Thursday, December 15, 2005

Diet and Exercise, Yada, Yada, Yada

I decided this week that I'm running out of excuses for not having a waist line. I mean, at some point in the near future, Baby Boy will be able to grow facial hair and I won't be able to point out that my belly fat jiggles like a big bowl of jelly because I've just had a baby.

So I've decided to take matters into my own hands and begin to diet now. Mainly because I look chunky in pictures and with the holidays only a week away, I want to minimize that, as much as one can in a week. Basically, I want to say when I see the pictures "oh, but I'd just started dieting then."

Yeah, I know, I rule at the mind games.

Now, I know that every freaking doctor will tell you that diet and exercise and all that bull crap is the best way to go when losing weight. But really, what does 30 years of medical school really teach you? Exactly.

So I've decided that I would kind of diet and kind of exercise and take Trimspa, because, damn it, it's worked for Anna Nicole Smith and she's a freaking dumb ass. I know that really has nothing to do with anything, but I just thought I'd share my thoughts on Anna Nicole.

Anyway, so now I've been on Trim Spa for two days, making this day three. And I have to say, I've been eating a lot less food. And of course, as with any diet, I totally have the rose-colored glasses on right now and am already convinced that the fat has begun to melt from my belly.

Already, I'm convinced that maybe, just maybe, I could be in a thong bikini next summer, proudly showcasing my C-section scar. Even though I couldn't have pulled off the thong bikini when I was 15. And the fact that I'm now also the proud owner of varicose veins right over my hips as a souvenir from pregnancy. But hey, that's nothing a little make up can't cover and I'm all about dreaming big.

I do have something personal and sassy to share. One of the reasons that I've decided to go on this diet is that I ordered this naughty schoolgirl outfit to spice things up in the bed room. Ignore the fact that I ordered this when I was nine months pregnant and thought to myself that at some point I would have some kind of sex life again and this sex life would be so exciting that I would start wearing outfits like a naughty schoolgirl uniform.

Anyway.

I tried on the outfit a couple of weeks after I had the baby and couldn't get the skirt past my thighs. "No problem," I thought. "I just had a baby!"

But now, I can get the skirt past my thighs and, surprisingly, my ass, but I can't zip the skirt around my tubby tummy. Which part of me thinks that maybe, in some other dimension, this is considered sexy as in "I want you so bad, I'm not even zipping this up so that you don't have to waste time when ripping it off of me." But when you have a roll over said naughty school girl outfit, it's probably not the image that comes into every man's mind when fantasizing.

So that stupid freaking outfit is my motivation for losing weight. How shallow am I.

And considering last time I tried to dress up, Sweetie Pie couldn't have sex with me for like two hours, because it took him that long to stop laughing hysterically (I'd bought a sexy Santa outfit, which he thought looked ridiculous, not sexy), you'd think I'd give up on the whole dressing up thing.

Maybe the Trim Spa is what made Anna Nicole so dumb and now it's affecting me.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, December 08, 2005

I'm Becoming One of Them...

Well, I guess the last little shred of coolness has officially been torn out of me. I accept the C-section scar that proves I've been sliced open like a fish to have a creature that my body somehow grew out of the junk food I ate for nine months; I accept the constant spit up stains on my clothes; I accept that the little breast milk I managed to make permanently stained my bras like nuclear waste; I even accept the fact that I can no longer just escape on a three-day trip to the Caribbean because it would mean looking for babysitting for that long (forget the fact that I never escaped to the Caribbean before the baby arrived). I accept all of these things as a part of my new life as a mother.

What I do not accept is the fact that I've now just gotten off the phone with a lady that runs a class named Kindermusik. That this lady has now somehow led me to believe that I need to spit out $120 of my hard earned money every eight weeks so my son and I can bond by bopping to music of some kind. My son will be better, smarter and damn it maybe even cuter because I've agreed to shell out money on a class that he will never remember.

I mean, let's be real for a second. I could just tell my son when he's 20 that I brought him to kindermusik class once a week, and he wouldn't be the wiser. He'd think "wow, my mom really loved me and spent time with me by going to ridiculous classes with someone who probably learned how to teach the class online and isn't qualified to be around children at all."

But of course, the rational part of me has been bound and gagged by the new me, the more insane and more irrational me (it says it right on my packaging: Better and Improved Catwoman!!! More Insanity! More Irrationality!) is convinced that my child will be a lonely and dumbass 38-year old virgin if I don't begin taking him to these kinds of classes at the very late age of 4 1/2 months (that's how old he'll be when the next semester begins). We'll also be starting swimming lessons when he turns six months old in March, because God forbid he'd only learn how to swim properly at six, like I did! That would just be wrong!

And then of course, there's soccer, that starts at 18 months and art classes, those start at 2 1/2 because let's face it, 2 1/2 year olds who can't even color within the line need to have their creativity structured to ensure they have a chance of cutting off their own ear one day and go insane.

Oh, I think the rational me snuck in there again. I apologize for that.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, December 02, 2005

Three Months: My Letter to Baby Boy

We made it! A quarter of a year! Cause for celebration isn't it? After all, I've spent the first three months of your life convinced that somebody was going to ring our doorbell, tell me that there's been a terrible mistake and take you away from me. But even Target's return policy is only 90 days, so now that you're in your fourth month, I'm thinking that means they can't take you back, unless you really start complaining about our crappy senses of humor that only entertain us and make you roll your eyes at us. But I'm pretty sure that embarrassing humor isn't grounds for Child Protective Services to rescue you, tough luck little buddy.



You have grown so much this month! You're now big enough to fill your whole car seat. I still remember needing to roll up a blanket and having to place it next to you in the seat when you were first born. Now, you look like an astronaut ready to blast off to outer space. And I love driving around with you. When you're awake, you'll tilt your head to the side and look all pensive as you watch the passing scenery. I have to remind myself to look forward, or else I'd probably drive us into a phone pole just staring at you constantly.

And you smile all the time! It's the most amazing thing ever! Humanity must have been around as long as it has only because babies like you smile big toothless smiles at their mamas. You love to "work" next to me in your bouncy seat, clumsily trying to grab the toys on the toy bar. And if I look at you and grin, you'll tilt your head and grin back at me, the kind of smile that lights up your entire face and makes me feel like I must be the most loved person on Earth.



You've changed me to my core in ways that I can't even explain. I've always liked children and babies, I mean who doesn't! But before, if there was a story on the news about a neglected child, an injured child or a disabled child, I'd think "oh, that's sad" and move on with my life. Now, these stories cause me to bleed severely from the heart. A talk show had an entire episode devoted to kids with horrible birth defects. I sobbed hysterically clutching you for the entire hour, thanking my lucky stars that you are the most perfect baby ever, that you're healthy as a horse and hoping that anything bad that could come your way would happen to me instead.

You know I'd take a bullet for you, don't you? I had to take you in for your two-month vaccines last month and you got your first fever that night. You were crying inconsolably and after half and hour, I was crying along with you. I promised you that night that I would never ever take you to the doctor's office again. Your dad thought I was crazy. And in many ways, I am. Insanity comes with being a mother, because loving anyone this much would lead to insanity.

I've cried more since you came along then I have in the last five years. No man has ever made me cry as much as you have. Because I can't imagine life without you. If anything were to happen to you, I would track down the people even remotely responsible and tear their insides out with my bare hands.

Please don't cry those big tears anymore. You break my heart every single time. We were told to move you to your crib in your nursery, since the pediatrician's office thought that your sleeping issues were caused by us being near you. And that first night, as I kept trying to put you down, you'd look at me and sob and I just wanted to scoop you up and tell you that you could sleep in our bed until you're 40, that we'd just get a King-size bed and we'd all be fine.

You've lost most of the hair on the sides of your head now, making you look like the cutest skater punk ever. With those eyes and that mouth, I'm sure that little punk girls the world over are fighting over the chance to date your grown up version.

Christmas is just around the corner, and I have to warn you that we may have gone a little overboard. The ratio of your presents to everyone else's is about 16:1. Hopefully you're good enough at math to understand what that means. Because if you don't, I'm guessing that means you're not the nobel prize winning doctor that I'm convinced you'll become. But you know what, if you're not, I'll still love you more than anyone else in the world.

I still don't understand how you're going to learn to roll over, crawl, walk or talk. I mean, you're still not entirely sure how to hold on to your rattle. But people keep telling me that you won't stay like this forever. And that's ok. I've got over 500 pictures of you during your past three months in every outfit, pose, expression possible. I think your cornea might be permanently damaged from the flashing camera, but you're such a great guy that the second I pull out the camera, you give me a smile, knowing that's what I'm looking for. I know you're going to be the next baby ubermodel. You were born to have your picture taken.

Keep smiling! At me, at the dogs, at strangers in the store. Whatever you want. Just promise me right now you'll never stop smiling. But if you should, just know that I'll gladly travel the world ten times looking for the way to make you smile again.

I love you my little man,

Maman.

Wednesday, November 30, 2005

Internet, Are You Listening? It's Me, Catwoman

All of you women my age will recognize that as a clear rip off of Judy Bloom. Did any of you read Forever? My sister, who was 11 at the time, borrowed Forever from our local public library and I read it before she returned it. That book was my first experience with porn! I still vividly to this day remember the description of the main character losing her virginity. I also clearly remember discussing with my sister that we must keep this treasured book hidden from mom who might not think it's as awesome as we did.

The other night, I was watching Grey's Anatomy, which I'm obsessed with and Sandra Oh's character shows very hot Isaiah Thomas her mess of an apartment and tells her she once hired a maid, but the maid left crying. I'm proud to say that I once saved a maid from a life of cleaning other people's shit.

I hired her, but on her third visit to my apartment, she left me a message afterwards saying that she had decided to leave the maidhood, to find herself a real job. Apparently, she'd estimated it would take her 2.5 hours to clean my entire apartment, but despite coming every two weeks, it would take her five to six hours.

Discouraged at being paid so little (I'd leave the negotiated amount on the front hall table for her, since she'd come while I was at work), she had enough and quit.

In my defense, I never knew she was there that long! You'd think she'd just work 2.5 hours as agreed and leave the rest to me! But no, she had to be all thorough and shit.

I found out a couple of years later that she had lied to me. She was still in fact a maid, just not my cleaning lady.

