I've yet to receive my freaking $70 Sweep N' Mop. Which I ordered over three weeks ago now. Apparently $40 in shipping gets you squat these days. I'm expecting some man on a pony to arrive any day now with a gigantic box that's really shiny, because the Sweep N' Mop has been sweeping and mopping inside it for three weeks.
And yeah, I didn't receive it, so that's why on Saturday, the day our vacuum died, I had to sweep and then mop. I'm not sure if my house is still dirty, but it very well may be considering I have a baby with a tendency to spit up everywhere, two dogs and two cats.
Either way, I'm starting to get very annoyed at the Sweep N' Mop people, because don't they know that if I were a superhero, I would be Instant Gratification Girl?
And no one makes Instant Gratification Girl wait. No one. Except for Tom Brady. He's made me wait for years to be his lover, but I'm willing to keep waiting. Oh and Patrick Dempsey's Dr. McDreamy on Grey's Anatomy (For those of you not familiar with the show, choose Derek Sheppard's bio). I'm willing to wait for him too.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
I've yet to receive my freaking $70 Sweep N' Mop. Which I ordered over three weeks ago now. Apparently $40 in shipping gets you squat these days. I'm expecting some man on a pony to arrive any day now with a gigantic box that's really shiny, because the Sweep N' Mop has been sweeping and mopping inside it for three weeks.
A rant by Catwoman at 1/31/2006 08:39:00 AM
Monday, January 30, 2006
This is my 20th post this month. That means that two out of every three days in January, you guys have had a new post from me to roll your eyes at or wonder "oh God, she's still alive and still posting?"
I wonder more and more about the world of blogging. What the hell's the point of it all? I've got my favorite blogs, that I regularly go to once, twice, sometimes three times in a day (when I'm very bored and Baby Boy's taking long naps) hoping that there's a new post. And I read them and obviously enjoy them, but really, what is it about these people, none of which I know, except for two friends, that interests me enough to keep reading about them?
What did people do in the 70's, when I was really young? Did they listen to eight tracks of strangers talking about their lives? What about in the 1800's? Did people send carrier pigeons with details about their sex lives and such?
Just things dumb people like me ponder...
A rant by Catwoman at 1/30/2006 09:40:00 AM
Sunday, January 29, 2006
I think there's a conspiracy going around. Appliances are revolting and they're playing dead to piss us off. But no matter how much you charge up that heart cranking thinger majiger they always use in medical TV shows like ER (or my favorite Grey's Anatomy), the appliances won't come back to life.
It first happened to my friend M. last week or the week before. She's happily (at least, that's how I imagine her doing laundry, smiling, maybe humming show tunes, dreaming of White Christmases and puppies) putting her freshly washed load of clothes in the dryer, when her dryer suddenly decides that this relationship is going nowhere and decides the best way to break up with her is by dying.
Now if any of you know what it's like to wear wet jeans, you know that it's really crappy timing on her dryer's part. I mean, poor M. having to wear wet clothes for like a week. That just sucks ass.
Then, yesterday morning, in a rare incident that occurs once a millenium, I decided that our house was way too dirty. First I swept, then I dusted, then I polished our wood furniture, then I cleaned the bedroom and finally put away in my closet the bridesmaid dress that had been laying on top of our dresser since the wedding I was in on October 8th. Then, I spread the whole house with that powder stuff that you put on carpet so that people think your house is cleaner than it is. And once Baby Boy woke up, Sweetie Pie went to work on vacuuming all that powder and the colony of pet hair that permanently resides in our carpet.
He starts with the living room, and within two minutes, the place looks like it could be a model home. And then he moves on to our bedroom, where the vacuum cleaner decides that it's time to join the union, because really these working conditions with four pets who all shed like crazy are just abysmal. And so our vacuum cleaner begins to smoke. Not cigarettes, he's not union yet, so he doesn't get cigarette breaks, he starts smoking out of what I determined to be his butt.
Smoke is, I wouldn't say billowing but it was coming at a steady pacy, out of our vacuum cleaner. We gave it five minutes to cool off, think things over. But each time we'd turn him back on, it was "hey look at me, I'm smoking bitch, now step away from me."
And so I went to Consumer Reports' Web site to see which vacuum cleaner was the best for us to buy (which by the way, it's not the Dyson and it's capability of sucking 10,000 times the force of gravity. The Dyson models did really crappy! From Consumer Reports' ratings, looked like they couldn't suck a breadcrumb out of your hand, let alone the moon of its gravitational pull) and then I ordered it from Walmart.com so that I could get the 10 bucks in Upromise dollars for Baby Boy's College fund. Hey, just because we're buying appliances doesn't mean we shouldn't think of the future.
So anyway, during the seven to 10 days it takes Walmart by my house to receive our brand new Hoover vacuum, we are stuck in a house that has a whole box full of Arm & Hammer carpet deodorizer in it.
Except for our living room and Baby Boy's room (which I hadn't put powder in, since it only recently started being used and I was worried about potential allergy issues), our whole room is an asthmatic's worst nightmare. Thanks vacuum cleaner for picking just the right time to die. Don't expect flowers from me you prick.
A rant by Catwoman at 1/29/2006 05:57:00 PM
Saturday, January 28, 2006
So I've been on my diet for 10 gazillion years now. And I've lost a whole two pounds. This means that I'm exhilarated that I'm a whole baby chihuahua lighter, but I'm also thinking that with all of the freaking working out I've been doing and the half-assed attempts at sticking to my diet, I should have lost more.
Sweetie Pie was complaining that there was no junk food in the house, which the reason for that was that I'm home all day and Baby Boy doesn't yet have the knowledge that he needs to keep me away from the pantry. So I went out and got some cookies and other junky stuff for Sweetie Pie, promising myself that I would be good.
Which of course, is like asking Satan to stop his quest for soul collecting.
And so it began. The day after the cookies arrived, I'd eaten almost the whole pack. Unfortunately, I didn't have time to run to the store and replace it with another almost new bag, so I was caught.
Sweetie Pie then decided to hide the junk food. Despite letting the dogs smell the old empty bag of cookies, they were unable to find the hidden stash. Remind me never to get caught under an avalanche, because those damn dogs will be too busy looking for the nearest couch to lay on rather than find me. Unless of course it's feeding time and I'm asleep. Then they'll find me in four seconds flat.
Anyway, like a junkie looking for the crack she hid at the bottom of her elderly mother's pill case, I searched most of the house, but could not find anything. And so I have come up with a new strategy. I now make cupcakes. During the past week and a half or so, I have made German Chocolate Cupcakes, Double Chocolate Fudge Cupcakes and I have now just baked French Vanilla Cupcakes. Each time I tell Sweetie Pie adoringly "Look what I've made you!"
And each time, he reminds me that he's just not a cake guy, that it's pies he likes. With this third batch, I think I may have been pushing my luck, because he said to me "You're making these for yourself! Stop making cupcakes!"
