house. Also I do not weigh 400 pounds, so 3x and 4x are too big. 1x is plenty although I prefer a large.

I know you are trying. VERY trying. I want you to learn and grow, and step on your own two feet. You are much more than you allow yourself to be. (Just don't be more overbearing...you are plenty good at that!)  You have raised me and I have grown strong and independent. (Ok, strong and less codependent...) It's time to let go. (Please remove your claws from my tshirt...)This is the letter you should have had to write to me, not me to you. (Although I probably would have had to rewrite it anyway...)

I hope you take my words to heart, or at the very least call me to bitch about how ungrateful I am. If not, I will call you to bitch about how ungrateful I am.  Some things should never change. :)

To Learning Boundaries and Cutting Apron Strings,

Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady

Selective Hearing...or What? A Purple Elephant???

Now that we've had quite a bit of fun at my mother's expense, it's time to give dad some of his due. My father is amazing. He has a heart of gold, and a smile that lights up a room. However, he is deaf as a post. Not like sign-language deaf, but definitely has to read lips deaf. At least I think he is, because sometimes he acts like he can't hear but you can see him selectively choosing to ignore you.

This has led to many misunderstandings and hilarious screw-ups. It pisses my mom off, because she can never tell when he's paying attention and when he's not. Or when he doesn't hear the phone, and when he chooses to ignore her calls. Dad (of course) pleads innocent of wrongdoing, but I'm onto him. The following story illustrates this.

Mom asked me to drive her to a doctor appointment in a town about 45 minutes away from where I live. This meant I was going to be gone all day, and Mr. Kat Lady needed a ride to work. I waited until dad got off work at 3:30 and called him. This is the conversation that followed.

Me (calling from Mom's phone): I'm getting voice mail, mom. He's probably not turned it on yet.
(repeat 3 times)

(Mom goes into appointment. I call from my phone. Dad picks up on the first ring.)

Me: Dad, did you have your phone  off?

Dad: No, I saw your mother calling and I decided not to answer.

Me: That was me, dad. I'm with mom.

Dad: Don't tell her I ignored her call.

Me: Ok, but I need a favor.

Dad: What? I can't hear you?

Me: I Need A Favor.

Dad: You're going to have to speak up.

Me: I NEED A FAVOR!!!

Dad: What do you need? Flavor?

Me: (getting really frustrated) A FAAAAVVVVOOOORRRR!!!!

Dad: Oh, I just got out of work, what favor do you need?

Me: Can you drive in and give (Mr. Kat Lady) a ride to work?

Dad: Who a what to where?

Me: Ok, I know you heard that. A ride to work. For my husband. Tonight.

Dad: Ahhh...well let me see...(and now he decides to get playful) how much are you gonna pay me?

Me: Really dad? A hundred bucks. How's that sound. Or maybe a penny. Depends on if he's late to work.

Dad: Can I go to your house and watch Bonanza afterward? (They don't have cable b/c there is no room for a cable installer to get in the house)

Me: (recognizing Dad's want to get out of his house for the evening.) Sure. There's cold pop in the fridge, and chips if you get hungry.

Dad: Do you have any cold pop?

Me: Yes. In the Fridge.

Dad: What if I get hungry?

Me: I said there are chips if you get hungry.

Dad: What?

Me: THERE IS POP IN THE FRIDGE AND CHIPS IF YOU GET HUNGRY!!!

Dad: Well, you don't have to yell.

Me: (Whispering) It's gonna cost you a hundred bucks if I have to repeat myself again.

Dad: I don't have a hundred bucks on me.

Me: (Facepalm.)

So, yeah, I'm on to him. But I think I'll keep that blackmail to myself until I need to use it. That and the "special magazines" hidden in the crawlspace. ;)

To fathers, dads, and grandpappies.

Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady

Look out Imelda, here I come!

Okay, so I may have stretched the truth a little about earrings being my only fashion obsession. I am also in love with shoes. Specifically heels. Which is hilarious because I look like an elephant when I try to walk in them. And I must have the least expensive, most stripper like shoe I can find. You know, the ones you only wear once, and for a short period of time for fear of cutting off the circulation to your toes...those are my favorites.

Whoa, am I seriously blogging about shoes? No, that can't be. How vapid I must seem!

Great, now I'm arguing with myself via blog. Remember, Kat Lady, you are bipolar, not schizophrenic.  Anyway, back to the subject...