OK, so I'm thinking of giving up this blog. It's been like an online diary of sorts for me, but really the only reason I've kept it is because I thought people were reading my stupid musings. But now, I think that the Internet has gotten bored with me and that no one reads this crap anymore. Which I don't blame you for, but I'm just saying that I might quit trying to post as often.

So, if you do in fact read this and want me to continue, please post a comment to this post. You don't have to say your name, feel free to be anonymous or have a snazzy nickname. Just let me know that you are in fact reading this and that I should continue doing this instead of trying to teach my baby calculus.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, November 21, 2005

If We Travel Back to the 80's, He'll Totally Be the Coolest Baby


Warning: The pictures in this post are completely gratuitous cuteness. They have absolutely nothing to do with the post except for the fact that this post is about Baby Boy and so are the pictures. It's just that when you're this damn cute, your pics must be shown to the world. This is also why I destroy every pic of myself, because when you're not this cute, there is no reason for the world to be exposed to you. It's the difference between being Happiness and being the Ebola Virus. One should be shared with others, one shouldn't.

Baby Boy is a big fan of music. Such a big fan, that he's taught himself to headbang. Which is really interesting to me, because the only place you'll still find people headbanging in 2005 is Ozfest, and I'm pretty damn sure I've never been, let alone took Baby Boy to it.

Either way, he's a big believer in the headbanging as a sign of music appreciation. Unfortunately, he doesn't discriminate between headbanging-appropriate music and non-headbanging-appropriate music. And since we listen to my iPod a lot during the day while we both work (him on cold fusion in his bouncy seat, me on spending money I haven't earned on the Internet), I thought I'd save him future humiliation by listing here music that you should not headbang to. Yes, I have quite the wide musical style on my iPod. So what's it to you?

Catwoman's List of Artists You Shouldn't Headbang To:
- Dolly Parton
- Elton John
- Bach
- The Beatles
- Sir Mix-a-Lot
- Pet Shop Boys
- Kelly Clarkson
- James Taylor
- Hillary Duff
- Britney Spears
- Brad Paisley

Baby Boy, this is no means a complete list, but a good starter guide. Please follow it with care before some psycho Poison fan beats the crap out of you for not knowing your banger music.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, November 18, 2005

Signs That You're Officially Old...

Warning: This post will contain personal information that you probably really don't want to read about. Continuing to read this post could permanently damage wiring in your brain. Ignoring this warning means that you're a nosy mofo who's willing to risk his/her mental health in order to find out what I'm talking about.

Sorry about that, my lawyer made me add that warning, because apparently there are already three lawsuits pending from the post I wrote that mentioned my first post-baby period. Damn it. I brought it up again, which will probably screw up the rest of you, causing more lawsuits.

Anyway, I had to go the doctor's yesterday. Well, actually I didn't technically have to, it's just I've met my health deductible for the year, so now I'm trying to get in all those doctor's visits for things that I don't have to have done immediately, since I've put them off for years, but since I'll need to have them done at some point, I figure it might as well be when I don't have to pay for it.

I'll cut right to the chase. I had this growth under my foot. No idea what it was, there was a theory from a couple of people that it was a plantar wart from me not wearing flip flops in the shower at the gym, but those home kits wouldn't get rid of it, and simply caused the skin around the "thing" to go dead and turned it into an unattractive callus.

Since I had this growth, I haven't had a pedicure at times when I needed it, like my own wedding, since I didn't want somebody to have to touch it. Well, scratch that, I've never had a pedicure in my entire life, but now that my feet are old enough to ressemble beef jerkies, there are times where I've wanted to have a pedicure and couldn't.

Well, the doctor takes one look at my mangled foot with its toes that scare Sweetie Pie because he says they're long enough to learn to play the piano, and she says "oh, you have a corn!"

Excuse me?????

Isn't that what 80-year old women complain about??? Should I start also complain about how kids these days don't respect their elders and that during the depression I was forced to wear bath towels as skirts, which was kind of convenient in a rain storm.

So now, if you want to see the image of sexiness, come to my house twice a day and watch me rub my anti-corn cream into the bottom of my foot. I know, I know, the playboy mansion is on the phone for me yet again.

Love,

Catwoman.

Saturday, November 12, 2005

A CD Can't Make You Have Sex

A few weeks ago, my sister-in-law had her bachelorette party and it was a sex toy party. Those of you who know me well probably think it's absolutely hysterical that I had to go to one of these things and pretend I'd never been to one before.

It was particularly hysterical because I knew more about the products than the idiot consultant did. I literally kept throwing her bones by asking simple questions like "why is there a face on this vibrator?" (because it was made in China where they're not allowed to make things that look like penises, so they "hide" the fact that it's a phallic symbol by putting a face on it) to which the consultant would respond "there isn't a face on there." Leading me to go "uh... yeah there is." And the bitch moron would actually argue back with me that there wasn't. Sigh...

Not blowing my cover is oh-so-difficult sometimes.

Anyway, considering the fact that I don't need to buy sex toys from someone else and that I was the mother of a four-week old baby at that point and sex sounded like the equivalent of having my eyeballs poked repeatedly for no reason by someone with a pussy finger, there really was no point in me ordering anything.

But of course, this is me, so I did.

I managed to spend 50 dollars, because I'm talented like that. I bought a cookbook, uh huh, that's right, I said it. I went to a sex toy party and bought a cookbook, which by the way, has this freaking unbelievable recipe for a Black Russian Cake. It's got a ton of booze in it and it's oh so good.

I also bought this CD that promised to put me in the mood. Considering that my sex drive has been lower than an 80 year-old nun's for the past few months, I thought this was a wise investment.

Well, it took four weeks for me to get the damn CD, and when I finally did, I waited for baby boy to be asleep and listened to the thing.

Basically, it's half an hour of this woman breathily telling you that you're horny. Which I'm not. And her repeatedly telling me that I am doesn't make me horny, it did however make me cranky enough to want to beat the shit out of her.

And then eventually it did make me less cranky and more giggly, because she'd talk as if she was God. You know, like in the movies when God speaks in this echo-y voice from far away.

And once I realized she was trying to subliminally make me horny by talking like God in the movies, then I couldn't stop laughing at her. I think by 25 minutes into it, the lady on the CD declared me a lost case who would never have sex again.

But I'm just wondering if God is mad that she's using his special effects for things as silly and weird looking as sex.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

Internet, I Am Your Bitch

I have been a bad, bad girl. Please don't spank me, I'm really not into that.

What I'm trying to tell you is that I've been spending a lot of money lately. But you see, it's because I have no other choice. That's right, I said it, I have no other choice.

You see, I spend most of my days clutching a 10 1/2 pound ball of flesh and spit up. And that takes one arm. Using the free arm to do work is quite challenging, because you try writing a blog entry with just one hand. Or doing work with only one hand. Now, if you happen to really only be one-handed, you're probably thinking "I do it every day bitch, quit your whining."

But you see, until 2 months, 7 days ago, I had the use of both my hands. So this is all still very new to me.

So while I wait for baby boy to fall asleep so I can put him down (I'm still waiting by the way...), I surf the Web. First I go to all my favorite blogs, to see if there's anything new. Then I go to a few other Web sites or google random stuff. And then, I shop.

The UPS man has literally swung by my house every day for the last week and a half. I'm sure he's about to turn me in to Overspenders Anonymous.

In my defense, Christmas is coming up and a good amount of what I bought is holiday related. So I've got most of my shopping done now, which is pretty damn good if you ask me!

Of course, I've also bought things that weren't as necessary, just because, well, there are 8 hours in the day to kill and I can't watch TV that entire time.

It makes me wonder though... If I spend money faster than I can earn it, at what point are we officially considered broke?

Although in the meantime, Baby Boy has one cute ass personalized stocking, the dogs have shiny new bark collars and I have a wonderful serving platter and scrapbooking organizer box.

Yes, we may be broke, but at least we have cool stuff.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, November 04, 2005

Cereal and Fried Chicken

I've discovered the best part about having a baby is that you realize that you're a jaded Mofo who can't see the excitement in the simplest of things.

For the past two months, Baby Boy's diet has constituted of three things: breast milk, formula and pet hair. Two weeks ago, my milk supplied dried up, so he's now down to formula and pet hair.

Now to us, a non-stop diet of two items (neither one of which tastes good by the way, trust Sweetie Pie and I on that one) would be enough to want to jump off my new neighbor's freakishly large forehead.

But to Baby Boy, it was all he knew. Until last night. You see, my son has been eating an insane amount of formula. I'm talking really insane, like enough to feed an entire mormon family's babies. Because of this, the nurse at my son's pediatrician's office suggested that to celebrate his two-month birthday, we begin adding cereal to two of his bottles each day.

And so off I went to Whole Foods to buy organic cereal for my precious bundle of nerves and eyelashes. And last night, Baby Boy got his first taste of cereal.

You would have thought we'd offered him crack cocaine. His eyes widened to an alarming size, his arms began to wave around in excitement and when we'd take the bottle away from him to burp him, he'd look from Sweetie Pie to me and back as if to say "Holy Shit, you guys! Where has this stuff been my whole life."

It's probably how I felt the first time I tasted chocolate. Which I cannot wait to introduce him to!

There are many strange things about Baby Boy, but one of the strangest is the fact that like me he's a grease monkey who's hair should technically be washed every day. Because he's currently losing the hair he was born with, he looks like he has a comb over. Add to the fact that his hair is greasy half the time, and he looks like one of those greasy 40-year old men. But what's really strange is that when his hair is greasy, he smells just like fried chicken.

I'm not kidding. The dogs love him though and constantly try to lick his head. Which really, really pisses Baby Boy off, because if there's one thing he already knows, is that no one likes to be treated like a piece of meat. Especially a fried one.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

Two Months: My Letter to Baby Boy

Do you realize that since the last time I sat at this computer writing you this letter, you went out and became twice as old? How could you do this to me? Do you realize that each time you go and become older, it prevents me from becoming any younger?

Now I know last month I told you that I thought you were the most amazing baby ever. But I lied. You weren't the most amazing baby then, because you are now the most amazing baby ever. Because Baby Boy, you smile! I have no idea how you even figured out how to do that, but it's the most amazing trick ever. You'll look at me and your whole face breaks out into the most glorious gummy smile. And I can feel my heart puddle all the way into my feet each and every time.

