Friday, March 31, 2006

I Never Thought I'd Say This...

But I am completely addicted to a diet bar. There, I've said it. Me, the person who would rather live on chocolate and fried foods, addicted to something that's good for me and already (in my warped mind) helped shed a little fat around the waistline area.

This bar tastes like cake mixed in with one of those Quaker Oat granola bars that have nothing good for you in them because they're all chocolate and sugar.

But these bars are full of fiber (something my body probably doesn't know what to do with at this point), vitamins and other good stuff that usually only enters my body through a big fat horsepill.

And so now, I'm living on these diet bars during the day, as well as the shakes that go with them and eating one "sensible" meal (last night consisting of tempura fried shrimp with teriaki rice and tonight consisting of fake Hooters' wings at home with curly fries). That's my new diet. I figure, normally I would eat crap almost three times a day. So eating my usual crap just once a day should help me lose some weight. Probably not the one to two pounds one can usually be expected to lose in a week, but screw it, even if I only lose a quarter to half a pound per week, at least I'm more likely to stick to this.

So I'll keep eating my cake bars and working out once a week and by 2018, I'll probably look like a super model. You just wait.

On another note, I could lose a few pounds by just beating the crap out of Tom Cruise. I just heard on the news this morning that he told Katie Holmes that she needed to shut the hell up and give birth in complete silence when she finally has their spawn of the devil a.k.a. Tom Jr. If Sweetie Pie had told me "hey, I don't want you to make a single sound while you're delivering my child," Baby Boy would have been delivered in jail because no one is telling me what I can do while a giant ball of flesh not made to go through the space is being squeezed out of my vagina. Why Katie Holmes feels contractually obligated to put up with this man's crap is beyond me. She needs the sense beat into her. That'd be another few calories burnt for me.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, March 30, 2006

I'm the Worst Mother Ever

No really, I am.

Because of me, as we speak, Baby Boy is in daycare probably being laughed at because he has the retarded kid haircut.

And it's all my fault.

Well, his too, because he moved as I was holding sharp scissors in front of his face.

But let me go back to the beginning.

You see, my mother when she was in town trimmed Baby Boy's hair and did a great job. Sweetie Pie couldn't even tell it was cut, and to me, that's the sign of a successful haircut, because it means it was just trimmed enough, not too much.

However, yesterday I decided that the strand on the front of Baby Boy's head was too long and as he was hopping in his baby walker, I pulled out my hair cutting scissors left over from my days with bangs and decided to trim it just a bit.

Of course Baby Boy wanted to grab the scissors from me, so I hurriedly cut a big clump of hair and as soon as I heard the snipping sound, the pit of my stomach hit the heels of my feet.

And there it was. The retard child haircut.

I have many talents. I can bitch enough to chase anyone out of a room. I can scrapbook like there's no tomorrow. I can even sign so off key that only bats can hear me. But haircutting is not one of my talents.

The worse part is that I did this right before we were going to leave to get Baby Boy's pictures with the Easter bunny taken (he ended up falling asleep, probably traumatized by his bad hair and we ended up not being able to go) and tomorrow, I'm supposed to take him to get Easter pictures taken at the studio where I had his Valentine's Day pictures taken.

I'm seriously thinking of moving that appointment a week and hoping that his hair will have grown just enough that the harsh cut doesn't look as bad and isn't noticeable on pictures. I cannot have evidence of my crime in his Baby Book forever. It will kill me as much as the time I pinched his finger in his booster chair's tray.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

Food Theft

There's this great commercial on TV right now (I think it's been on for a while) for A-1 Steak sauce that takes place in a restaurant. This woman is yelling at the man across from her things like "Stop eating! Don't ignore me! I don't even know you!" As the man blissfully eats away his steak. All of a sudden, he gets up and walks away and she looks relieved. Her actual husband comes back to the table, saying the babysitter said the kids are find looks at his plate and says to his wife "did you eat my steak?"

This never fails to make me laugh, because 1) I'm easily amused and 2) I've actually seen this happen.

I was trying to remember last night where it was and I just realized that it was in Baltimore, when I was there for a client trade show. My client decided to take a bunch of employees and myself to Morton's the Chicago steakhouse, quite the fancy steakhouse with prices to match.

We were enjoying ourselves when all of a sudden, there was a brouhaha by the door. Apparently, a homeless man came in the door, grabbed the lobster off the plate of a poor man sitting by the door and made a beeline for the bathroom where two waiters caught him eating it huddled in a corner.

The funniest part is that during all of this, one of the men in our group was in the bathroom, so he got to see the end of the story without the beginning, which left him very confused. Picture this, you're taking a leak (if you're a woman, this will involve more imagination than a man, because you need to picture a urinary and a, hopefully, well-hung penis) minding your own business, maybe even humming to yourself (this is what I picture men to do in bathrooms). All of a sudden, a scruffy loooking man rushes in, clutching a lobster. You wonder "will this man attack me with this lobster?" But no, the man sits in a corner and begins to eat. You wonder if the dishes are mighty dirty in this establishment, where people are choosing the bathroom floor over the china. Two men dressed in white, but clearly waiters and not workers at the looney bin begin to yell at the man to spit out the 25 dollar per pound lobster.

