Dear Oliver

This letter is to my kitten, Sir Oliver:

I am tired of you biting my ankles and feet. Your tiny teeth are pointy and sharp. You ferociousness rivals that of a lion, yet you are but a mere wee kitten. Please stop biting me. Please stop waking your adoptive father up in the middle of the night. We're trying. I know we're not home a lot and those two big cats knock you around quite a bit, but we love your furry ass. Really. We do.

I just called the vet and she said we have a "potential behavior problem on our hands." I don't want a behavior problem, I want a furry, sweet kitten. Like you were just a mere week ago. Was it the houseguests? Did Thanksgiving push you over the edge as well?

The vet is making lots of suggestions, but paying animal behaviorists and finding a "kitten kindergarten" just seem a bit ridiculous. Do you want to go back with your siblings and mama cat? I know where they are, but it's cold out there. And pretty rough, truth be told.

Also, while I'm making requests, please stop taking our socks and then growling at us when we try to reclaim them. You, kind sir, are NOT a dog. I repeat, NOT a dog. A cat, C-A-T.

I promise to play with you more. I can't get another kitten for you to play with, because four is just too many cats in one home. But, I can play with you myself. I'll start doing that more tonight. We'll have feather toy time and I'll try to run you ragged. I promise.

Love,

Mom

Back to Busy

As you can probably tell, yesterday was a low point. I truly think I was having a bit of a family hangover. It was just too much during the Thanksgiving holiday. I know my limits and I think I need to observe those from now on. I still have a lot of unanswered questions about myself, but I am feeling a bit buoyed today. Writing about your deep-seated problems doesn't solve them, but it sure is a good purge for the soul.

Now, I'm so busy getting ready for my jewelry trunk show next Wednesday that I can barely keep my head above water. What kind of idiot tries to be a lawyer and jewelry designer at the same time? Oh, that would be me. I swear, I'm dreaming about necklaces and beads and wire and clasps. God help me. I'm turning into one of those weird craft women who spends more money at craft/bead stores than on shoes. What the hell happened to me?

As an aside, I had two of the most frustrating lunchtime experiences and I'm happy to report I didn't lose my cool. Nope, not once. I went to Joann to get some clasps (stop laughing) and the line was over a dozen people deep. It moved pretty quickly, but I don't wait. Not well.

Then, I went to a bagel shop to get some lunch and the guy working behind the counter was possibly the dumbest human being alive. After arguing with him about soups for 3-4 minutes, I was finally able to extract what I have realized is the greatest secret known to mankind: what "Seasonal" soups are on the menu at Einstein Brothers Bagel Co. Really, did you know this information was top-secret and closely guarded?

Not to be-labor the point, but why not, I'm good at driving a topic into the ground. See, the menu said "Chicken Noodle," "Vegetable," and the elusive "Seasonal." I asked him what soups they had today and he said, "It's my third day." But those aren't soups, I wanted to say. Instead, I bit my tongue. I asked him to pretty-please go check for me and he said "Oh, we got Chili." WE GOT CHILI? Well, then I follow that up with a big "what kind - beef or turkey?" and I swear to you his head nearly exploded. I don't eat beef and I know Einstein's usually has turkey chili. After another minute of discussing with a co-worker, I was informed that it was indeed turkey.

It took me over two minutes to order because he could find my items on their handy order form, and then it took 10 minutes to make the turkey/swiss sandwich and pour the soup. NOTE: I was the ONLY customer in the store. Now I know why.

Nonetheless, I did not leave in a huff. I did not yell. I did not make a smart remark. I just paid for my food and left.

Now I hope I don't get food poisoning.

PS - On the kitten front. We still have him and his name is Oliver. He is very bite-y. I need to talk to the vet about this because I think he's too vicious. I've never had a cat this aggressive before and I'm worried he's too much of a wild-man. However, he does lay nicely in my arms when tired and sleeps beside our pillows each night. We're having a few adjustment issues with the other cats but there's been no bloodshed so far. I was awakened last night to a kitty tongue-bath on my face. Kitten breath at 3am is cute, but annoying.