But I'd lie if I said that you smiled for me on command from the beginning. Because the first time you smiled is while I was ordering you to go to sleep and I think you thought the anxiety in my voice was hilarious, so you smiled. It was past three in the morning and as mad as I was at you, that smile made everything ok. And from that point on, your dad and I tried everything to get you to smile again. One evening, we spent close to an hour making funny faces and sounds at you. You just stared at us, brows furrowed into a "you people are complete freaks and is that what you call comedy?" look. Just as we were about to give up, your daddy's cell phone rang and your whole face lit up into a smile, like you thought "now that's funny!"

Within a week your sense of humor had matured enough where my singing you my strip tease music made you smile when I undress you to change your diaper. I don't know how you recognize that as stripper music and it makes me think you've been going to seedy places behind my back. Which you know that means you're grounded until you're 25, right?

I don't mean to sound like your mother, but now that you have the smiling thing down, how about working on sleeping? Your dad's getting mighty cranky from the lack of sleep, and I have to say that I'm not exactly at my funnest level ever.

Did I tell you you're very strong? One day after your one-month birthday, you pushed yourself up on your elbows and raised your head. When I told the pediatrician, she looked at me horrified and said that you weren't supposed to do that until you were two months old and predicted that you'd crawl, walk and marry an heiress sooner than you're supposed to.

What gets me though is that you still can't hold on to a pacifier. I don't mean to criticize, but this isn't exactly brain surgery, which I know you'll be studying by the time you're 12 years old. At first I thought you were just too scrawny, but you've been eating formula like you've heard there was some kind of shortage coming, and you now have the cheeks of a chipmunk saving up for winter. And yet you've still got the issue of the pacifier falling out of your mouth, landing on your shoulder where you sadly pucker your lips towards, trying to retrieve the thing. I got so desperate at one point, after spending close to an hour sticking the stupid pacifier back in your mouth, that I tried taping it to your face.

I know, I know, this is why you're going to be in therapy forever as an adult, but in my defense, it wasn't duck tape. I used the medical tape they gave me at the hospital that kept wires stuck to my body without ripping off my skin. The problem with medical tape is that it barely sticks to skin and sticks to nothing else. So there you were, in your bouncy seat with two long strips of tape on your face and they wouldn't stick to the pacifier. You looked a lot like Hannibal Lecter at that moment, which freaked me out and left me convinced that my creativity should be kept contained to other areas of my life, but not parenting.

We're still working on that screaming issue too. You're better, but there's still room for improvement. You'll happily sit in your bouncy seat in the morning, watching me while I work or blog. Every time I pause to look at you, you'll smile or grunt at me and it's fun! But then night comes, and your cranky side comes out. It's like you're over-tired from the fun of the day and blame us for your lack of naps, when all we've done for most of the day is try to get you to sleep.

But your dad, being the smart man he is has found something that makes you happy. We strap you into your umbrella stroller and dad takes you on walks throughout the house. You love it and can be walked for hours without a single tear or scream from you. Last night, you even fell asleep in the stroller and we debated as to whether we should leave you in it or risk waking you up to take you to bed with us. We decided to take you out of the stroller, which brought down your wrath upon us, but that's ok, we love you anyway.

You also had your first Halloween this month. Can I tell you you're the cutest most munchable baby on Earth? My friend K. had sent you a little orange onesie that said "Mommy's little pumpkin" on it and I don't think another baby in the whole world could have pulled off that look off as well as you. I finished off the outfit with a spider hat which although adorable wouldn't stay on your head. I did manage to get some pictures and then I showed you what you looked like in the mirror. Your eyes got the widest I'd ever seen them like you were wondering what the hell had grown on your head.



And you went and grew the world's longest eyelashes! Do you know how gorgeous they are? Women all over the world felt their heart break a little when those eyelashes appeared. One bat of the eye and you will own them all. Use that power wisely baby boy.

And then there's your bottom lip, our kryptonite. The world screeches to a halt when your bottom lip comes out. You can use it to cause havoc better than any weapon of mass destruction. I even find you in your sleep practicing how to push that lip out even further. Superman had his cape, Spiderman had his web making thingies, you have your bottom lip. Your power should be used for good, never evil. So please don't start using that lip to get me to burn villages and pillage for you. Because right now, you have the power to make me do just about anything it takes to make you happy.

I read ahead as to what you're supposed to do next month and it totally blew me away. You're going to laugh??? Get out! And the fact that crawling is just around the corner, as well as seeing your face light up when we feed you real food for the first time. All of these things make me so excited and at the same time make me want to just put you in an ice tray and freeze you like you are right now, because I just can't imagine how you could get any more adorable.

And yet, from the past month, I know that the one thing you keep doing is amazing me. How you ever came out of me, I'll never understand, but I'm grateful every single minute of every single day, even the ones where your screaming feels like thumb tacks being pushed into my brain.

I love you my little man,

Maman.

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

Am I a Giant Boob? That Depends...

Here's the mother of all confessions... One that will probably have you gasping...

I wore Depends yesterday. And I don't mean just at home. I wore them to... a meeting...

Now as horrifying as this revelations is, you're probably wondering why I was in possession of Depends in the first place.

Well, without going into graphic details for those of you who haven't given birth or who are men, when you have a baby, there's a lot of goop left in there. Bloody goop. And it comes out at such a rapid pace, that regular maxi pads need to be changed often. In the hospital, they give you this special underwear with the world's biggest maxi pad (I'm not kidding, a colony of ants could use that thing as a King Size mattress), but at the Birth Center where I was supposedly going to have my dream natural birth with contractions that felt like I was being tickled by a feather in my undrugged state (can you tell that I'm now thinking I'm a complete moron and why would anyone refuse drugs, considering that I've been pumped by more drugs than heroin addicts when my pregnancy suddenly went South and my son is perfect?), they don't provide you with the world's largest maxi pads, and so they tell you to buy a package of Depends underwear.

And so I did. And of course, me being me, I made sure to buy them when I was with Sweetie Pie at Target, just to share in the embarrassment.

Anyway, I did try to wear one of the Depends underwear in the hospital one day, instead of the enormous maxi pad that made my butt put J. Lo's to shame, but the thing is, that when you have a fresh C-section scar, it'll stick to the plastic-like coating of the Depends, since they reach higher than your first two ribs. And if that sentence sounds painful, well, it was.

So the Depends got retired to under my sink, feeling I spent too much money to throw them out and figuring I could become incontinent in 50 years and be glad that I kept them. I can be thrifty that way.

Flash to two months later and I get my first period. Well, not ever, obviously, what do you think Baby Boy is? An immaculate conception? Well, once again, not going into too many graphic details, but this is the heaviest period in my whole life. Tampons are the equivalent of stopping Hurricane Katrina's flooding with a sink sponge. And maxi pads were only good for 4 hours. I ain't kidding people. And this has gone on for 7 days now. Kind of reminds me of this old stand up comedy routine that you should fear something that can bleed for seven days and not die.

On Sunday night, I ran out of maxi pads and just didn't have the energy to go to the drug store to buy more. And that's when I remembered... The Depends.

So I slept in one. And it worked great. And then yesterday, I had a meeting and wouldn't you know it, I was running behind since I'm always tardy and now I have a baby to ensure that I never get anywhere on time ever again. And so I did it. I put on a Depend undergarment as they call them in the ads. And then I looked for a pair of pants that would hide the fact that I was wearing a diaper. Which isn't easy, because Depends are so bulky, they'll give you a camel toe in the widest jogging suit pants.

So if you thought you had a bad day yesterday, just be thankful you weren't in public with Depends underwear. Unless you're incontinent and then all I can say is I feel your pain.

Now, on to a happier topic: my boobs. Those of you who know me, know that I wasn't exactly neglected in the boob area. When they were handing out boobs, I must have gotten in line two or three times, being the greedy bitch I am. The funny thing is that I was a late bloomer, and in high school, I was teased by the boys (viciously may I add) for being so flat. They even joked that my boobs were on backwards, since my shoulder blades protruded a lot out of my skinny back.

Anyway, because of my massive mammary glands, I always figured that breastfeeding would be second nature to me. After all, that's what I must have been bred for, no? Well, not so much. Baby Boy would feed for a few minutes and then push my boob out of the way disgusted by the small portions this fancy schmancy restaurant served and would ask me where the nearest Arby's was so he could really get his fill. And when I'd pump, I'd discover that I was producing half an ounce of milk between my two breasts. Not even what someone would use in their cup of coffee... I eventually got my production up to two ounces between the two breasts, but Baby Boy was up to four ounces a feeding at that point. And then my production waned and by the time Baby Boy was 7 weeks old, we were done breastfeeding.

The funny thing is, I was so confident in my ability to feed this child for 6 months and my future milk production, that three weeks before I had him, I contacted a breast milk bank to inquire as to how to donate my excess milk to be used by mothers who can't breast feed or have special needs. Yes, optimism, the credit card of choice for fools everywhere.

And so now I like to say that these boobs were made for porn, not for breastfeeding. Unfortunately, the rest of my body was not made for porn unless there's a demand for women 15 pounds overweight.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, October 28, 2005

No Need to Get All Snotty

So let's see, I've been a mother for eight weeks now. And so far, it's been kind of a thankless job.

I've gotten poop on my hands and under my fingernails when baby boy decided that halfway through a diaper change would be a good time to take another dump.

I've been peed on more than a fire hydrant.

I've had my boobs used as a punching bag when he would nurse and get pissed that I wasn't producing enough milk.

And I've been spit up on in all sorts of places: my shoulder, down my back, down my cleavage (I know, sexy!) and in my eye.

The weird thing is, none of those things have freaked me out. Me, with the weak stomach, who if I was reading this on someone else's blog would have to run to the bathroom and hurl at the mere idea of any of these things.

It's strange that once it's your baby, the whole eek factor disappears. Although, I'm sure that if Baby Boy comes home drunk at 18 and hurls all over me then, I probably will mind a lot more.

But now, Baby Boy's gone and gotten himself congested. Way to go! Since he's only 8 weeks old, he doesn't comprehend the whole blowing your nose in a kleenex. And so it's my job to somehow extract the boogers the way miners crawl through dark tight tunnels, hoping to find gold. The thing with miners, is the mine doesn't belong to some screaming creature who doesn't want the gold removed, even if it is preventing important tasks like, say, breathing.