I think what's most important to learn from this story is two things.

First, just because you're homeless doesn't mean you can't enjoy the finer things in life. Unfortunately, the man was unable to also grab the butter dipping sauce, which really makes the lobster experience.

Second, if you're going to go into restaurants and grab food off of people's plates, don't run into the bathroom where there's only one exit or entrance. Turn around and run back out where you came from. I figure you'd have at least a 30-second running start, because the shock of the "what the hell just happened" of the moment would need to wear off first for everyone in the restaurant.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Should I Be Frightened By This?

You know those commercials on TV for debt management where they say something like "if you have more than (fill in the blank) dollars in debt, then you're completely and utterly fucked?" Right now, we have about twice as much debt than that amount. This is due to my medical bills from when Baby Boy was born, an obsession with buying said Baby Boy clothes and toys and other fun stuff, my joining a scrapbooking company thinking I was going to build an empire and make lots and lots of money and so far having sold $200 worth of stuff, but having bought close to $1,800 worth of stuff and my having bought our tickets to go to France and airline prices are equivalent to a gang rape this year.

Even Baby Boy's ticket was expensive, despite his sitting on my lap. Apparently, the airline thinks my lap for 10 hours is worth 240 dollars. I've been missing out on a great money-making opportunity. Little did I know that my cushy lap with its cellulite and permanent layers of fat that could feed an African country could serve to make American Airlines money.

The point is that this whole time I haven't been frightened about the amount of credit card debt we've had, because I figured that our tax refund would pay for a good chunk of it. But now, I'm managed to double the amount that I figured would be mostly paid off by the tax refund and I go, huh, surely we ain't getting that much back.

Then of course there's the fact that I'm still making half of my previous salary and have to worry each month about whether I'll actually be able to pay myself even that measly amount. And all while smiling while I spend over 100 dollars each month on formula and diapers at Sam's Club. Did I mention this baby will be potty trained at one? I'm not kidding. I was potty trained that young and with the amount of money Huggies and Pampers wants from me, you can bet that this baby better be just like me, or else, it's coming out of his allowance.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, March 27, 2006

When Van Gogh Cut His Ear Off, He Must Have Been Babysitting Baby Boy

My parents have now left. Sweetie Pie asked me if I missed them and I didn't know how to answer that, because saying "no" seemed like it would make me sound like a bitch. It's not that I don't love my parents, I do, but I'm a routine girl and having visitors for a week to entertain, especially when the weather was cold and crappy and all of my plans involved outdoor activity means that it was stressful and my perfect little routine was out of whack which made Baby Boy out of whack and he became nightmare baby and continues to be today.

My advice to any of you who are pregnant is once the baby comes, don't allow any visitors until they're 18. We have the Internet now. Family members who want to see the child can use a Webcam or see the thousands of pictures you take on Snapfish.com.

It's because of statements like this that my mother called me a Nazi last week. Apparently, my not liking the front blind open because people at the door can see me and it leaves me no choice but to open the door makes me a Nazi. And this comes from the person who is so freaking anal that my poor Sweetie Pie feels like he can't even exhale at her house without getting in trouble.

I'm trying to get through to the pediatrician as we speak, because I'm one more bleary-eyed night away from jumping off a cliff. Baby Boy has been an absolute nightmare, refuses to eat and wakes up constantly because he's hungry and yet still won't eat. And I'm at my wit's end and hoping that the woman who went to school for 15 years so that she could figure out what my screaming child wants will have a solution, because except for whiskey, I've tried everything to make this child happy. Hell, that's not true. I've drank whiskey to drown out the screaming, but that damn baby is loud I tell you.

I just got into a fight with him after trying to make him happy since he woke up at 6:30. I told him I'd had enough, stuck him in his crib and told him he could scream in there all day if he wanted, that I was done.

This made me feel like a Romanian orphanage worker, but really, I haven't had a cigarette in two years people and I sure as hell could use a pack or two right now because nicotine always makes things better. And at least then the lung cancer would guarantee me sweet release from this scream-laden life.

Until I got to H-E-Double Hockey Stick anyway. I'm sure there's a lot of screaming down there.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, March 23, 2006

My $12,000 Gym

I could totally be on that MTV show, Cribs, where they show the celebrities' homes and people watching the show in their living room financed for 8 years at the furniture store roll their eyes thinking "who the hell needs that many plasma TV's?"

I couldn't be on the show because of our excessive amount of plasma TV's, since we don't even own a single one. And I'm sure our not-even flat-screen TV, which measures a whopping 32 inches, would probably fail to impress most people.

But as I'd give the tour of my "crib," I'd get to point to Baby Boy and say "that's my 12,000 dollar gym. This is how I stay in shape." And then I'd wiggle my cellulite invaded butt just for effect.