I love shiny black patent heels. The ones I am looking at buying will go really awesome with my new dress and silver belt. I'll post a picture in a post after our anniversary trip because I am trying to surprise (I know, pot=kettle) Mr. Kat Lady. They will also go great with my new swimsuit-you know, the one I rambled about last post. I think I forgot to tell you it's leopard print. Not cheesy leopard print, but sexy like a cat leopard print. It makes me look like a Vargas girl. (Look it up.) I really hate swimsuit shopping, but the hubbs picked this one out and HOLY COW Bettie Page! (Look her up)

I guess I am just getting used to feeling sexy, after so many years of being assured that looking sexy would send me straight to Hades. Those flames must be licking my feet because I feel HOT! I know I sound conceited, but I am finally recovering from a serious bout of low self-esteem, and I am finally ok with my body.

Here in a minute I am going to reserve these awesome heels from a store my mother would absolutely have an apoplectic fit over. I urge you, look up the words discount and stripper, and you'll find what I'm looking at. Shocked yet?

Alrighty faithful readers, I believe I have thrown enough onslaught of verbal diahhrea (oh that's a mental picture I don't need) at y'all. Holler back at me in the comments and tell me where I can find your favorite shoe.

Ferragamos away!

Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady

To the funny farm Jeeves!

I didn't get enough sleep today. And then I had to type a loosely coherent newspaper article for my mother. I may or may not be hallucinating that my cats are having a consensual sexual experience in the corner. Oh, no that's a hallucination. Moonie just looked at me and asked if I would mind looking somewhere else, then flipped me off. So yeah, that's gotta be my mind messing with me. I may even be writing this blog entry in a dream So anyway, if things seem off kilter it's because I only slept for 3 hours this morning.

At least I wasn't woken up by Evil Zombie Hand of the Apocalypse this morning. That was yesterday, and it was attached to my mother. Apparently 7:48 in the morning is appropriate calling time and 8 am is a good time to visit. Not in my world you old biddy! Grrr...

I got a new dress today though. My friend Biker Babe took me to Walmart and told me to buy the outfit I tried on this morning at 2 am with Owl and Mr. Kat Lady. I mean I tried it on while they were there, not actually WITH them...although they were having a blast holding up the bras and thongs to themselves while I changed. I swear, I can't take them anywhere! I also tried on an awesome swimsuit that I am picking up on Friday. It's 30 bucks, but its Catalina Suddenly Slimmer. I have a complex about my tummy. Mr. Kat Lady doesn't really care what size I am as long as I'm in good health, but I feel like I am carrying around an alcoholic Scotsman's beer belly.

I am now typing with one eye open. See what I do for you, my faithful readers? Good god this is hard to type with one eye open. Guess those high school typing classes finally paid off though...Thanks Mrs. Hanschewbacca....(What? she was REALLY hairy.)

Now I just need to find a use for Calculus. Yeah, THAT's gonna happen...lol. When I find a use I'll let you know.

Biker Babe and I also spent an inordinate amount of time at O'Reilly Auto Parts. Sorry, dude that was our cashier, you are probably better suited for a job at Walmart. As a greeter. I have seen mentally challenged people move faster and more coordinated than your lazy butt. Oh, and how's about actually having some kind of automotive knowledge? I've only been in automotive stores with my husband and with my dad, and I STILL schooled you on my friends car. Here's your sign. It says Slow Children Crossing.

Now don't get me wrong, I love mentally challenged people. My aunt (biological) is actually a member of that community. I've just never seen any of them give an excuse when something was hard. So O'Reilly's guy, pull up your panties and do your job.

I love retail. I used to work it. I am exactly the customer I hated to serve. At least I give a condescending smile though! Well, off to finish planning the anniversary weekend. Must hurry before Hurricane Shirley tries to get her hands in it.

To more sleep and less insanity,

Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady

A little to the left of sane.

I have control issues. It's a well known fact in my circle of friends that surprises are not something I can handle. I must know exactly what is going on, and it must be planned within an inch of it's life. If not, I have a mini-stroke. This controlling behavior has led to a few very interesting situations.

When I am confronted with the inability to make a decision, I become a little uncomfortable. (read that as bitch.) In particular there is one word I hate to hear. SURPRISE. You want to surprise me? Oh, hell no. I am terrified of the "surprise" being completely underwhelming compared to the perfect scenario I have carved in my brain. And it usually is, as I have a flair for the dramatic. (Nah, that's not obvious if you have been reading my posts...)

Anyway, Mr. Kat Lady and I decided to go on a two night excursion to a nearby city. He was in charge (at least he thought so) of booking the hotel, and I was in charge of events and clothing. He mistakenly thought that by giving me a "project"  I would be out of his hair about the hotel. No sirree. I promptly sat down at the computer and pulled up all the hotels in the city, and ranked them by amenities and price. (and by my preference) This annoyed Mr. Kat Lady, as he had come up with the exact same list, and had wanted to *shudder* surprise me. My OCD (not Obsessive Compulsive, just Over Controlling) made him feel like I didn't trust him to find the right place for us. Well, to be honest, I didn't. Until I saw his list. Then I had complete confidence in his abilities. Now if he would have just shown me the list in the first place instead of me having to sneak it out of his pants pocket while he slept, things would have gone a bit easier. (I told you, sneaky and controlling...)

