Wednesday, May 31, 2006

Yet Another Reason Why I'm Glad I'm Not Britney Spears

There are many reasons to be happy to not be Britney. The first being that I still look like I always have. Britney? Not so much. I don't know if it's the back-to-back pregnacies, the idiotic husband, the stress of it all or what, but she is looking mighty haggard these days.

But the biggest reason is this.

People won't leave you the hell alone. You'd think poor Britney was the new Andrea Yates. I've slammed my son's head in quite a few things in my days. Especially against the roof of my Jeep while trying to get him in his car seat (probably why Brit got that convertible of hers). No one's criticizing me. Well, they probably are, but I'm not important enough to make People or US Weekly. I once slammed one of his microscopic fingers in the tray table of his booster seat.

I felt like crap and had diarrhea for two days from the stress after that one. I can't even imagine what length of hospitalization stay I would have required if it had made it on every entertainment show that I had every reason to feel like a bad mother.

It's funny how motherhood gets you to look at things differently. Before my baby, I probably would have led the bandwagon to have Britney's baby taken away from her. Now, except for the driving with the baby on her lap incident, all I think is "you bastards, leave the woman alone."

A couple of weeks ago, 19 teachers and staff at a school had to be hospitalized after eating muffins laced with marijuana that a student and his buddy made. Those kids are 18 and facing 20 years in jail now because of this stupid act. Before my son, I would have been like "morons, let them rot." Now all I can think about is that it could be my son who smokes pot and thinks it'll be funny to see the teachers stoned from muffins.

I don't want to be one of those mothers with the serial killer son who goes "oh, he's really a sweet boy, you just don't understand him." But at the same time, my view on things have forever been warped, as if viewed through some brightly colored prism.

Love,

Catwoman

Tuesday, May 30, 2006

Pet Peeve Day

OK, today is Catwoman needs to whine day. But I've noticed things lately when I've gone to new business meetings that are really starting to piss me off. Here are my rules of how to treat people when they come see you for a meeting:

1. Be Freaking Happy -- You Set Up the Meeting with Me, Remember????

I probably don't want to be at your office either bastard. But I've got a kid to feed and a mortgage to pay, and so I'm being chipper and doing the whole song and dance thing, like you called me and asked me to do. So at least pretend you're in the same freaking room as me when I'm talking.

2. Offer Me Something to Drink

I'm a human, not a robot. More than likely, I'll turn you down, because I'm always afraid of dribbling on myself or knocking over the glass of water all over your desk. But I might actually be thirsty, because guess what, I'm a human, not a PR robot. Do you know any robots who get zits on their chin? That was your first hint. Now make it a freaking margarita, to make up for your rudeness.

3. I Just Drove 40 Miles. I Ain't Leaving

If your office is in the middle of freaking nowhere and Mapquest included uncontrollable laughter on every line of its' directions, don't freaking tell me 15 minutes into the meeting that you need to keep this short because you're busy. Especially when during those 15 minutes, we've talked about the same things we spoke on the phone about on Friday. So make it worth the freaking $50 in gas that it took me to come to your shit hole. Or buy me lunch.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, May 29, 2006

Number One Symptom That You Are Insane

It's official.

I'm insane.

You might have known this before, but unlike before, I can prove it.

You see, my son is turning nine months old on Friday. Nine months. The amount of time I spent carrying him in my womb. And the amount of time I've spent carrying him around in my arms and answering his ear-shattering screams.

And for some reason, during the past month, a throbbing has started inside my head. Not the kind that makes you think that maybe it's a tumor. The kind that makes people look at you wide-eyed when you explain what this throbbing is.

I want another baby.

There, I've said it.

I've always known that I wanted my kids to be fairly close in age. But then Baby Boy came along and I began to think that only having one kid was the way to go.

And then I learned to like motherhood. I learned that I didn't need sleep and that I could wipe wet snot with my bare hand without giving it a second thought or keep my mouth open for an hour as ten grubby little fingers explore every corner of my tongue. I've learned that if you have a screaming baby in the backseat and you need to get home, turning up the radio really loud and singing along at the top of your lungs drowns out cries really well. I've learned that feeding melted ice cream to your eight-month old baby won't kill it and that breaking your organic and healthy food only nazi regime makes you feel good. I've also learned that if the dogs lick the babies hands and I don't wipe them off with Purrell immediately, said baby won't die of E. Coli, salmonella or doggie breath disorder.

