catheroominations

Because if I have to have a white, dimpled ball in my throat, it had better be a high-end one. Since Monday afternoon, I have been feeling like I am trying to swallow a golf ball every time I…well, swallow. Monday night and Tuesday, I had a fever and was so achy I could barely get up off the couch. Today the fever and aches are gone, but there still seems to be a golf ball trying to make its way down my esophagus. This is not fun because I like to eat and it’s hard to eat when each bite has to battle for space in my throat. The damn golf ball will NOT go down already.

It’s not the kind of sore throat that makes my voice sound hotter, like Demi Moore in her Jackie Templeton days, either. There’s a bit of a dry cough with it, and other than the golf ball sitting back there annoying me, I feel ok. My glands aren’t even swollen.

Because it hurts to eat, I must choose my food wisely. It needs to be worth the pain to eat it. I find that chocolate chip cookies work well. Ok, they hurt a little when I swallow, but they’re so good I don’t care. But even better are Firecrackers. I also think a milkshake would be nice. But Daniel Day Lewis took it.

Now that I think about it, mashed potatoes. Those would be ok, I think. Tiramisu would work. Oh, and crème brûlée. (Are those the correct accents? I pasted it in from Google.)

Definitely out are Brussels sprouts (much too golf ball-like, besides tasting like ass) and anything like vegetables, which offer nutritional value.

I think I need some macaroni and cheese.

And maybe some Maker’s Mark. That’ll erode that @#$%ing golf ball, if I drink enough of it.

I’m at home with a fever today, so I am watching One Tree Hill on SoapNet. Because I love intelligent programming. I have some issues with this show.

1) Are these people really supposed to be in HIGH SCHOOL?
2) And if they are in HIGH SCHOOL, how is it that one couple is married? MARRIED?!? In HIGH SCHOOL? Anyway, the married dude is pissed because his wife left to go on tour with Michelle Branch and some other singer, along with a guy she kissed (oh! the drama!) So the husband is mad (obv), and he throws a keyboard (the musical kind, not the computer kind) at the wall to demolish their wedding photo, and of course it breaks, and shatters everything in its path. He can’t feel better after doing this because now he’s still pissed (even moreso) and he has a huge mess to clean up. And since wifey left him, who’s going to clean up the mess? Yeah. Bet he feels better now. But he does not cry. Because he is a MAN! A 16-year old man! Also, he should have sold his runaway wife’s keyboard on eBay or something so he’d have some money to buy more video games.

And I’m not even going to mention the boy who has a baby and DOES NOT HAVE HEALTH INSURANCE. Was the baby born in the back of Daddy’s Tercel? Doesn’t birthing a baby cost a fortune? More importantly, don’t these kids have parents to teach them how not to be idiots? Or a trust fund of some kind to pay for medical insurance? What kind of teen drama is this anyway? Where’s Dylan McKay when you need him?

Now I am researching this fabulous waste of time by wasting even more time reading IMDB. Apparently, the married couple wed in their junior year. Then the wife bailed for life on the road, and when she returned to reality, they reconciled. Oh, and on the night of high school graduation, they welcomed their first baby. These kids today!

By the way, I thought these kids looked a little old. That’s because the guy playing the keyboard-throwing husband who is a junior in high school is also TWENTY years old. And his brother Nathan, also in high school, is a 24-year old junior in high school. Perhaps Tree Hill, NC should re-assess their faculty or curriculum. I’m terrible at math, but even I can figure out that someone who is 24 and a junior in high school is definitely a taco short of a combination plate.

Wow. I need something more intellectual to occupy my time before my brain turns to oatmeal. Good thing Days of Our Lives starts in 10 minutes. In HD, no less.

Taye Diggs

Originally uploaded by catheroo

Yes he is. And he has a deep, sexy voice. I almost wish I’d taken the dance class so he could tell me what to do.

Tonight is a big night for Stacy and me. We are taking our passion, our hobby, and putting it out there for all to see. We are decorating her newly painted condo walls with our photographs and have invited our friends to come ogle, swoon, and love what we consider our best work. At least I hope that’s what they’ll do. I don’t take criticism well. Then again, I don’t take compliments well. On my wedding day, people told me I was beautiful. Well, of course I was. I was wearing a dress more expensive than anything I will ever wear again, and had a makeup artist and hair stylist to make me look my best. Every bride is beautiful on their wedding day, so duh. I looked beautiful. Whatevs.

But on a regular day, when I hear, “Your hair looks nice” or “That’s a pretty sweater,” my instant reaction is “Really? You think so?” even if I have left the house thinking “My hair is friggin’ gorgeous today and this is the cutest sweater known to man.” Because even if I think I look good, or my photos are good, I rarely believe other people when they feel the same. Sometimes in fact, I’ll deflect a compliment with a negative reaction. “You think I have a small waist? That’s only because my huge ass makes it look so.” Healthy, right?