Of course, I scoffed (because that's what people do in the movies, when they're attacked unfairly with weak evidence), because only 10 of the 12 cupcakes were for me. The other two, I really did hope that Sweetie Pie would eat them and spare my thighs.
A rant by Catwoman at 1/28/2006 05:44:00 PM
Friday, January 27, 2006
If this doesn't make you want to get pregnant by the next drunk guy who hits on you and make you think of stealing your neighbor's dog, I don't know what will.
Not that I encourage immoral and illegal behavior on my blog. But the entire reason I had a baby and have dogs is so that I could someday take this picture.
Now that the dogs and the baby's purpose has been served, I have no freaking clue what to do with any of them.
By the way I apologize for posting yet another picture of my baby, but hey, he's about 90 percent of my social life now, so what do you expect...
By the way, you may have noticed a sharp rise in the number of postings in 2006. This is because I have made my new year's resolution that I would blog more, since some of you felt enough pity to comment that you wanted me to continue blogging. But I may be like your crazy uncle. You find his antics funny once a year at Christmas, but he might get irritating if he moves in with you. So if my blogging more than once a week is irritating you, well, I greatly apologize. But don't worry, most new year's resolutions are broken by this time. Of course, the fact that I've managed to stick to mine, is bad news for all of you.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
I heard something recently that really made me think. Now, you'd think to yourself that since I found this statement to be so mind provoking, that I would recall where I heard this, but I do not. I probably heard it on television, because I'm an illiterate hick these days who get 90 percent of my knowledge from television and the other 10 percent from Baby Boy who already knows so much more about the world than me and is kind enough to share his wisdom with me.
Wherever I heard this statement doesn't matter, the point is that it is so freaking true, it caused me to pause and think. And maybe it will do the same for you.
This statement was that every seven years, you live a different life.
Meaning that if you think back to your life seven years ago, you'll see that you are a completely different person in a completely different life. By the way, if one of my three loyal readers happens to know where the hell I heard this, please post it in the comment section, because it's driving me nuts.
Anyway, the point is that seven years ago, I was a different person. I was thinner and my ass could look good in just about any jeans. I dumped guys at the drop of a hat and let some asshole break my heart and tell me that I wasn't marriage material. I was such hot stuff that a firefighter fell hard for me and stalked me for months because I was done with him after one night.
Seven years ago, I was a cool chick who lived in Uptown Toronto and went to pubs every night with her friends. I got drunk a lot and didn't have a penny to my name and credit card companies called me even more often than my mother. I once walked three miles to get to an ATM that gave five-dollar bills, because I only had seven bucks left in my account and I was out of noodles. My diet mainly consisted of beer and pasta and tomato sauce, which I think might be the world's greatest diet, since I was thin and still managed to have big boobs.
Seven years ago, I had bangs because I was convinced my forehead was freakishly huge and must remain hidden from the world. I wore biker style boots and boot-cut jeans were a mystery to me. At work, I wore skirts that were way too short since it was right when Ally McBeal was at its prime and all the suits in the stores I shopped in came with skirts that hinted at the fact you might be wearing a thong. I rolled my eyes when older women would make comments about the inappropriateness of my outfit.
Seven years ago, I was at the bottom of the food chain at work and yet acted like I ran the place, since I knew everything. I thought the worst thing that could happen to someone would be to get fired or laid off. I believed either one meant the end of the world.
Seven years ago, I had the world's greatest apartment that I rented after a gay movie producer moved out. It had hardwood floors and each room was painted a different color. My living room was blue, my kitchen was orangy-red, my bathroom was purple and my bedroom was green. The toilet ran all the time and the lady below me would hit the ceiling if I happened to get off my couch too fast. The heat was never on high enough in the winter since utilities were included, so I often used my oven to keep the place a little warmer. I had three cats and a rabbit and I loved it.
Seven years ago, I met a man named Sweetie Pie (well, his real name is obviously not Sweetie Pie, or else I'd have to make him change that legally) who through many small actions caused me to leave a life and city I loved for the uncertainty of Dallas. He then somehow convinced me to marry him and then permanently damage my body with stretch marks and cause my once perfect boobs to sag in defeat to have the world's most gorgeous baby.
And so flash forward to today. During the past seven years I've managed to make a commitment to one man and keep that commitment without wavering once. I learned that getting fired (twice!) can be the greatest thing that ever happens to you, because the first time, when I was laid off, Sweetie Pie was forced to let me move in with him, since he couldn't afford his mortgage and my rent. The second time, it made me try to work for myself, which I've now happily been doing for almost 18 months and has allowed me to be at home with my baby.
I've learned that my needs don't matter, and that as long as a 15-pound baby is happy, everything else in life is fine. I've learned that you can't trust everyone, when the world is filled with people who are willing to fly planes full of innocent souls into large sky scrapers. I've learned that cynicism comes with growing up, that the evil people will get to you, no matter how much you want to keep a pure heart.
I've learned that nothing beats a Friday night on the couch watching a rented movie. That "sleeping in" until 5:30 a.m. is incredible when you get to see a baby smile back at you when you lean into the crib, bleary-eyed.
I've learned to stop wishing for the stuff I don't have and appreciate the things I do have. I've learned that making at least the minimum payment makes the credit card companies love you a lot more.
And the coolest thing of all is that in seven years, I'll be living another entirely different life. How freaking awesome is that?
A rant by Catwoman at 1/24/2006 01:32:00 PM
Monday, January 23, 2006
This weekend might have been the awesomest, bestest, most amazingest weekend ever. I've been cutting coupons out of the Sunday paper ever since I can remember. I'm probably not the best person at using those coupons in the most effective way, but I think that on a scale of one to 10, I'm probably a five, which makes me better than half of the population out there.
Well, on Friday, I was reading the stack of flyers that we get in our mailbox regularly and one of the local grocery stores, which happens to be the one closest to my house was having a triple coupon promotion all weekend. This means that if you have a 50 cent coupon, it becomes a $1.50 coupon. I know, fucking incredible, right? This is the kind of thing that makes me glad to be alive.
So Saturday morning, I went through all of my coupons to pick out all the ones eligible for the promotion (you can only use coupons 75 cents and lower) and then went on a trip to the store with Baby Boy. I had organized the coupons in order of the aisles, so that we could be as efficient as possible in our quest to get as much crap as possible for as little money as possible. Baby Boy was in charge of holding the coupons on his lap, until he realized that if kicked his legs, the coupons would go flying, which is very funny when you're four months old and have no concept of money or how much time your mother spent organizing those coupons.
Anyway, 45 minutes later, we were at the cash register and our tab came to $32. We saved freaking $28!!!! I got sixty bucks worth of stuff for almost half that price. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Go me!
Then, Sunday morning, I was awake quite early, because I knew that new fresh coupons were coming out and my subconscious was concerned that everybody would beat us to the store and clean the aisles of the stuff in the coupon flyer.
