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.