Seattle and Everything Else

Going to Seattle tomorrow.

Don’t be jelly.

Batman and I have been prepping for this trip since my dear college roommate invited us out for a visit (five years ago?) AND WE’RE FINALLY GOING. Watch out Tom Hanks, there’s a new duo set to be sleepless in Seattle based on the amazing itinerary described to me last night. Gourmet hot dogs, the famous Pike district, the Science Fiction museum and like *tons* of other awesome stuff I didn’t even know existed. AND it’s set to be sunny–which means I’ll actually be able to see things.

Someone bought himself new walking shoes for the occasion. I confirmed the same sneakers I’ve had for six years are still in my closet. So, off to a great start already. I even wrote down the directions for the train (after the three-hour car drive and six-hour plane ride). Pay special attention to bullet point 1:

Legit stuff.

And Batman says I get lost. How could I get lost with instructions like these? I’m ready. He’s ready. We’re pumped AND planning on taking tons of pictures so you might even see one or two of us in the Pacific Northwest when I write my return post, “She Forced Us To Leave.” Because I’m pretty sure Seattle is this magical place with unicorns and vampires and snauzberry milkshakes, so I may just stay forever. You’ve been warned, Catie.

I MAY NEVER LEAVE.

In other news, a hawk flew into my car. Yeah. And last Monday, I broke a window after locking myself out. You know, because I’m a fire-breathing motherfucker and what better way to get back into your house than by performing your own B&E? Except it was a failed Breaking & Entering because, as Batman continues to remind me, not only did I shatter the window (seriously, glass everywhere) but I also managed to wedge it in the frame, making it completely impossible to climb through. So maybe… *contemplates identity*… not a ninja??

my bad!

broken window                                     broken window 1

Batman covered the opening with cardboard and plywood in the interim. It seems the caped crusader is handy when his girlfriend goes off her rocker and thinks the best course of action is something she’s seen in movies. Not using the neighbor’s phone first to call for help. (Which I ended up doing – and was super awkward.)

We also dog-sat. Isn’t she cute?

Love me, I'm injured!

Keep me and I will love you FOREVER.

She irritated her paw and needed to be kept separate from her super rowdy sister, so she stayed with us for the week. I must say she was an excellent writing companion. She offered much needed support and encouragement every time I read her some of my stuff:

Regis footRegis 4 regis sleepyRegis snout

I was also invited blueberry picking (yes, it was a super busy week) and as a thank you to Batman for the window thing and not murdering me over it, I decided to make him some him some well-deserved blueberry pancakes.

blueberry fail

It did not go well. I might mention that I was missing the baking soda but come on – one ingredient? Would it make that much difference?

blueberry fail 2                         blueberry fail 4  blueberry plate

Yes. Yes it did. Look at it.

LOOK AT IT.

*sigh*

Poor Batman. Poor me. It’s been a roller coaster recently, so a vacation to Seattle is essential at this point. Stuff has been weird. And breaking. And barking. So when better to fly across the map for some much needed time with friends? Exactly.

Writing news:

FYI, I’ve posted the first few chapters of my newest project on Wattpad which you can find here.  Super short synopsis: Told from the perspectives of a runaway princess and a rogue assassin, the duo escape their toxic realm in search of a new life in the White Wastelands beyond.

Even if you don’t write a review or provide feedback, I still appreciate the view. 😉

Now carry on, good people of the world. Carry on with this weird-as-hell life.

And keep doing your best, just like me.

He Was an Asshole Snake

Just survived my first home invasion.

Mostly because Batman’s always on duty. Although it took him watching ALL OF THE Arrow to believe me that I wasn’t being delusional, that there actually was a snake in the living room and not, as he claimed, the fan rustling a bag of extension cords.

I need my eyes checked. He’s been claiming it for months. So, who cares that I squint to see far away. I’m not freaking Superman, over here. And, okay yes, sometimes I need an extra eye rub to erase all the fuzziness. Doesn’t mean I don’t know a bobbing snake head when I see one. Especially since his slithering tail was a damn giveaway and caused the initial scream in the first place.

“THERE’S A SNAKE! THERE’S A SNAKE! KILL IT! KILL IT!”

Batman, while still playing XBOX, glanced over all nonchalant. “Stop April Foolsing.”

“I’m NOT! There is a SNAKE and I SWEAR TO GOD I saw him.”

And because Batman loves me (and, probably fear of the possibility) he proceeded to ‘check’ the television by poking around the tv base with a broom while banging it against the wall and door. But nothing. Not a peep. Not as much as a tail wag or a head pop. There was nothing behind the television or in the plastic bag of extension cords. Batman made sure of it. He picked the bag up and spilled out all the contents, right there on my recently mopped floor.

