It dawned on me at a stroke before midnight last night, that my cat, sorry that is my fat cat, is more satisfied with life than I am. While I sat watching an episode of “Friends” that I had seen at least fifty times before, she sprawled out in front of me on the floor with this half delirious, half insane contentment in her eyes and I found myself feeling left out of the loving life feeling she was experiencing.

Of course you’re happy you stupid cat. You eat, you poop (and mommy cleans it up) and you sleep. Nice life. What does my life consist of? Well, let’s see … I eat, I poop and I sleep. Oh yeah, and I work. Holy shit, I am you. We even have the same waist line issue. Yet you roll around the ground like its freaking catnip Tuesday. What is my problem?

I spend my days toiling away at a coffee shop as a shift leader, which I suppose is a title I’m supposed to have some great pride in, but come on, it’s a label they give me so they can get away with paying me less and burying me in responsibility. You know, that old chestnut. I was well on my way to becoming an assistant manager and then quickly a store manager, but all that came to a grinding halt when I became afflicted with pregnancy. But, I’m getting ahead of myself.

I’ve always enjoyed stories with the cliff-notes version of the character’s life, so here is mine minus the really serious gaping wounds and unhealed hurts.

Like I stated I’m a twenty-six year old, college-educated coffee-pusher by day. A rogue writer of hilarious material no one sees by night. Sometimes I wear a cape. I’m married to a wonderful man. One whom currently works eighteen hours days, trying to achieve his degree in web development. Congruently, he works a full time job as a manager of a local pub, here amongst the evergreens of our home in North Vancouver.  He’s twenty-nine going on fifty, and you’ve got to love him for it.

Childhood? Pretty normal. Cool, adoring parents, couple of dogs, travel, good food and laughter is pretty much all I can remember.

High school? Pretty fucking miserable. Bad haircuts, no boys, no sex, no drugs, late-blooming(or is that booming?) puberty that gave me too much T&A, acne, mood swings and an attitude. The silver lining? My best friend of 16 years and counting. Just so you know, she has neither T nor A, and is currently disgusted that I’m with child.

Took too many years off between high school and college, wasting my time continuing my decade long hate/hate relationship with the service industry, but it was this path that led me straight to my hubby. We worked at the same restaurant, the graveyard shift and we spent most of our time giving crack-customer service to each other with our mouths open and our hands everywhere. Probably the best years of my life thus far. He fell for me because that was the year I caught mono and stopped stuffing my face. For about twenty minutes I was quite the looker.  Six years later,  we’ve been married for two and have a baby on the way, one whom we’ve lovingly nicknamed “nasty baby”.

Now, if this hasn’t given you an idea of the kind of person I am so far, then I have further information that will help you flesh out my character in your mind. I’m the best person to ask if you’re looking for the real deal like flaws, but I’m sure calling my fetus nasty baby has proved that. Unlikely winning quality, numero uno: I am not exactly the nurturing type. However, here is what others would say are some of my not so wonderful qualities:

Mother: She’s negative, negative, negative!

My blood type is A-negative. What does she expect?

Father: She’s a compulsive worrier.

I wouldn’t worry even a smidgen if the men in my life weren’t in need of constant supervision. Ahem.

Bestie: She’s perpetually tardy! I had to teach her how to tell time when she was TWENTY-THREE.

Yeah, ok. But you know what? If traditional clocks were so easy to decipher they never would have invented digital clocks. Word!

Hubby: Cruel. She`s cruel!

… Totally true.

So, it would seem I have issues to deal with before the arrival of the super pooper. This is what this blog is for. Emotional therapy! I figure it`s okay to be cruel to the husband; he signed up for abuse. The new kid on the block, he didn’t sign up for shit. He was just hoping his parents knew enough to use contraceptives effectively. Ok, so … strike one.