Since I've mellowed so much, I feel at this point that I am enough of an expert on this whole baby matter that I can push my luck with a second one. Forget the fact that my son has begun exhibiting symptoms of temper tantrums. Forget the fact that my solution so far has been to roll my eyes, laugh at him and walk away, guaranteeing him a lifetime of therapy and feelings of being unloved.

The point is that never in my life have I felt more comfortable in my own skin. I have stretchmarks on my hips, cellulite in my thighs, and yet for the first time in four years, I'm wearing a bikini. Partly because I feel like people are admiring the baby on said cellulite-and-stretch mark laden hip, rather than looking at me, partly because it just doesn't matter anymore. I'm not a supermodel. I'm a mom. And that means I get to eat ding dongs and get laugh lines.

And so now I'm looking at new insurance plans to make sure that we can afford to do this again. Because I'm ready. I hope the world is.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, May 24, 2006

Love at First Sight

Those of you who know me and those of you who've been reading this site for a little while know that money management isn't exactly my best skill. Although I would say that I'm pretty thrifty, shopping sales the way that dogs seek that perfect spot for urination, only settling for the best.

I don't really own anything expensive, unless you count Baby Boy. I'm not a shoe shopper, and the few shoes I do have, come from a place named DSW Shoe Warehouse. All from their sales rack. I'm not much of a purse person, practically all of my purses were offered to me by my mother or mother-in-law. I can't even remember the last time I shelled out money for a purse.

But while in Canada, I happened to walk by a Guess accessories store. And I walked in for no apparent reason and then the heavens opened up, angels began to sing and I was struck by a warm tingly feeling.

There it was: buttery soft ostrich leather, two handles to lovingly cradle the crook of my arm and the world's coolest clasp.

I was in love. It was 100 dollars Canadian, more than I've ever spent on just about anything in my whole life. I picked it up, and instantly knew that if I had been born an ostrich, I would want to become that purse too.

I put it down and actually managed to walk out of the store. But then I realized my life would never be fulfilled if I didn't buy that purse. We were meant to be together and screw our current circumstances, she tied down by an anti-theft alarm thingie, me married to a very thrifty man who luckily doesn't see the credit card statements. We could start anew together, maybe get new names and live happily on a beach somewhere, if the sand and salty water didn't threaten to damage its beauty.

And so I bought it.

And if anyone asks, it was a gift from my parents who were so ecstatic that me and Baby Boy came to Canada.

And yes, it's three days later and I still love the purse, so it was money well spent.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, May 23, 2006

Back From Canada -- There Just Isn't Enough Beer

Remind me to never, ever become a single mother. Or at least, if I do, remind me to never go anywhere further than 20 miles away from home. Because there just isn't enough liquor to deal with the stress.

I'm one of those people who's obsessed with people finding my child gorgeous and well-behaved. Forget the fact that said child is 8 1/2 months old and doesn't yet comprehend the concept of not pooping one's own pants, let alone the concept of being well-behaved so that people think his mother is God's gift to motherhood.

I spent 29 years of my life feeling semi-bad for people with screaming babies on the plane, while at the same time swearing that I would never be one of them. And now, however unrealistic this may seem to those of you with babies, I'm still swearing I won't be one of them.

Our trip began with me packing two gigantic suitcases for our four-day trip. I also packed the diaper bag until the seams threatened to go on strike, got out the special car seat travel cover bought for the occasion and packed my purse until it slapped me in the face and told me I wasn't worthy of owning anything remotely nice.

Sweetie Pie freaked out when he saw the sheer amount of stuff we had, partly because I think he was frightened that we might be leaving forever, and he doesn't know where I keep the hard liquor or the cold medication, therefore couldn't live without me.

And so he dropped me off at the airport, my cart filled with two large suitcases, the diaper bag, the gigantic car seat that could house a large Namibian family, the stroller and the baby. I told him to get on with his day, that I'd be fine to get to the counter. And I was. I probably looked like one of those ants that find a dead bird, and single handedly attempt to drag it back to the nest, despite the sheer impossibility and ridiculousness of it.

The problem with airport carts, is unlike grocery carts, the front compartment is not meant to house the baby. This left me to hold my baby on the hip with one hand, leaving me the other hand to push my ginormous cart. And I made it to the counter. And I checked in my freakishly large suitcases. And I was charming and pleasant and my baby cocked his head and smiled and charmed the pants off the check in agent, landing us a free seat next to mine so that I could keep his car seat. I was ecstatic. Because I'm stupid that way and don't realize that getting to keep my car seat means that I get to haul it 30 miles to my gate. As well as the heavy diaper bag, my purse, which doubles as a tent for boy scouts and my enormous baby, who's got to be the size of a 20-year old by now.