“There’s no snake here. Maybe you imagined it.”

“I did NOT imagine. I saw it. I saw its little head pop out and it looked around and then it slithered away.”

“But I don’t see a snake.”

“Well obviously he’s good at hiding.”

After another thorough search of the living room, Batman threw in the towel. I was imagining things. It was the fan rustling the bag and I’ve needed to have my eyes checked for a while anyway. And he was missing playing his XBOX and the Arrow was on too. I needed to sit down, forget the ‘imaginary’ snake (whom I lovingly referred to as Mr. Hiss) and relax.

And then Batman walked past the television. And all hell broke loose.

It’s happens very rarely, but sometimes I catch glimpses of my boyfriend morphing into the planet’s deadliest warrior. It’s like he’s been passed down this supreme responsibility of hunt-and-attack with the weight of the world, and of protecting his dominion, bearing down on him. When Batman saw that little black bastard, all bets were off. It was kill or be killed time. It was do or do not; there was no trying. Once that snake goofed up and revealed itself, it’d signed its death certificate because Batman WOULD NOT STOP.

There was a lot of yelling to twist here! and grab me a knife! and hurry, hurry, hurry!

little bastard.

little bastard.

Due to his highly trained ass-kicking ways, Batman managed to corner the intruder with a shovel tip to the neck. Then, (I kid you not) proceeded to stab it with a knife since he couldn’t get the right angle with the shovel. There was some more yelling about how he’s not getting away and there was no chance in HELL and then Batman decapitated Sir Hiss.

And it was gross.

Super, super gross.

Now Batman’s walking around feeling like a snake-slaying warrior. All baddass and don’t mess with me motherfuckers I just slayed a mini dragon. It’s kind of cute.

I felt bad for the snake for only an instant and then remembered he hid from us and made my boyfriend question my sanity for OVER AN HOUR. No, fuck that snake. He wasn’t cuddly like Sir Hiss. He was an asshole snake. And deserved an asshole snake death. Good riddance.

 

Ew.

Ew.

Moral of the story? Believe your girlfriend when she tells you she sees a damn snake.

He’s there. Trust her.

Forever Haunted by the Chicken Wing

So last Saturday, Batman came back from being out of town to pick up his nice shiny new car. On his way home, he purchased a bucket of Publix chicken wings. For those of you who don’t know what Publix is, it’s like the polar opposite of Walmart. Clean. Awesome. And somewhat overpriced. But their deli is amazing.

I’m not such a wing-girl myself, but on occasion, I’ll indulge. I’d eaten a Whopper Jr earlier because I was too hungry and impatient to drive the extra five minutes to the sandwich shop, and being hangry makes you to do things you don’t want to do. Like buy sustenance from a fast-food chain. So, to avoid killing all those on the road with my stomach that sounded like a dragon in heat, I gobbled up the cheeseburger and headed home.

An hour later Batman arrived.

With wings.

I watched him make his plate, adding the buffalo and ranch, and then proceed to the couch to dig into one of Publix’s finest treats. And then, unaware it was going to happen, an intense argument ensued between my stomach and head.

stomach: I want wings.

head: You already ate.

stomach: That wasn’t real food. It was like eating playdoh. It doesn’t count.

head: You’re not even hungry. You only want wings because he has wings and he makes that yummy face so you want to make that yummy face and its really just jealousy. Control yourself.

stomach: I want wings.

head: I thought you wanted to lose weight?

stomach: How are wings going to stop me from losing the thirty pounds I said I’d lose two years ago?

head: You have to start sometime.

stomach: Now is not the time.

head: You don’t need wings.

stomach: I need them.

head: No you don’t.

stomach: Yes I do.

head: NO YOU DON’T.

stomach: Watch me, dick.

“Babe, can I have three wings?

I always feel it’s best to give a good description of how much food I’ll be taking from Batman because I know it weighs heavily on his decision. Normally it’s “can I have a bite?” because I know he’s willing to spare that (mostly because it guarantees him a bite of whatever I’m eating) but knowing his love for Publix chicken wings, I figured I should start off strong with a detailed request before going back and forth on how many I think I’ll be eating.

Even with the amount requested, Batman still took a good ten seconds to decide. YES. TEN WHOLE SECONDS. But finally his head rolled into a nod and he agreed to the three. I get three chicken wings which, according to my stupid head, I didn’t need.