So, with Baby Boy in my lap, we scoured the flyer and cut out all of the coupons we wanted. This time, we managed to spend $22 and saved $25! We're just getting better and better at this I tell you!
Here are some of the best deals we got. I hate to brag but I've got shampoo coming out of my whazzoo and you don't... I got a bottle of shampoo and a bottle of conditioner for 25 cents each. I also got three bars of Zest soap for 75 cents. I got baby shampoo for 25 cents. I got bathroom cleaner for 50 cents. I got ketchup for 25 cents. I got a coffee cake for two dollars.
Our freezer is full, we're guaranteed to be clean for years to come and Sweetie Pie's not sure how my spending $55 is considered saving. But trust me, we are so going to be millionaires because of me.
A rant by Catwoman at 1/23/2006 09:17:00 AM
Sunday, January 22, 2006
The other day, I was getting out of the shower and I had Baby Boy sitting in the bathroom in his bouncy seat, since we were home alone and he just won't behave if I leave him loose on the driveway. I got out of the shower and with the way our bathroom is, I have to walk across the bathroom (this makes it sound like my bathroom is 500 square feet, which it's not, but I do have to walk about three steps) to get to my towel. Some of you would say that I could simply grab my towel before getting it in the shower and leave it on Sweetie Pie's counter so that it's there waiting for me, but that would require some thinking and logic that is beyond my capabilities.
The point is, that I walked across the bathroom, naked and vulnerable and Baby Boy started laughing his ass off. If he was old enough to point, I'm sure he would have done that too. I didn't know whether to be really pissed or to laugh along with him. I told him that someday, he would impregnate a woman (hopefully when he's no longer in an age that ends in "teen") and after she had a baby, her stuff would be shaking like a big bowl of jelly too. And because the world is made the way it is, he'd have to keep having sex with her and pretend that she's still hot stuff. Somehow, he didn't seem to believe me.
But here's the scary part. My BMI is just above the healthy range (it's about 25.5 when they tell you that you should be between 20 and 25), but that didn't scare me into getting thinner; I can't buy any new clothes, because things in my old size don't fit me and I'm refusing to spend money on a larger size, but that still didn't stop me from inhaling Chips Ahoy cookies throughout the week. But my four and a half month old son laughing at the sight of his naked mother? Well, that did the trick. I've worked out three times this week, including going to a free StrollerFit class held at a park near my house, which I loved working out with Baby Boy so much, I've decided to sign us up for more.
Every single muscle in my body hurts from this extreme plunge into getting into shape. I've now decided that I'm going to get in the best shape of my life. I'm not sure how long this kick is going to last, but hopefully, it lasts long enough where I need to buy a new wardrobe in a smaller size than my old one. Than I can be the one who laughs at Baby Boy when he's naked. After all, he's got cellulite in his ass and man boobs, so really, if that's not the pot calling the kettle black, I don't know what is.
A rant by Catwoman at 1/22/2006 09:18:00 AM
Friday, January 20, 2006
Yesterday, I learned the difference between cool, funky PR people like myself and the lamo conservative number crunchers. Not that I like one group better than the other.
Baby Boy had his first day of daycare yesterday. Please don't bring it up again, it makes me want to cry. So just drop it, ok? Anyway, I'm very lucky, because one of my best friend's sister watches kids in her house, and since I'd give a kidney to this friend should she need one, I feel like anyone related to her is pretty damn trustworthy. Plus, the sister also watches my friend D.'s kids and they're great kids who are very advanced, her 11-month old already knows how to say "cat."
Now, the not-so-great part about this arrangement is that my friend is originally from Butt Fuck Nowhere Texas. I mean literally. That's the name on the sign at the entrance of town. OK. No, it's not. But because this town has popped up with four houses in the middle of a field on some dirt road in the middle of nowhere, I had to ask my friend for directions. Her instructions included information like "when you get to a big hill, look for flashing lights." (I hope she wasn't speaking of the ones in that show Invasion where the lights are aliens who'll take over your body). And things like "look for the church-looking building where people live now" (which meant I knocked on the door of a couple of such buildings to ask people if they did in fact live there to ensure that I was in the right County) and "you'll pass a grove of trees and a Colonial-type house." (Admission number one: I wasn't exactly what a grove was. I figured it must be an open area with a bunch of trees in it. Apparently I guessed right. Admission number two: I'm an ignorant moron when it comes to architectures. I had no idea what a colonial-type house was and confused a barn with colonial-type architecture, meaning that I pulled into the wrong driveway).
The point is that my friend gives great vivid creative directions to get to places. Visual landmarks, the opportunity to speak to people and so forth. She's a creative person who loves life and it shows in her directions that let you enjoy the countryside while making new friends.
Later that day, I had a meeting with a financial planning firm at their offices. Even though I had their address in Dallas and had a pretty damn good idea of where it was, they insisted on emailing me directions. Their directions were so freaking thorough that it put the fear of God in me. Their directions included two paragraphs of turning in the parking lot to park in their two free parking spots. As well as instructions to "turn right when you get out of the elevator. Turn right again and walk down the hall exactly 153 feet to our door. Turn the door handle to the right, push the door open and step five feet to the front desk where our receptionist will be wearing a blue blazer, veneer teeth and a pin given to her by her great-grandmother."
Of course I didn't get lost or confused with these directions. But I've never been more grateful in my whole life to not be so good with math. I figure my friends would be a hell of a lot less fun if I'd been a CPA.
A rant by Catwoman at 1/20/2006 09:39:00 AM
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Now I've mentioned in a previous post a couple of horrendous Christmas gifts I got. Well, this weekend, I had to deal with another shitty one, this one had a gift receipt attached, however, so I wasn't as unhappy with it.
My mother-in-law is pretty much hit and miss with gifts. She started buying me gift certificates to The Limited three or four years ago, and that made me the happiest person in the world, because The Limited is my favorite store.
This year, I'm guessing the gift budget got reduced for me because Sweetie Pie's sister got married and all of a sudden, my mother-in-law had two in-laws to buy for. I'd previously been an only in-law, and I greatly enjoyed this time. Now, I have to share which means that I'm prone to tantrums and pouting.
Anyway, this year my gifts consisted of ugly ass slippers that are so soft and comfortable, I actually kept them, despite them making my feet look like they belong on an 80-year old's body; some cash (which is always good, especially when you have lots of debt like we do) and the world's ugliest jacket.
My mother-in-law has this favorite store. I'd hate to mention the name of it on this blog, because I don't have a lot of readers and if one of you shops there, then you'll take offense to my hatred of this store and stop reading my blog and then no one will read me anymore and it'll be like talking to myself, which until Baby Boy arrived, was pretty much what I did most of the day.
Anyway, this store my mother-in-law shops at, I've never been in. But I'd walked by the window a few times and shuddered at the sight of the Mom Jeans and ugly ass jackets.