And so off through security I went, hauling my stroller, the baby, the car seat on my backlike a turtle and the diaper bag swinging wildly from my other shoulder, permanently damaging my spleen, my hip and nerves somewhere near my crotch area.

Because I'm me, I wear very high heeled boots, even through the airport, making it impossible for me to not have to remove them at the security counter. If you've ever tried to unzip and remove boots while balancing precoriously on one heel and holding a squirming baby, I highly recommend it in that way I dare you to jump off a bridge just to see if your body will bounce.

After security, I was sweating more profusely than a hooker meeting her new boyfriend's Baptist family. But I'd made it. And so I celebrated by taking Baby Boy to TGI Friday's and ordering the world's largest Dr. Pepper ("we don't have Dr. Pepper," said the waitress), and settling for the world's largest Pepsi. I also had me an order of the spinach dip and the French vanilla cheesecake because I freaking deserved a medal and they didn't have those on the menu.

Once aboard the plane, I strapped Baby Boy into his car seat and when we finally took off, he magically fell asleep, making me the happiest person on Earth. Unfortunately, a flight from Dallas to Montreal is 3 1/2 hours long. And my pumpkin's nap was only one hour long. This left me with 2 1/2 hours to entertain an eight-month old with the attention span of a gnat in a space no bigger than a shoe box. But I did it. Not once did my child scream except for the odd "Hey it's quiet in here!" scream, which I promptly silenced with cheerios, apple juice (even an all-seasoned chip on the way home, because fried goodness coated with sodium is oh-so-good for babies).

And we made it to Montreal. Where we were almost turned away at customs because my letter from Sweetie Pie allowing me to leave the country with Baby Boy, which I was assured by American Airlines and by my travel agent client wasn't needed, wasn't considered a valid document and apparently I look like a child kidnapper when I'm in a sheer exhaustion/harried state and my back is permanently deformed from carrying the damn car seat another 30 miles through the Montreal airport. But apparently I was in luck, the customs guy's wife wasn't caught banging his best friend that morning and he'd had enough coffee to get him through his day and so in the first time ever with me, a customs officer let me through since it was my first time traveling alone with the baby. Which is a good thing, because if he hadn't, I'd be facing murder charges in a Canadian jail right now, because there was no way I was making the return journey right then and there after what I'd been through.

Baby Boy and I slept at my sister's apartment, which was fun and for once, quite drama free. My sister and I, for some reason, always end up getting into these huge brawls about things like racism and so forth. I think I'm one of the least racist people I know, but then again I do live in Texas, so maybe that's not the best point of reference. I did accidentally make a KKK joke sitting next to two black girls at my other sister's baby shower on Saturday. But I was simply trying to say that those hooded towels are just too big for babies' heads and every time I put it on Baby Boy, he freaks out, like he's convinced he's about to be hanged by the KKK.

Yeah I know.

That stupid rule of saying things seven times inside your head before saying it outloud was invented because of me.

The point is the baby shower was great, except for the fact that my sister's friend, who was in charge of games, had apparently only ever done bachelorette parties before, since her games involved chugging down Bailey's and then chewing candy necklaces off each other. I'm pretty sure she had a male stripper dressed in only a diaper planned too, but we ran out of time.

The trip was quite exhausting. Baby Boy turned into Paris Hilton during the trip, only interested in partying it up and giving up sleep like if it was last year's Gucci sunglasses. I'd try to put him in bed and he'd just get up and jump on his fat little butt, shrieking and laughing, thinking it was the funniest thing in the world. Therefore, enough to say that I got quite exhausted.

In fact, I was so tired, that something happened Sunday night that has never happened to me in my whole life, not even in my drunkest, blacked out state. I went to the bathroom, lowered my pants and peed, only to realize, to my horror, that I'd forgotten to lower my underwear. Apparently, I haven't been going to the bathroom long enough that I can go without walking myself through all of the steps. If you've ever sat down and peed in your underwear (oh please, one of you comment that you have done so to make my mortification just one notch better), you know that it is the weirdest, creepiest feeling in the world. In my defense, I was wearing thong underwear that was rather on the small side, like ant floss, but still.