Mom-Burglar

Our neighborhood has had seven break-ins in the past few months. No, I don't live in the ghetto, but I do live in an area with lots of first generation Korean immigrants who own businesses that run on cash. Cash that they tend to keep in their houses. All victims have been Korean and have had the same house plan (one different from ours). So, I thought we had little to worry about, but we had a security system installed anyway.

So, last Tuesday, the Italian and I are at our local grocery store, stocking up for Thanksgiving. He gets a call from an unrecognizable number, picks it up, and finds out the alarm is going off at our house. "Do you want us to call the police?," the Brinks person asks. "Hell, yes." The Italian goes home, and I, with a half-full cart of groceries, elect to finish what I started.

At this point, I'm thinking, "great, we're going to have a busted door from where the glass is broken, we're not going to be able to get it fixed until after the holiday, what a pain." I'm not real worried about items being stolen, because we don't have cash or guns in the house, and my two pieces of good jewelry were on me. Besides a few cats and a TV set too large to get out of the house without attracting much attention, these guys were getting a big "0" out of us. Our cash is in the bank, know what I mean?

So, ten minutes later I call the Italian. "What happened?," I asked. He said he didn't know, but the alarm was going off and the front door appeared to be unlocked. He didn't remember unlocking it, but he could have. Still, it doesn't explain how the alarm got set off. So, the cop arrives, pulls his gun and goes through our house. Very dramatic "Cops" material.

With a big shrug and thanks, the Italian bids the cop adieu and comes to get me at the grocery store. Now, in the meantime, I've been calling my mom repeatedly on her cell and home phone, trying to see if she'd been by our house. "That's crazy," you're probably thinking, "what mom would do that?" What mom indeed.

We've got boundary issues with my mom. She refuses to call before she stops by, and will let herself into our house on occasion. She has an emergency key, but she uses our house like an extension of hers. It's lovely, really.

So, finally, about an hour after we received the call that our alarm was going off, I got my mom on her home phone. Wasting no time, I cut to the chase: "Mom, have you been to our house tonight?" Pause, followed by a little voice that says "Yeeeessss..."

Turns out she set of our alarm when she tried to open our front door to let herself in (why, I don't know). Then, upon hearing the alarm, she bolted. She didn't call us to say "whoops," didn't stick around to see if the cops would come, she just left. Actually, she went to the Bank and the grocery store, and then failed to answer her cell phone when we called repeatedly.

Some people have wonderful relationships with their mothers. Me? I have a mom-burglar.

When I close my eyes, I see... beads

The jewelry making is off to a good start. My business partner and I worked an 11 hour day yesterday, and I was able to finish another necklace tonight. I have a feeling I'll be too busy to write at length in the coming weeks, but so far I'm happy with this jewelry stuff. We got a boutique in a nearby mountain town to carry some of our stuff, and we have two other leads as well. I hope to have our website up and running in a few months and we'll host a couple of trunk shows as well. Lots going on, busy mind and busy hands.

I've got to go clean up my house for Thanksgiving. In this whole mess, I'm hosting 18 people on Thursday for dinner. Eek. My sister and her family arrive tomorrow to stay with us. Wish me luck. I usually need it where her family is concerned.

Decompression

I've been slammed with work lately. Today started with a bang. Work was going a mile a second, and I was trying to close a $25M deal with little help from anyone else. All of a sudden, the deal was postponed, and I can't find the energy to pick up on my other projects.

I am simply drained.

Stepping back into the morose, I know. It's what I said I wouldn't do, but here I am. I'd like to write off my current mental state to "season change," but I can't. Is it depression? I don't know if I'd say that either. I think it's just an extreme desire to change some things about my life, and an equally extreme inability to do so.

I am feeling trapped.

Why, you say? Well, the economy for one. I'd really like to start scaling back our financial obligations, but we won't be able to sell either our house or our townhome right now. The market is too bad. I could get rid of my fancy car, I suppose. Maybe I'll look into that.