There's a thing called a nasal aspirator. It's this big bulb thing, invented in the Middle Ages as a torture device for babies who committed crimes like sleeping with the King's wife or stealing. Basically, you're supposed to stick this thing up a nostril the size of the eye of a needle and then suck out the snot. And then when it doesn't come out the first time, you're supposed to convince your screaming (and now purple) baby to let you near him again.

Oh the fun! After sucking out my baby's brains one piece of grey matter at a time, but still failing to get the offensive booger out, I resorted to another method.

I got a Q-Tip, delicately placed it up the nostril and fished the snot out. May I say that was so much easier and even though the child was still screaming in anger from the needless torture I put him through earlier, I'm sure he was much happier with my new method.

I'm sure those nasal aspirators would make a great chew toy for the dogs.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, October 25, 2005

Confessions...

There are a few things you people need to know about me before you continue reading this blog... These are my darkest, deepest secrets. If you choose to hate me after I reveal these things, then I'll understand, but I feel it's time to tell you, my loyal readers, all one or two of you.

1. I once quit a job by putting my resignation in the suggestion box In my defense, I've always been terrible at confrontations. The couple who ran the coffee shop had been nothing but sweet to me, and I felt like absolute shit having to quit. And rather than face them and see the sadness in their eyes, I chose to wimp out and let them find out that my suggestion for making the place better was for me to stop working there.

2. I once walked into a tree because I was too busy noticing that my boobs were jiggling I don't really have a reasoning to make this seem less horrible than what it is. It is what it is. And no, I wasn't drunk when this happened.

3. I once broke up with a guy solely because his penis was very small I didn't tell him this was the reason. I also didn't tell him that I met Sweetie Pie the weekend I was away on business. In my defense, I didn't know at the time that Sweetie Pie was better hung. But I would have bet on it, considering I'd never met anyone that small before.

4. I once showed up 45 minutes late to meet a boyfriend who I was breaking up with that day At least it wasn't the same guy as in confession number three. That would have been really low of me. In my defense, I'd gotten my first ever acrylic nails put down, and had no idea it would take as long as it did. I found the poor lad asleep in his car, he'd waited for me so long. I woke him up and then told him I no longer wanted to go out with him. Yeah, I'm a bitch.

5. I used to make my boobs look bigger than they were by tightening my bra straps so much that the back of my bra would lie right below the back of my neck. This obviously worked well, since I was able to attract the guys in confession three and four as well as a number of other suckers.

6. I was once stalked by a firefighter This was quite awkward since my mom came to visit during this time and wondered why my call display would show "Fire Station 21" every other time the phone would ring. The first time she thought my building was on fire.

7. I once spent close to $800 in one shopping spree I was 21 at the time. My purchases included many tops and skirts, of course, but also a rabbit with all of the gear. I never even wanted a rabbit.

8. I gave up the rabbit to the Humane Society I told everyone I knew that a friend of a friend had a farm and took in my rabbit and was breeding him since he was so beautiful. But the truth is that after having the rabbit shit and piss on my couch one too many times and in only two months having my apartment turn into one big fire hazard (and from confession number six, you know I couldn't call the firefighters...) from the damn beast chewing up every single one of my cords, I drove it to the Humane Society and gave it away.

9. My Mastercard was revoked when I was 22 after I missed another payment because my Alzheimer-affected cat peed on all my bills I had no way to pay the damn thing since I no longer had the bill and Mastercard lost its patience with me. Those insensitive bastards.

10. I didn't break up with the boyfriend I was seeing at the time I had to put down my Alzheimer-affected cat Despite the fact that as I was sobbing on his shoulder after holding my cat as it died, he said to me "hey, we need to get going so I can make soccer practice." And no, he wasn't on a professional team, he was playing in some accountant league. If there ever was a reason to break up with someone, that would be it. Five months later, he broke up with me telling me that I wasn't "marriage material." Tell that to Sweetie Pie bitch!

That's all I can think of today, but there are plenty more skeletons in my closet.

Love,

Catwoman

Monday, October 24, 2005

Things Mothers Don't Get to Do...

For those of you who don't have children, here are the things that you are able to do, that I barely remember having the ability to do...

1. Brush your teeth every night: Well, you may forget on those nights where you're so sloshed or stoned that you're not sure how you got home or why your underwear is on inside out. But at least on those nights you remember to brush your teeth, you have the ability to. Me, not so much. Especially on nights where Sweetie Pie isn't home. Because Baby Boy doesn't like to be put down until he's in a coma in the evenings and if I try to, then screaming that threatens to make the moon veer off orbit ensues.

2. Hear the plot twists and previews of your favorite shows: Baby Boy has an amazing talent for screaming at the exact moment that the killer's name is revealed or the denouement of the plot occurs. This is sure to come in handy to piss off theater goers when he's older.

3. Eat with both hands: I dare you to try to eat a steak or a chicken breast with one hand, without anyone ever cutting it up in small bites for you. Now try to make it look like you have manners. Emily Post is rolling in her grave, but a serious adjustment to my table manners has been made. Martha Stewart would probably appreciate our creative use of Baby Boy in his bouncy seat as our dining table's centerpiece. Yes, an arrangement of roses may add a romantic atmosphere. But a baby sucking on a pacifier while his butt is vibrating allows you to inhale some of your meal using both hands.

4. Type your work/blog entry/emails/IMs without using your boobs/chin/right elbow to hold up a bottle: Hey if I want to get anything done around here, I have to find new uses for old body parts. Whoever said you can't teach an old broad new tricks?

5. Leave your house without packing for a three-month trip to Africa: It used to be that all I'd need to remember when I walked out of the house was my keys, credit card and to put on some kind of clothing (and that had to be learned the hard way.) Now, I have to anticipate one million different scenarios, that include but aren't limited to: hunger, explosive diarrhea, boredom, locust, world war. My Jeep Liberty no longer leaves the house without its back bumper dragging on the ground under the weight of the massive amount of baby crap it takes just to go see my in-laws for 10 minutes (who by the way, live only 15 minutes away if you assumed it was quite the journey away).

6. Pay attention to your pets: Once upon a time, our pets were the center of our universe. I took an excessive amount of pictures of them, they were fat and well-fed and shoved us out of the way in bed so that they could comfortably rest at night. A good day for them is now one where they stay out of the way enough to not be threatened with being put down.

7. Run to answer the phone/door/anything that requires running for, without your loose stomach skin slapping you in the face: I know, I know, too much information, but trust me, unless you're a freaking celebrity whose plastic surgeon's number is on speed dial, your pregnancy belly shrinks down and leaves a kangaroo like pouch that flaps in the wind. My crop top days were over when I exited my teenage years, but they are now unlikely to come back until I pop out all of the kids I'm going to have and convince Sweetie Pie that a tummy tuck is the bestest birthday present ever.

But hey, I'm rewarded for not getting to do these things with the joy of holding a ten-pound mountain of adorableness who smiles big toothless grins at me and head butts me to show his love. And it makes it all seem worthwhile in my sleep-deprived world.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, October 18, 2005

Baby by Day, Car Mechanic by Night

I am mystified by something. Now I know it doesn't take much to mistify me, but this has me really perplexed.

My Baby Boy's fingernails grow very quickly. I mean very quickly. I have to trim them twice a week. And considering that they're about 1/4 of an inch big each, it takes me almost two hours to cut all ten of them, because it takes so much concentration to avoid cutting off a tiny little finger. On the other hand, his toe nails don't grow at all, like his body can only focus on the growth of one kind of nails at once.

But as strange as that is, there's something even stranger. Baby Boy's nails, as they grow, get really nasty and grimy, like a car mechanic's do. You know what I'm talking about, they work with grease all day, so it gets stuck under their nails, and no matter how much they try to scrub up, it won't come out.

Well, Baby Boy has the same thing. Which I don't understand, he's never put down on the floor, none of his clothes are black, I don't feed him tar in his bottles, so what the hell is making his nails dirty?

Maybe my baby is in the CIA or something and simply impersonates being a normal baby during the day...

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, October 17, 2005

Hello, My Name is Sweetie Pie and I'm a Moron

Hi there,

My name is Sweetie Pie. I'm married to Catwoman. Have been for what feels like forever, because she never shuts up.

Anyway, I asked Catwoman if I could write a post for her blog, because I'm a moron and I thought the whole world should know.

You see, we have a baby. I'm sure you've heard about that by now, since that's all Catwoman can talk about these days. Which is definitely a step up from her talking about her cats and who celebrities are dating, neither of which I give a rat's ass about.

But back to the baby. For those of you who don't have babies, let me tell you this. The last few months of pregnancy, your wife is huge, and cranky and has the libido of a run over skunk.

Then the baby comes and your wife isn't allowed to have sex for six weeks. So that adds up to a really long dry spell.

On Friday, Catwoman went to the doctor's and was not only given the green light for sex, but was also given a prescription for birth control to ensure we never procreate again.

But because the baby boy is so young, he sleeps in our room and most of the time, actually sleeps in our bed, making sex impossible.

Until Saturday night. When my parents decided to watch the baby for us. Catwoman was very excited about this. But without asking her, I made plans for us to go to a soccer game, the excitement level of which equals watching paint dry.

And ensuring that rather than buying my wife a nice romantic dinner, I got her a burger at a drive through and a beer at the game. I think she wanted ten beers to drown her sorrows away, but I'm also a cheap moron and only bought her one.

When I told Catwoman that we were going to this game since our friends had extra tickets, which they'd gotten for free and didn't care if they used them or not, she got a very sour look on her face. I asked her what she wanted to do and she replied that she'd like to go out to dinner and then just relax.

Because my wife isn't a cheap whore, she didn't explicitly state that she wanted to have wild crazy sex. And because I'm a moron, I told her that we were going to the game, since our friends were kind of expecting us.

Enough to say that not only did Catwoman not have a good time (luckily my best friend's wife hates soccer just as much, so they just talked the whole time, ensuring that at least she enjoyed herself that way, or else my head would be in a Fed Ex box on its way to Nepal right now), but when we got home, she was so mad at me, that she went straight to bed.

