What. The. Hell.

Where have I been, you ask?

Wait, you didn't ask? Good thing I don't give a flying V, eh?

Let's see, I...

• Went to the shrink to learn that I'm not bipolar. I'm just really, really wacked overall. So there's that. Lots of therapy lies ahead of me.
• Then I got laid off. Excuse me, I got "temporarily furloughed," and so did Gray.ON THE SAME DAY. So it's going to be just *that* much more difficult to pay for said therapy.
• Then I helped one of my very best friends start packing because she is moving WAY FAR AWAY.
• While I was helping her move, I slipped down the stairs and broke my big toe in two places. No joke, the fracture is "L" shaped. And no, I wasn't drunk. I wasn't even drinking. Except coffee, but it wasn't laced absinthe with or anything. I AM JUST THAT FUCKING CLUMSY.
• Then Angel Butt and Five Head came to visit and we've been alternating between subsequent, ridonkulous video game challenges issued from Gray to Five Head (some kind of odd 35 year old to 12 year old bonding thing, no? They have more in common than Gray and I do.) and sleep overs with 4-year-old girls. Did you know that children don't push themselves on the swing? That you have to do it FOR them? It's all very exhausting. 
• Then, thanks to the no-jobs thing, we ran out of booze. And painkillers. Did I mention I broke my toe? And then Angel Butt accidentally stamped on it just when it was starting to fit into a regular shoe again?
• NO JOB THING.

So I'm a bit stressed. Turns out polishing up my resume is about the exact opposite of fun. Or exciting. Or bearable.

And applying for unemployment is almost impossible, did you know that? There are all these...forms and...questions and...OUCHIE BRAIN.

Did I mention I've done all of this sober?

I don't write about work here, for obvious reasons (if they find the bag of body parts in my office drawer, I am totally fucked) so I have had very little to divulge except "ouch" and "ouch" and, oh: OW MOTHERFUCKER.

July is awesome so far.

Birth Announcement. Kind of.

Introducing Roger “Matilda” Woodyson

Born 5:45 p.m. on February 23rd, 2011

Delivered in the company of two men and one very buff woman.

As you can see from the photos, this baby was breech.

 

1,000,000 lbs 2 oz,

8' 25” long,

Mother and baby are doing just fine. Send nipple cream.

Cannot get the motherfucking pictures to ROTATE. Broke my tailbone just trying to make that happen.

Anyway, this beautiful baby is the table I bought from Meighan back in September. My intention was to refinish it and use it as a stunningly rustic dining room table because it's got that "harvest table" look without the multi-hundreds of dollars price tag. This thing is HEW-MUNG-GO and can easily seat ten dinner guests, which was kind of the reason I fell in love with the dining room at our new place: It's big enough to serve people NOT on their laps.

Unfortunately because of my brain pain, I didn't get a chance to start on this project before Jesus smote us with the coldest fucking weather in the history of Biblical plagues, so Gray purchased a couple of heating towers so that I could work on the table in the garage and not lose my nipples to frostbite.

Also unfortunate is our inherited, crazy-ass electrical wiring in the garage because when Gray plugged in the heaters, the circuit blew and we've been unable to get the power back on. No lights, no garage doors, no heater = effectively NO GARAGE.

But folks: I am TIRED of eating dinner on the couch and I am TIRED of not inviting dinner guests because I'm embarrassed to feed them on the blue folding card table that I stole from someones garbage in south Minneapolis (sorry Jeanne)((that's the name written on it, anyway)) and I decided the only way to Make! Table! Happen! was to plan a big dinner party (i.e. implement a deadline) so last night, Gray got his minions to move the damn table into our front porch.

Now I can sand to my little heart's content and I can hem and haw (because the past five months of doing so hasn't yielded a solution) regarding whether I should stain the table, oil the table, paint the table, paint and then distress the paint on the table, or just poly the fuck out of it and leave the weathered finish (which is what I'm leaning towards because of the overall style I'm going for)((rusty-vintage-chic)).

I am so beyond excited that this table thing is finally happening because now I am motivated to pick up some paint for the living and dining rooms (DONE!) and start recovering chair cushions (DONE!) and HOT DAMN my dining room is going to be pretty when I'm with the wall of mirrors, which has to be soon, because I've got hungry guests descending in a month.