Then yesterday, Baby Boy and I headed back for home. The whole journey was just as long and arduous on the way back. But once again, my back ached, Baby Boy was sweet and cute and admired by all and overall, I'd call the trip a success, despite my not having enough alcohol in my system to deal with it as well as I could.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, May 19, 2006

Oh Canada...

As one of my friends put it, I'm about to become that woman. The one on the plane traveling by herself with a baby, a gazillion pounds of baby gear with her that won't all fit in the overhead bin while her baby wails in the seat as she tries to make it fit anyway. The one who gets dirty looks as she walks up the aisle, because she's carrying a human being who is under five feet tall and therefore likely to make a sound at some point during the flight, even if she stuffs it with oreos during the entire flight, which then would cause the fellow passengers to give her dirty looks for stuffing a baby with oreos, so really, that woman can't win either way.

Baby Boy is going through a stage right now that makes me think this trip will be a highly stressful one and I am highly unmedicated. He is going through some crazy separation anxiety, where by separation, I mean he is pissed that he's not attached to my womb with an umbillical cord anymore, because me just holding him isn't enough for him at times. If I have the nerve to sit him next to me so that I can get work done, he'll actually attempt to climb my leg to be one with me again. It's actually quite the neat party trick.

The egotistical part of me loves this, as never in my entire life have I been adored this much. The realistic part of me knows that this is all too temporary, as before too long, I'll be asked to drop off my precious ball of flesh and drool two blocks away from the movie theater and will be told on a regular basis how much I'm hated and how much I'm ruining his life. I know that this sheer adoration stage and the needing to be with me 24 hours a day right now is only the universe's way of ensuring that I have something to hold onto during those long teenage years.

But this separation anxiety stage, as flattering as it might be also means that Baby Boy breaks a lot of hearts, because even his daddy isn't enough for him should I decide to walk out of the room. And most people aren't even allowed to hold him for longer than five seconds now or he freaks out. This makes it hard to go to Canada where his two aunts and grandparents are probably hoping to hold him and play with him the entire time.

Who knows, maybe crossing the 49th parallel will bring back his confidence that I'm not going to get swallowed up by the universe and disappear out of his life forever. Because if Canada doesn't feel like a safe place, then I don't know what does.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

Another Message Brought to You By Old Geezers R' Us

I like to drive, because it's time I can spend with my thoughts, my brain just jumping from one stream to another, never disturbed, not even when screaming pedestrians hit the bottom of my tires or red and blue lights flash in my rearview mirror.

This morning, a girl I once babysat came to mind. Why? I couldn't even begin to tell you. But all of a sudden, as I was remembering babysitting her, I tried to figure out how old she'd be. And that's when I swerved into uncoming traffic. She's 16, turning 17 at some point later this year.

16. Old enough to have tried smoking for the first time, maybe even sniffed glue, tried meth or whatever it is kids these days are doing (I skip that section of Parents Magazine, knowing that should I read it, I would completely freak out and give Baby Boy to a pack of wolves, knowing he'll be safer with them then in our urban setting). Old enough to maybe have had sex if she's half decent looking or half decently slutty.

The sex thought really freaked me out. No child that I once babysat should be old enough to have sex. And that's when I did the math. All the kids I once upon a time babysat, read Dr. Seuss too, watched Disney movies with until it was way past their bed time, played with so hard that we laughed until our sides hurt. Those kids now range in age from 16 to 23. Those kids are now either old enough or too old to babysit my son.

Not that I'd let most of them babysit him, considering they pooped their pants, tried to flush a toy bunny, set the pet turtle loose only to try to trample him with their toy tricycles. They're really not mature enough to handle my child.

I am officially old. I'm sending in my AARP application today.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

Blood Circulation Purely Optional

So did I mention that I've lost a total of eight inches last month? And I'm not talking about the fact that I haven't had sex in that long since Sweetie Pie and I sleep most nights with an eight-month old baby in between us. I swear the kid wants to make sure he remains an only child.

How did I go about to lose eight inches from my wiggly jiggly body? Simple. I've been living on diet bars for breakfast and lunches of McDonald's Happy Meals. I've found the key to weight loss and it resides with a plastic toy in a bag.

I've also been going to my baby and mommy stroller fitness class twice a week, for the most part, and have gone on one or two walks around the neighborhood with Baby Boy.