Since my parents had a rough night with the baby, they probably won't want to watch him overnight ever again and since Baby Boy will probably be sleeping in our bed until he's 18, I've just ensured that I will never get laid again.

So next time Catwoman tells you I'm a moron. Don't doubt her. Everything she says is real.

Sweetie Pie.

Friday, October 14, 2005

Where'd My Right Arm Go?

At the risk of sounding like a crappy mother, I'm going to say this anyway. My baby boy is a pain in the ass. It's not that I don't love him. I do. Because I made him and therefore nature makes me love him no matter how purple he might turn when he screams.

But I can love someone and think they're a pain in the ass. I love Sweetie Pie, but there are times where I think moving to Canada isn't far enough to get away from his annoying inconsiderate ass. That doesn't mean I'm actually going to do it. Because, once again, I love him.

But this is about the baby boy. Who I love. In case I didn't make that clear the first 10 times I've said in this post. I'm repeating this over and over again so you people don't call Child Protective Services on me.

You see, despite Baby Boy being the cutest baby in the whole world (and I say this being completely unbiased, because I have seen every baby in the world, and let me tell you, they ain't this cute), he's got a number of annoying traits.

First, he never shuts up. And this comes from someone who I'm sure a lot of people have met and when they left they thought "she's got great cans and I'd totally nail her, but she never shuts up." So if I think someone talks too much, you know it's bad.

Maybe it would be fine for him to do all this talking. After all, I'm home alone most of the day. But his vocabulary is quite limited, so it's like having a conversation with Jodie Foster in Nell. "AAAAAh! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" Sometimes he says things that seem to be really amusing because he'll smile. But of course, I don't speak the "aaaah! ahhhh!" language, so I tell him "I don't get it." Which seems to really piss him off and then that makes me feel stupid.

Second annoying thing baby boy does: the screaming. The screaming only happens at times where I can't deal with it, a.k.a. late evening or middle of the night. The screaming can happen for a million different reasons. It can be because he's hungry, or because I pissed him off by sticking my tongue out at him when he's just done it to me. The screaming is extremely loud and can be heard five counties away. Our dog hates the screaming and will leave the room every single time, only to be seen again when the zone has been scream-free for five minutes.

Thirdly, Baby Boy eats all the fucking time. I don't mean this in an exaggerated manner by any means. He literally eats constantly. At times, he'll go two hours between meals. But more than likely, especially in the evenings, it'll be every hour, so that by the time he finishes a bottle, he takes a 10 minute nap and then the screaming (see above: second annoying trait) begins again.

Lastly, there's the not sleeping. Now when I was 18, I went to Spain for three months and partied my ass off (my real reason for being there is to learn Spanish. But come on, I was 18 and there were lots of hot men). Here was my schedule for three months: Go to class (most of the time anyway), go to the beach with my girlfriends, all afternoon, doze an hour while tanning. Go home, shower, eat with host family, meet friends at bar, hit clubs all night, take 6 a.m. subway (first one of the day) home, shower, and start all over again.

That summer, on average, I slept an average of 30 minutes a day. So I am the Queen of non-sleeping. Med students look like whimps next to me. But I have to admit, I'm no longer 18. Hell, I'm now, as of last month, no longer in my 20s either. But that's a whole other point. The point is, Baby Boy takes not sleeping to a whole new level. If you Google newborn sleeping, I'm sure you'll get 10,000 hits all telling you the same bullshit: newborns sleep 16 hours a day.

Well, apparently Google failed to send the memo to Baby Boy, who's sleeping habits have now deteriorated to 4 hours (but not in a row) at night and about 30 minutes during the morning and the afternoon.

My child sleeps about five hours a day! Do you comprehend the horror of this people???? Sweetie Pie and I officially hate each other and have been reduced to spitting venom at each other when we happen to pass in the hallway or kitchen. We're so sleep deprived that the concept of being nice to each other no longer exists. And yet I got birth control pills at my doctor's appointment this morning. I don't even know why.

But crazier than Baby Boy's annoyingness is this. He's at my mother-in-law's right now. I'm supposed to swing by and pick her and him up in half an hour. So I've been alone at the house for almost two hours.

And when I walked in, it was like stepping into a haunted house. It was quiet, eerie and I didn't like it one bit. His baby swing and bouncy seat are in the corner unoccupied and they look like remnants of happier times. As much as I sometimes feel like bashing my head in the wall when he wants to eat for the hundredth time for the morning when I'm trying to IM my friends, I can't imagine life without him now. My whole existence has changed because of him and even the bad parts make me feel more complete.

I know it's silly because I'm only away from him two hours, but I really miss my little man right now. I've left him with my m-i-l before to go to meetings, but I was in a different environment, so it didn't hit me like it does now.

But as much as I miss him, my m-i-l has offered to watch him overnight and I used to get offended by it, but I'm going to take her up on it next week. I figure Sweetie Pie and I can use a full night's sleep. And maybe we'll be human enough to each other that those birth control pills can come in handy.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, October 10, 2005

Disturbing... Very Disturbing Indeed...

I don't know if I've spoken about this before, but I'm about to tell you something very private about myself.

I'm a farter.

I know everyone farts, but I think I fart more than the average person. Sweetie Pie is horrified by my farting and my blaming it on the dog stopped working a long time ago.

My farting comes and goes and yesterday, it was a coming.

Sweetie Pie and I needed to go to Home Depot to buy flowers to replace the dead ones in front of our house, and so he carried out Baby Boy to the truck with the diaper bag and half of our household goods, because you can't go anywhere for five minutes without filling a U-Haul once you have a baby.

I grabbed my shoes and as I proceeded to sit down on our garage step to put them on, I farted. A loud one. But particularly, a stinky one. Problem is, that my body was already in the process of sitting down, and so by the time the fart was out of my ass, my face was in the vicinity of the fart smell.

It was literally like I had bent down, stuck my face next to my ass and farted.

All Sweetie Pie heard was "Oh God... EEEEEEW."

The smell wafted to his part of the garage a few seconds later, so there was no hiding what I had done or what I was speaking of.

I have to say, my shit don't smell of roses. That much I'm willing to admit.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, October 07, 2005

Febreeze Smells Like a Big Dog Dump to Me

There, I've said it.

Febreeze stinks. I don't understand the fasination with it. I've bought every different kind of scent and every time I spray it around my house, I wonder "why am I spraying fake cat urine around my house when I already have a litter box in my laundry room?"

And now, what I really don't get, is that Proctor & Gamble is adding Febreeze to everything. In other words, they're stinking up all of my products. Now Bounce and Tide come with Febreeze. In case I thought my clothes didn't stink enough after I worked out or walked outside in 100 degree weather, now I can make them stink from the second they come out of the washer and dryer.

I swear, if they start messing with my shampoos and stuff, they're really going to hear from me.

On another note, thought I'd share this funny statement my Sweetie Pie said to me yesterday. The price of electricity and natural gas is sky rocketing. So I told Sweetie Pie that this winter, the three of us would be wearing bulky sweaters inside the house, because we just don't have the money to pay the equivalent of what we'll make in a lifetime to the utility companies just to keep the house toasty.

Sweetie Pie's reply was (and this is an exact quote) "well, at least your coochie will be warm since you constantly wear your coochie sweater now."

I didn't understand what he was talking about until I realized he meant I hadn't shaved that area in a few months.

To which I say, bite me. I just had a baby. I'm not even allowed to have sex, so there.

Love,

Catwoman

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

Three Funny Things Baby Boy Does

1. Raises his leg to fart

2. Punches the side of the bassinette to show serious disenchantment with the sleeping arrangement.

3. Pushes boob away to let me know it's empty

Love,

Catwoman

Monday, October 03, 2005

I Don't Know How I Keep Forgetting to Tell This Story...

So here is the most awkward moment in the history of mankind...

A few days after Baby Boy was born, my mom came down from Canada to see him, and I guess me by default.

The day after she arrived into town, I had an appointment with the doctor who sliced me open like a fish so she could check that I was healing properly, that my blood pressure had gone back to normal and that I was re-entering the world of the living after narrowly escaping death.

My mom came with me of course, to keep an eye on Baby Boy while I was being prodded.

Since I'd never been to that doctor's office really, and met her for the first time right before I was rushed to surgery, I had to fill out the gazillion pages long survey that doctors' offices make you fill out for whatever reason.

Since there was nothing else to do in the waiting room, I started reading the survey allowed to entertain my mom. Which was all fine and dandy until on page 87, one of the questions was "have you had more than five sexual partners?" and my mom at this point was reading along with me.

My life flashed before my eyes. I had two options. Answer the truth and have my mother wonder exactly how many more than five my number was. Or lie.

It only took me about one tenth of a second and I checked "no."

I figured my answer would not affect the healing of my c-section scar. However, it would affect my ability to look my mother in the eyes for the rest of my life.

Love,

Catwoman.

Sunday, October 02, 2005

One Month: My Letter to Baby Boy

A month ago today, we met for the first time. I may have been groggy, I may have had an IV in each hand and one arm, but I couldn't have been more excited to meet anyone in my entire life.

For nine months, I'd worried about that first meeting. Would you be ok? Would I know what to do?

And you weren't ok. You were better than ok. You were perfect and gorgeous and tiny and the most lovable edible baby boy in the whole entire world. I couldn't believe you were mine. It was like the world had made some terrible mistake and as I held you I expected the nurses to say "oh wait, you're not a responsible adult. We're taking him back."

And then they didn't. And we got to take you home with us.

And that's when we knew we were in trouble. You were so tiny, you wouldn't fit in your car seat. And we didn't have the directions with us and so we couldn't figure out how to tighten the straps anymore. And so we drove home slowly with me in the back seat, my hand on your chest. Bad parenting incident number one.

Know that we love you more than life itself. But if you would just allow us to sleep even just a little, I'm sure we'd love you even more. At first, everything was so exciting, getting up to feed you four, five times a night. Listening to you cry when you didn't want to go back to sleep. But by the third night, the novelty had worn off, your daddy and I fought all the time and I think I had my only rub with postpartum depression and cried my eyes out for almost one hour, sitting on the toilet of your bathroom, surrounded by all those frogs and duckies.

But if I had to change anything, I wouldn't. Because every day, I get to look into those blue eyes of yours and smell your head and touch your feet.