With our financial obligations, I have no choice but to keep working a job where I make a comfortable salary -- regardless of whether I like what I'm doing. We're not living above our means, but we're certainly not below them either.

Also, it's just plain depressing where I live right now. My neighborhood is having a mini crime spree, and I don't even feel safe in my own home. Word is apparently "out" about the crime and agents have stopped bringing folks by look at new homes or resales. Fabulous for property values!

I'm really just bitching now, and I don't mean to. Okay, that's a lie. I do.

On the good side, my co-worker and I got permission to host a jewelry show in my office for early December. Wish me luck, we're currently in the designing phase and it's time-consuming and EXPENSIVE! I was up until 1:00 am last night. Perhaps my exhaustion is contributing to my mood.

Oh, and kitten-raising is hard. I had forgotten. Our two big cats have turned into nasty, snarling beasties each time the kitten comes near. The kitten is a mini-cougar who seems intent on puncturing the skin on my hands, feet and face. Yes, face. But, just as soon as I'm ready to punt his furry little ass right on out the door, he curls up on my pillow and sleeps beside my head. He really is a good little sleeper, getting 6-7 hours a night on our bed. I do love him.

On St. John

Four months ago today I was on St. John, soaking up some lovely Caribbean weather and snorkeling to my heart's content. Today, I'm sitting in my office with my winter coat still on and a portable heater beside my legs. My, how things change.

The Italian and I don't have a trip planned until May 2008, when we're going to Costa Rica. We *might* go to Vegas in March, but I don't want to make that trip for a variety of reasons, mainly that it's a group trip. The Italian and I always travel with other people, and while it's fun, I'm a bit tired of it. I have so little time off that when I'm off, I want to do exactly what I want to do, when I want to do it. Does that sound selfish? Plus, a Vegas trip quickly gets expensive when you factor in gambling. We don't usually get out there for less than $2000 for a long weekend. I figure we can get to the tropics for four nights in Feb. for less than that, though we may not stay at the nicest place ever.

I'm seriously contemplating trying to squeeze a quick getaway in during the month of February. It's typically a slow month for me, work-wise. With the economy being down, I'm hopeful that we can find a good deal somewhere, even if it's just a cheap AI in Mexico or the Dominican (though I really don't want food poisoning, thank you very much.). Shoot, at this point, I'll even camp on St. John. You hear that, Mr. Italian?

I'm afraid my love for St. John is a dangerous love. St. John is a very expensive island, and while there are cheaper options as far as lodging, things like food and rental cars will just never been inexpensive there.

The only thing worse than being at work

... Is being at work with absolutely nothing to do. And not being able to leave because you're waiting for the other shoe to drop on a $20+ million deal. "Couldn't you find something else to do," you're probably saying right now. "Maybe organize something, or catch up on some shit you're behind on." Yeah, maybe I could, but I'm not gonna.

FACT: It's a lot more fun to blog about it how much work sucks than to actually DO something to make work better.

On a somewhat related note, I'm feeling creatively-challenged on the jewelry design front. This always tends to happen when I get serious about turning it into a business. I get all excited, then I sit down to actually design new stuff and all of the sudden I think I suck at the whole thing. Fear, it's a killer.

State of the Union

I have pinpointed a phenomenon that is the epitome, indeed a complete embodiment, of everything that's wrong with America today. I'd like to thank the Bravo television network for blessing us with the lovely slice of Americana entitled "The Real Housewives of Orange County."

I shall henceforth call it "TRHOC," which sounds not unlike the vocalization my cat makes when coughing up a hairball. Coincidence?

The apparent premiere of the new season is upon us, so Bravo has seen fit to run episode after episode of this vacuous programme. A virtual marathon for the brain, an evening of watching TRHOC requires the lack of affect seen in extreme depressives, the rigidity of a catatonic and the stupidity seen in, well, the stupid. Really, one must possess all of those characteristics to get through an episode without feeling as if all Californians, nay all Americans, shouldn't pick up the arms we're so proud to bear and blow our collective brains out.

But, really, maybe I'm putting too much thought into TRHOC. It's likely been years since most of the Housewives featured on this show have had a thought beyond how much money they're going to spend on diamond skull earrings or if their 500cc breast implants might rupture while getting a shiatsu massage at Canyon Ranch.

Lest you misunderstand me, let me get one thing straight at the outset: I am not envious of these women. Give me some credit, that's just too easy. I could theoretically buy a $10,000 watch if I chose to. But I wouldn't. Who the hell needs a $10,000 watch? Anyway, my point here is that my venom towards this show is not petty jealously or my deep-seated desire to whimsically spend thousands on LV purses and thongs at Agent Provocateur.

Rather, I hate this show because these women are dolts. Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, I submit to you the following:

Exhibit A - Vicki: Housewife Vicki is an energy-packed California blonde with a heart of gold who just wants her kids to be her best friends. See, there's a problem with that, because she's their MOTHER, not their friend. But what do I know about raising kids? I mean, I don't have one of those licenses they make Americans get before you can breed. Oh, what's that you say? We don't do that in this country? Well, that explains so much.

Vicki's got this pimply, bratty-faced 20-year old son off at college in Boulder, Colorado. She decides to "surprise" him by showing up for a weekend visit, on a gameday nonetheless. Vicki busts up in his broke-ass college frat house with a twelve pack of Coors and a party-till-you-puke scream. Bratty son, as you can guess, is none too pleased.

The 20-year old basically makes his mom feel like an idiot (which she should) and tells her "I just wish you'd told me you were coming." Fair enough, kid, fair enough. However, Vicki isn't getting the point. "But then it wouldn't have been a surprise," she says. Vicki's prattles on, pathetically asking "aren't you happy to see me?" over and over until she is reduced to tears and flees to her son's bathroom with her Coors Light in hand. Drown those sorrows, Vicki, drown 'em.

Really, I haven't seen such co-dependent, fucked-up Freudian behavior between a mother and son since Anna Nicole Smith and Daniel. This bitch ought to be ashamed, but I don't think Vicki and shame are on intimate terms.

I don't normally side with 20-year olds. I think they're obnoxious tadults (teen-adults) caught in that awkward phase between idiocy and the marrying years. But this kid really has a point. Here he is in his college town just trying to enjoy game day with the guys, and his cougar of a mother barges right in, fake tits on display for all his friends to ogle. It's got to be embarassing. Plus, she's acting more like his long-lost girlfriend than his mother. But guess what, Vicki? He doesn't want a friend, he wants a mother. She of course never gets it, and the whole crying scene ends with the son saying something like "Pull yourself together, I'll be in the kitchen." He's a little bossy, isn't he? I like that in my 20-year olds.

Vicki's obviously feeling badly about things, so she tries to make it up to her son by getting drunk. At this point, she offers to buy him a brand new car if he gets a 3.5 GPA for the semester. Seriously, a 3.5? I mean, it's good and all, but isn't she setting the bar a little low? Kid's not at Harvard, after all. To celebrate the offer, Vicki does a keg stand, and then lets her son's friends suck on her boobs. Okay, I made that very last part up, but she really did do a keg stand supported by her son's buddies.

Where can I nominate her for mother of the year?

Exhibit B - Jeana: Jeana is a former Playmate who is married to an ex-baseball player. She's got American Dream written all over her, doesn't she? It appears, however, that the years have not been kind to Jeana's marriage (or Jeana's waistline for that matter, but that's a different topic for a different day). To be fair, Jeana is the only one who seems to have a lick of common sense in her head, but I don't think she's passed her "midwestern values" onto her kids. When asked about the state of her parents marriage, Jeana's 17-year old daughter says "I think my mom ought to get a boyfriend."

I don't think I need to say anything else at this point.

Exhibit C - Lauri: Lauri's sugar-daddy gives her a $100,000 convertible Mercedes. Problem is, Lauri's 21-year old daughter has a wicked sense of entitlement, and can't even look at her mom's car for 10 seconds without saying something like, "Okay, let's trade your old car in 'cause I want a BMW convertible. Moooooommmm, you have a $30,000 watch on your wrist! It makes me so mad! It's not fair." Oh really?

Good luck to whatever guy ends up with that gold-digging tramp, er, undiscovered gem.

Exhibit D - Jo: Lastly, no introduction to TRHOC would be complete without talking about Jo. The youngest of our housewives, this chick isn't really a housewife at all. I actually have NO idea why she is even remotely qualified to be on this show (Oh dear lord, tee-hee. I said that like these women have qualifications. Har, har, hee, hee.). Jo isn't married, has no kids, but is fucking a really rich dude with a teenage son. She used to live with him in the O.C., but now she's moved to a shitty apartment in LA with her friend in an attempt to start a recording career. She kind of looks like Eva Longoria if you squint real hard and turn your head to the left, but I think that's her greatest talent, 'cause her voice is beat.

Her boyfriend, who has an asinine name like "Slate" or "Slade" or something, knows some people who knows some people (who doesn't?). She cuts a demo, and on the episode I watched last night, they had a meeting with record execs. Slate proceeds to sing along with the demo, trying to show how "in" to the music he really is, but all he succeeds in doing is showing how much better a 40-year old man with a Peter Pan complex can sing than Jo. Shit, even I can sing better than Jo, and I've made ears bleed before.

I could go on, but really, why? Is this what our nation's young people aspire to be? Fake-titted, vapid housewives with bratty kids and big bank accounts? I'd like to think this show is aired with a wink and a nod to the viewer, but I don't think it is. Is TRHOC the new American dream? If it is, then get me the hell out of here.

Sacrifices

I ordered my Dunkin' Donuts coffee this morning and when the lady behind the counter asked "would you like cream?," I did the unthinkable. I said "No. I'll have milk please." Milk is not the same as cream. Damn my metabolism.

Sacrifices

I ordered my Dunkin' Donuts coffee this morning and when the lady behind the counter asked "would you like cream?," I did the unthinkable. I said "No. I'll have milk please." Milk is not the same as cream. Damn my metabolism.

Eh. and Yeah!

Today is a day of good news and bad news. On the good side, I'm happy about "falling back," time-wise. I am now able to get out of bed before 7:30 AM and be a productive little morning bee.

On the very, very good side, I have some news on the career front. No, I'm not leaving my job (yet). But, I have decided to go into the jewelry business with a friend of mine. We both make high-quality, mid-priced handmade jewelry using semi-precious stones and metals. It's been a hobby for both of us for a while, and we're going for it. The investment will be relatively minor (when you consider what some ventures cost to start), and we're going to tap into our resources (read: the Italian and some good friends) for graphic design and website creation. Things are going to be getting very busy, very soon. I couldn't be more excited.

Alright, into every life a little rain must fall, eh? Well, it fell this morning when I got on the scale. Now, if you read my blog at all, you'll know that I've been indulging in a little pity party lately. Apparently, pity is not the only thing I've been indulging in, because I've gained about six pounds. That's a lot of (typo but I'm keeping it) me. I mean, damn, no wonder I've been feeling like my ass is getting larger - in fact, it is. Ick.

So, I'm back on the diet horse, with a lovely breakfast of pear and hardboiled egg. No more tacos, beer or french fries for a good long while, I'm afraid. I'm mulling over the idea of posting progress pictures to this blog (face blocked to keep me relatively anonymous), but I'm afraid of the pervs. So, if you are one and you are reading this, could you let me know in advance so I kind of know what to expect?

A Long-Awaited Wedding

We've returned from the wedding. We left on Wednesday night and have been going non-stop since we arrived on Hilton Head Island. In short, the wedding was spectacular. A 4:00 ceremony on the beach, perfect 70 degree weather with nary a cloud in the sky, and a bride so calm I would swear she was drugged (She wasn't, I'm pretty sure... okay, no she wasn't).