Unfortunately, I became the proud owner of one of those jackets. Best way for me to describe it is imagine the world's ugliest paisley couch. Cut a jacket out of the fabric, stick it in a box and you have my gift. This jacket doesn't look like anything I'd ever remotely approach, let alone wear.
However, my mother-in-law upon seeing this jacket, decided that it was soooooo me.
Odd. I never thought of myself as an ugly ass jacket.
Either way, Sweetie Pie and I headed to the mall with Baby Boy and the ugly jacket and proceeded to exchange it. I went to their Web site to figure out if there was a closer location to us and that's when I saw more of their clothing. And my blood ran cold.
I warned Sweetie Pie that there was the distinct possibility that I may not like anything in the whole damn store.
And well, long story short, there wasn't anything I liked in the whole damn store. Which I knew would probably happen when I saw that every sales lady in there was over 60 years-old.
Unfortunately for me, the store was having its big annual sale. So this meant that hundreds of 55+ year old women were running through the store, grabbing ugly blouses, hideous jackets and too many pairs of Mom Jeans while we tried not to get stepped on. We walked the store four times. Literally, nothing in that store would be something I'd want to bother carrying home. I told Sweetie Pie we should just pick something out for his mother with my credit and give it to her as a Mother's Day present. That's how desperate I was getting.
Finally, we saw the jewelry case and there was a necklace in silver with my initial on it and even though I would never normally spend 40 dollars on a necklace like that, I did. And then I bought a 15 dollar frame that's made of fake suede. Which once again, I'd never spend that much on a frame, but it was either that or Mom Jeans. And I'm just not ready for that.
On another note, I've lost two pounds in two weeks. Yeah, I know totally beating the world record for weight loss. Don't hate the player, that's all I'm saying.
A rant by Catwoman at 1/18/2006 12:52:00 PM
Monday, January 16, 2006
So I've started putting our tax stuff together, because I'm looking forward to Sweetie Pie doing our taxes because I'm thinking we're going to get a tax return equivalent to many thousands of Frostees this year. Which is quite the change from last year, where the IRS owed us a total of one dollar. I'm not making that up. I'm pretty sure the government sent us a roll of pennies, just to really laugh at us.
I printed out my own W2, which was rather funny to me, because it's like, ok, how much did I make, enter that, and here you go... A W2. It still cracks me up in many ways that I'm my own boss and responsible for all that tax stuff. If you've ever tried to figure out any of that stuff for yourself by going to the IRS Web site, I commend you. Now let me say, that I had to do it pregnant, during a particularly hormonal time. This led me to many a times throw myself on my bed and sob hysterically, telling Sweetie Pie that I just couldn't understand any of it and the IRS was going to send me to jail. Sweetie Pie would then call his accountant grandfather, who would tell him the answer to my problem and then would kindly, out of the goodness of his heart, send me a bill for a hundred dollars in the mail for said advice, which would lead me to sob that I was only paying myself minimum wage and now, I couldn't even pay myself that thanks to this heartless bastard of a grandfather-in-law of mine.
Anyway, I did the math on all of our healthcare spending and although I realized last night that I forgot to add the large bottle of Advil I bought at Sam's in December (I'm pretty sure Trim Spa does not count as a healthcare expense, so I didn't count that), we're still at over 12,000 dollars in healthcare spending for the year 2005. Now this to me is both alarming and highly funny.
I could have bought two Kias for the amount of money we spent. Now, I'm not saying that I'd actually want two Kias, but it would be nice to think that I've got so much money to throw around that I could actually walk into the Kia dealership, drop down all of my credit cards and say "I'll take two."
But I'm excited at the prospect that we'll get some of this money back and potentially make a dent big enough in the credit cards for us to charge our summer trip to France.
Yeah, this is how good I am with money. I pay off the cards just enough so I can charge them up again. And then I wonder why I get between four to six credit card applications a day.
A rant by Catwoman at 1/16/2006 02:05:00 PM
Saturday, January 14, 2006
There is a reason why I'm in charge of the family finances. And that's because I suck at handling money. I know this may not seem to make sense to you, but it makes extremely good sense to me. You see, when Sweetie Pie was handling the finances, there was no way for me to cover up how much money I spend on stupid crap. But I somehow finnagled my way back in and now Sweetie Pie just happily fills up his truck a few dollars at a time, certain months causing us hundreds of dollars in overdraft fees because of his habit of doing lots of small purchases than one big one. And I quietly curse him out in my corner, knowing I can't actually say something, or else he'd ask me why we're out of money in the first place. And then he'd take one look at our credit card debt and have a heart attack and die and since he doesn't have a life insurance policy right now, I can't afford for him to die. See, I do all this because I love him and want him to live.
Also, I don't want him to leave me. And I'm pretty sure he would if he knew the kind of stupid crap I pull all the time.
Like the other day. I keep seeing these ads on TV for Sweep 'N Mop. I'm sure you've seen them too about the lady who sweeps and she mops and it's still not clean. Well, I can relate to that woman, because I've got two dogs and two cats and I hate to sweep and I hate to mop and so it never looks clean. And I really can't afford a maid.
And after having seen the commercial a few times, I actually went to the Web site and decided that I wanted to have a clean home thanks to the revolutionary moisture-retaining pockets of the Sweep 'N Mop moppy thingie.
The advertised price is ten dollars. Quite the bargain. But then, they throw in a second Sweep 'N Mop thingie, which I'm not sure why I need two, since Sweetie Pie and I don't intend to make sweeping and mopping together our new lovers' hobby, but I figure, they're throwing in a free one, so why not!
Well, on the Web site, they tell you as you're ordering that great news! There's now a deluxe version of the Sweep N' Mop which cleans at ten gazillion times the force of gravity (I may be confusing my commercials at this point). And it's only ten dollars more! Well, for only ten dollars more, I figure, why not! You only live once and what is the real price of a clean house? Priceless, right?
Then, Mr. Sweep N' Mop Web site man tells me that I qualify for free replacement heads for life! And would I like six of them, for only the price of shipping and handling. Well, at this point, I'm overenthused and thinking, sure! I've got pets, I'm sure I'll be Sweeping N' Mopping my heart out, and at some point I'll need replacement heads and six seems like a lot to start out with, since I'm not even sure this sweeping and mopping thingie is really as great as they say it is, but what the hell, right?
And then I'm asked for my credit number and just as I click the next button, thinking I'm going to get my subtotal, the Sweep N' Mop tricky Web site man tells me that congratulations, I've just ordered myself 70 dollars worth of mopping shit.
My heart stopped. What the hell is this?????? 70 dollars? How is this possible. Well, ends up that the Sweep N' Mop people take advantage of gullible people like me. The deluxe mop is actually $10 more for each mop. So that I've now purchased 15 dollar mops instead of the amazing value of two five dollar mops. Then, my shipping and handling on my crap is a total of 40 dollars. Because apparently, an endangered animal is hand delivering this shit to me.