It's going to be perfect. Just as I imagined it all these months.

Only...my brawny she-friend Red brought up a good point: If I'm going to dance on that table, I'm going to need a different chandelier. The existing, dangly thing is another head injury waiting to happen.

Night of the 1,000 Martinis

I'm pretty sure I'm only moments away from being crushed by a grand piano, or possibly struck by lightning or of being accidentally poisoned by Poison Control because they thought my name was on their list of "people to poison", but really I just wrote the list. What I'm saying is there is no fucking way I'm getting off this easy. Somehow...some way...the Universe (that asshole) will make me pay, and I can only hope I don't need to take a dump when the moment comes.

In the world that I live in, I should, by all laws of nature, be lying in bed with a pillow over my face to block out the light of the hateful sun which should feel like the devil trying to pierce my skull and burn my brain matter. I should be getting (painfully) out of bed every once in a while and violently retching into the general direction of the toilet. My ass hole should be mysteriously tender. I SHOULD BE HUNG OVER.

But I am not hung over, although I am suffering from the post-binge Hunger which requires very specific food remedies, none of which are in the fridge at the moment because it's not very often that I need a bucket full of deep-fried tater tots and a cheeseburger the size of my head.

After the weekend I've had, the fact that I didn't wake up and find myself dressed in a sombrero on the lawn of Graceland lying beside a walrus in a space suit...well, that's pretty fucking incredible. THAT'S HOW MUCH I DRANK. Oh but not even I could compete with the drunkest of all, a friend whom has never been mentioned here on this blog because...well...you know. But after Friday night...she must be named, and by that I mean she must be given a fake name because knowing me is kind of like being in the opposite off the witness protection program, times vaginas.

This photo, taken before we even started drinking martinis, should have been a red flag.

This photo is literally the essence of my weekend: blurry and obnoxious and way too much fun.

Everybody, could we please have a round of applause for the only woman who has ever drank me under the table...Red! So tell me, Red, how did you find it within yourself to consume so many pineapple martinis?

Well, Cat, I think it was kind of your fault.

Mm-hmm, mm-hmm...how so?

Well, Veronica and I planned the evening in honor of your birthday.

Oh, I see. And did you at any time discuss with Veronica the plans for Friday night?

Of course. We planned to go see Sex & the City II and make it a Girl's Night.

Mm-hmm, mm-hmm, I see. So did it occur to either you or Veronica that perhaps you should check to see when Sex & the City II opened in theaters? Or did we find out at the last minute when I tried to find show times and couldn't.

We thought it would be in theaters by the time we had our Girls' Night.

But you were mistaken, weren't you?

(Veronica: Objection! Leading the girlfriend!)

I withdraw my last comment, readers. So what you're saying, Red, is that we ended up at the bar of The Melting Pot because we were unable to go see Sex & the City II because it doesn't open until May 28th, is that correct?

I guess so.

And then we ended up at Prohibition where you drank my blueberry martini, is that right?

The part you didn't spill on me, yes.

And then you disappeared with Veronica into the back of a limousine without any previous discussion of doing so, and the limousine full of big, black men deposited us on the sidewalk in front of Seven where we bypassed the line of people and entered directly through the VIP entrance into a club that was also full of big, black men who continued to provide alcohol to all three of us, once Veronica was positive that we hadn't been drugged. Does that sound accurate?

I think I bought my own drink, but yeah. Pretty much.

And did all three of us manage to offend three entirely different races of people that night?

Yeah, Veronica told our server, who was Indian, that he would probably be really good at computer work, and then I told the guy who brought us to the club in his limo that he was a douche for wearing a suit and tie in the middle of the night, and then you asked a big black guy if he realized he was chillin' with three white chicks adrift in a sea of black women.

Yes, that was awesome. So who declared her predisposition to consume martinis that evening?

I'm pretty sure it was Veronica.

But you agreed.

I see where this is going and I still say the whole thing was your fault.

How so?

By being born. You made me drink those martinis by being born.

I cannot help that jesus put me on this earth to be an inspiration to others, Red. Do you hate jesus?

You're the one who doesn't capitalize "Jesus".

Meh, he was jewish. Well, Red, thanks for being with us today. I'm so glad I got to listen to you vomit all weekend. We should do it again sometime.

PS ~ Next time, we're totally making out. Unless you're puking.