Tuesday, May 31, 2005

Please Rub my Belly...

Most of you know by now that I'm a woman. I mean, if my name "catwoman" didn't give it away and the fact that I have the ability to be pregnant didn't give it away, then well, I guess I'm amazed that you can read this.

The point is, that being a woman, I have that keen gift that 51 percent of the population has, which is that we change our mind on a whim and that we can get annoyed about not having things that we didn't want to start with, just because we can.

Before I got pregnant, I'd hear all these stories about how fun it is to be pregnant, how people hold the door for you all the time and how strangers touch your belly all the time and how you feel like your personal space is being violated and stuff.

Well, I'm not being violated. And it's really starting to piss me off. I mean, I realize that my belly looks more like a gut. But come on! I'm 25 1/2 weeks into this pregnancy. The countdown clock is on now and I'm starting to feel like Jack Bauer in 24, except that I take a lot of pee and lunch breaks unlike him. Plus I'm not having to torture people. The point is, that I only have MAYBE 14 1/2 weeks left of this pregnancy if baby boy decides to not come early.

And yet, no benefits. No one opens doors for me. No one carries my groceries out for me. No one reaches for my belly without asking first. Why is this? Am I not lovable enough as a pregnant woman where people are just like "screw her, she looks like she can fend for herself."

I mean, I'm wearing the maternity clothes now. And this other pregnant woman behind me at the post office on Saturday could tell I was pregnant because she told the person on the other end of her cell phone "there's another pregnant woman in front of me." And I'm pretty sure she meant me, because the only people in front of us were an 80 year-old woman and two guys.

I just want the opportunity to bitch about people touching me inappropriately. I don't see why it's so damn difficult.



Wednesday, May 25, 2005

Hello, Neurons? Please Stop the Strike, We'll Meet Your Demands

I admit that I've always been a little on the forgetful side. My grandmother always said when I was little "Catwoman just lives on her own little cloud." I'm not very observant, I tend to forget entire conversations I've had with people and I'll tell somebody the same story four times even though each time they've told me they heard it before. I also forget facts easily, remembering something about the general statistic and so making up my own so that a fact like "50 percent of women like XYZ" turns into "95 percent of all aliens like XYZ." In other words, I've kind of got the absent-minded professor thing going on already.

Now add this usual state of mind of mine the fact that pregnancy brings forgetfulness with it (as Sweetie Pie pointed out after reading it in one of his books, a pregnant woman's brain shrinks by five percent) and you've got a serious dumbing down of someone. In this case, a dumbing down of me.

Yesterday was a particularly bad day. It started out with me needing to go to my water aerobics class and realizing five minutes before it that I was going to be late for it. So I jumped into my pregnant woman swimsuit, some shorts and a t-shirt and jumped in the Jeep and began to speed down the alley. Only when I got two blocks from the community center did I realize that my class started at 10, not 9 o'clock like it was then.

So I turned around, only to do the whole thing again an hour later. Of course, I still showed up late, because I wouldn't be me if I showed up on time, you know?

Then, I had a meeting early afternoon with one of my clients. And I was finally going to tell them about my pregnancy. Well, the meeting went 45 minutes instead of the half hour I had planned, and I had a conference call planned almost right after the meeting with my client and therefore I needed to get back to the office. So I figured "screw telling my client about my condition, they've been oblivous for 5 1/2 months, what's another two weeks!" And so I left. And they don't know. Only once I was driving back, did I realize that my conference call was actually an hour after I thought it was.

And then of course, during that meeting that I cut short thinking I was late for my next appointment when I wasn't, I told my clients that I couldn't get them a draft of a document that week, since we were already Thursday. They looked at me a little disturbed and said "Uhm... Today's Tuesday." Without missing a beat I said "Oh, in that case, I can definitely get you a draft this week." I mean, it's one thing to think it's Tuesday instead of Wednesday. But to jump two days ahead in the week??? That's REALLY pushing it.

I had the best dream the other night. Sweetie Pie's cousin is pregnant too, due three months after me. Since I'm carrying the second great grandson on his side of the family, I was really worried that she'd turn around and have a girl and then get all the attention for her offspring. Yes, apparently I'm a slightly overprotective mother-to-be who will probably turn into one of those horrendous stage mothers giving tongue lashings to all of the other kids about how they're not as cute and not as talented as my child. But anyway, in my dream, Sweetie Pie's sister called me and mentioned to me that this cousin had gained 27 pounds so far in her pregnancy. And I replied "really? But she's only 2 1/2 months along! I'm 5 1/2 months pregnant and I've only gained 13 pounds!" I was very happy in my dream.

I woke up with a smile. And in a puddle of drool. But that's a whole other story for another day.