That and the fact that my instructor measured me over very baggy clothes at the beginning of the month and I wore tight clothing at the end of the month when she re-measured me, probably causing me to be four inches thinner in the process.

Either way, this eight inches, as inaccurate as it might be caused me to celebrate with two things: a large order of Steak and Shake fries, only the greatest fries on this side of the Atlantic Ocean, and a shopping spree at Old Navy.

Once I got to Old Navy, with Baby Boy, of course, I began to throw clothes in the cart. I found a pair of Daisy Duke like shorts, except for the fact that they didn't second as a thong, they were long enough to not scare young children with my cellulite. I also found a pair of cute, cute jeans, a pair of pinstripe cute, cute grey pants and some other stuff.

In the change room, I began to try on pants and couldn't close the cute, cute jeans. I figured that I was quite close to being able to close them, so I figured, give me another month and hopefully I can suck enough of my gut to fit into them. It's good to have goals.

The grey pants look like they're painted on to my body, but they do close, and since they were cute, cute, I decided to get those too. Around that time, Baby Boy decided he was bored and so began to sound like a wolverine whose cubs are being taken away and that's when I decided to make a run for the cash register. I decided that I'd get the cute, cute jeans and cute, cute pants and the t-shirts and baby pj's that were in the cart. At the cash register, I was busy telling Baby Boy not to rip off all the dangly signs from the cash register to really pay attention to the scanning of my items.

Once I got home, I was emptying the bag and there they were. The Daisy Duke shorts that I'd completely forgotten about. And somehow purchased. But never tried on.

And so I gave them a good shake and began to try them on. I got them past my ankles without any problems, then past my calves, still good. But somewhere just past my knees, things began to get a little claustrophobic. I somehow squeezed my hips in and then came the Herculean task of closing not only the zipper, but the button too.

And guess what? I got them on. They have literally become a second skin on me and when I remove them, every single seam and thread is permanently tattooed onto my body. But they fit.

Of course, I've got to wear an ultra baggy shirt, because all the fat that usually resides in my hip and tummy area and was kicked out of the neighborhood because of my denim shorts has to go somewhere. I now have a floatation device located just under my boobs. If I wore my shorts to get liposuction, I would make the doctor's life so easy, because all the fat is reunited like a high school class ten years later. And they all seemed to have fun, because even after I took the shorts off it took them awhile to return home. They just hung around for a while, wondering if it'd be another ten years before they got to get back together.

Love,

Catwoman.

Sunday, May 14, 2006

Happy Mother's Day!

Things that I Wanted for Mother's Day:

1. To sleep in
2. Have breakfast in bed, by myself
3. Not take care of the baby for one morning

What I Got for Mother's Day:

1. A gift certificate to a spa for a massage
2. None of the other stuff that to me was worth more than a million dollars

I appreciate the gift, really I do. But considering that I had to stress to get myself ready on time to go to church with my inlaws and had to once again poke myself in the eye with my mascara brush while Sweetie Pie drove, that other stuff to me would have been worth more than a million dollars.

I'm not a high maintenance girl. Gifts don't mean that much to me. The ability to enjoy a couple of hours of silence and solitude? That to me would have been the bestest gift ever.

But I guess, unless you're Tom Hanks in Castaway, you don't get that anymore the second you decide to get pregnant.

The permanent bags under my mother's eyes now make a lot of sense to me.

On another note, the church nursery was short-staffed and there was no one to take care of Baby Boy today and so I chose to keep him on my lap. Not only was he well behaved except for the odd "eeeeeeeeeee agigi" during prayers and raspberries at parts of the sermon he didn't agree with, he was the model baby. I couldn't have been more proud to be anyone's mother, and wouldn't wish to be any other baby's mom, well, except for the other two kids I intend to have.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, May 12, 2006

Stealing from Others...

I'm borrowing this Meme (can someone please tell me exactly what the hell meme stands for? In French it means an old crabby lady. What does it mean in Internet/blogger world?) from Emma, whose blog is featured in the links on the right hand side of this blog. Emma is my most loyal commentator and must be recognized for that. With what she must be recognized, I'm not sure.