I called him at work and explained to him the prices I found for the hotels. This was highly upsetting to him and he told me so in a harsh whisper. (He actually said I will call you back when I can raise my voice. He wanted to call back to properly yell at me. lol) Now it probably didn't help that him whisper-yelling sounded so ridiculous that I began to giggle. Note to all: Giggling during a browbeating is highly discouraged. This just made him madder. And made me laugh more as I thought about how much he sounded like Donald Duck. He finally hung up on me while I was guffawing. I later called him back to apologize, but he was still very offended. We sorted it out and I promised to keep my nose out of his *shudder* surprise until he's ready to reveal it.

So yeah, I'm kinda in the doghouse right now, but I'm hoping I'm earning back points by letting him sleep until he wakes up on his day off. Cross your fingers ladies and gents!

Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady

Shirley Sunday: The Driver's License Fiasco

This Shirley Sunday is another blast from the past. Way back about 10 years ago, when I was trying to get my driver's license. After a devastating car accident took the life of a friend when we were 14, I was in no hurry to get my license. I was driving the car to school every day anyway, without a license. (Welcome to Central Kansas.) I drove this micro-sized hotdog cart of a car also known as a Geo Metro.  When I turned 18, I decided I probably needed a license so I could drive at college. Mom decided this was the best time to give me a stress test (crash course) in driving. Mind you, I had been behind the wheel for quite some time at this point, and had my driving routine down. (Back in middle school, my brother tried his hardest to teach me to drive stick, and well, that went over like a lead balloon. I still cannot drive stick.) I was pretty handy at speeding just enough to stay under the radar, and all the other things we drivers do to keep from getting tickets.

Mom decided that wasn't enough training, and I needed her to ride with me until she was sure I would pass the test. It was like riding with a wounded screech owl. If I even thought of drifting a bit off center, she would screech "WATCH OUT! STAY IN YOUR LANE!!!" Which would cause me to startle, and drift more.  Imagine an almost grown woman being screamed at a stop sign and forced to turn around and do it again. I don't remember potty training, but I imagine it was similar. Shirley's way is her way or the highway...or in this case, her way or the driveway. Finally she deemed me ready to take my test. (This required several hours of my composing myself to keep from pushing her out the passenger's side.)

As she drove us to the town I was taking my test in, she relentlessly quizzed me over written test questions. (Reminiscent of our foray into child pageantry- but that's next Sunday.) By the time we arrived, I was so anxious and worked up that I made enough minor mistakes in my driving test to fail. One month later, we repeated this whole scenario and once again I failed. At this point I appealed to my father (Saint D) and asked what I should do, I explained why I got so anxious, and he realized that mom was the only thing keeping me from passing my test. He called into work and took the next day off so that he could take me to my test. We stopped at McDonalds on the way there, as is his usual routine when we are out together. He told me that pass or fail, the ball was in my court. He waited outside while I took my test. Yes, I did have some residual nervousness, as it is in itself a stressful thing, but I passed.

When I got home, my mom's only comment was, "Well, daddy didn't have to take a day off work. You should have passed when I took you." (Seriously, she calls my 58 year old father "Daddy." I thought it would wear off when we were grown, but nope. How embarrassing for him.) Dad looked at her with this completely serene look on his face and said calmly but obviously pissed "Shirley, she passed the test. We are going out for ice cream to celebrate. You can come or not, but she and I are going. That's enough of this nonsense."

So yeah, my mom is a complete ball of nutty goodness, but my dad is the exact right person to handle her. Or was at least. He's pretty much given up on her because she's certifiable. Did I tell you guys about the box of dirty clothing she brought by (in the wrong sizes) because she thought they might fit us? (She didn't care if we liked them or not. We're "obviously" poor, so "obviously" we will wear wrong sized dirty and ugly clothing.) Yeah, so we washed them and took them to a donation box. Polyester is like a cheese grater on my skin. I know she means well, but I'm pretty certain she is well on her way to Dementia-ville. And we are not THAT poor.
Nothing wrong with people who are, and God knows we have been there, but that was YEARS ago. I kinda feel sorry for her because she just tries so hard and fails so completely. It's like learning to live with a grownup with a five year old's mentality. But like I always say, she raised me, and I lived through it, so I do love her...in some sick, twisted, and probably unhealthy codependent  way. But that's a problem for the therapist...See you soon, Alice!