Monday, May 16, 2005

Like a Hug From a Giant Furry Declawed Cat

I'm in love people. And this time, it's for real. I've actually been in love for a while, but recently, this love has reached a whole new level and I feel the need to yell it from all the rooftops. I'm not sure why it's reached a new level of specialness, maybe it's just the pregnancy hormones. Eithere way, I hope it never ends.

His name is General Food International Coffee French Vanilla Cafe. And looking at him, he doesn't look like much. He just sits there on the counter, just a little plain metal can that dents if you drop it on a tile floor. His insides don't look like much either, just a beige powder, as bland looking as a white sheet of paper.

But then his magic comes out. All it takes is a whistle from my tea kettle and he begins to transform. My secret recipe for bringing out the best in him is half water, half milk, so that the baby boy gets calcium as I indulge my senses.

Now I admit that I'm a morning person. I get out of bed and boom, I'm ready to begin the day. But somehow, on those days where I've run out of my General Foods International Coffee, the sun seems a little dimmer, the birds a little sadder and the world a little more bleek.

Because when I first bring that cup of sweet goodness towards my lips, the aroma just warms my senses and makes my whole body smile. And when that first sip begins its journey to my stomach, it's like the whole world has transformed into a giant chenille blanket, hugging me so snugly that I feel like I can never be sad again.

And that moment, I feel complete. I feel happy.

It's strange that I would experience all of this from a cup of coffee, but somehow I do. Now you java lovers are probably scoffing at me. "that's not even real coffee!" And it's probably true. After all "coffee" is the second to last ingredient in the list on the side of the can. There is more sugar, powdered milk, artificial flavoring and other ingredients than the one thing my morning beverage is supposed to actually be. But that's ok. That's why I love it. Caffeine makes me jittery and nervous. Two things I don't need to be. Plus being pregnant, I'm not really supposed to have caffeine anyway.

And I don't care that my loving my General Foods instant coffee is the equivalent to someone telling a beer drinker their favorite beer is Keystone. If it makes me happy, it's no skin off your nose, right?

So this is my love letter today. General Foods, I don't know who you are. But please don't ever, ever go out of business. My happiness and purpose in life depends on it.



Wednesday, May 11, 2005

I'm Melting!!!! I'm Melting!!!

Well, I'm not melting in an ice cream or snowman kind of way. I mean it in the melt down sense of the word. I do love the world melt down. Nothing can quite conjure up the image of just hysterical sobbing, outpouring of snot and eyes puffed shut like those two words.

I keep reading how my hormones are supposed to be more balanced now that I'm approaching the end of my second trimester. Which is a nice theory. But the thing is, they weren't balanced before. So really, they only reached a new level of imbalance (think 9.8 on the Richter scale) and have now reverted back to their old ways.

The thing is that I'm a fraud. I'm a 12-year old girl pretending to be a 29-year old woman. I drive, I make money, I drink alcohol (well, not these days, but when I'm normally not with child, I do drink), I do all the things that adults do. But on the inside, I giggle at these things, because really, I'm not 29. I'm 12. I still ooh and ahh over My Little Pony commercials and enjoy amusement park rides and water rides. And nothing makes me laugh harder than the words "fart" and "poop."

And yet, as much as the 12-year old in me is able to keep up with the fast paced adult world and all its weirdness, ever so often, something happens that makes me realize that I'm not an adult and that I'm really not equipped to handle certain situations.

Case in point being my starting my own business. My Barbie once owned a hot dog stand (she also drove a ferrari. I guess business was really good or she also sold illegal substances that I wasn't aware of), so you'd think I'd know a few things about owning a business. But Barbie didn't seem to have to deal with issues like pay roll and taxes and balancing the books and all headachy stuff like that.

But I do. And today, I had to figure out how to get my taxes, Medicare and Social Security that I retain out of my check to the IRS. And let me tell you, I don't know who writes the litterature for the IRS, but I'm guessing they do it while watching Judge Judy and Passions, because they ain't paying attention to what they're writing. Because really, none of it makes any sense.

And so after a first breakdown, and a call to the IRS, I paid a lot of money (by my standards, not for a corporation like Exxon or IBM) in taxes to the IRS. And then a nagging thought came in my head that maybe I didn't do it right on line and that's when the you know what really hit the fan. You see, I called the IRS back and sobbed the whole time I was on hold. I kept trying to pull myself together, to not frighten the federal employee on the end of the line, and I did manage to hold it together long enough to tell him once he picked up that I was pregnant, unstable and didn't know what the hell I was doing.

And then I started sobbing.

And something funny happened. People are always complaining about the lack of service from government employees, how they don't treat the public right. Well, let me tell you, when they get a call from a hysterically sobbing women, it melts even the hardest-hearted government employee. I have never been treated so well in my entire life. I'm guessing the treatment I received is probably what Julia Roberts experiences at the Ritz or Donald Trump aboard his private jet.