Anyway, the point is that she posted this musical meme on her site, where you go through your Ipod's shuffle feature to answer the questions below. Here's how mine turned out:

How does the world see you?
Everything Zen -- Bush
(This is especially funny considering I'm probably one of the least zen people on Earth. Sweetie Pie says I have a bit of a temper. But if you ask my grandmother, she'll tell you I'm the most easygoing, zen person on Earth. So apparently I have fooled some people, hence, my psychic iPod's answer)

Will I have a happy life?
Behind These Hazel Eyes -- Kelly Clarkson
(Considering this song is all about hiding tears and not letting others see your pain, I'm not sure what that means... I'm guessing I'll make the world think I'm having a happy life, but I won't necessarily will. Which is really freaking depressing! Oh and for the record, iPod, my eyes are green, not hazel.)

What do my friends really think me?
Good -- Better than Ezra
(Wow. Apparently these are my friends who don't know about my slutty past. Because I haven't been a good girl since I was about 15 1/2.)

Do people secretly lust after me?
I'm With You -- Avril Lavigne
(Uhm... OK. Not sure what Avril's trying to say here. She looked gorgeous in People Magazine's 100 most beautiful people.)

How can I make myself happy?
Glycerine -- Bush
(Ok, it's really odd that out of the 150+ songs I have on my iPod, two Bush songs would come up for this, considering that I only have three Bush songs in my iPod. But hey, if Glycerine will make me happy, anyone got any they want to sell me?)

What should I do with my life?
Breakfast in America -- Supertramp
(Well, this is convenient. Since I live in America and all, it is easier for me to have breakfast here. However, I do believe I need more of a purpose in life than simply having the most important meal of the day. I mean, shouldn't I be out saving orphans like Angelina. That bitch makes me feel like I lead such a shallow life. But my bottom lip's not that much smaller than hers, although, she pulls it off much better than I do.)

Will I ever have children?
The Right Kind of Wrong -- Leanne Rhymes
(This really does make sense. It's very wrong for me to have more children, yet in that car crash can't look away sort of way, I probably need to, just to keep the masses entertained)

What is some good advice for me?
But I do Love You -- Leanne Rhymes
(Once again, what's with my shuffle playing the same artists. You'll think I have some kind of Leanne Rhymes fetish, when I just really have a Coyote Ugly fetish, including the sountrack and the bars (which I've proudly danced on the bar at Coyote Ugly twice now, thank you very much.) This makes sense as advice, because it could be my out everytime I get in trouble for something.

How will I be remembered?
Since U Been Gone -- Kelly Clarkson
(OK, this is really getting ridiculous. I have more than three artists in my damn iPod. I know I do. Although, this is only one of the greatest songs of all time. Although, I really don't want people thinking that they can breathe for the first time because I'm gone.)

What is my signature dancing song?
Sweet Home Alabama -- Linnard Skinnard
(Odd, considering that I was born in France and raised in Canada, neither of which screams Alabama. But when I was pressed by the DJ at my wedding to choose one final song, this was the song I chose. So it's kind of really freaky that this was the one that came up on the old teal blue iPod with my name inscribed on the back (my Christmas present from Sweetie Pie the Christmas right before I found out I was pregnant.)

What do I think my current theme song is?
Domino Dancing -- Pet Shop Boys
(Odd that my current theme song would be from a couple of gay guys from the 80's, but this does make sense, considering of my affection for all things gay and that throughout most of my life (except for now, not many gay men in my moms' clubs) I have had a best friend who was gay. This has been a tremendous gap for the past few months and I miss that soulmate connection that a woman can only have with a gay man. Plus, I'm feeling constantly like I'm about to knock down the dominoes if I'm not careful, considering that I'm trying to ensure that I keep enough money coming in that I don't have a good job and constantly worrying about neglecting Baby Boy or my clients in the process of handling everything.)

What song will play at my funeral?
I'm a Slave 4 U -- Britney Spears
(OK, I don't know which is more embarrassing... That I have this song in my iPod (hey, it's great to sing along with with my windows down) or that this is the song my iPod believes should be played at my funeral. Apparently, I give, and give and give and it ended up killing me. Because I'm a slaaaaaaave for you, I can't deny it, I'm not going to try something something something... Give me a break, I may like the song, but I don't know all the lyrics.)

What type of men/women do you like?
Rag Doll -- Aerosmith
(Very odd. Apparently, my iPod thinks I have lipstick lesbian tendencies. Which is quite funny, considering lesbians don't like me. No, I'm serious. Every time I've been to a lesbian bar with my gay guy friends, I've gotten the cold shoulder and ended up drunkenly crying to my friends that I'd end up all alone if I was gay and why oh why don't they like me? Although, Sweetie Pie's gay aunt and her lover love me, but I think that's because they think they have to since we're related and all. But since I finally broke my lesbian curse, I'm excited.)