I jumped up and headed to the kitchen, entering the delcious aroma that the BK lounge had nothing on. Grabbing a plate, I scoured the box for the best wings left. Like I said, I normally don’t eat wings, but the few times that I do, I go for the thighs. They pack the most meat and…I don’t know…I just prefer them. Batman, thinking likewise, already selected most of the thighs so I was left with a majority of wings. I grabbed two and was reaching for the third when I saw it.

The unbelievable.

The overly remarkable.

The Holy Grail of thighs.

A boulder of meat piled high, it looked like two thighs–maybe three– converged into one glorious aberration of nature. This chicken must’ve been on steroids; it must have been the Shaquille O’Neal to it’s race; that or pet to the Hulk. I’d never seen such a big chicken wing. I didn’t even know something like it could exist. So thick and meaty… I couldn’t help myself.

“Yes,” I thought, selecting it, “you shall be my final prize.”

I placed him on my plate and turned to the livingroom. Do I eat him first? Save him for last? Maybe I’ll drizzle him with some ranch and-

I must’ve lost my footing or something because suddenly, my plate bounced and like an acrobat on a trampoline, the holy grail of chicken wings took flight.

Time stopped.

My mouth dropped. My eyes widened in fear. All I could do was watch as the pefect wing soared ahead in slow motion, already preparing for a crash landing on the unswept tile by the garbage can.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” I bellowed, but it was too late.

The thigh landed, proceeded to roll across the floor and then stop an inch away from the dirty trash compactor.

Maybe… maybe it’s still salvageable, I foolishly thought. Maybe I can just wipe the dust off. Five second rule, right? But with a quick calculation of how often I didn’t sweep the floor mixed with all the things I remembered dropping and kicking under the cabinets made me pause. DAMN IT.

DDDAAAAMMMNNN IIIITTTT!!!!!

IT.WAS.SO.PERFECT.

DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMMNNNNNNNNN IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Defeated, knowing I lost it for good, I looked up. Batman was staring right at me.

“I was saving that one,” he said.

“It kamikazied.”

“I can’t believe you dropped it.”

“IT KAMIKAZIED!”

He shook his head and turned around. “Now you only get two.”

No, Batman is not a jerk; he’s only being fair. That was my punishment. The punishment I fully deserved because, let’s face it: I failed. I failed on an EPIC level. I let my retardation of not konwing how to walk properly (although I’ve had 28 years to practice) ruin my chances of consuming which was most likely the world’s best chicken wing. Now we’ll never know. I’ll never know. And I’ll probably have to get supervised every time I go to the kitchen when he brings home a treat from Publix.

*sigh*

But even with my punishment of only eating two, it’s been less than a week and he’s brought up that damn chicken wing like five times. “Hey remember you when you dropped my chicken wing? Yeah, thanks.” “I don’t know if you deserve a backrub. You dropped my chicken wing.” “Oh you want to ride in my new car? CHICKEN WING.”

SO, apparently, I will forever be haunted by the holy grail of chicken wings which, ironically, was a chicken’s thigh. No moral or lesson to be learned here. Just be careful with your boyfriend’s shit. And maybe pay attention to your head when it’s telling you to not be such a fat ass.

 

Thank God Batman is NOT a Jedi

I washed Batman’s wallet.

He was not pleased.

I tried to argue that it now smelled clean and I was really doing him a favor and that he should be proud because I was finally making an effort at doing laundry but he would not be swayed. He actually started to shake. Batman never shakes. Not unless he’s hulking out on his Xbox 1 and I’m usually a safe distance away on the recliner, writing. And the hulking out has nothing to do with me. But this time was different.

I was the enemy.

And unlike his games filled with virtual murder, Batman could kill me. Quite easily.

I think he wants to, honestly. Every once in a while he’ll look at me after I change Top Gear or I spill ice cream on his blanket and I know he’s trying to tap into the force. He swears he’s a Jedi but only really tries to prove it when he wants to make me slap myself or run myself into the wall or off the porch. He concentrates too hard, staring at me, waiting for something to happen. He’s trying to kill me. I know he is. I called him out on it one time and he said he was attempting to make my ovaries explode. Which I thought was kind of rude because that seems quite extensive for a few red wine stains on his old wrestling tee. WHICH HE NEVER WEARS. Except how terrible would he feel if he actually did it? Yeah, you’d get some cool points for being a Jedi and all, but what would you tell people the first thing you did with your newly discovered powers? Oh, I exploded my girlfriend’s ovaries. Yep. That makes you kind of an asshole.