I was called sweetie. I was told that they would make it ok. I think they even agreed to not make me pay taxes for the next 10 years. Although, I'm not absolutely sure on that last one, so I think I'll keep giving money to Uncle Sam just to ensure I give birth outside of his prisons.

So, from now on, anytime I need to call customer service for anything, whether it's a company, an airline or the government, I'm going to ensure that I send myself on an emotional tizzy before calling. I find this works much better than my previous method of being a complete bitch telling them they're a bunch of morons.



Monday, May 09, 2005

Please Don't Expect a Gift...

I have to say, I hate birthdays. And not just my own. I hate other people's, because it means trying to come up with another gift idea. I'm one of those people who really stresses myself out over coming up with the perfect gift. The one that the person will open and weep for hours over while saying "how did you know? How did you know?"

Of course, I have yet to reach this impossible goal. I have gotten a few "wow, that's a great gift" and so the pressure only mounts with each new holiday and birthday. Sigh.

When Sweetie Pie and I got married, I loved being registered. And the fam said how much they loved us being registered, because it meant that they could buy us all of our crap for birthdays, Christmas, even President's Day and Arbor Day if they were inclined to buy us gifts to celebrate those. So why can't everyone just be obligated to maintain a registry at all times. It wouldn't have to be china and flatware and other stuff that you only think you need when you get married (and subsequently don't use most of the stuff, like Sweetie Pie's "got to have" milkshake maker (apparently a blender wasn't sufficient. Total uses of said milkshake maker: 1) or my breadmaker (total uses: 2. Five pounds of bread mix still waiting to be used in pantry though, because of course I bought an industrial size box at Sam's Club) I'm talking like whatever it is you want. A digital camera. A pony. Brad Pitt. Whatever you'd want, you'd just put it on there.

And hopefully your family and friends would love you enough to actually buy that for you. And then everyone would be happy.

I mention all of this because yesterday was Mother's Day. Half of the time, I bail out on the whole thing by sending my mother flowers, because I can't think of something to buy, and then it's too late for me to ship to Canada, and boom, there it is mom, some crappy overpriced flowers that are going to die three days later. Thanks for enduring labor for me and for loving me despite being treated like crap during my teenage years!

This year, luckily with the pregnancy, I was able to come up with a good present. Found a frame that said "cutest baby" on it, made copies of the baby boy's sonogram picture and boom! Great mother's day present. But now, my father's b-day is coming up, and then three weeks later is Father's Day. This all for a man who is impossible to buy for. Sigh...

When I was telling Sweetie Pie about my anxiety over finding two gifts for him, he snarkily replied "why don't you use your old standby of giving him a picture of us." Now this made me mad.

One, because it sounds obnoxious. Two, because even though I do admit to giving people pictures of us in the past, it was all for a good reason. We'd gotten engaged. We'd gotten married. And then, there was the time where we did something else that made it ok to give people pictures of ourselves.

Plus, this was only used as a gift for immediate family. It's not like I gave the mailman a frame with our picture in it for Christmas! Actually, considering we didn't give him anything, he might have actually liked the frame. He could have just tossed the picture really.

If any of you faithful readers have crazy sex fantasies about me, the following is about to put it all to an end. My mid-section now makes me resemble a middle-aged white man. I'm talking Jim Belushi or Jason Alexander.

I know... sexy.

I don't know what happened. I mean, I do know WHAT happened, I got pregnant, but I don't know how my gut just expanded in the last couple of weeks. Three weeks ago, I was fine. Not fine when I was naked, but dressed, I didn't even look pregnant, dependent on proper clothing of course. A bikini would not have served the purpose, obviously. The point is that now, my belly button is giving up on being an innie, it's so shallow that it won't even hold lint anymore and if I only open one side of our bathroom door, I can barely fit sideways. In two weeks, I'm thinking I'll need to open the second door to go to the bathroom. Scary, scary notion.

Here is a scary thought... I know that people say that the brain shrinks during pregnancy. I know that it makes me forget things (like this morning, where I may have called a potential client the wrong name during my entire 40 mn conversation with him, but I'm so forgetful, that I don't even remember if I did call him the wrong name) but does it also make you like bizarre things?

I don't know if I mentioned this, but Sweetie Pie and I are currently renovating our house to put it on sale to buy a larger house. Sweetie Pie no longer wants to share an office with me, afraid that he will some day strangle me with my keyboard's cord (since I type way too loud apparently) and with the amount of crap a baby needs, we're just out of room for three people, two dogs and two cats. Anyway, we were looking at houses online yesterday for fun. And then there it was. The craziest MF house I've ever seen. It's a log cabin... In Texas... On 2 acres of land... And it's HUGE! With wood panelling in every room... And it has a basketball court... And a tennis court... And we laughed at it...