To therapy, and learning to be in the driver's seat.

Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady

I feel dirty. Dirty like a fox...

Well, since Mr. Kat Lady and I are taking a 3 day vacation for our anniversary, he asked me to go online and pick out some cute lingerie to wear. I spent the greater part of this evening looking up discount plus size lingerie. I know, sounds like something that doesn't (or shouldn't) exist. Then I got really disgusted because their idea of plus size is a size 14. I'm sorry but I have a butt. I understand that a 12 can even be considered extra large these days. That's just redonkulous! That being said, I found a list of contenders I am considering buying.

Sometimes the pictures that showed the lingerie were a bit excessive. It looked like they cut a frame from a softcore porn. They were rubbing all over themselves and had the "O" face. I understand lingerie is supposed to lead to the "O" face, but no use getting there before the party has even started. By the way catalog model, I (and all your exes) now know what it looks like when you fake an orgasm. I was almost embarrassed for them.  All I could think of is my mother showing up and me answering the door in that piece of lingerie, rubbing my nipples and making that face. *shudder* (Which she better not do. Remind me to have Mr. Kat Lady pack a rifle.) Don't worry, we aren't going far enough away to fly there...funny story about that in the future...

Anyway, I decided to pick only the lingerie in which I would feel sexy, which was hard, because apparently plus size women only wear robes, satin tents, or obnoxious colors. I am proud of my body. Just because I am built more like Bettie Page (Look her up) than Paris Hilton doesn't mean I stopped trying to look sexy for the hubbs! The bigger the girl in the picture, the more desparate the pose was. There was this one girl who just put it ALL out there in every picture. I noticed they slightly blurred her face. They did her a favor.  Looking at all those softcore porn catalog pictures made me want to wash out my eye sockets! BLECH! Oh well, the girls get kudos because as a plus sized woman, I don't have the guts to get in front of a camera in nothing but a few strings and scraps of fabric. I'm scared enough of wearing something like it in front of my hubbs as it is! Go big girls! If you're happy, I'm happy...and blind from scrubbing out my eye sockets

To Looking  great at ANY size!

Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady

The Flatulence Fairy (Sorta TMI)

To make a long story short- lately I have been punctuating all of my actions with farts. I'm like an animal who startle farts at any passing noise. I'm not sure what's causing it, but it can be downright embarrassing!

 I used to make fun of those ladies in the grocery store, you know, the ones who fart every time they take a step...Now I am one! As I approach my 29th birthday I have begun to realize that my body is rebelling and is currently attacking with chemical warfare. I have tried to change my diet, cut out soda (that was NOT pretty) and eat more fiber.  Still farting, only they smell worse!

Yes, I have been visited by the Flatulence Fairy. She may be better known as the Farting Avenger. I have come to terms with the fact that passing gas is neither lady-like nor socially acceptable.

I have begun looking for things to blame the noise/smell on when it happens. When I am at home, sometimes I blame a cat. While at the grocery store if I'm lucky, an old lady will be in the aisle and I can blame it on her. Just not the one I hit with the cookies...

So yes, I am a habitual farter. I can clear a car in under 5 minutes if I have eaten bran cereal for breakfast. I'm kinda proud of that. I am married, so I don't have to worry about scaring off any dates, and as far as farting around my husband- well the shine wore off that penny long ago. We don't even shut the door when we poo anymore.

So fellow farters, stand up with me and acknowledge that gas happens! Let us celebrate the Flatulence Fairy's blessings and know that at least our bowels work. No longer shall we be ashamed of that inevitable sound and smell. No longer shall we blame it on the dog! We shall stand tall and exclaim in the words of many a frat boy, "Smell that? That's what famous smells like!"

To Flatulence Fairies and Farting Avengers,

Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady

Brutal Honesty: The cure for Creative Lying.

My therapist and I have been discussing how I deal with situations. Beyond the fact that I am notoriously bad at expressing my feelings, I do something I like to call "Creative Lying." I can't just lie outright, there must be reasons and stories, to make it as complicated as possible. All because I don't want to hurt someone's feelings. Meanwhile, the soul sucking effort of trying to find a way to be nice is killing me!

How do you tell someone that their baby looks like an alien without totally insulting them and losing your friendship? Creative lying. We all do it, as being Politically Correct is more important than being honest. So instead of saying  "I think I saw your baby in Men In Black!" you say "Your baby looks out of this world!" Why not be honest and say, "your baby isn't cute yet, but I bet he/she will be when they grow into their skin." Or at the very least "What an INTERESTING baby!"