Oh those feet. I think I would drive to the end of the universe if I had to, just to see those feet again. The tiny pinky toes, the soft soles, the way that you stretch your big toe.

I once spent an afternoon watching you sleep. You have the most expressive face of any baby in the world, that I know for sure. And you are probably the most vocal baby in the world. You grunt, you moan.

And then there's the screaming. It doesn't matter how many times I tell you that asking for food politely will get it to you just as fast, you still insist on wailing at the top of your lungs.

But you can make me laugh so hard that tears stream down my face. Like the time you entertained us for 15 minutes doing your best impression of a bobble head. Side to side, side to side, your little head was going nuts. And we watched you and laughed and you looked at us back, puzzled by our laughter.

The nurses at the hospital called you Squeaker, because you'd make this pitiful little sound like a little bird when you were hungry and not fed the second you wanted to be. I wish I'd recorded that sound, sometimes I worry I won't remember exactly how it sounded.

This month has flown by so fast and already you look less like a baby, and more like a little boy. It breaks my heart and yet it makes me swell with pride. The fact that you've been trying to hold your bottle and can now hold your head for 10 seconds. That you love being swung around on top of my head like Superman and you put out your arms like he does, a pretend cape flying behind your little mullet.

You don't believe in laying in people's laps, because that's for babies, instead only being mildly content if you're sitting up, despite the fact that your neck can't yet support your head.

Sometimes I worry that you're too serious already. And how you'll probably be embarrassed by me by the age of three.

You're my little man, and I could tell you all day long that I love you. At least you allow me to tell you how I feel, unlike my kisses, which already make you crinkle your nose in disgust and make you give me that stink eye you mastered at the age of two days. But I love kissing that perfect little mouth of yours and could do it for hours if you'd let me.

I hate that you're already a month old, because it makes me feel like it's gone too fast, and that I'm already one month closer to you moving out, going on with your own life and leaving me in the dust like the preemie clothes you're finallly outgrowing.

I can't wait to see what next month will bring and the month after that. I hope you always enjoy my singing as much as you do now. And I hope that you stay this sweet when you're a teenager.

I love you little man,

Mommy.

Monday, September 26, 2005

GAAAAAA!!!!! I HATE YOU BLOGGER!!!!

I realize that my posts are not the greatest in the world. But when I write a post and it gets eaten by the blogger monsters, it pisses me off.

And then when I painstakingly try to recapture what I'd said in that post and re-write it a second time only to have it eaten once again, it's enough to send this sleep deprived bitch into a tailspin.

Yes, I know, I should always save my posts somewhere else, but I didn't do that, ok? So bite me.

So anyway, I just wanted to post to let you know that I don't have it in my to re-write that post a third time. Apparently bad mouthing Tyra Banks isn't allowed on blogger and that's why my post won't get published.

I'll try again tomorrow. And I was so happy that I'd be posting about something else than baby boy and not short circuit your brains with too much baby stuff. So much for that plan!

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

The World's Greatest Bottom Lip

I've just spent the past 10 minutes staring at baby boy's bottom lip. If you are single or married without kids and ever wondered what the hell stay-at-home moms do all day, this would be it. We sit in front of our computers dreading writing the most boring press release ever and choosing to hold our fussing baby instead and staring at the one feature of his that came from you and proves that giant growing belly I had for nine months was not caused by my love of tortilla chips dipped in sour cream.

Baby boy looks exactly like his dad which is a good thing really, because Sweetie Pie, if not better looking than me (which I think he is) is at leasr more photogenic than me.

But that bottom lip, larger than that top lip is all me. The way it qivers after a good cry. The way it drops down to a pout at the first hint of not getting his way. And the way it reaches his earlobes when he smiles because he just farted. All these things make me look at him and say "holy shit! I've actually procreated..."

My boobs are about an inch lower than they were less than a year ago, but it's all worth it.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, September 19, 2005

Hurricane Baby Boy Has Blown In

Well, I know. I've been kind of quiet for the past two weeks. Almost dying will do that to you.

It's funny that my last post was on September 1st, because I had absolutely no idea when I wrote that post what the next day was going to bring.

No, I mean really no idea. I was supposed to have a new business meeting at 10:30 a.m. that day.

Instead, after spending my fifth consecutive night in my guest room, trying to muffle my screams in a pillow while I clutched a heat pack to the right side of my stomach right next to my ribs, I called the birth center in tears saying that I couldn't live like this anymore.

They'd actually asked me to come down on Thursday, but you see, when you have shitty healthcare, and your last sonogram cost you $957, you kind of avoid going to see the doctors.

Long story short, I was told to come down immediately, had to cancel my new biz meeting. Everyone thought it was my gall bladder, yada yada yada. Ends up my liver was dying (trust me, that's a very painful thing), my blood platelets were down to below death level. Basically, I had something that I'd never heard of, since I skipped the chapter in What to Expect When You're Expecting about all the really rare shit that no one ever gets or has heard of. Ends up that there's something called HELLP Syndrome, which is what I had and I was to the point where at any second I could have had a stroke or gone into a coma. Who knew!

Since my short story is getting long, long story short, only way to fix me up was to get the baby out of me. So next thing I knew, less than half an hour after going to the hospital for lab work, I was strapped to a table in the OR where "What if God Was One of Us" was playing and then I was gutted like a fish.

Baby Boy was born looking absolutely perfect and gorgeous and a very small 5 lbs 15 ozs, which makes me think that this natural childbirth thing might have worked out after all if I hadn't wimped out and sabotaged my liver just so I could get out of it.

So now, Sweetie Pie and I have been learning to be responsible adults, which means that we basically sit around the house and go "what the fuck do we do now????" as baby boy wails that he needs to be fed again.

My porn-sized boobs are a complete let down when it comes to breastfeeding and baby boy turns his nose up at my nipples, offended that they don't produce enough milk to feed his growing body. And I now have a scar right at the bikini line that ensures that should I lose the extra 15 pounds I carried before I got pregnant, I still don't have a shot at a successful porn career. That's ok, I never looked good as a blond anyway.

Motherhood has been a blast so far. I've decided on being the cool mom who lugs her baby everywhere. So at the age of 8 days, Baby Boy already had his first dinner out for my 30th birthday. He's been to Cafe Express for lunch and tomorrow night, he's hitting Pappadeaux for some fried Oysters.

His hobbies currently are spitting up, pooping when mommy's removed the old diaper but has yet to put on a new one and smiling every time he gets gas (which ironically is also one of my hobbies). He can already speak some kind of rare Swahili dialect that only uses the vowel "a." "AAAAAAAAH AH AH" can mean "I'm hungry" as much as it can mean "Wow, Oprah's looking really fine this season."

I'm still expecting someone to show up at our house and saying "We're sorry, there's been a terrible mistake, you don't have a baby, let us take him back and we'll give you this shiny object to distract you."

I'm not sure at what point it hits you that you're a mother. Sometimes I worry that he'll grow up and go to leave for college and I'll be bawling my eyes out realizing that I'm somebody's mother. Because I'm kind of slow that way.



Yeah, just try to tell me that's not the cutest baby boy you've ever seen in your whole life. And he's just six days old on that picture. Just imagine how hot he'll be when he's 18. I'm taking applications for his future girlfriends right now. They have to be hot, slutty and very rich. Until he's 22. Then I want a nice sweet girl who's rich and has good birthing hips. Oh, and a good liver. Because I've discovered those are important.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, August 29, 2005

My Review of Life as a Pregnant Lady

I figured that since my days are numbered as living my life as a member of the weird cult known as pregnant women, that I would give my review of the whole experience for those of you who are about to get pregnant, are pregnant or think you might be pregnant some day. Those of you who have been pregnant in the past, this is probably nothing new to you, and you may disagree with some of the thoughts below, just like I think that Ebert and the other guy (who I can never remember because to me it'll always be Siskel and Ebert and the show should have retired in Siskel's honor when he went to the big movie screen in the sky) sometimes give two thumbs up to some of the worst movies.

So here goes.

Things I will miss about pregnancy:

- The belly: I have spent more than half of my life mastering of sucking in my gut so that I could actually look thinner than I am. Not having to do this for the past six months (I still did it the first three months when people would curiously peer at my stomach area when finding out I'm pregnant) has been the best vacation ever.

- The pregnancy clothes: Many of my outfits have been worn so many times that they could burn in a fire and I wouldn't shed a tear. But how can you not love jeans with elastic waists that just pull up no matter how many times you go to the bathroom? And those pants that have the adjustable elastic in them so you can make them as big or as small as you need? All pants should be like that.

- Hearing the baby's heartbeat: There's just something very surreal about hearing that sound for the first time and trying to fully comprehend that it really isn't yours, that there's something else in there. Actually, there's still something surreal and wonderful about hearing that sound at every appointment.

- The right to be completely irrational for no reason. I thought PMS was great, but now I know that it's for beginners. Once you've experienced hormonal rage without training wheels it's hard to imagine going back.

Things I'm not going to miss about pregnancy:

- The giant belly: Lugging around a gigantic watermelon around is exhausting. And lying down has gotten to the point where it's so excruciating, that I dread nighttime more than someone who's home is the target of vampires. No, I'm not exagerating, when my belly has caused me to sleep a total of 16 hours for the past 7 days. You try living on that little sleep and thinking life is swell.

- The lack of sleep: See above. It just needed to be its own category.

- People judging every damn decision I make regarding my body and my baby: "NATURAL BIRTH??? Oh honey, that's a huge mistake!" I'm sorry lady at the spa, what was your name again?

- No sushi and alcohol: How can anyone not have hormonal fits when they're banned these two wonderful items?

- Protecting your precious cargo in crowded malls or any other busy place: When you're carrying around a Faberge egg strapped to your body and people seem to swing their arms around wildly everywhere you go you're constantly feeling tense like some football player holding the ball only inches away from the goal line. The public at large should be forced to walk carefully in a straight line with their freaking arms strapped to them in a straight jacket. No exceptions. If you people can't be careful with your damn appendages and almost elbow me in the stomach on a regular basis, then that's just the way it's going to have to be.

Love,

Catwoman.

Saturday, August 27, 2005

Lost: Sense of Humor. Large Reward if Found

I'm to the point now where you're just better off not messing with me. If you see me, just pretend you didn't, cross the road and run about 10 blocks before turning around to make sure I didn't spot you.