So I figured my spleen or kidneys or maybe my heart might just combust when Batman picked up his fat, damp wallet in shaking fingers. Eeek. This would be the day I die. On Memorial day when we should be honoring those that served our country. Instead, the caped crusader’s trying to murder me with mind power because I forgot to check his short pockets before putting them in the wash. My bad. I got the usual death glare, but couple that with the physical shaking… oh boy. I thought my little hobbit life had come to an end.

Luckily Batman’s love for me overrides his annoyance. We’ve been together seven years this past May and I’m still alive. We even went horseback riding and to a fancy speakeasy restaurant to celebrate. (Not at the same time, obviously. That’d be weird.) I just have to hope his love continues to outweigh his need to kill me. That, or pray he never becomes a real Jedi.

I’d be dead in seconds.

Seeking Brain Cells

I haven’t written a lot this week. It may be because now that I‘m at the end of the first draft, it means going back to the beginning and really putting the thinking cap on. Before, it was just write to write. To get it all down so I’d have the story outlined and then it could Frankenstein itself alive. With a moving corpse, at least you have a place to start. But now I have to go back and start having it all make sense. Everything is basically there, but now it’s time to color it in, to take the blurry and sharpen the focus. To put a top hat on my cadaver and teach it to dance with Gene Wilder, so to speak. Okay. Maybe that’s a bad analogy, but going back to the second draft is sometimes harder than the first. Because now you really have to start making it better. And, I don’t know… maybe I don’t have enough brain cells to make it better. Like this post, for instance. I’m writing it on notebook paper at my job when I’m technically supposed to be working. It’s all chicken-scratchy with letters that aren’t really letters and it’s all pouring out of me, fueled by the free coffee from the break-room that I simply *must* enjoy. But when I go home and type this up, I’ll have to take an extra second and make sure everything written is like, coherent. Most of it is rambling, I know. But I still want it to make sense. So you’re not like “what the hell? I’m un-following her because she’s a bag of crazy tarts.”

And I am.

Anyway, back to the point—I haven’t written much this week because Hollywood keeps stealing my focus with Captain American and movies with Christan Bale. It’s like they sense my defenses are down and I’m looking for a reason not to use my brain cells. Alright. If I *have * to watch the first forty minutes of Captain America to see how he’s transformed from skinny geeky non-soldier to America’s finest specimen, I guess it’s not that big a deal. But while my brain thanks me for taking a few days off, my characters shake their heads in disappointment. You’re ditching us so you can be mindlessly entertained? Yes, yes I am.

I’ll get back to it again this weekend. Maybe tomorrow or next Tuesday. I’m not worried. I can only fall off the wagon for a few days at a time. After that, I get the familiar urges and start scratching again, my fingers itching for the feel of a keyboard.

Thank God writing is legal.

Blogs start somewhere. Today it was fifteen minutes when no one was looking. And I just didn't give a shit.

Blogs start somewhere. Today it was fifteen minutes when no one was looking. And I just didn’t give a shit.

Also, it’s Batman’s birthday today. Happy 2-8 you Caped Crusader.

Gotham loves you.

And so do I 🙂

Can you find Batman?

Can you find Batman?

Waiting for Appa

We almost got a puppy.

I mean, not really because it was never an option—money, you know?—but I came this close to convincing Batman that what our new apartment really needed, besides being able to pay for itself, was the *adorable* brown and beige Rottweiler we were holding.

He.was.too.cute.

The kind of puppy that just melted into your arms and even though you know you shouldn’t, you’re already trying out names for him.

“Are you Appa? Or Zero?” I kept rubbing my nose against his while Batman scratched behind his big brown ears.

Yes, we already know the name of our future dog and yes, you did read that correct. It will either be Appa (from the Last Airbender—my choice) or Zero, (from The Nightmare Before Christmas—his choice.) I don’t see why we need to pick between them; we could solve this dilemma quite easily simply be getting two puppies. Batman does not agree.

He was swayed there for a moment, though. I could tell—I knew that look. Like he was trying to put all the factors in place and maybe, somehow convince himself that a new Rottweiler puppy could make sense even though we have no money to buy it or cage it or feed it or keep it healthy. Also, there’s the space issue and of course, the poor dog would be left alone most of the day leaving our new, totally awesome apartment in shambles. So many cons and yet… such an adorable little blue-eyed face.

It was tough.

Alas, we’re too responsible (damn it!)We left little Appa or Zero with his litter of siblings and instead came home with this fine character:

IMG_20140302_184736_743 (1)

I know. Not as cute as the dog but way more affordable. We had to come home from the arts and crafts fair with something and this little dude just hangs on the wall waiting for a hug. I suspect it would pinch and there wouldn’t be any warm snuggling but… at least I can leave the apartment and know its keeping itself company. I’d feel bad for the puppy.