I can't just say "What an INTERESTING baby." I have to say "What an INTERESTING baby! He/She looks just like Daddy/Mommy, or even Brad Pitt/Angelina Jolie (Who I imagine were VERY ugly babies as they only had 3 of their own after adopting a country or two.). " Way overboard. At this point they are staring at their babies from about every angle possible to see the resemblance. There is none.

Sometimes we lie creatively just to release ourselves from uncomfortable situations. Once, while we were at a couple's house, they began to fight. All out screaming, crying, pointing fight. At that point we needed to get out of there, so we told them we were late for dinner and scrammed. What we should have told them is that their embarrassing outburst made us uncomfortable, so we decided to leave. Or, "you're bitchfest is mighty loud, partners! Take it to the O.K. Corral and shoot it out already!" I mean it was like an afterschool special on fighting!

So I've decided, brutal honesty is going to be my cure for creative lying. Someone asks me if I like their dog, I say "No, it looks like a miniature version of Jabba the Hut." I know it sounds cruel, but it's better than lying constantly to spare someone's feelings. If I sound like a bitch, yeah, I am. I've come to terms with it, and moved to bigger and better things. *Looks up for falling house*

The only person I will have trouble with being brutally honest with is my mother. Creative lying keeps me from having to think about removing her organs one by one with a razor blade and my bare hands. "Sorry, Mom, I can't type your homework because your homework looks like it was written by a blind monkey in the midst of throwing poo." Or, "I cannot type your homework because I have a LIFE. You've made it this far, LEARN TO TYPE!" But instead of ripping her to shreds, I say "When do you need it? I haven't been feeling well so it may take a while..." As you can all tell, I have no problem with word count or time constraints. I could type it in 30 minutes. I just don't want to.

So, creative lying out, and brutal honesty in. I am looking forward to being punched in the face several times this week...lol. I'll update you and we'll see how this goes.

To being brutally honest and taking blows to the head!

Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady

Freak Button Activate!

Everyone knows one of "those" people. The always smiling, super positive, eternal cheerleader. The one that makes you want to kick a puppy just to even things out. These people love to flock to me. It's like I'm holding a sign that says "Please drench me in maple syrup and sunshine."

I have a freak button. It flashes brightly on my forehead every time I leave the house. (and sometimes when I don't.) Any time I go ANYWHERE I am approached by the weirdest looking, strangest acting person, who promptly say they recognize me from somewhere? Where would that be? The looneybin?

Don't get me wrong, I love meeting new people, but there is a line. When a stranger walks up and hugs you, saying "you looked like you needed a hug," you tend to flinch when people take a greater than normal interest.

Then there are the needy ones.  I seem to attract these people like flies. These are the fix-me-up types. They generally are nice people with one fatal flaw. They want someone to remake them into something more than they are. My mom is one of these. They ask for favors (would you type this paper for me?), and when given one, they continue to ask for bigger greater favors (would you write my thesis for me?). Usually these questions are preceded by some terribly tragic story about their health, or their job, or their life. Being soft-hearted, I fall for this repeatedly. Anything to keep them from crying.

Gratuitous criers annoy me. These people tear up at anything. But only when someone is watching do they turn on the waterworks. It's very similar to what 3 year olds do when they are in trouble. It's not flattering in adult size. Most of the time these people are also ugly criers. Bring out the Brillo pad and scrub that face away!

And then there are the Emos. Everything sucks, I hate the world, there is no tomorrow. It's rather depressing really. This is a current fad among teens and college students. It's really honestly ridiculous and unnecessary. Move to Ethiopia. Then you can bitch.

All of these people see me, and think I'm their new best friend. Maybe it's cause I'm bipolar. Someday I'd like to lock the Emo and SuperPositive into a room and see what happens.

To finding the balance between happy and nuts!

Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady

Sir, can you spare a dollar....for some earrings? Please? They're SHINY!!

I love the dollar store. You know, the one where EVERYTHING is a dollar. I walk in, and I am immediately hypnotized by the plethora of cheap things I really don't need.  Now, I must say, usually I go there for things like lightbulbs or paper towels or toilet paper. But I always leave with many more things than I came to get.

My current addiction is earrings. Two whole racks of earrings, that change weekly. I always pick up a pair that catches my eye because it may not be there next week. This has led to my surplus of earrings. I only have one piercing in my ears, so that's only 2 available holes for earrings. I have amassed a collection worthy of Imelda Marcos and her shoes. I am an earring addict.

The problem is, when I see an earring I like, I can always see where I am going to wear it. But honestly, when am I going to go to a prom as an adult? And how am I going to be able to wear those really heavy ones for more than 5 minutes?