And here's the funniest part of it all. Not only could I not cancel my order, even if I were to return it, I'd have to pay shipping to have all this crap returned and I wouldn't get the 40 bucks in shipping that I paid to receive it back. So at this point, even if this Sweep N' Mop thing is a piece of crap and doesn't do squat that my three dollar Target mop can't do, I'm stuck with this thing, unless I post it on Ebay and find someone who's even dumber than me!
A rant by Catwoman at 1/14/2006 10:00:00 AM
Friday, January 13, 2006
I know I tend to talk quite a bit of smack about Sweetie Pie on this blog. I do love the man to death, after all, I freaking married him and unlike celebrities, I actually believe that marriage should last longer than the shelf life of lettuce.
But today, I was reminded of why I married Sweetie Pie, and why, no matter how much he may piss me off, I intend on staying married to him.
I've been meaning to go to the grocery store for three days now (it's just been one of those weeks). I've started a list of the items we need and placed it on the kitchen island. This morning, I happened to notice that Sweetie Pie had added grape jelly to the list and another entry: Scooby Snacks.
It's stupid stuff like this that makes me weak in the knees. If that makes me weird, well so be it.
On another note, should I tire of Sweetie Pie, I'm reassured to know that I've still got it. Yesterday, I was driving back from a meeting and I was on my way to go pick up Baby Boy. When all of a sudden, this car pulled in front of me, and the guy began eyeing me and smiling at me in his sideview mirror. Confused at first (of course, I would be, since this is me after all), I thought that it was my brother-in-law, since all I could see was eyes and a mouth, both of which looked like they could belong to said brother-in-law. So I began to wave, which made the guy really happy that some chick was actually responding to his flirthing. After a couple of minutes of him flirting and me grinning stupidly and waving back, it finally occured to me that my brother-in-law drives a white pick-up truck, not a black Toyota of some kind from the 80's. I was quite embarrassed, but then quite excited that I still had the stuff, despite the car seat in the back, the rock on my left ring finger and my thunder thighs.
A rant by Catwoman at 1/13/2006 09:54:00 AM
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
I just wanted to share that I just ordered this.
I love that Lakeside, the catalogue that sells more great crap than anyone else is now selling risque stuff! They also have a French Maid costume. I find it particularly funny that my order included the candy bra, a Fisher Price tub side organizer/knee and elbow rest and a dryer lint cleaner. Talk about your one-stop shopping!
So great news peeps, I've lost a total of 0.5 pounds on my diet so far. I'm guessing that eating all the chocolate that was in my house was the reason I managed to lose all that weight. Yup, I'm pretty sure that half a pound is already helping my pants feel looser and my bras no longer make me look like I have four boobs. I wonder if the candy bra will make me look like I have four boobs. That would be pretty cool, like "yup, I have four boobs, but look! They're covered in candy!!!!"
A rant by Catwoman at 1/11/2006 09:33:00 AM
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
This is getting bad, really bad. I'm talking about the kind of bad that can make the world fall off its axis. I'd heard of pregnancy brain and thought I kind of developed that. I think the theory goes something like the growing fetus sucks the few brain cells out of its mother so that it has a shot of being smarter than its parents.
And then, after you give birth, there's mommy brain. I'm not sure what the explanation for Mommy brain is. Maybe it's that a woman pushes so hard to get the baby out, that she ends up pushing out her brain with the baby. Maybe there is no such thing as the placenta, maybe it's the brain and nobody knows it.
Whatever the scientific explanation for Mommy brain might be, I am the poster child for it. Look in the dictionary for the definition of "dumb ass" and you'll see my stupid grinning face next to it. Probably wearing one of those hats with a propeller on it that dumb asses wear.
The other day, Jessica Simpson called me a dummy. That's how bad I'm getting. Here are just a few of the things I've done during the past two weeks. And this is by no mean a complete list, since I've probably already forgotten half of the dumb things I've done.
1. What Purse?: On our flight back from Ottawa to Chicago, I managed to fold up my purse in our stroller, which I handed to the gate agent without a single thought. Obviously. Things that my purse contained: our passports, my green card, my wallet, my favorite lipstick and our boarding passes for our next flight. Enough to say that when I realized what I'd done halfway to Chicago, I was kind of pooping my pants. When we landed, I waited for the stroller to be brought up and when I opened it up, there it was, my purse!!!! Amazingly, the purse was unzipped, because I couldn't even remember to do that, making it even more likely for us to lose something. Thankfully, the universe feels sorry for morons and nothing happened to slip out.
2. Ice Cream is Best at Room Temperature: I went to the grocery store the other day, decided to be nice to Sweetie Pie and buy him ice cream, despite being on a diet and being tempted by any sweets within 30 miles of me. I got home, promptly took out the ice cream and then left it out on the counter. I have no idea what my brain did right then and there, but it must have been something like this: Step one: buy ice cream Step two: drive home Step three: bring groceries inside Step four: take ice cream out of bag Step five: oh! Shiny object! Preeeeeeeeetttttty! Sweetie Pie came home four hours later to find the ice cream with a pretty brown puddle under its shell. He didn't think "it's the thought that counts" made up for my being a moron. again.
3. Dear Mr. Robbers: Please Come In. I Keep All My Jewelry Right Here: Sweetie Pie came home yesterday to find the garage door wide open. And my truck gone. Which meant I wasn't home. Which meant that our inside door to the garage was unlocked, so that anyone could easily come into the garage, steal Sweetie Pie's tools and four-wheeler and then conveniently move on to all of our indoor possessions. Because I'm sweet that way. I believe in making people's jobs as easy as possible. Luckily, yesterday was a national holiday for robbers, as they were still recuperating from a really crazy New Year's Eve watching Regis and that big shiny ball drop, so nothing was taken.
4. Bacteria Will Only Make Baby Boy Tougher: I have spent a lot of money with the infant formula companies. I'm like a casino high roller for them. They keep sending me free samples and discount checks, knowing that even if they send me $10,000 worth of stuff, I'll still manage to spend $25,000 with them. So they ain't worried. Formula is expensive and around here, we treat it like it's gold (so the robbers could have never gotten it, because they'd never know the secret code to get into the formula safe, bwa haha! When the formula companies tell you "breastfeeding is best," they mean, it's free you moron and has everything your baby needs in it! Of course, when your boobs serve no purpose than for porn, well, thank goodness the formula companies are around. The other day, Sweetie Pie was in charge of Baby Boy's nightime feeding. When I got up in the morning, he'd left the bottle of pre-mixed formula (brand new, good for about six feedings) out on the counter. I was so pissed. He looked at me and said "I don't know how to use the liquid stuff, I only use the powder, so I'm guessing you left it out yesterday evening." Oh, never mind then. Since you can't feed a baby any formula that's been left out for more than two hours, I poured another six dollars down the drain.