I'm not kidding.

Because if you don't and you happen to say the wrong thing, you will be killed.

I've been blessed with a really great pregnancy. No morning sickness, no nausea (except for the time Sweetie Pie didn't empty the trash for a few days and the smell of rotting limes made me hurl food consumed 10 hours previously), reasonable weight gain (which considering I lived off cans of Pringles my first trimester is truly amazing) and very high level of energy.

But now I'm in the homestretch, and I'm like one of the last few people left on Survivor island. I'm weathered and tired of living off coconuts and rice and I'm wondering who I still have to destroy to win this fucking thing and get to go home.

Really, I'd be fine if I could sleep my usual eight hours a night (which I didn't do for three days, then actually got a whole night's sleep Thursday night and today, I'm up after only 6 hours at an ungodly hour for no reason), didn't have a 22 pound watermelon strapped to my stomach that makes laying down or sitting in a relaxed position uncomfortable, didn't waddle everywhere and feel like this baby is going to fall out of me if I stand too long, and if it wasn't hotter than freaking hell all the freaking time. I mean why oh why does Satan choose Texas as his summer home? 110 degrees with the heat index is not human. And with pregnancy hormones, it feels like about 130.

All these things add up to me not having much of a sense of humor these days and being ultra sensitive. My parents live far away, since I'm obviously not from here if you haven't been keeping up. This is their first grandchild and I expect them to want to take the four hour flight and spend every possible minute with what will surely be the most perfect baby in the whole world.

My dad happens to have a business trip end of September in Dallas, so he's using that as his opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. Which is fine by me. Except that I would have thought that he would have extended his trip through a weekend to spend more time with us. But apparently my father's a busy man, which I understand, but not even one day??? And then I would have expected him to want to stay with us, since we have a brand new guest room that my boy cat has not had a chance to deface yet, since we keep the door closed to it. But my father claims that he'll just be in our way and it's much easier for him to be at a hotel 45 minutes away from us (because apparently there aren't many hotels in Dallas, don't you know) and that his company's paying for it anyway, so it's better this way. So he told us originally that he'd come by two of the evenings he was in town to see us and the baby. Not exactly grandfather of the year stuff, but hey, it's what the man can do, right?

But then last night, he sends me an email letting me know that he'll come by to see the baby on the 20th and that if we can find a babysitter, we can meet him for dinner on the 21st.

Excuse me????

A babysitter????????????????????????????????

I'm going to be induced on September 8th because it looks like baby boy's managed to get himself a 50" big screen TV in my womb and has no interest in coming out into the real world.

And so my own father, the man who supposedly rocked me for hours on end 30 years ago is now expecting me to find someone to watch my 13 day old baby, his grandson, who will be nursing and who's mother has been told repeatedly by the midwife, the birth instructor and most of the world not to even attempt to bottle feed him until he's a month old or else he'll need a lifetime of therapy to get over his nipple confusion. Not that my father knows about nursing, but still.

I want to give my father the benefit of the doubt and think he was joking or is simply a man. But somehow I don't have this in me right now. Instead I want to let out a tirade that would make pirates and the parrots on their shoulders blush.

It would be one thing for a friend of mine with no kids and no interest in mine to send me an email and say something like "hey, I figure you could use a break from the kid by the 20th. You want to find a sitter and I'll take you out for hard alcohol?" I'd laugh at their attempt to be a good friend and tell them sweetly that not only will I still be adapting to the world around me by then, that I won't quite be ready to leave my new baby with someone but that I'm sure sometime in October I will be ready for a couple of hours away and will definitely want hard alcohol.

But coming from someone who Baby Boy will be calling some French version of grandpa? Nope, can't find the humor there.

I actually called both of my sisters to cry about it. That's how upset I was. I just couldn't bring myself to call a friend, because I felt like I'd be admitting my father's a horrible grandfather and one of them would report him to the bad grandfather government branch. But now I've done that here, so I guess I did it anyway.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

Yeah I'm Pregnant & Barefoot... Go Ahead, Make a Freaking Joke, Smart Ass

Just for the record, I'm on a shoe strike. I know that I'll probably lose my woman card for saying that, but I don't freaking care. Shoes suck. Shoes are the devil. And I'm no longer going to abide by their shoe rules.

Now, I admit I've never been a shoe girl. I own maybe a dozen pair total of sandals, dressy shoes, boots, workout shoes and flip flops. That's not a dozen of each. That's a dozen total.

I've heard of Manolo Blahnik, thanks to Sex and the City. But I can barely warrant spending 30 bucks on a pair of shoes, so the idea of something that costs more than my entire collection of shoes blows me away.

The point is, even though I've never been gaga for shoes, I've never been anti-shoes before either. I mean, really, there has always seemed to be more important causes for me to take up if I was going to make this my cause. Like, I don't know... Anti-poverty or anti-cancer maybe? It just seems it'd be easier to make myself be heard that way.

But I'm not going to take the easy route no more. No sir-ree!

From now on, I am refusing to wear shoes. And you should too. Because they are evil and they suck and they make my sausage feet hurt.

Because in case you didn't know, I have sausage feet now. Not just sausage toes. No. My feet figured that ressembling bratwursts looked like fun and they were getting jipped. And so now they've swollen up like somebody blew really hard into both of my pinky toes.

Now, here's something I'm going to tell you if you promise not to tell anyone else. I'm really a size 7 1/2 when it comes to shoes. But I've been able to squeeze myself into a 7 if a cheap pair of shoes that was cute and on clearance was available. Except that my new fat feet are probably a size 8 or 8 1/2. So trying to squeeze them into my shoes makes me feel like one of the ugly ass stepsisters in Cinderella desperate to get the prince (little known fact: in the original written story of Cinderella, the stepsisters cut off their toes to try to fit in the glass slipper. Yeah, I'm full of useful trivia like that.) I can no longer fit in my close toed dressy shoes that I usually wear to meetings. I mean, technically I can. But the pain becomes excruciating within two minutes and the wailing sounds I make during the entire meeting freaks my clients out.

So today, since I had a meeting, I figured that I'd wear my dressy sandals (which are unworn by the way because I was keeping them for my sister-in-law's wedding later this year) figuring that those would be fine, since there was less shoe to stifle my clown-size feet.

Yeah, except for one problem. Mother. Fucking. Straps. The thing when your feet have grown half a size and are swollen is that the straps will penetrate the first two layers of the dermis. So the straps finally nestled somewhere in the depth of the top of my feet, I think right up against all the bones.

And in case you were wondering, when the straps of your shoes barely show, because they're hidden away in layers of retained water and skin, this makes your feet look even fatter. Not an attractive look.

What I'm saying is, don't expect me to quit my day job and become a foot model just yet.

But if the horrible fashion faux-pas I made today wasn't bad enough, there was the excruciating pain of walking from my Jeep to my client's front door and then having to smile as I stood back up and walked out again.

And then, there was the excruciating pain of removing the shoes once I got home. And yes, I know I could have taken them off in the car, but I can't drive barefoot. It's one of my many quirks.

I've now been home for over an hour, and I still have deep indentations where each of the straps were. I'm pretty sure they may be permanent. And one day Baby Boy will notice my deformed feet and say "what's wrong with mama's feet?" And I'll tell him "you did this to me you little bastard! Now become a plastic surgeon so you can fix them and support me for the rest of your life. And while you're at it, do my boobs, they're starting to sag a little."

So from now on, I ain't wearing shoes no more. I going to be like Britney Spears, and go everywhere barefoot. Except public bathrooms, because that's icky on a whole new planet of ickiness. And when I'm driving, because I can't get over that.

Love,

Catwoman

Monday, August 22, 2005

That's Just a Lot of Pressure on One Uterus...

First of all, I would like to point out that it is 4:20 in the morning right now. It's 4:20 in the morning. I am awake. And I am blogging.

So don't you bitches ever tell me I'm not committed.

Yeah, here's a tip if you ever think of getting pregnant. Don't.

Well, that's not true, I take that back. I've really had an easy time with this pregnancy, but when you're new wake up time is 3:30 every morning to pee, which causes you to eat, which causes the baby to start breakdancing, which causes you to officially be wide awake, you'd get a little pissy too and think that God is punishing you for being non-Christian like in your early 20's. And late 20's, but that's another story for another sleep deprived morning.

So in case I haven't actually posted this here before, my due date is September 9th. But if anyone asks, it's September 8th, because that's my father-in-law's birthday, and at first some Web site had proclaimed the 8th as my due date and that made my father-in-law happy and then the clinic where I'm giving birth said it's actually the 9th and I didn't want to crush his excitement, so I've lied to the hubby's family this whole time, because I figure, it's just a fucking day! And only 5 percent of babies are actually born on their due date, so what does it matter?

Anyway, September 9th, or there about is the big day. So really, it could be anytime.

Except that now, my mother, who always means well yet just seems to stress me out has booked her airline ticket. And she's coming late night September 7th and leaving mid-day on the 11th. 3 1/2 days to meet her newborn grandson.

Except for one problem. This isn't a freaking movie premiere. This is a baby.

And there is the potential risk that on September 11th, when she boards that plane back to the land of maple trees and beavers that the baby will still be some vague concept associated with my growing waistline.

And so now I feel stress. I feel like some princess in the olden days who needs to produce an heir.

I must have this baby by September 7th.

The midwife, feeling my pressure has recommended herbs to help the process along (without getting too graphic she said something about ripening my cervix, which made me feel like having a pear for some reason). She also said to have lots of sex. Which is the equivalent of telling someone who just burnt their hand on the stove to touch the burner repeatedly because it will make it better.

If you ask me right now if I'd rather have my foot chewed off by rats or have lots of sex, I'd ask you how many rats are involved.

I've heard spicy food can help, and I think I may go have myself some thai curry sometime this week and ask them to make it unbearably hot to see if that works. My friend M. said that her sister-in-law went into labor after washing her car. Once Sweetie Pie comes back from his one-day business trip Wednesday, the Jeep will be getting washed.

And if neither of those works, then I guess this bitch is putting out.

And I've just noticed that this is just an excessive use of the word bitch in one post, so I think I should go back to bed and try to get some more sleep now.