But Baby Boy has helped me be in better shape surprisingly then before I had him. I'm not thinner, don't get me wrong, I'm not insane! But I am in much better shape, particularly in my arms, which have stopped jiggling goodbye after I wave to someone. This is thanks to Baby Boy and my hauling his 17.5 pound butt all day long. I've made the mistake of teaching him to love it when I lift him over my head. And so I find myself doing tricep pulls regularly all day with an almost 18-pound weight, when my whole life, when I would actually get to the gym and actually lift weights, I'd do maybe 10 pounds and would quit after 8 reps because it was just too damn hard and that when people were standing in line for tricep muscles, I slept in that day or there must have been a special on Cadbury cream eggs somewhere.

Now if I could just get Baby Boy to learn how to hold my feet so that he could force me to do crunches, maybe the extra layer of fat and skin that rests just above my hips wouldn't be pushed up like the cream filling of a donut every time I close my pants.

On another note, my parents bought Baby Boy some denim overalls at Old Navy and when he wore them yesterday, he looked like the cutest, most adorable munchiest baby in the whole wide world. Then I fed him cauliflower and broccoli for lunch and he decided to throw up in the front pocket of said overalls. Nothing like scooping out vomit out of an overall's pockets to make you think your life freaking rocks.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Number Two-Freaking Hundred!

This is my 200th post. This means that I've been on longer than such hits as Blossom, (who ironically, people used to tell me that I looked like in high school, which really pissed me off because it's not like she was known for being hot.)

Blossom also had its own True Hollywood Story episode, which really intrigued me, because have they really run out of topics to cover shows like Blossom? Apparently they had.

Since I seem to be in random thoughts mode, I'll just keep going on tangents.

I'm completely addicted to Cadbury Cream Eggs. Have I mentioned that before? I remember mentioning my Cadbury Cream Egg diet. Unfortunately, my diet is on hold this week, since my mother's in town. And Easter's only three weeks away, which means the window for cream egg season is closing. This makes me sad, very sad. If someone sold cream eggs on eBay, they'd make a fortune off of me, yes sir-ree.

My sister-in-law called me today to tell me that she had this weird illness pop up during her pap smear that will require her to have surgery so she can have children. This in itself isn't abnormal, until she added that whatever is wrong with her also makes sex extremely painful and causes her to cry each time she has intercourse with her husband. I'm sharing this highly personal information about my s-i-l because she is the most uptight person I have ever met who's under 26. I've never heard her utter the word sex before, let alone talk to me about her sex life. I think I might have gotten overly excited about her sharing, but I still didn't spill the fact that I've got two crates of sex toys for sale tucked away in our walk-in-closet, hidden behind our extra blanket. We're just not quite there.

Baby Boy has developed an irrational fear of any boy between the ages of 6 to 10. Why those ages? Not sure. But if one walks by and is a little too loud, he freaks out like cat thrown in a pit of dobermans.

I made a tres leches cake, which is a Mexican cake that translates to three milks last night, figuring that my parents would have never had it before. Only problem is, I didn't read the instructions properly and didn't make it in the right size pan. So when time came to pour the three milks over the cooked cake, I had way too much milk and ended up serving tres leches pudding, because it was mighty liquidy. It had the texture of cake pre-chewed by a dog. But it had coconut rum in it, and that always makes things good.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, March 20, 2006

Culture Shock

So my parents have made it into town safe from Canada, despite some horrible thunderstorms here that caused their plane to circle over Dallas like some blind vulture who can't see prey.

It's always interesting when you get my parents together with Sweetie Pie, because that's when the culture shock is most evident. I'm never reminded that Sweetie Pie and I are different, born in different countries, because after all, I was raised in North America, consider myself Canadian and don't have any trace of a French accent when I speak. So until I mention I'm French, no one has to know, which was a good thing during the whole Iraq fiasco, when the US decided it hated France just because France decided it didn't want to go to war in Iraq. Canada also scoffed and didn't go, but they always come off as inoffensive, like the best friend who can call you fat to your face and not make you feel crappy about it. The way France broke the news to the US, you'd think that they'd just said "but yoooor ass iz bigger zen ze Eiffel Tower! You ahre dizgusting!" Canada said it more like "well, I wouldn't say you're fat, but why don't we go have a salad with no dressing instead of those five hot dogs?"

Which is totally beside the point. The point is, that when Sweetie Pie and my parents are in the same room, I am reminded that I am different and that my family is as French as they get. They don't wear berets and ride a bicycle with a baguette under their arm. And I don't come from a long line of mimes. But we do drink wine with lunch and dinner. And we eat cheese all the freaking time, because we make more stinky cheeses than anyone else and damn it, we want to make sure we continue to.

Either way, my parents had only been in town when it once again became clear that the love of my life, a country bumpkin from Texas at heart, will never completely understand my parents.

I cooked us my fancy schmanciest dinner on Saturday night: Filet Mignon in Merlot sauce. It costs a fortune to make, but it's so tasty and never fails to impress. Even my folks were impressed, which really says something about that recipe (thanks Bon Appetit Magazine!) My dad, who has professional chef training, was in charge of making the dessert and I told him I'd bought two pounds of strawberries at Costco, and I wanted to make sure they didn't go to waste. So my dad sliced the strawberries, chopped some mint and added some blackberry jam and let the whole thing marinate for a couple of hours. Then he served it on vanilla ice cream and it was so good. But Sweetie Pie, as soon as he got his plate, began to pick out all of the green bits. We looked at him and I said "you don't like mint?"