My only accomplishments the past two weeks are to remember to take Baby Boy with me everywhere I go and not forget him anywhere. And to remember to shower at least every other day. Oh, and I remembered to feed the cats once or twice.
A rant by Catwoman at 1/10/2006 10:08:00 AM
Monday, January 09, 2006
You probably know that I have quite a few quirks by now. I mean, really, if I was a dog, I'd probably be called insufferable and be put down.
But I'm a human, so people are stuck dealing with me the way I am. And because I'm now over 30, I'm considered to be an old dog and well, you can't teach me a new trick, bitch.
One of my quirks slowly developed over the years and became a full-blown issue during my flight attendant years. There is nothing nastier than a plane. If you didn't know this and have been on a plane before, well, I'm sorry to destroy your innocence in this manner, but really, you should be a little brighter than that. Think about it. Some of these planes are 20 to 30 years old. Each one has hundreds of seats. Each one does multiple flights in those days. That means potentially hundreds of thousands of people touch everything, many of them not being hand washers, having diseases of all kinds and so forth. And no one ever sprays those planes down with industrial-sized cans of lysol. Planes are disgusting and half the people riding on them are too. And you, dear reader, better be part of the clean 50 percent, or else I'm going to have to disinfect this blog from top to bottom. But just in case, please take your grubby little hands off of it, go wash them, add some Purell and then feel free to touch it, but only on the edges.
Ever since having a baby, my germ phobia has spread to protecting my innocent illness-free child from all of those nasty ass strangers who feel the need to grab his chubby little hands which he now sucks all day long.
Therefore, more of my discretionary income has gone to Purrell and generic-brand hand sanitizers than ever before. And when weirdos come up to me at Target, the mall or wherever I may happen to be and grab my baby's hand, I'm always polite and smile and never say anything. But as soon as they turn away, out comes the Purrell napkin and Baby Boy gets wiped down from top to bottom.
Oh, have you seen that Airborne commercial, with the guy dressed like a giant purple germ walking on the airplane and licking the lady's cup, sneezing on people and so forth? Yeah, that commercial terrifies me so much, I have nightmares of that guy.
I may be a freak, but Internet, I'm your freak.
A rant by Catwoman at 1/09/2006 08:57:00 AM
Saturday, January 07, 2006
Baby Boy got very spoiled for Christmas. He got a ton of French-speaking toys from my family, which is what I requested. He also got this beautiful stuffed animal frog (I almost wrote stuffed frog there, which probably would have been taken the wrong way by some of you and who would have thought I let my baby play with a dead taxidermied frog, which indeed I do not) from my sister, which she told Baby Boy and I that the frog is French (of course) his name is Max, which is short for Maxime, because Maxime is a very fancy restaurant in Paris, and the frog is fancy looking himself, with patches on his knees and elbows and a bow around his neck. So Max was added to Baby Boy's crib.
Yes, I know that babies as young as Baby Boy shouldn't sleep with stuffed animals because it increases the risk of SIDS. But Baby Boy is now over three months old, which is when the risk of SIDS greatly diminishes. And he started being happier in his crib and sleeping longer once we allowed him to hold on to his pet sheep (also stuffed for the record) that my other sister gave him. And obviously the child is still alive and is climbing the percentile chart, so I can't be that bad of a mother.
Now that I'm done with that little side note, back to Max. Baby boy likes his sheep and always keeps his sheep by his side. Max however, has been used as a hostage during hostile nap attempts more times than his short life should have witnessed. We keep Max at the top of Baby Boy's crib where Max can keep a loving eye on the baby. But Baby Boy takes the opportunity to snatch that frog by his face/throat/a leg, whatever appendage happens to be in easy reach and shake him hard in the air as hard as his four-month old body can threatening me with the life of the frog.
I find this not only amusing, but I tend to encourage these acts of violence from my child. After all, what bully will mess with him, when he's clutching the body of a Saint Bernard over his head screeching at the top of his lungs when he's only four years old? Yeah, my son's a bad ass.
Today, Baby Boy really didn't want to go down for his morning nap, and so once again, I placed Max's life in peril. The screaming went on and on (Baby Boy's, not Max's for the record) and when it finally stopped, I peeked in and there was Baby Boy, clutching his sheep in one arm and his cheek lovingly resting on the frog's ass.
And if that doesn't make your heart smile, then you must love to kick puppies in your spare time.
A rant by Catwoman at 1/07/2006 10:36:00 AM
Friday, January 06, 2006
I'm not sure why, but this morning, while Baby Boy is napping, all of a sudden all of these memories from the time I was pregnant with him and the days around his birth came rushing back to me. Here are some of my favorite memories. They're not all good, but they're my memories and I cherish every one of them:
1. Realizing that I was Pregnant on January First -- The day after New Year's Eve when I'd had a top shelf gin & tonic, a glass of white wine, a glass of red wine, a glass of champagne and sushi for lunch. Oh yeah, and I'd slipped and fallen on a patch of ice the week before. Apparently, Baby Boy was already showing his stubborness by saying "keep trying lady, I ain't leaving this womb."
2. My aversion to toothpaste -- I never really had any morning sickness. Except for twice a day when it came to brushing my teeth. For some reason everything about toothpaste made me gag so hard that tears would come streaming down my face and it took everything I had to not throw up: the taste, the texture, it was all the most horrible torture there ever was. I tried everything: switching to a manual toothbrush, kids' toothpaste, but nothing work. I began to wonder if simply flossing for nine months would be good enough hygiene.
3. Tortilla Chips and Sour Cream Might Be the Most Perfect Food on Earth -- It might not be the most nutritious snack in the world (although, grains and calcium... How bad can that be?) but it was the food that made me the happiest person on Earth during my first trimester. I was only completely happy and at peace when I had a bite in my mouth or when I dipped a chip in the sour cream and was about to put it in my mouth.
4. Taste Buds on Strike -- My first trimester, I could no longer taste anything. I literally poured Tabasco on everything to give it flavor. Everything tasted like cardboard to me. Once the heartburn began though, Tabasco went bye bye.
5. The Greatest Sound on Earth -- Hearing that heartbeat was surreal and it never really would sink in that "hey, there's a baby in there!" But it was the most reassuring sound in the world to me, because it meant that the baby was ok. When you're an overanxious worrier like me, little things like the sound of a beating heart can make the world softer for a few minutes.
6. My Baby's Been Eaten by Dogs -- At my first appointment at the birth center, the midwife gave us this little plastic baby that was the size of our 12 week fetus. I was so excited! I showed that little plastic baby to everyone and kept him in my purse for at least a couple of weeks. One day, I guess I accidentally left the baby laying around and one of our dogs disemboweled it through its skull. I'm not kidding. I found that little plastic baby outside in the grass with half of its skull eaten. It freaked the shit out of me and I worried about being a bad mother who would let our dogs eat our baby for dinner. (Note: The dogs love the baby and except for licking the sweet potatoes out of its hair and hands, they have shown no interest in treating him as a large snack).
7. It's a What???? -- At the sonogram, it was so weird to see him on that screen. There he was, moving and I was supposed to believe that was an actual image of the baby inside me. Way too weird! And then came the news: It's a boy! There haven't been boys made by the women in my family in three generations. "It can't be!" I said, "Check again!" And the nurse insisted there was no doubt about it and the visions of that Old Navy 0-3 months sized bikini went flying out of my head. After the initial holy shit moment passed, I couldn't imagine having anything else than a boy. He was my baby and he was a boy and that was that. And so I bought plaid shirts and jeans and aviator jackets and stuff in blue with bears on it. And I loved every second of it.
8. Thinking Baby Boy's Kicks Were a Lactose Intolerance Attack -- When you've had lactose intolerance your whole life, you become hyperaware of each one of your intestines' movements. Lactose Intolerance is a really polite way for people to describe a condition that involves extremely toxic farts and explosive diarrhea. There, I've said it. So if each time you felt something you worried that you were about to repaint the inside of a toilet bowl, you wouldn't exactly appreciate the miracle that is a developing baby's kicks. This did not prevent me from thinking I was the worst mother alive for not appreciating the kicks, of course. Even though I did quietly beg Baby Boy to quit doing it every time he did kick.
9. Should We Take the Birth Bag With Us? -- On the day Baby Boy was born, I'd been sick for almost a week. And yet, we just thought we were going in for a gall bladder ultrasound. Sweetie Pie asked me if we should take the birth bag. I thought about it for a second and said "well, I guess it can't hurt." Thank freaking God for marrying a smart man!
10. Sockless -- I still remember getting dressed that morning and I started bawling. Sweetie Pie asked me what was wrong and I said that I didn't have any socks. He lent me a pair of his, which he then spent the next two days pulling up because they were way too big for me and you're not supposed to wear your Sketchers in your hospital bed.
11. She's One of Those Birth Center Weirdos -- Leave it to the poor resident to have to tell what he thought was a hippy that she's not only going to not have her natural birth in a birth center, she's going to get a C-section, have to be put to sleep and Sweetie Pie can't be in the operating room and therefore won't get to witness the birth or cut the cord. I was too tired to even fight them on anything. When he asked if I had any questions, the first words out of my mouth were "When do I get to eat?" I'd been on a liquid diet for three days at that point. And really thought I was going to starve to death.
12. Am I on ER? -- Neither George Clooney nor Noah Wyle were there when I was overdramatically told that I would die if they didn't get this baby out of me. A simple "Hey, why don't we get this kid out of you?" probably would have sufficed.
13. Seeing Baby Boy For the First Time -- I was highly drugged and had just woken up, but when Sweetie Pie brought him in, all I could ask was "Is that my Baby? Is that my BABY????" "Our baby," Sweetie Pie tried to say. "Is that my Baby? Is that my BABY???" "Yes it is," he replied, giving up on teaching me the concept of group work and sharing.
14. Is it OK if I Hold the Baby I Just Made? -- Once the lights went out, the nurses kept checking my vitals every half hour and pumping more meds in me to make me human again. Baby Boy laid in the bassinette by my bed. "Excuse me," I timidly asked the nurse. "Do you think it would be ok for me to hold the baby on my chest?" The nurse laughed "Honey, he's your baby, you can hold him all night if you want!" I gasped! All night? Really? It just seemed like they were spoiling me. But I took advantage of the system, and I did clutch him to my chest all night, listening to his quiet breathing and feeling his warmth outside of my body for the first time. I wanted to lay like that for the rest of my life.
15. War Wounds -- For the past four months, I've been rubbing scar minimizing cream on my c-section scar. Not because I really want it to disappear, only to make it look as good as possible. Because I'm so damn proud of that scar, that every time I take off my pants to go to the bathroom, or a shower or get changed for bed, I look at that scar in the mirror. That scar has more meaning than any of my life's accomplishments. That scar tells me that I did something to bring the greatest person alive on this planet. And that if I had to have my left arm cut off to give birth to him or keep him on this Earth, I would do it without a second of doubt. That scar reminds me that I am forever connected to this other being. And I love every single inch of it.
A rant by Catwoman at 1/06/2006 09:25:00 AM
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Now I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I mean really, except for Sweetie Pie, no one should even feel the need to buy me gifts. But there are certain people who just shouldn't even be allowed to buy presents, because they just suck ass at it. For these people, God created the gift card. And yet these people are too freaking stubborn or dumb to comprehend the concept, or feel that gift cards are too impersonal, so that you're stuck with shit that even the Salvation Army doesn't want.
Unfortunately for me, Sweetie Pie is related to two of the world's worst gift givers. They are in no particular order of worst gift giving, his crazy uncle and his maternal grandfather.
Both of these people we see about twice a year for the big holidays, so really they don't know us very well at all. In fact, the crazy uncle knows us so little that he regularly calls Baby Boy "Brad" which is not his name for the record. Let's start with the crazy uncle who was in the military for a short time and is crazy enough that he looks like a Vietnam Vet who went through a really horrific experience. Unfortunately, he never was in 'Nam. So he's just weird and crazy for no reason.
For Baby Boy's birth, the crazy uncle gave him a gift bag. They included the following: a hard plastic giraffe with enough sharp edges to poke out the eyes of babies three blocks away (luckily the dogs, sensing the danger of the giraffe ate it. It is the only one of Baby Boy's things they have eaten. You tell me dogs aren't smart!), a Crayola-shaped thermos, because Baby Boy is expected to develop a coffee habit really soon and will need an age-appropriate thermos to carry it around, a juice mug with a baseball on top that specifically says at the bottom "not for children under 5," because hey, it never hurts to plan a child's future drinking, and an unfinished wooden letter "B," which probably stands for Brad.
I think I also gave the dogs the wooden letter "B" to eat, because I was just too lazy to throw it out.
This year, the crazy uncle didn't even bother getting any of us anything for Christmas, so I guess he decided he'd had enough of trying to find us the perfect gift. In a way, I'm grateful not to be contributing more junk to our landfills.
Then there's the grandfather. Oh where to begin with him. There was the year I got a bottle filled with decorative vegetables. I still have it in my kitchen, because it was so odd, I had to keep it. But last year, after his wife died, the grandfather decided on a new gift giving strategy: all the "girls" as he calls us get the same gift. This would be great if all the girls even had anything in common. But the girls are: my very uptight and religious mother-in-law, her lesbian sister who has a mullet and wears denim shorts no matter the occasion or weather, me and my sister-in-law who is in her early 20s and just got married.