My friends joke I have a cat brain. Completely focused, and then....OOOOOooooo SHINY! If it sparkles, and it's in the dollar store, it's mine. This has led to many terse arguments with Mr. Kat Lady over exactly how many GD pairs of earrings I need, thank you very much. He just doesn't get it. I can wear earrings and they look so pretty they distract from the fact I am not wearing makeup or a bra. Well at least they distract from the makeup part anyway.

He was wholly against the whole dollar store 2 blocks away thing until I brought him something from there he could not hate. Toe socks. He is madly in love with toe socks. The tackier the better. His favorite pair looks like Elmo, Oscar the Grouch, and Cookie Monster sacrificed themselves to a blender. He is okay with those, but has a problem with pretty earrings?

I also enjoy the makeup selection they have. I don't really spend a lot on makeup, so dollar makeup is good. Also being an artist with a drag queen and a stripper on speed dial ensures I keep the makeup mishaps to a minimum.

My husband is what I like to call "Fashion Concerned" and likes to make sure we both look decent before we leave the house, so he helps me pick out my clothes for the day. And he's honest, so I trust him. He has long curly hair, and spends copious amounts of time caring for it, so in a way he's much more high maintenance than me.

He understands my need for SHINY and usually forgives me for buying the dollar store out of earrings and metallic makeup. (the gold is really pretty!) All he asks is that I keep writing and try to take out the trash every once in a while.

He's so patient and really a good guy, but I have a sneaking suspicion that one of these nights I will come home and find him in my makeup...oh well, he can be as metrosexual as he wants, I still love him.

To Ferragamos and dollar store earrings,

Love and Laughter,

-Kat Lady

Wuv, twue wuv.....

I came across a notebook of wedding plans the other day. It was funny, reading my lists of "STUFF TO DO FOR WEDDING." I was so naive that I thought the wedding would be the hard part, not the marriage! Wow. It's like those Bridezilla shows, or the "You get a free wedding if I change everything about it to what I like" scenario.

I didn't get to be on the TV show, but I did get my wedding taken over by Momzilla. But that's a story for Shirley Sunday. Anyway, Mr. Kat Lady and I made it through the wedding and honeymoon, and several crazy incidents (the oil) in our first year or so. What I am going to talk about is "the seven year itch."

We are going on our 8th year of marriage. (I know, wow, who woulda thought?) Right about year seven (us being 28) is when the ball dropped. We suddenly looked at each other and said "Who ARE you, and what are we doing?" I've heard it's common to suddenly question everything about every 7 years you are married. We sat down and discussed how we'd changed in seven years. Turns out we have been married to strangers for nigh on 8 years!

1. We no longer live on Ramen and pocket change. (The pocket change goes to bills.) We've figured out how to eat real meals together, and how to budget for gas money. (that took a while.)
In fact, we got so sick of eating ramen that we can't bear to eat it more than once or twice a month. And I'm Asian!

2. We now know the difference between a job and a career. Dillons deli is a job, writing is a career. We also know jobs make money, careers make you nuts. Mr. Kat Lady busts his butt at his hotel job so we can pay the bills. (and buy cat food) Currently we are wondering exactly how much customer abuse it's going to take before he ends up snapping a pen off in someone's left eye.

3. We have to plan when we want to treat ourselves. Jobs pay bi-weekly and bills come monthly, so 1 or 2 drive thru visits are kosher usually. We pick one or two times a year to go balls to the wall. This year for our anniversary we are going to *censored* at a hotel for 2 days. :) I know, I can say the word, but I have family that read my blog, and well they REALLY don't want to think about me doing THAT. I don't even want to think about me doing that.

4. A full time job is not a curse. For the longest time we thought we could live on a part time job salary. Electric, gas, water, and phone companies tended to disagree. Sometimes I play bill roulette, and hope to make it two weeks without losing any service. Sometimes I lose. Usually I can manipulate my way into a pay agreement. Sprint is awesome about this. City Water, not so much. You never love your toilet so much until you've had to go without it for a week.

5. Love is learning to accept and acknowledge each other's faults. Repeatedly. Loudly. Yelling fights are good once in a while. Plus, the more you yell, the better the make up sex.

So yeah, those are just a few of the things we've learned. That and how to wrestle with each other and not look like we've both committed a felony. Yes, we (28 year old grownups) wrestle with each other like 7 year old boys. Deal with it. And for God's sake don't try to imagine what it looks like. You don't have the gag reflex necessary.

Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady

I'm Bi-Winning!!!