What is my day going to be like?
With a Little Help from My Friends -- The Beatles
(Wow, this is much better. I always do get by with my friends. I appreciate every single one of my friends, whether they know it or not, from my friend J. in New York who shares my passion for all things Kelly Ripa, to my friend M. who will trash anyone with me, just because we can. Each one of my friends is an important piece in my life and I appreciate every single one of them)

This was fun actually. I wonder what else I can do with my iPod beside listen to a mix of teeny bopper music and stuff I used to listen to with my parents. I continued to scroll through my shuffle after the last question and I narrowly avoided Baby Got Back and Bad Day by Fuel. Whew! Thanks my lovely iPod. And thanks Emma for posting such fun goodness!

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, May 11, 2006

Does This Mean I'm a Grown Up?

Confession: I'm not a girlie girl.

I was a big fan of polyester shorts when I was little. Usually sat with my legs spread apart. Didn't start shaving until a girl pointed out to me in 8th grade that my legs were hairy and I should shave them (if you consider blonde peach fuzz "hairy"). Never learned to apply make up properly. Only own about five pairs of shoes because I don't get the whole shoe obsession, plus I've just got crappy feet.

But this weekend, I spent 50 dollars on makeup. That's right me.

And I'm not talking about I got a whole make up kit for 50 dollars. No, I'm talking about that I bought a tiny bottle of foundation and pressed powder. And those two items cost more than anything I have in my wardrobe.

What would lead someone like me to spend this much money on something they've historically never used?

Blotchiness people.

I no longer can go out in public without makeup without looking blotchy. I'm not sure what caused this, since my giving birth coincided with my 30th birthday. Maybe getting old and having a human being to keep alive was too much for my skin to deal with and it decided to just give up and blotch.

And since the dogs chewed up my Cover Girl foundation tube which was bought sometime in 2003 and has probably expired long before my eggs ever decided to serve their actual purpose, I decided that I was an adult, one with blotchy skin, and it was time that I used good stuff, because if my skin wasn't worth it, what was?

So I went to the MAC counter, at Nordstrom, the hoity toity store, and I told the highly overmade up 20-year old behind the counter, who had a toolbelt filled with 100 brushes, most of which I couldn't tell you the purpose of, even if you held a gun to my head, that I needed foundation.

She asked me how much coverage I was looking for. I told her my whole face. She looked at me google eyed and clarified that she meant light, medium or way too much. As tempting as going from au natural to way too much was, I decided to go for medium, which apparently means dries to a powdery finish. Oh technology, You can't figure out how to fill up my gas tank for less than 10 gazillion dollars, but you can dry my face to a powdery finish.

And now, I have to say, I can't imagine not wearing my expensive MAC foundation. My face does look better with it. And I feel like one of the models on 8th & Ocean when I wear it (but not like Kelly, because she's a horrible bitch to her twin. I've probably lost all of my readers who, unlike me are older then 15, and don't watch every show on MTV). Even yesterday, when I had nowhere to go but the grocery store, I wore my foundation and lip gloss. Baby Boy was very impressed.

Although I'm pretty sure he barely recognized me without the blotchiness.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

Now It's All Starting to Make Sense...

I think I may finally understand exactly why I haven't been named Mom of the Month yet. It might have to something to do with the fact that just in the past four days, I've managed to:

1. Bunk Baby Boy on the head against the roof of my Jeep while trying to get him into his car seat.

2. Bunked Baby Boy on the forehead, showing my friend K. how he loves to be swung in front of the mirror towards his reflection. Apparently, I overswung once and Baby Boy was attacked by the baby in the mirror.

3. Sitting outside in our yard with K. and Baby Boy, I managed to sit in our huge yard in the one spot that was infested by fire ants. When I realized my arm was coated in them, I looked down to see that Baby Boy's little bare foot was also covered in fire ants. I took care of him first (maybe I should be mother of the month, those suckers can bite!), so he only got stung three times, twice on his foot, once on his thigh. But I still got him stung.

My friend K. commented that due to the fact Baby Boy didn't even cry when he got hit in the face by the mirror shows that this may be a regularly occuring situation. Which, I promise, isn't that common. He is a boy and he's tough. But he did receive a little bit of training from me on how as long as it's not bleeding, it means you're ok.