I have a deep dark secret to share before I do... I spent close to $200 on scrapbooking supplies today! :-O

Of course I told Sweetie Pie that I spent $50. Which he was pissed about me spending that much, so really, it was for his own good. I heard yesterday on some show that the number one lie couples tell each other is how much money they spend. The way I look at it, I'm just being a good wife then if that's the number one lie. Call it protecting the innocent. I'm like the Robin Hood of this relationship.

I'll just go rob a bank tomorrow and pay off the credit card. That way Sweetie Pie will never need to know.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, August 18, 2005

It Really Doesn't Take Much to Make Me Happy...

I mean I know I can sound difficult sometimes. But really, overall, I think I'm quite easy to please. Unlike J. Lo, I don't have an eyebrow lady flown into town once a month. Hell, half the time I forget to get my eyebrows waxed until I see myself in the mirror and begin flailing my arms around thinking furry caterpillars have claimed my forehead as their undiscovered land. And right now, I'm sitting here typing this in an old t-shirt of Sweetie Pie's and a ponytail.

Although, I could spice it up for you and admit that I am not wearing a bra.

But then you'd remember that I have a giant gut protruding underneath said boobs, and you probably wouldn't think it's so sexy.

Back on track. All of these things prove I'm not high maintenance. But what I'm really wanting to talk about is that I'm easily happy.

For the most part anyway.

But if you want to make me unhappy, here's the secret. Don't let me sleep.

If I don't sleep one night, I get cranky.

Two nights, bitchiness is something you wish I'd be, because I reach a whole new stratosphere of bitchiness.

But three nights without sleep and the world begins imploding on itself.

But last night, after three nights being way too pregnant and uncomfortable and unable to sleep, I slept... All night.

And today, I might as well have won a million dollars. Or an Oscar. Or Brad Pitt on a leash.

I'm blissfully happy, content, at peace. The world is good again.

See? I told you. It's really quite easy to make me happy.

Love,

Catwoman.

Sunday, August 14, 2005

Another One Bites the Dust...

Back around mother's day, I posted about this bitch hole who called me the fat lady when she saw me at church. Don't ask me to find the post and link to it, because you'll unleash my wrath and trust me, you don't want that today with how cranky and sleep deprived I am. Find it yourself.

Anyway, I allowed this woman to live, partly because she was helping to plan my baby shower and it would have seemed a little ungrateful to kill one of my hostesses. Plus she's friends with my mother-in-law who I'm hoping will watch Baby boy as often as my job might require it.

But as of yesterday, letting that woman live has come back to bite me in the ass. You see, my sister-in-law had a bridal shower yesterday. Because my sweet, sweet sister-in-law is getting married exactly one month to the day after my due date. Leaving me one month to not look like a beached whale in the pictures. Oh and did I mention I'm a bridesmaid? Yeah, because I'm a dumbass that way. The correct answer to being asked would have been "I don't want to leak milk at the altar during the vows, I think I'd be better off hidden in the audience." But no, me and my lack of being in people's weddings made me go "oh golly! Let me spend $150 on a dress I'll never wear again." And then I had to order said overpriced dress 10 sizes too big because the David's Bridal lady couldn't predict how ginormous my boobs or my ass might be that soon after my due date.

But that's a whole separate suicide-inducing story. And if Tom Cruise leaves a comment about how I should take more vitamins, I'm going to kick his gay ass out of the closet. Because maybe he'd be a little more fun if he'd just come out already.

Anyway, back to the evil bitch who must die. Yesterday at my sister-in-law's shower, everyone is being polite and sweet to me, telling me how I look great, despite the fact that I have this giant belly and am wearing this bright red outfit that makes me look like a red flag at a NASCAR race. Until the bitch. Who walks over to me and says "OH MY GOD! Look at how big you've gotten!!!!!"

Silence from me as thoughts of skin removal, eating of internal organs and scalpings flash through my brain.

I'm somehow able to meekly smile at her, while Sweetie Pie's cousin who was standing by me talking before we were rudely interrupted simply stands there, her jaw quickly getting a rug burn from having dropped so far open.

My mother raised me to be polite. And so I didn't say what I should have said. Which would have been "well, that's true. But it's because I'm pregnant. What's your excuse?"

Actually my mother and politeness have nothing to do. The one thing that really sucks about my life is that I only come up with the ultimate comebacks later. I think there was a Seinfeld episode about that where George Costanza had the perfect comeback much later and kept trying to get the guy to say the same thing so he could use it.

Except next time I may be hormonal enough to cause physical damage to this woman and forget about the ultimate comeback again.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, August 11, 2005

I Just Don't Like Blood in My Gravy

And that, children, is what they call an intriguing title.

You probably read that and went "what? Blood? Gravy? Oh, I must read that post now."

And read you shall.

You see that sentence was uttered by none other than my Sweetie Pie, who I made chicken fried steak for late last week. Chicken Fried Steak, for those of you reading this outside of Texas, might just be the most horrifying culinary creation ever. It almost killed my dad, a French chef, when I told him what it was. You see, you take a piece of crappy meat, a.k.a. leather. You pound the shit out of it for a mallet, teaching the dog in the process that today is not a good day to fuck with you. You dip it in eggs or some kind of other liquid. Then you cover it in some kind of crumbs, batter, whatever. And then you fry that piece of beaten meat/leather.

That's right. It's a batter-coated steak. That you fry.

And then, just to make sure that any ounce of health benefit has been sucked out of the dish, once the meat is cooked and fried to complete stillness, you smother the whole thing in cream gravy which consists of vegetable shortening, milk and flour.

It's Sweetie Pie's favorite meal in the whole wide world.

With one caveat.

He loves it, loves it, loves it, at just about any restaurant. Roach infested diners? Loves it there. Five-star award winning restaurants trying to cater to rednecks by offering one disgusting common dish? Loves it there too.

But every attempt at my making it, makes him look at it like I've served him raw snails smothered in haggis.

I figured I hadn't tried it in possibly years. So that maybe, just maybe now I would be able to perfect that ideal level of fried crispiness.

Alas, once again, Sweetie Pie was kind of picking at his food, moving it around to make it look like he was eating, but no food ever really making it past his esophagus.

So I made the mistake of asking him if he didn't like it. Which of course, having given away the punchline to this long story about two hours ago, you know that his reply was "I just don't like blood in my gravy."

You see, it's hard to tell with the greasy fried crispiness if the steak is done. I thought it was. But it was still quite bloody in the middle. So what happened is that when we cut into our steaks (our own, not each other's, we've been married for three years at the end of this month, there's no romance left people), blood squirted out and began mixing with the perfect creamy-white gravy.

Which apparently is not appetizing and will make a grown Texan want to go vegetarian.

Earlier this week, I got to babysit a friend's six-year old daugther for a couple of hours while she went to the doctor's. I figured this would be a great opportunity for me to find out if I should just hand baby boy over to CPS the second he's born.

It went well. The child was still alive after the two hours. So I think I got a gold star for that. I did learn a few crucial lessons during those two hours, which I thought I'd share to any of you who may consider having children some day and maybe like me thought they'd enjoy whisky and tittie bars (which by the way, they don't, that should probably be lesson one.)

Lesson #1: Children don't like whisky and tittie bars.

These are things that like scrapbooking and reading a good book in the tub you just don't learn to like until you're a grown up.

Lesson #2: Cupcakes that someone gave you at your housewarming party that came from Walmart and are covered with half a pound each of frosting made of half sugar, half fluorescent food coloring, is not a good snack for a six-year old.

Things that are now permanently pink:

- Child's face
- Child's hands
- Child's white pants
- Table cloth
- Kitchen chair fabric
- Powder room wall
- Top of my dog's head

I'm still confused as to exactly how the dog managed to get pink frosting on his head, but he now has a permanent mark that advertises his gay tendencies.

Lesson #3: Polly Pocket is one nasty nymphomaniac.

I have to say that I was ignorant about Polly Pocket. I'd heard her name, but just like Condoleeza Rice, I was only vaguely aware of her existence and unsure as to what she did besides fly all over the world and grin. I was always a Barbie girl myself growing up. And my Barbies were really, really dirty. They were always naked with Ken, because I'd lose their clothes constantly. I'm pretty sure my Barbie was also either a madam or a drug dealer, because she drove a ferrari despite her only "apparent" income being that she ran a hot dog stand in our basement. Quite fishy indeed Barbie.

And so now, Barbie has been miniaturized in order for children to lose even more clothing pieces and shoes that are made to fit on an ant. And while the six-year old and I played with her Polly Pockets, I realized that unlike Barbie, who wore fabrics like cotton, polyester and fake wool depending on her mood (not the weather, because that's irrelevant in Barbie world), Polly Pocket's outfits are all made of rubber. Rubber dresses, rubber short shorts, rubber bikini bras. This girl has more rubber than a gay brothel.

Lesson #4: Children will always think you're cool if you torture your dog with them

I have to say that I have the sweetest dog in the world. He never complains, he never growls, he's just the most Zen dog in the world. He might be the Dalai Lama of dogs for all I know and maybe dogs around the world think of me as China and keep saying how I force the Dalai Lama to remain stuck in Tibet (my house) and they all hate me while my dog wears dresses and smiles.

The great thing about having a buddhist dog is you can do anything you want to him and he'll let you do it. In fact, last time the six year-old's family watched our dogs for us, she dressed up my buddhist dog in a tutu, slippers, a tiara and boa. And he's actually smiling in all the pictures, like finally, his true colors have been revealed and he is free to be Queen Lola, drag show dancer.

Since the six-year old had a bead machine (not to make jewelry, that wouldn't be fun, no this is to put beads in your hair so you can have that white trash on vacation in Mexico look constantly) and wanted to bead my hair. That was fine for a while, and I'm certain modeling agencies were beating down on my door once she was done with me.

The dog happened to get up to drink some water at some point, bringing attention to himself and someone (I can't say for sure that it was the six-year old, because it might have been me) suggested that we bead the dog's hair. Fast forward 30 minutes later and my dog looks like a rasta dog.

The top of his head, both of his ears and his chest have strings of beads on it. The dog keeps talking about how his shit is so much better than all the other dogs and asking about a bongo drum. Both the six year-old and I further crush his ego by laughing and laughing at him.

I think baby boy and I will be just fine.

Love,

Catwoman.