Last year we all got leather jackets. Which sounds wonderful when I put it like that. Unfortunately, they were in colors that cows shouldn't be killed for. My mother-in-law's was Pepto Bismol pink. Her lesbian sister got 70's purple. I got neon green, which of course has been my favorite color ever since becoming huge in the 80's. My sister-in-law got luckily and got a normal-looking red.
Then there was the size fiasco. Apparently, we all look really fat, because the grandfather all got us two sizes bigger than what we wear. Nothing like opening a gift and having someone think you're a XXL! Merry fucking Christmas! Have more Yule log!
I swiped my sister-in-law's red jacket which was my size and laughed all the way home. I'm not sure what she did with my XXL neon green jacket, she of the pale blue and black preference who wears a double zero.
This year, the grandfather must have thought and thought about what to get all of us girls. And he came up with a really good solution. A mini exercise bike. Apparently so he could buy us smaller sized jackets in the future. Now these are the kind of cheesy ass bikes that actually are just two pedals that you put on the floor to work your legs or on the table to work your arms. I wouldn't use one of these if my ass was 80 inches across and it was the only way to lose the weight.
But here's the best part. My mother-in-law, this man's own daughter warned me not to take the bike thingy out of the box when I got mine post-Christmas, having been in Canada when the gifts were handed out. Apparently, the grandfather secured these at an old folks home so that there is absolutely no resistance to the bike! Toned muscles, here I never come!
People, next Christmas just give me $10 and we'll call it even.
A rant by Catwoman at 1/05/2006 11:05:00 AM
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
I have started a new diet. I am now about 21 hours into my new diet. Yup, still going strong. If you don't count those two chocolates I just ate. But those were my reward for being so good for 21 hours.
My new diet is called the Mediterranean diet. I did it because Ediets doesn't do The Zone diet anymore, because I guess the Zone is totally old school and passe now and if I am to be cool (an hopefully thinner), then I must keep up with the trends.
The reason I chose the Mediterranean diet, is that it promised that I could have a glass of wine with every dinner. Now I don't typically have a glass of wine every night, but now that I've been told that I must if I'm going to have the thighs of a supermodel, then damn it, I will drinketh the wine, and I will be happy.
I figure the reason this diet works is that the wine makes you happy, since you're not allowed a lot of calories, so it goes straight to your head, making you forget that you're starving.
Actually, I'm totally lying right now. I am allowed so much food on this diet, that literally I have not been hungry once in 21 hours. Even when I ate the chocolates, I wasn't hungry per say, I just really wanted to feel their sensual naked selves on my tongue and let the melting hotness coat my throat and take me to my very happy place.
Now that I'm back from having a third chocolate, I need to add that the Trim Spa did not prevent me from overindulging during the holidays. This may be because I simply satisfied myself with bringing the Trim Spa in my suitcase, but never actually bothered popping a single one. But I think it's because the Trim Spa hid away from all of the loads of yummy food that I ate. There's only so much one little red pill can do really.
OK, I just got back from eating my fourth chocolate. Damn those bitches are addictive. Must be stronger than fancy schmacy chocolates in gold box.
I wonder if I lost any weight yet...
A rant by Catwoman at 1/04/2006 01:41:00 PM
Monday, January 02, 2006
Happy 2006 Baby Boy! We made it! Hard to believe that a year ago yesterday, I found out I was pregnant with you and now, you're four months old. And I have to say, I never dreamed in a million years that you'd be such a cool cat. Sure, there are the nuclear meltdowns that have wiped a few small countries from the map. And yes, you are making me bald with the very rough hair grabbing phase you're in that showcases your superhuman strength.
But besides that, you're pretty damn awesome. You smile all the time. And you don't just have this half-assed smile. You go all out, yes sirree. We're talking head tilting, tongue biting, face splitting smiles. And no matter how crappy my mood might be, one of those smiles of yours always turn my day around.
Of course, you are aware of your ability to make the ladies happy, and not just with me. You love the ladies. You'll flirt with anyone, as long as they're younger than 40 and are half hot. You flirted with the woman across from us the entire flight from Chicago to Dallas; you refused to drink your bottle in the waiting room at the pediatrician's when a 10-month old girl named Ella showed up. Apparently drinking a bottle doesn't look very manly. But how was I supposed to know? I'm your mother, and it's my job to not keep up with the cool stuff in order to embarrass you in front of your friends and girlfriends.
Your fourth month was very busy. You took your first flight, making you a world traveler, since you went to Canada. You were so good on all of the flights. I was so very proud of you, especially after a flight full of screaming chidren, where you calmly sat on our laps, smiling the entire time. One of the flight attendants said to you on the way out of the plane "you can fly with us anytime" and I was like "yup, that's my baby!" Of course, I know I'm going to be punished for my pride when we take you on a flight when you'll be 10 months old and wanting to crawl up and down the aisle!
This month, you got to see snow for the first time, not that you were very impressed with it. You especially hated your snowsuit which transformed you into a lavender Michelin man, causing you to lose control of your arms, which would really piss you off. But the cold didn't bother you at all. We took you for a long walk in your Snugli, and despite having your cheeks uncovered, you didn't complain once, enjoying the scenery instead.
Your first Christmas was really hectic, with too many family members over-stimulating you and messing up your nighttime feeding routine, so that you returned to your old habits of waking up every hour to eat a little snacky snack. But we're working on getting you back on board, don't you worry.
You're really growing! Only problem is, it seems to only be width-wise, not lenghtwise. You're still in the 25th percentile height-wise, but you're now in the 45th percentile weight-wise. Which means you're no longer the supermodel baby when you were born. You even have cellulite in your butt now! I wish mine was as cute as yours.
The pediatrician decided that it was time for you to get started on solid foods, since you're still not sleeping through the night. I always promised you that I'd feed you homemade organic foods, so I rushed to Whole Foods after your appointment to buy organic veggies and fruits on the list.
I decided to start with sweet potatoes, since many experts consider that to be the perfect first food, since no one's allergic to sweet potatoes. Plus, they taste really good.
So I carefully, lovingly cooked those potatoes, and I hand mashed them and added the right amount of spring water to make them the perfect first food consistency. And then I tried to feed them to you. The first time, you couldn't figure out what the hell I was doing. You kind of politely smiled, while pushing out every spoonful that I managed to squeeze in your mouth.
The second day, you understood the concept of spoonfeeding better. However, you had decided that my cooking absolutely sucked and followed every spoonful I gave you by making a disgusted face and then making this "blaaaaaaaaaaaaah!" sound. Nice to know all of my efforts are paying off.
I tried pears a couple of days later. And you loved those. And now, you've mastered spoon eating like a pro, opening your mouth up wide and smiling every time I make "yum yum" noises at you.
I can't wait to get you to try really cool stuff when you're older like chocolate, sushi and pate. Your Texan father is already horrified at all the things I want to feed you, but trust me, the world is your oyster. And with a squirt of lemon juice, some horseradish and some cocktail sauce, it tastes amazing!
I love you my little man,