Yes, being bi-polar is a serious subject, and it is a mental illness. However, as I am a card-carrying member of the bi-polar community I have decided that I have the express permission to make fun of it and myself. So if I offend you, please complain loudly to everyone you know on the internet. No publicity is bad publicity...lol :)

Ok, so yes, I'm bi-polar. I live my life in one of two very different modes. There's Rabid Squirrel Mode, and Eeyore. Now I admit the meds have created a decidedly less intense experience in either mode, but they are still there, and they are FAHHHHBULOUS!!! Unless I hate it. You see what I mean...

Rabid Squirrel Mode (or RSM) is always fun. I usually get into trouble in this mode though. RSM causes me to encourage myself to attempt things that E Mode would think impossible. Some examples, you say?

One night in college while in RSM I went to Walmart with a friend. Now Walmart is normally overwhelming, but imagine the experience when everything is sped up and shiny. Yes, it was like a carnival of colors, sounds, smells, and tastes! I decided we should grocery shop "Extreme Style!!!!" I convinced her to go to the aisle just left of the one I was in. I grabbed a box of cookies and yelled, "BUCKET!!!!" as loud as I possibly could- to warn of incoming missiles. (My friend CD will remember that phrase from a former Walmart trip...see what you did???) After I was sure she heard me, I hurled that box of cookies over the shelves and theoretically right into the cart. I heard a thud, and an elderly voice say, "What in the daylights?" rather dazedly. I knew the proverbial crap had hit the fan at that point. Suddenly, there was security, looking rather nonplussed at my Herculean attempt. There was no humor as they escorted us both to the security office. "Ma'am, what exactly were you trying to prove out there?" I looked sheepish and said I was curious if it would cut our grocery shopping time down. He informed me that I could be charged with assault- I told him that technically the Keebler elves should be charged with the assault. He didn't find that as funny as I did. The police were called to give me a breathalyzer because apparently sober people do not try to pin crimes on fictional elves. I passed, apologized to the lady, bought her groceries, promised to never do it again, and she declined to press charges. I swore my friend to secrecy and we drove back to the conservative Christian college I attended.

So yes, RSM is dangerous, especially when un-medicated. But Eeyore Mode (E Mode) is just ridiculous. In E Mode, I am terribly afraid of EVERYTHING. As I said, everything is intensified in either mode. In college, we decided to watch Stephen King's IT. I am not a fan of any horror movie, but add in an already healthy fear of clowns, and you have hysterical nightmares and paranoia. For 3 nights after I innocently sat down to watch a movie with my friends I refused to walk anywhere alone on campus, locked myself in my dorm room, and made my friends promise to warn me if they saw any clowns lurking about. I know, this sounds like schizophrenia, but I have a very VIVID imagination, and I was immature for my age. So anyway, I still harbor a fear of clowns, but it's not as bad as it could be, thanks to my friends deciding to be nice and not tease me with fake clown sightings. Small favors, right?

Once I got on medication, the two modes evolved into a more subdued Eager Terrier Mode, (ET Mode) and Pout Mode (P Mode). Now I just get overexcited over stupid things, and/or grumpy about stupid things. You know, like most people...lol

Anyway, I love being bi-polar. Did I mention I hate being bi-polar? :) In the words of Charlie Sheen I leave you.

I'm Bi-WIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNGGGGGG!

Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady

Shirley Sunday: The Honeymoon!

As far as mother-in-laws go, my husband has a doozy. Shirley is one determined person. She is so epic, in fact, that she will be the subject of every Sunday post. Yes, my mother is a real prize.

Today's blog will feature my mother's lack of any ability to let go. She is a hoarder also, so having a hard time letting go is no surprise to me. What was a surprise however was her desperate grabs for control during the first few days we were married. So I present to you "Shirley and the Honeymoon."

The wedding was over and her spoken enemy was now her son-in-law. I was elated, bouncing here and there, excited to go to our new apartment and start our life. I was however, TERRIFIED of the wedding night itself. My mother spent much of my life pre-marriage telling me horror stories about sex. She even got a gynecologist to convince me that my "area" was too small for any kind of meaningful sexual activity. Fast forward to right before we left from the reception. She calls me over and whispers in my ear. "If it hurts, don't cry or yelp. You just lay there and make sure that he thinks you are enjoying it." Ok, well I hadn't even thought about the fact that it might hurt! Oh no! I suddenly developed an intense fear of the male genitalia. I won't give specifics, but that night ended with me sobbing and my husband looking desperately for something to make me feel better. Needless to say, we were up late into the night trying to console each other that the sex would get better. We fell asleep around 4 am. And then all hell broke loose.

At 6 am on the dot, our door was rattling on the hinges. "Dear Lord Jesus, what the Hell is that?" Mr. Kat Lady cautiously opened the door. On the other side, fist poised to bang on the door again was none other than my 5'4" ball of nuts, also known as my mother.

"Jeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnn Aaaaaannnnnn!!!!"

She proceeded to explain that she came over to organize my silverware drawer. (She drove 50 miles to ORGANIZE MY SILVERWARE DRAWER the DAY after my WEDDING!) It was obvious that Mr. Kat Lady was scathingly mad, but wanted to not cause any waves with my mom. He let her in and said, "Have at. We're going out anyway." He grabbed my hand, and we walked over to the library just to have some peace. We returned to our ENTIRE house rearranged and boxes of various detritus all over the place. Piles of clothing on the floor in a myriad of colors mocked me, as if to say...YOU left her here, here's your penance. Mike calmly walked to the closet, removed the rifle, loaded it in full view of her, and stated that she had exactly 2 minutes to walk to the door and drive home. She sputtered and yelled, and threatened to call the police, but she left.

That night was the best night of the "honeymoon." We enjoyed another 3 days of peace before my mom even tried to call.

Now don't get me wrong, I love my mom, but she is very often the bane of my existence. If I didn't love her I wouldn't care enough to share crazy stories about her!

Mr. Kat Lady often says that there are certain Mother-in-LAWS that MILs should have to follow.

So, commenters, what "Mother-in-Law etiquette" would you like to institute?

Love and Laughter,

-Kat Lady

Battle of the Bathroom!

There are bath people, and there are shower people. You are either one, or the other. There is no middle ground. I myself am a bath person, and cannot understand why anyone would ever want to hurry through what could be such a luxurious experience. Most of the shower people I meet tend to say that they don't have time for a bath in the morning. My comment to that is that they could take a bath the night before. This makes no sense to them, as a shower person's reasoning and personality is the absolute antithesis of a bath person's.

Bath habits are a contentious subject to hardcore bath or shower people. Showerites (as I call them) are religious about their 5 to 15 minute scrub-a-thon. Many even have a choreographed ritualized routine that they follow during their shower.Enter bathroom. Open shower door, turn shower on, close door. Wait 3 minutes. Open door, check temperature, adjust, close door. Wait 3 minutes. Undress, open door, check self out in mirror. Enter shower. Stand at the back of the shower until used to the terroristic onslaught of water. Move under water. Pick up Soap. Drop Soap. Pick up Soap, banging head on front wall of shower. Wash body. Wash genitals. Wash genitals. Rinse body, spending extra time rinsing genitals. Smile. Pick up shampoo. Open shampoo and pour way too much in your hand. Slather shampoo on head. Get shampoo in eyes. Grope blindly for washcloth. Hit head on front shower wall. Wipe off eyes, Rinse hair. Repeat with conditioner. Turn off water. Open door. Shiver uncontrollably. Reach desperately for towel. Miss and slip on floor, walloping your foot on the sink cabinet. Grab towel and dry. Check self out in mirror. Dress, and exit bathroom.

Now bath people (Bathbyterians) are much more relaxed about their daily cleansing ritual. Their bath usually goes something like this... Enter bathroom. Start bathtub faucet. Check temp, insert plug in drain. Undress. Sit naked on toilet reading or playing on phone/ipod. Get absorbed. Notice water is much too deep for tub. Remove plug. Wait 3 minutes. Insert plug. Step into tub. Realize hot water ran out before tub filled. Deal with it and sit down. Lay in tub reading/gaming/whatevering for 15 minutes. Start hot water. Burn foot. Put in still cool-ish water. Resume entertainment. Wait 4 minutes. Turn off hot water. Lay in water until it cools again, remove plug. Wait 4 minutes. Insert plug. Start hot water. Burn foot. Put in still cool-ish water. Resume entertainment. Repeat 4 times. Put entertainment down on toilet as you are now getting sleepy and don't want to get entertainment wet. Nap for 30 minutes. Wake up in chilly water. Realize it's time to get clean and get out. Empty and refill tub again. Wash up, shampoo, condition and empty tub. Get out. Check self out in mirror. Weigh self. Look surprised and then disappointed. Towel off. Get dressed and leave bathroom.

Yes, Showerites and Bathbyterians are two very different breeds. But at least they cleanse themselves. Nobody wants anything to do with the Nobathtists! So remember. Whether you are a Showerite or a Bathbyterian, your way is the right way. And no one can tell you any different.

My personal preference is Bathbyterian. My husband is as well. How do we know? Our shower broke over a month ago, and we have yet to care to fix it. It never got used much anyway...our poor shower will be FOREVER ALONE.

To Cleanliness, and Ridiculous Bathroom Religion!

Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady