May 10th, 2007 by Kateastrophe

I’m not nice this week. I’m not even halfway pleasant. I am a giant ball of mean, nastyness.

I’m trying not to talk to people. I’m actually trying not to LOOK at people, for fear my eyes will become deadly laser beams and I’ll kill someone I care about. I’m trying to hide in my cube and say nothing.

And yet . . .

PEOPLE KEEP CALLING. Or they keep “stopping by my cube” to say hi. Or they ask me to DO THINGS for them. To like, work. Or they want me to do things like EAT LUNCH WITH THEM. Are they crazy?? Have they MET me this week?

I need a door . . . or a sign or something. They need to know it’s not safe to play near me right now. Maybe I’ll make one that says “Swim at your own risk: lifeguard eaten by a Kate shark and not likely to return.”

If you have a better idea for a sign, let me know. I’m getting desperate at this point.

May 9th, 2007 by Kateastrophe

I woke up Monday morning and just knew this week wasn’t going to go so well. I know I’m not alone in it either. I think there’s something in the air. I know a lot of people who aren’t having the best week. I also know some people who are having a great week. (Hi Hannah! Congrats on the beautiful baby!!) Good weeks are not what I’m here to talk about. Bad weeks. Focus on bad weeks.

Hi, my name is Debbie Downer. Hahaha.

It’s just . . . blah.

I’m tired. I’m cranky. I hurt. I feel fat. I feel nasty. American Idol had BEE GEE’S NIGHT FOR CRYING OUT LOUD.

This morning, somehow, I slept in until 8:20. I never sleep that late, I have usually left for work by then. And somehow, I am still tired.

I had people asking me the dumbest questions today . . . and I’m usually pretty upbeat when that happens. I usually answer the question without missing a beat. Today? Not so much. Someone asked me what that “thing on your desk that holds the file folders” is called. Someone else asked me what to do when our employer’s pool guy installed a vacuum that doesn’t work and the employer in question doesn’t want to pay for a broken pool vacuum. Someone else showed me a typical, normal, everyday thank you card and asked WHERE HE WAS SUPPOSED TO WRITE THE NOTE PART.

I’m sorry, did I miss the part where everyone but me is an idiot? I was seriously ready to punch everyone in the neck.

Then, on top of everything else, I’m craving FAT. I don’t care what form it comes in. Sugar? Great. Cheese? Even better. Pasta? Come to mama. I’ve been SO good for so long and yesterday? Arby’s . . . and I ordered cheese sticks. Today? Pizza, a giant ravioli and PIZOOKIE (read: a half pound of cookie dough, halfway cooked and topped with vanilla bean ice cream. Granted, I split it with someone but still.). I just did not have it in me to eat a vegetable or whole grain. I am just mad at those little bastards today. I wanted FAT.

Hopefully I can use my magic cheerful pills I’ve got hidden here somewhere to turn this thing around.

Anyone else want to share their bad week? Because, as you can tell, I’d love to commiserate!

May 7th, 2007 by Kateastrophe

I am an Auntie yet another time over (third time in a month!!)

Internets, meet Avella Renee (or Ella, as she’ll be called). She was born this morning and weighed in at 8lb 12oz and was only 19 inches long. So round and chubby and precious!

Ella, meet the internets.

May 6th, 2007 by Kateastrophe

I proudly present Hayden Joshua and his Mother.Thank you to everyone for your support of their story.

More thanks to his birth mother for doing what she did. Now they are officially a family.

May 3rd, 2007 by Kateastrophe

I have a bad case of the skin funk.

It’s pissing me off. I apparently have some weird form of eczema that causes me to break out into millions of tiny, leprosy-esque (OK, I’ve never actually SEEN someone with leprosy, but in my HEAD this is what it looks like, all right?) water blisters ALL OVER MY FINGERS. It’s very pretty.

I also have this horrible habit of being a picker/popper of all things that grow on my skin. (Just my skin though. I want to throw up in my mouth a lot at the thought of picking or popping things someone else. Hrppbbb) I find much joy in exploding that rat-bastard pimple that has been taunting me, or pulling out the wretched hang-nail. I play and pick at my split ends. I am overjoyed at pulling off peeling skin. SO, people. Imagine what I do with millions of tiny water blisters.

That’s right. I pop them ferociously.

Watery skin funk + OCD need to pop things that grow = I just grossed out the whole world.

OR

Millions of exploded water blisters, some of which weren’t, of course, ready to be popped and have decided to give me their equivalent of the “finger” and grow back, some with fun colors! (OK not really. Or maybe. Or . . . yeah.)

I have been prescribed medication for these little buggers. But that leads me to the next point:

Said medication is steroids and while I relish in the though of gaining all of that muscle whilst joyfully rubbing steroid cream on my hands, I can’t bring myself to even fill the prescription. Why you ask?

Oh I’ll tell you why.

I AM GROWING CHIN HAIR. Not normal, peach fuzz, white chin hair. Oh no. Thick, dark, disgusting, make me want to scream and wail and pound my fists on the floor, FREAKING CHIN HAIR. Granted, there are only, like, two. BUT THERE IS CHIN HAIR.

I come from a hairy bunch of apes (Hi Mom! Hi Dad! Thanks for all of the features I love on myself but seriously, could we have avoided the DAMN HAIR? And the two of you aren’t apes. I am talking about, er . . . my brothers.) and I guess I should have known this day would come. I was blessed with strawberry blonde hair on my head and white blonde hair on my arms and legs, so I should count my blessings (currently naming them one by one . . . ) and be grateful that I am the only person who can really tell when I haven’t shaved my legs in a month or so. (KIDDING people. Sheesh. Only three weeks. HA!)

I just don’t know if I can handle the chin hair, and the other random dark hairs I have noticed rearing their ugly little heads over the past few years. (I just thought those three black arm hairs were freaks . . . apparently not. And while I’m giving you TMI, I might as well let you know that I think I am also growing a happy trail on my stomach. I noticed a random hair under my belly button too. ACK!)

Let’s see . . . Manly Dark Chin Hair + Skin Funk Steroid Cream = Possible to Likely Growth of Male Parts.

It’s like I have the the Black Haired Oozing Skin Funk of Elderly Death for which the only cure is becoming a man. Super duper.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go pop a water blister with a whisker that I shaved off my face with my husband’s razor.

May 1st, 2007 by Kateastrophe

As I proudly announced, I am currently on a little vacation home . . . to Provo, Utah, home of the Mama, the BYU Cougars and don’t forget, the Timpview Thunderbirds.

My home town . . . I always liked it growing up but sort of had an itch to leave. I had many opportunities (great, wonderful, rare opportunities) to leave, but I could never bring myself to do it. I swore I’d never attend BYU, yet I did, and I loved it. I swore I’d leave after I graduated from college, but it took me almost two years and a dumb boy (ok fine, I married him, it worked out) to drag me away. I grew to love this place more than I can say.

I like Phoenix, for many reasons. The warm winters are fantastic, the jobs are really great, I’ve met some amazing people there and I’ve had some amazing experiences . . . but.

There’s always a but.

Phoenix isn’t HOME.

Phoenix doesn’t look like THIS when I walk out on the back porch of the house I grew up first thing in the morning:

Er, sorry about the date stamp? I hate my Mom’s camera.

Phoenix doesn’t look like THIS from any college campus.

Phoenix doesn’t have my big group of bestest friends (with the exceptions of Rhonda, who I am eternally grateful to in Phoenix with me, and Sheila . . . but she just BELONGS in So. Cal, so it’s hard to picture her living here now!)

Phoenix doesn’t look like THIS from the side view mirror of my car:

Phoenix doesn’t have my pseudo nieces and nephews, all who are so cute I just want to eat them up, and I feel like I’m missing their childhoods, and they won’t remember me and it makes me sad . . . and did I mention they are cute?

Phoenix most definitely doesn’t look like THIS:

Or THIS:

Or THIS:

My life is in Phoenix. I am building a beautiful new home in Phoenix that I am SO happy to move in to. I have a wonderful job in Phoenix. I have a loving, amazing husband in Phoenix . . . but

My heart misses it’s home.