I was so honored to be a part of the Design Goddess' wedding (I'm one of the lovely ladies in the background in the polka dots). She and I have been great friends for a number of years, and she's almost like another sister. I also get along with the Design Goddess' actual sister quite well, and we stayed at the real sister's place the entire time. I forget how fun it is to hang out with girlfriends. When we all get together we invariably spend hours laughing and being anything but serious. I have enough "serious" in my daily life, so the occasional departure is welcome and, dare I say, necessary.

One funny anecdote (before I get all serious on your asses). The bride had her hair and make-up all done and we had to get her in her dress. So, the bride is standing in her foundation garments (you know, Spanx, chicken cutlet sticky bra, the works) and we're contemplating how to get the dress over her head without causing damage to the 'do, the dress or the painted face. So, we come up with the brilliant idea to cover her face with a plastic bag and shimmy the dress over quickly.

We maybe should've thought that one through a bit first.

See, as soon as we start pulling the dress over her head, we realize it's not so easy. It's a bit tight and we've got to ease her on into it. Butter or Crisco would've helped... they make those slim-fit wedding dresses awful form-fitting. Next thing we know, a little voice from inside the dress says "uh, guys, I can't breathe" and then we hear the plastic bag suck in against her mouth. The bride was out of air. As the other two bridesmaid's are frantically pulling the dress down, I dive in and attempt to either (a) poke a hole in the aforesaid plastic bag, or (b) find the hole in the handle for her to breathe through. It took about ten seconds, but I got found her an air supply. I'm pretty sure I almost wet my pants once air-flow was returned to the bride. The photographer was getting no end of amusement out of our stupidity.

Lesson: Don't suffocate the bride on her wedding day.

But I digress. Truthfully, I am a bit socialized out, but I feel like I gained a ton of new friends over the weekend. Granted, most of them live in Chicago (where the bride and groom currently live) but we get up there enough to see our newfound friends from time to time. I've been very introspective lately, and I think getting out and remembering how to make new friends is something I've been lacking lately. It's easy to get complacent... but complacency is rarely exciting.

I think what stuck with me most was when I was leaving today. I was speaking with the newly crowned Mrs. Design Goddess and she said "now all we have to do is arrange to all move back to North Carolina when it's time to have kids... what do you say?" That statement really excited me. I think being somewhere where you are surrounded by friends and a close social network is so invaluable. It's easy to just go-go-go and chase your career, your desires, etc. All of those things are necessary, but in the end, you need to be surrounded by good friends and family. Friends are especially underrated because, unlike your family, you do get to choose friends. So, in some respects, a good friend can be more important to your life than a semi-involved relative.

I was also struck this weekend by how much this wedding moved The Italian. He cried multiple times... at the rehearsal dinner slideshow, at the wedding, at the Maid of Honor's toast. He told me later that he sees the Design Goddess as his adopted sister. I'm so lucky that my husband has a genuine love for my best friends (in fact, she was his friend before mine... thanks for the gift, love). He said seeing close friends get married means so much to him because he knows we'll spend the rest of our lives with these people. Even if we're not in the same city, we support each other through hard times and successes, go on vacation together, and share common interests.

Me? I have a cold, black heart and don't cry at weddings. I don't know, it's just not my thing. I do WANT to cry when I'm sitting a wedding going "you fools have lost your minds. You are so getting divorced. I hope you have a pre-nup and good birth control." But happy weddings, like this one, where I know the bride and groom really get each other and will try their best to make each other happy... well, that just makes me feel comforted and satisfied, and tears are impossible when I feel that way.

Upon reflection, it was quite a weekend. I'm exhausted, I'm sick, but my heart is full. Congratulations to the Design Goddess, one of my best friends in the world and one of the best people I know.

Very, very tired

I'm sitting in Hilton Head right now, and I'm exhausted. I'm a bridesmaid in a good friend's wedding, and I'm already worn out. Too much talking, too much eating, too much drinking (oops), not enough sleep. Weather is gorgeous though. I wish I had more time to be by the beach, but this is not "that kind" of trip. Oh well.