But I do want one. Maybe a corgi. Or a Cocker spaniel. Or one of the shepherd breeds. Preferably something that’s lazy like me and enjoys the couch; something soft and cozy that would outlast all dog expectations and never die and go to Heaven because that movie made me cry. But getting a dog is a big, big deal. You’re adopting a new member into your family and for so long it’s just been Batman and me. And at the beginning of our relationship, a chunky guinea pig named Abner.

Okay, fine. Abner was obese (probably led to the massive heart attack he endured) but I still miss the little guy. Miss his squeaking and jumping with excitement (when he still could) whenever I’d come home. But I’d have to be home a lot more for a dog—otherwise I wouldn’t feel right. Darn society and the way it works!

Someday I’ll get Appa and/or Zero and my llamas and the pen of ostriches for the monthly races. I’ll probably have some penguins and rabbits and in my “China Exhibit,” a big panda I can go and snuggle with whenever Batman’s off fighting crime (he doesn’t think having a panda is a good idea. Well he can suck it because I’m getting one.)

I just have to wait for the day I go to a fair or a pound or a show and find Appa. And because I’ll be a fabulously wealthy stay-at-home author, I’ll nod at Fartswell and he’ll pay the man while I’m scooping up our newest family member. And I’ll snuggle with her and Batman will nod and I’ll finally be able to say:

“You’re coming home with me, Appa. I’ve been waiting for you.”

In case you’re wondering what Abner looked like:

Abner

Abner

Abner still in his younger, thinner days

Abner still in his younger, thinner days

Abner super close up, judging me

Abner super close up, judging me

Abner being shy

Abner being shy

Dibs for Dying First

I’ve claimed it. Over Batman. I don’t care when you go—well, I do, because you’re awesome—but in this relationship, the one involving the caped crusader and I, I’ve called dibs. I don’t want to be left behind with the ostriches and the castle-mansion mortgage and of course, Fartswell.

It wouldn’t be the same.

Walk the Line was on.

It’s inevitable that every time we catch some segment of the film, Batman and I will turn to each other and claim the right to die first. This probably seems odd as this is a love story, but Johnny Cash passed three months after June Carter. THREE MONTHS. If that’s not dying of a broken heart, I don’t know what is. And who wants to be left with that? A broken heart? Hence the dibs. I die first and you must accept the suckage of living without my awesomeness. I think that’s fair. Oh! And if this is *true* love between us, I’ve explained to Batman that he MUST hold my body in his shaking arms with a waterfall of tears, like Snape did with Lily. That’s how I’ll know it’s real.

Come on, who wasn’t crying that exact moment? Even if you hated Snape the entire time and really did think he killed Dumbledore (what—have you no faith in people?) his absolute love of Lily was too much not to get choked up over. I’m serious—EVERY time I watch that scene, I cry. EVERY TIME. Sometimes, when I’m too lazy to get up and put the movie on, I’ll YouTube that part and just start crying over my laptop. Batman looks at me like he’s not sure if he should pretend he doesn’t see me, or grab me a full glass of wine. Before he does either, I sniffle, turn the screen to him and yell, “You better love me this much! I want you to shake my body when I’m dead!” at which point he goes back to playing XBOX and pretending he has less of a weirdo for a girlfriend.

But I’m serious. Dibs for dying first, bitch. That’s my motto. Sure he can marry some skank after I’m gone, but will she compare to me? That’s most likely a no, unless he marries up like Emma Stone. She’s probably the only exception. But anyone else and it just won’t be as much fun for him. Which makes me think maybe he should go first, so he’ll never have to know true pain. But I want my body shook, damnit! I don’t think that’s too much to ask. Besides, he’ll hear about it for eternity in the afterlife if he doesn’t, and I just don’t have the energy for that. Hence the reminders. I think this is an awesome act on my part to prevent that.

So, dibs for dying first, bitch.

Anyway… in case you’re curious, here’s a picture of our neighborhood cat, Sir Carlton.

Sir Carlton

Pensive, isn’t he? Look at those white old-man whiskers. It’s like he’s staring into your soul.  I hope not, since he’s been occupying a chair on our back porch for the last few nights and I really could do without some demon-possessed neighborhood cat.  Or even a good-possessed neighborhood cat (is that a thing?) I just don’t want him turning into a death eater and dragging me off to Azkaban because that would be a terrible way to start off the holidays.

21 days until Christmas!