And then I fell in love with it.

It was in our price range. It was funny and didn't make sense and to me, it was me as a house. Random, doesn't make sense and yet endearing. All the things that I strive to be.

And now I want it. Surely, there isn't going to be another pregnant woman who happens to stumble onto it during the next two months while our house sells and snatches it from me.

The fact that no one else will ever want this house does kind of scare me, because let's face it, property value wise, not sure it's the best investment. But love doesn't have to make sense does it? After all, I'm a Canadian ex-vegetarian democrat who thinks Hummers are the devil and married to a Republican Texan hunter who dreams of 3/4 ton trucks. And that's worked out great.

So why can't my log cabin?



Wednesday, May 04, 2005

Look at Me! I'm Young and Hot!

First, I must admit that I'm a shitty ass blogger. There. I've said it. No apologies, just me admitting that I suck at commitment. The fact I'm married blows my mind every day. I have never commited to anything in my whole life. My poor mother spent my entire childhood trying to find some new activity to sign me up for, because I'd try something for three to six months (whatever the duration of the activity was) and then decide that I didn't want to do it anymore because it bored me.

I eventually went through all the normal kids' activities like piano, ballet, gymnastics and softball and was soon relegated to activities like synchronized swimming and karate. And this is in the 80s, back when Karate, despite the success of the Ralph Macchio films, was really not that cool. Especially for a girl.

But I digress. The point is, the fact that I've accumulated 58 entries in my blog (I'm certain it's actually more than that, as the count has stated 58 entries for many of my previous entries, but for the sake of this argument, we'll claim that's it) is incredible. So those of you whining that I haven't posted since February 16th, well... Talk about seeing the glass half empty.

But anyway, let me catch all of you guys up for the past two and a half months. Basically I've just been gaining weight and fooling myself ever so often into thinking when all of my maternity clothes are dirty that I can still fit into my pre-preggers pants. And then of course, I'll discover that said pants won't go any higher than my knees and then drama ensues.

Last weekend, Sweetie Pie's cousin told me that I looked great. Which I was pleased with that compliment. But then she added that I looked thinner now than I did when I wasn't pregnant. I only calmed down once the Medical Examiner's office removed her body.

Now this is the mother of a two year old child. She should remember what it's like to slowly watch your feet disappear and to feel fat every day. So why in the world would she tell me that I was actually fatter before????

My midwife told me I should sign up for a water aerobics class. That it would be a great way for me to survive the Texas summers and that I would feel light and buoyant in the water. Which sounded really good. My city offered classes for low public prices on Tuesdays and Thursday mornings and not having very much work to do, I decided to sign up, despite the fact it would mean missing The View twice a week.

I was really excited that I'd get to wear my Old Navy maternity bathing suit, because it's really cute and flattering and once again, I think I may wear it for the rest of my life. I showed up for class feeling all sassy (and mildly trampy, since Sweetie Pie told me when I proudly modeled my swimsuit that it showed way too much cleavage causing me to shriek that I didn't have much selection in the maternity section) to the pool. As I stood awkwardly in the change room in my little turquoise polka dotted suit holding my towel identifiable by the embroidery of my name on it (made with love by my recently deceased grandmother), I began to notice that everyone around me was between the ages of 75 and 80. And I'm probably on the low end of the age thing. As I entered the pool, I realized that I was the only person under the age of 60 in this class. I began to feel very awkward. The instructor came up to introduce herself and immediately asked me if I had a "medical condition" she should be aware of. When I told her I was pregnant, she said she figured out as much, because everyone my age that shows up for this class always is. Well, that and the gut sticking out in front of me probably gave me away as well.

Anyway, a few of the great-grandmothers introduced themselves to me and I began to feel a little less nervous when the class began. The thing about my cute maternity swimsuit is I think it was designed to lounge by a pool in the shade and try to pick up a man to call the baby's father before the due date. Either way, it ain't made to flail around ungracefully like I did that day. Therefore, it wasn't five minutes into the class that I began having a Tara Reid boob moment, showing some nipple to the old hags and then showing them my attractive butt crack as my bottom of my tankini kept slipping as well.

But the fun part about taking an aerobics class with 80 year old women is that you can be the least fit person ever, you can still kick all of their butts. Therefore, I became that annoying 18 year old with the perfect tanned body that's always in the regular aerobics class yawning and chewing gum through it all while us normal women are red-faced, sweaty messes in our husbands oversized tee-shirts while they're in the thong.

And I have to say, the power of being more fit than all those women went straight to my head. I think I'll join the senior squash league next. I don't know how to play, but I'm sure as hell able to out run any of them. I wonder if the asthma association has marathons I can join too.