As excited as I am to strut my stuff tonight, I kind of want to throw up a little bit. Because who am I to invite people over to look at my photos? I’m not Annie Leibovitz or Ansel Adams or…why do I not know the name of any famous photographers…someone else. Why would anyone want to see my photos? Am I not the equivalent of an overzealous first-time mom, showing off snapshots of her newborn? I feel a bit like Kirsten Wiig and Seth Rogan playing twins on Saturday Night Live, performing their musical talents, thereby interrupting their parents while they entertain guests. Or like when my sister and I would put Donny and Marie records on the record player and lip-sync in front of the grandparents. We thought we were superstars. But they were humoring us.

In choosing the photos for this exhibition, I knew of a few I wanted to include. For others, I looked at my Flickr stats to see what the viewing public liked most. That seems lame, given my propensity to ignore positive comments, but if I based it solely on what I liked, and my choices were not met with similar reactions, well then, not only would my photo be shitty, but apparently I’d also have no taste.

I honestly don’t know what it will take for me to believe that any photo I have ever taken (aside from this one) is fantastic. I hope tonight that someone sees one they like. Maybe it reminds them of something nice. Or they like the colors, or the composition, or the subject matter. Maybe I’ll hear that I’m merely good at picking out frames, or signing my name in a straight line on the mat board. Knowing my friends though, they will admire my work because it is mine and they are my friends. Friends want friends to be successful and happy. And friends are generally proud of their friends.

I need to remind myself that my first photo exhibition is in comfortable surroundings with familiar faces. I should not feel threatened, but confident. Tonight I will not walk behind two people discussing one of my shots and hear, “what the hell is up with that one?” But just in case I do, I will get Jürgen to whack them upside the head with his tail and lick them into submission.

Tonight’s baring of my soul coincides with the upcoming launch of my photography site. I like the idea of being someone else with my photography because a few of my inhibitions fall by the wayside. Because of this, I felt the need to use a name different from what people usually call me because I think Cat sounds more arty and edgy. Stay tuned to see what she/I come(s) up with.

And now I’m going to go throw up.

Rancho Cucamonga
Lolita Davidovitch
discombobulated
apoplectic
anaphylactic
flummox
catawampus
doppelganger
bamboozle
barnacle
capitulate
dyspepsia (although not fun to have)
obsequious
fastidious
copacetic
cacophony
latissimus dorsi
duodenum (but more fun to say Shoo Be Doowah-denum like we did in Physiology class)

Glen Phillips

Originally uploaded by catheroo

He looks almost the same as he did when he was with Toad the Wet Sprocket, except for a few smile lines around his eyes. And he sounds just as good, if not better.
Photo taken in Berkeley, CA 02.17.08.

The body shop called me today and told me that my car is “very repairable.” Squee!! I don’t have to buy a new car and take on car payments, and deal with that whole new car smell and drive something brand spanking new and shiny like a MINI Cooper. Thank goodness I don’t have to do that and can continue tooling around in my nice little Accord coupie doopie.

I have decided to refer to my car as bionic when I get it back. Problem is, my car is clearly female, but I don’t want to call it Jaime Somers. For one thing, I have a friend who has a friend with that name and that would be weird if we were going somewhere and I was all, “Hey, I can drive Jaime Somers,” and my friend who has the friend named Jaime Somers would be all, “WHAT?! How?!” To avoid confusion, I could name it after Jaime’s male counterpart Steve Austin, but my car is a GIRL. (I guess. I don’t know how you tell.) So, I’ll just refer to it as a bionic car. When it is rebuilt it will be able to throw SUVs across lanes of traffic, and leap over them should they get in its way. Oh, and it would be able to see obstacles miles and miles ahead. Because that is what bionics can do for you.

I have to admit that I am now a more timid driver. It takes me days to back out of a parking spot in my Hertz-owned Chevrolet Cobalt, partly because I’m not as comfortable in that car, but also because, Oh please don’t anyone get in my way, or I might hit you! And I look over my shoulder like 10 times before changing lanes. No one there? Yeah? I can go? How about now? Can I go still? All clear? Yeah? OK! Here I go…but is my lane still open? Aaaahhnnd…go!

I was feeling some serious guilt about my accident, and have been anthropomorphizing my car. I keep thinking, Here’s this perfectly nice car that never gave me a bit of trouble, and what do I do? I smash it into a big-ass SUV, just like that. Some thank you. If it turned out to be totaled, I would have been very sad to lose it. I even patted the dashboard and apologized to it after the tow truck dropped it off at the shop, consoling it as if I was kissing a loved one goodbye before they went into the OR. I might need to see a professional about this. Maybe the Honda dealership offers couple’s counseling?

But dude, my car is going to be bionic! Better than he it was before. Better, stronger, faster.