To which he responded "I thought those were the stems of the strawberries." We all began to laugh going "who the hell eats strawberry stems?" To which he replied "you people are French, you eat goose livers and snails. Why wouldn't you eat strawberry stems?"

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, March 17, 2006

Yup, Nothing Gets Past Me

I'm about to go pick up my parents at the airport. They're coming down to spend a week with us, which means that Sweetie Pie and I have spent the last three evenings (me more than him, but he has helped) trying to get the house mother-inspection ready. Which my mother being the world's biggest clean freak obsessive-compulsive neatness psycho, means that if a bubble boy can't live in the house outside his bubble, it just doesn't pass inspection. We have two dogs and two cats, plus now a baby and neither one of us are clean freaks. It's just not going to happen.

Anyway, I want to point out some math that is so simple, that even I have been able to figure it out:

Number of years I've lived in Texas: 5 1/2

Number of times parents have come down from Canada pre-baby: once (twice for my mother)

Number of visits, including this one during past six months: Two

So basically my parents have come down as much during the last six months as they have the previous five years.

And you're telling me that they're here for me? I'm pretty sure they don't give a rat's behind if I'm drunk and passed out in a corner all week, as long a I pick them up from the airport and drop them back off on time. They come baring gifts for the heir to the throne, but they did ask me if there was anything from Canada that I wanted them to bring me. Which there is. But all of the things I want are food products with a high chocolate content and my mother would just tell me that I'm still not back to my 12-year old weight. So I just bit my tongue and inhaled the last of my Cadbury Creme eggs, because they're selling them in packets of four now, which is freaking awesome.

Despite my inhaling two four-packs this week, I've managed to lose three pounds. I'm starting a new diet called the all Cadbury Creme Egg diet. It's very tasty, rich and creamy and it'll leave you slightly light headed from the sugar overdose. But oh the pretty colors when your pupils dilate...

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, March 16, 2006

Things I Don't Miss

1. Dressing Slutty Every Friday and Saturday Night...only to attract scum from the opposite sex. Maybe this is because I was dressing slutty, but either way, it was never smart and handsome non-scummy doctors who hit on me. It was their evil twin, wing man. Because my friend A. who I went out with a lot was way hotter than me, which I guess made me her less attractive friend. Which I don't miss that either.

2. The Humongous Mole on the Side of My Face Those of you who know me may have never even noticed it, even though it could totally kick Cindy Crawford's mole's butt, outweighing it by at least a pound or two. Either way, it got bigger, so I had to have it removed in December. Funny thing about the US healthcare system. The dermatologist only shaved the mole off, leaving its creepy tentacles firmly entrenched in my skin, saying that the insurance company would only pay for the whole thing to be removed if the mole came back as malignant. Right, because it doesn't cost more for me to come to the office twice and have two procedures, rather than scoop out the whole thing once, which takes all of three minutes, having had a back mole removed when I was much younger.

3. Not Having an Excuse for my Imperfect Body I've said it once and I have no problems saying it again. The greatest thing about having a gorgeous baby boy that people ooh and aah about is that they don't notice you. And if they do, you can go "yes, he was totally worth losing my Swimsuit Illustrated body for." It was hard to get away with that excuse when I was only a mom to two cats.

4. Having My Cats Be the Center of my Universe I remember a mom who was on her second baby in our birth class warning us about this happening. She said "you may adore your pets now and treat them like children, but once the baby comes, you just wait, you'll totally forget to feed that same pet." I thought she was insane and thought of reporting her to PETA. Then Baby Boy came. And I'm now happy I'm not one of those people who only carries pictures of their cat around. In fact, my cat's pic got kicked out of my wallet and replaced with my umpteenth picture of baby boy.

5. Having an Empty Living Room Floor There's just something about 100 baby toys strewn across my carpet that just says home to me.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

Fart Stories

In many ways, I'm a lot like a six-year old. Nothing makes me laugh harder than a fart. I fart. A lot. It might be the lactose intolerance, it might be that I've been used to being home a lot over the years, between being a flight attendant where I only worked a couple of days a weeks and being unemployed a couple of times and then working from home. Between those two factors, I've just kind of lost the habit of trying to hold in my farts, unless I'm in public and it's somewhere that I really shouldn't let it out, like let's say in a conversation with the Pope.

I also spend most of my days with two dogs who fart like crazy. Our yellow lab is so fat that the strain of climbing the stairs makes him fart on each step so that as he climbs the stairs next to me all I hear is fart, fart, fart, fart, fart. This doesn't fail to crack up the six-year old in me, who gets into a giggle fit, causing Baby Boy to giggle too.

The other night, I was sitting on our couch, Baby Boy snuggly placed on the Boppy pillow on my lap sucking on his bottle like it was the first meal he'd received that day, when I let out a fart, right when Sweetie Pie walked in. He looked at me shocked, which I never understand, considering that he's been married to me 3 1/2 years now and knows by now the difference in smell between my farts and the dogs. And so I meekly told Sweetie Pie that it wasn't me, it was the baby. Enough to say he didn't believe me.

Even though, he should have because Baby Boy does let out man farts.

I don't know which is worse. That I fart. Or that I just wrote a whole post just about farting.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, March 13, 2006

Perfect Day

Friday, I had a gazillion things to do: voice mails to return, clients I'd been ignoring to speak to so they don't pull their business from me, press releases to write, and a gazillion other work things to do.

But Baby Boy has changed so much during the past couple of weeks, and during that time, our relationship has changed. Before, I loved him because he was my baby and I'd made him and he was 50 percent of me. But during the last two weeks, he has grown into this cool little funny dude who squeals and chatters in this martian sounding language and who makes me laugh harder than anything on TV ever could. And I decided right there and then that I would play hookie and just spend the day enjoying him.

And so I sat with him on the floor and we played all sorts of silly games and laughed and just grinned stupidly at each other. And then I took him to the park and let him enjoy the other kids and sit in the sun for the first time of his life while I slathered him in SPF 60 sunscreen. And then I carried his 17 an a half pound butt around in his baby carrier until my back ached and a hernia was threatening to form.

I loved absolutely every second of it and as we were driving home and he was passed out cold from missing his early afternoon nap, I realized that I finally truly enjoyed being a mother and that I've actually become pretty good at it. I don't think I really knew what to do with a young infant. They cry, they can't fend for themselves and when they don't sleep like mine did, you're overtired, cranky and you just don't know how the hell to keep entertaining someone who only sees blurry shapes and black and white shades.

But now, my blob of flesh has turned into someone who's squeals make me laugh, who'll grin at the dogs when they lick his toes and who will throw himself against my chest in an attempt to show me his love in his baby hug way.

I knew right then that not only would I keep making hardly any money to stay at home with him, I want to give him a few siblings because I can honestly say that motherhood is the greatest thing I've ever done with my life. And Friday was the first time that truly sunk in.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, March 10, 2006

Just Watch, I'll Go and Save the World Some Day...

So yesterday, Baby Boy was in daycare, as he is every Thursday. This is supposed to be my time to get as much work done as possible, so that I continue to make my measly little salary and don't actually have to go out into the real world and get a new job. Here is what I accomplished during that time:

1. Ate three slices of Pepperidge Farm's Cinnamon bread. It would probably have been four or five if there had been any left.

2. Tracked my latest scrapbooking inventory supplies shipment on UPS site.

3. Checked all of my favority blogs.

4. Read emails

5. Tracked my latest scrapbooking inventory supplies shipment on UPS site. Again.

6. Made seven scrapbooking pages to sell at a craft fair in a couple of weeks, rather than the real work I was supposed to get done.

7. Ordered pictures from Snapfish.com.

8. Tracked my latest scrapbooking inventory supplies shipment on UPS site. Again.

9. Ate 15 Oreo cookies. Called that lunch.

10. Realized it was almost time to go pick up baby boy and went to take a shower so that I wouldn't be gross and nasty anymore.

Things I didn't get done:

1. Work

2. Phone calls I needed to make

3. IRS paperwork that I really needed to get done

4. INS passport pictures to send in my green card renewal

5. Get eyebrows waxed

6. Shave legs and bikini line so that Sweetie Pie and I could possibly have sex this weekend if we're not too tired.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, March 09, 2006

Forget Iran's Nuclear Program, I've Got the Ultimate Stink Bomb

Baby Boy is probably the least discreet pooper I've ever met. You'll be enjoying a conversation about the effects of the warming of the ice caps with him when all of a sudden, his little face turns red, clenches up and he begins to make these little grunting noises that sound like "uuuh.... UUUuuuuhhh."

And that's how you know that Baby Boy is producing a big pile of stink in his diaper. And everytime I throw out one of his disposable diapers, I'm glad that I went against my environmental beliefs and don't have to wash the shit out of a cotton diaper. I know, let the hatred for my disrespect for mother nature begin. In my defense, I'm a very anal recycler. So that should count for something.

The other night, after the grunting and face contorting, I took Baby Boy upstairs to get him out of his pile of crap and into a clean diaper. Upon opening the weapon of mass destruction, I saw that he'd had a really toxic liquid pooped that had seeped from the sides and began to eat through the fabric of his onesie.

After stripping him down naked, I went to throw the nerve-gas filled Huggie and realized that there was poop all down the side of the changing table.

Of course my immediate thought was "what the fuck?"

Not understanding how poop had gotten there, I cleaned it up, cleaned the baby up, redressed him and proceeded to go downstairs and re-join the rest of civilization, a.k.a. Sweetie Pie.

Now, Baby Boy and I have a tradition. Every time we go down the stairs, we stop at the big mirror in our entry way so he can smile at our reflections. And when we did this, I noticed he had poop on his hand.

Being the germ-phobic mother that I am, I know that I'd checked the child from top to bottom for poop, yet, here it was, again. Poop.

I took him into the kitchen, washed his hand and then disinfected it with purell gel, just because it's poop and nasty. And that's when I saw he had poop on his foot.

Now I was really befuddled. I just could not comprehend where all this magical poop was coming from.

And that's when my last neuron thought to look down and I saw that the whole front of my jean's right leg was smeared with diarrhea that was so toxic it was slowly seeping in the fabric like goo and hadn't yet attacked my leg.

I don't think I can even begin to explain to you that no matter how horrible having diarrhea all down your leg, it's somehow not that bad when you know for a fact it's come out of your son's butt hole.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

I Believe That's What Them Literary Folk Call Irony

So I got this brochure in the mail the other day that I just had the opportunity to read now. It's from Dove, the people who make soap and all sorts of other beauty products now. And the whole brochure is about self esteem and how women are lacking it, but young girls are lacking it even more. It's got sad statistics in it that says thing like 92 percent of girls want to change at least one aspect of their appearance. Almost 60 percent of girls in grades nine through 12 (59.4%) are trying to lose weight. 63 percent of women believe that they are expected to be more physically attractive than women from their mother's generation.

Which no shit Sherlock. Hollywood is now producing all these 40+ year old actresses like Teri Hatcher who look better than I did at 20. My thighs haven't been that tiny since my teens. They definitely won't be her size when I reach her age.

Dove started this Self-Esteem fund where they do all these programs to promote positive self-esteem in girls 8 to 17. I think this is an amazing thing. I sure as hell could have used a program like that at that age, because from 11 to about 18 or 19, I had no self-esteem. And it wasn't until I was in my early 20's that I decided to finally like myself for who I was, warts and all and embrace my quirks and the fact that I'm no supermodel and don't have the prettiest face in the world. It's pretty enough that people don't vomit when they see me and I'm confident enough that I've no longer hidden behind bangs for almost five years now.

These are huge accomplishments and I would love nothing more than to help Dove in their goal to raise $200,000. But here's the hiccup. They'll contribute a dollar if I buy $15 worth of dove products and send in for my free t-shirt. Great deal right? I buy products I use anyway and I get a free t-shirt. Except for one thing... The three t-shirt choices are the following sayings: "100% real beauty," "be yourself. be beautiful" and just the word "beautiful" in four languages.

I just am not at the point where I can walk down the street in a shirt that proclaims me to be beautiful. I just can't do it...

Anyway I can just contribute a dollar and forget about the whole t-shirt business?

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, March 06, 2006

Memories of Boyfriends Past

For some reason, the men in my old life, the one where I was a cool uptown Toronto girl who was at a pub every night with her friends and was young and had her whole life ahead of her, keep popping into my head lately.

Today, I remembered G. Gosh, now that I've typed G., I just remembered another boyfriend whose name starts with the letter G. And the weird thing is, they came after each other. OK, that sounded gross like some porno movie. You know what I mean. I dated them one after the other.

Let's start with the first G. I met him when I was 19. He was 28. That's right folks, a grown man, in the real world, dating a university student. Can you say scumbag? But in his defense he was extremely immature, had a wild past that freaked me out from the beginning since I was very squeaky clean. He told me he'd been arrested for cocaine possession. This is me, the person who won't even put those cold nasal medicine thingies in my nose. Except for air, my nose is exit only, thank you very much.

Anyway, G. had some quirks. He claimed to be allergic to just about every type of food. Meaning mostly vegetables and fruit. He loved bacon sandwiches, which are like a BLT, just without the L. And the T. I dated him for a year and a half I believe. He gave me a $650 pearl necklace for our one-year anniversary. After we broke up, I tried to sell it at one of those used jewelry stores and they offered me thirty bucks for it. I needed the money really bad, but I still thought that was insane, so I gave the necklace to my sister instead. I think she wore it at her wedding actually.

I woke up one day next to G. and realized that he looked just like a beached whale. Pale and grey and with a big gut. That's when I knew that I couldn't be with this guy any longer. And being a mature 20 year-old at this point, I proceeded to do everything possible to get him to break up with me. Including and oh I cannot believe I'm admitting to this... I uhm... I pretended to fall asleep while he was going down on me.

There, I've said it. I'm not proud of it, but hey, I'm sure your past isn't all church services and volunteering with amputee alzheimer patients.

Then came G squared. Which actually fits him, because he was quite the nerd. G squared was a perfectly nice guy. In fact, he was too nice for a horrible person like me.

I quickly realized that I had the talent to make G squared cry. And once I discovered this, I used it very regularly. I'm pretty sure that in the three months of my dating G squared, I made him cry a total of at least once a week. Once I made him cry because I decided two blocks from my house that he should have offered to let me drive. I brow beat him about this until he cried. He pulled over to the side of the road to let me drive and of course, I refused, making him cry even harder.

Looking back on it now, I feel kind of bad, but at the same time, I've never been meaner than a toothless chihuahua. So for me to be able to make this guy cry, really, he just wasn't cut out for the real world.

I remember when I broke up with him. It didn't go so well. I think in one of my confession posts, I mentioned making a guy wait so long for me just to be dumped, because I was getting acrylic nails put on. Well, that was G. squared.

And when I woke him up only to tell him it was over, it didn't go so well. I literally witnessed the seven stages of grief during the next hour. It was quite awkward, since all I wanted to do was go into my apartment (I took him to the park down the street, knowing that I'd never be able to get him to leave if I let him in) and admire my new fake nails. Poor G. squared was shocked, then angry, then sad then hurt, then went into denial and told me he was intending on taking me to a casino on that day and we should just go now. And once he got to the realization and acceptance stage, it got ugly because he threatened to drive his parents' car (he didn't have his own) into the lake to kill himself.

And you wonder why I decided that I'd just never get married and just live with a bunch of cats. Can you blame me?

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, March 03, 2006

This Makes Everything So Worthwhile...

My son just threw up all over our yellow lab.

Baby Boy was sitting on my lap while I was at the computer checking email and I went to get up holding him and heard the distinctive plop sound of vomit hitting the ground. Thinking he'd hit the carpet yet again, I let out an expletive and looked down to see our yellow lab with a perfect orange streak of chicken carrot noodle baby food.

I laughed so hard that tears came out and if I'd been drinking milk, yogurt would have come out of my nose.

Then the dog realized that God had answered his prayers and put food all over his back and he spent the next 20 minutes trying to lick it off, since it between his shoulder blades, which ironically is the one spot dogs can't reach with their tongues. They can reach the empty nut sacks, sure, but shoulder blades? Nature just didn't think that was necessary.

Who needs a freaking Tivo when you have Baby Boy, wonder puker?

This makes the C-section scar and the stretch marks on the sides of my beer gut and the four months of sleepless nights so worth it, that I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, March 02, 2006

Six Months: My Letter to Baby Boy

You know, when I was in my late teens and early twenties (I know, hard to believe I was ever that age, but I swear, I wasn't always as old as I am now), six months in a relationship was a huge accomplishment for me. Before the six-month mark, if people asked how long I'd been with whoever I was dating, I figured that answering two months or four months just wasn't that impressive. But six months? That's a huge deal! That's half a year! That's a long time! It meant that the relationship really meant something and could potentially reach that usually elusive one-year mark.

And so for the past couple of weeks, when people have asked me how old you are, I've rounded it up to six months. Because that makes it sound like I'm a pro at this mom thing. Before six months, people think "oh, she's probably got no idea what she's doing." But now, we are total experts at this mom and baby thing you and I, like we've been doing it forever.



Your dad and I are definitely different people because of you. Before, we lived our lives and didn't worry about anyone else. We did what we did when we wanted. But now, we consider your needs too. Before we go somewhere, we wonder if you'll have something to do besides play with sharp knives. And if you won't, then we pack up a U-Haul trailer and bring every single one of your toys with us, so that every one of us can have a good time at the strip joint.

I'm kidding. We don't bring you to strip joints. I swear. However, you have been to just about every kind of restaurant with us. From the most casual to one of the fanciest. And you do really good. People usually fawn over you and you smile at them, putting on the performance, your invisible tapping shoes going 50 miles an hour trying to impress your fans.



You still won't sit in your bouncy seat during our dinners at home. I always end up with you on my lap while I eat dinner, which was fine until this past month when you've become more adept with your hands and have begun reaching for stuff on my plate or simply pushing my entire plate away when you've decided I've had enough. Apparently, you're thinking I still have too much meat on my bones. Which you're right about, but deal with it. You gave me this tummy, don't you know. But I don't blame you, I thank you because one day, I'll be able to get that tummy tuck blaming my pregnancies and have a flat stomach for the first time in my life. So thank you for being my alibi.

You also keep getting smarter and smarter. I taught you to High Five one day, when I was out of stuff to do with you. You figured it out in under two minutes and now we high five each other constantly, like two surfer dudes who drank too many Dr. Peppers.

But you still won't laugh for me very often. Your dad, however, is a different story. He has this routine where he pretends to grab you belly or your cheeks and eat them. You laugh so hard when he does this, that you've given yourself the hiccups on more than one occasion. If I do the same thing, I just get the pity smile like "mother, you are my nurturer, not my entertainer. Now go make me a bottle, woman."

You're learning to sit up, which you're happy about, as long as you don't slip or fall down. Should your head ever meet the carpet after you've been put in a sitting position, you get pissed. I'm talking about bricks on the outside of the house coming loose decibel level.

You've got a new best friend now, Isaac, who was born last month. We tell you he's your best friend, but you just stare at him with great disdain each time you see him and spend your time showing his parents how talented you are compared to their useless newborn child. You'll pull out every stunt, the fist sucking, the bubble blowing, the head bobbing, whatever it takes to make them realize that you are still the superior creature and always will be. And you're fascinated by the ladies. Doesn't matter if they're four months old or eighty years old. You'll flirt with them and they all swoon at your smiles and that glimmer in your eyes. You are well on your way to breaking many a hearts. Take it from a girl who's been there, Baby Boy, treat those hearts with care. Because some day, someone will break your heart and make you think that you will never love again and you'll wake up every morning feeling awful about all the people you've hurt this way.



If I can pass one thing on to you, I hope it's empathy. I hope you're the most successful person in the world, at whatever it is that you decide to do. But should you get to the top, always keep a place in your heart to help people. Strive to leave the world a better place than how you found it. The world can be a bad harsh place. All it needs is a few more good people and if you do your part, I know wherever you go will be better for it.

Today you're in daycare, celebrating this momentous birthday with your buddies. But tonight, we'll celebrate with a couple of shots of formula and maybe even a dinner of nothing but bananas and applesauce. After all, you only turn six-month old once.

I love you my little man,

Maman.

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

New Superhero Name

I know I've said before that if I was a superhero, I'd be Instant Gratification Girl, but I think that I've been wrong this entire time. Apparently my supernatural talent is to share way too much information, making me rename myself T.M.I. Girl.

I finally came to this conclusion this morning, when I told this fellow mom who I've only known very casually for the past couple of months because we both take baby music classes and a fitness class together (apparently we've both researched every possible way to find activities to get the hell out of the house with our babies so that our husbands didn't find us crawled up to the ceiling in a sobbing ball when they come home at night) all about a past sexual encounter.

Why would drive someone to do this you ask? I'm not sure. When you have a super power, you can't explain it. Why is it Superman can leap tall buildings? No one knows, he just can. Why can Wonderwoman throw that lasso around and whatever else it is she can do? Well, she probably grew up on a ranch and got tired of getting up every two minutes to fetch stuff and taught herself how to just lasso it to where she's sitting in her gold gogo boots.

The point is I'm not sure what led me to tell this fairly new acquaintance about my semi-wild past, but I did.

Here's how it happened.

Location: Parking lot of a mall in Suburbia

Characters: Me and this other mom, whose innocence is about to be forever shattered.

Me: Hey, girl-I-know-a-little-bit! Thanks for buying stuff I hawk from me. Here's your order of very mild and non-offensive scrapbooking supplies.

Other Mom: Oh, thank you. Let me write you a check. By the way, I hawk crap too. Have you heard of this company that sells tea tree oil stuff?

Me: (having total flashback a la people who do acid in movies) GASP! Oh my God, I haven't heard of that stuff in years! I can't even tell you where I first heard about it, because it's too embarrassing.

Let me interject here to say that this is the best way to make somebody tell you the story. If you have something to hide, you just say "I think I have yes" or "I think someone told me about it once." Not what I said, which goes to show that when you're a superhero, you unintentionally show your talent and skill at all times. Even without the cover of darkness.

Other Mom (as can be expected): OOOOH!!!! Embarrassing story! You have to tell me!!!!

Me: No, really, I can't, it's too embarrassing.

Other Mom (obviously): Oh please tell me!!!

And because I could also be Caves Really Easily Girl, I caved an told her. And now, dear reader, just to prove to you that my super powers have no limits, I will tell you as well.

When I was still a flight attendant. I met this fellow flight attendant who was a very rare breed: male and straight. Trust me, that's like meeting a unicorn or a leprechaun. They are so rare, that I rewarded each one I found by sleeping with them. Well, not all but definitely the hot ones.

So now you know where this story is going. This male flight attendant looked a lot like Tom Everett Scott, the C-list actor who's been in everything from ER to the title role of A Werewolf in Paris. By the way, that's not the best picture of him. It's just the only one I could find on IMDB.com. But you get the general idea.

So anyway, this flight attendant and I flirt the whole flight. Flirt bad. By the end of the flight, it's amazing we haven't ripped our uniforms off and had sex in the aisle. Anyway, I can't remember exactly how it went, but we ended up back at his place after the flight. I can't recall if there was dinner or drinks involved before. I seem to recall a vague memory of a pub, so there probably was, but either way, we ended up back at his place and did the deed.

After we were done, I'm laying in his bed naked and he gets up and leaves the room. He then comes back with a bunch of binders and plops them down on the bed. Ends up he part of this tea tree oil cult and begins to tell me that my greasy T-zone would be fixed if I'd use this product and my legs would be softer if I used this other product.

Now guys, in case you don't know this, women are at their most vulnerable when they're naked. Even if you've been with her for a while, you should never comment on anything even remotely related to their appearance, unless it's to say that she's so freaking hot, she melted the headboard or something cheesy along those lines.

And so I sat there silently begging for my panties and bra to leap across the room and magically re-attach themselves to my body. After he was done trying to convert me to the ways of tea tree oil, I got dressed, left and never took his calls again. I know I'm not a very good salesperson. But never would it occur to me to hawk something to someone after sex, while they're still in bed sitting on the wet spot. That just ain't right.

But as wrong as that may be, my telling this story to this mom, who was holding her 10-month old baby girl by the way as I'm spilling my guts, was definitely way wrong. She was cool about it though. Never once used the word whore once when speaking to me. But enough to say that I'm definitely buying thousands of dollars worth of tea tree oil crap from her now in order to buy her silence so the other moms never have to find out. Unless I decide that I need to tell all of them too, of course.

Love,

Catwoman.