There's also of the issue of me arguing with my eight-month old baby. I will literally sit there and argue with him while he screams at me. Sometimes, I'll scream back at him, just to prove to him that it's really freaking annoying. I'm not sure I've ever read this parenting tip in any magazine or book. I may have come up with a whole new style of parenting. So future therapists, get ready. This'll need a whole new course of treatment for Baby Boy someday. Hopefully it'll involve good drugs like valium or prozac for me. Because I should get something for my traumas too.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, May 03, 2006

Why I Shouldn't Be Allowed Out Unsupervised

Now I realize that I'm tired these days because Baby Boy is waking up at 10:30 every night and refuses to go back to sleep unless he's in bed with me. Trust me, I never thought I'd be one of those moronic mothers who does this, but we've tried everything and I'm just tired of fighting. Can't we give peace a fucking chance people? Sleeping with Baby Boy these day is like laying in bed with a goat. It's constant kicking, bucking against you and loud noises.

None of these things create the right atmosphere to get a good night's sleep.

But even taking into consideration my sleep deprivation, I seem to have hit a whole new level of stupidity.

Like take yesterday, for example. Sweetie Pie needed to work late and Baby Boy was being exorcist nightmare baby who wouldn't be satisified just sitting on the couch and watching Extra with me. I have no idea what is wrong with that child.

And so, exasperated, I decided to get off my big butt, put on some work out shorts and take him out for a walk. So far, so good.

When I got outside, my neighbor from across the street who's about 10 years younger than me, unmarried and had a baby less than a month after me and smoked outside her entire pregnancy, big belly and all, standing on her parents' driveway, was outside, bonding with her baby (a.k.a. had her baby strapped in her car seat, while she smoked). Seeing me and Baby Boy, she waved us over. And so Baby Boy was exposed to second-hand smoke for the first time of his life, but it was technically his fault, since the people on Extra don't smoke, and even if they did, they're in the TV where it can't reach him.

So I stood there talking to her for half an hour, and finally, it got time to get Baby Boy ready for bed, so I went back to my house, our walk consisting of looking both ways before crossing the street.

When Sweetie Pie finally got home, he kissed me hello and then said "why are your shorts inside out?"

Yeah, I stood in front of my neighbor with my seams out, tag showing on the back. Because I'm cool like that.

Then this morning, Baby Boy and I were at our mommy and baby fitness class and I went to a baby clothing store afterwards. When I walked out, one of the other moms was still in the parking lot and said to me "your car door was open." I left my freaking Jeep with the door wide open, not ajar, because how the hell would that be any fun, with my cell phone, my father-in-law's camera tripod, Baby Boy's diaper bag, car seat and a gazillion Happy Meal toys all unlocked and with the door open.

Surprisingly, any thieves thought my jeep was way too messy to consider stealing it or the junk in it.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

Eight Months: My Letter to Baby Boy

It's funny, halfway through this month, I was thinking to myself that I had absolutely nothing to write about this month. You hadn't changed at all and had accomplished nothing new. And then, proving once again that you've inherited my need to always blow everything out of the water, you began to clap, roll across the room and scoot backwards. Oh, and you grew another three teeth, just in case I hadn't noticed all those other milestones.



It all started one Saturday morning, when I sat you down, surrounded you with toys and proceeded to begin dragging a heavy bookcase across the game room. Once I was done, you began to applaud. I was stunned. Not only had you figured out how to clap, after my obsessively showing you how to, since I think the cutest things in the world are clapping babies and waving babies, but you had figured out that applause should be given when one does something impressive.

And then two days after you began to clap. You simply stopped. Partly because I'd told everyone you could clap, and apparently you don't believe in showing off or performing tricks on command and partly because at this point you had mastered clapping and you were ready to move on to something else.



Of course, then there's the rolling over. You've gone from knowing how to roll over and refusing to do it, choosing instead to scream at me until I gave in and rolled you over myself, to traveling barrel style across the room. You think it's the funniest thing when I look over at you and you're halway across the room and I exclaim "how did you get over there." And you'll giggle at me like you've just pulled one over your old mom.



Speaking of the giggling, nothing makes you laugh harder than me laughing at you. I swear that you are a born entertainer. You'll do things accidentally that make me laugh harder than anything I've ever seen. And you are so pleased when you watch me laugh. You get this look of satisfaction on your little face like "my evil plan is working, the woman is laughing and has no idea a time machine sits under my crib."

I love to swing you towards your reflection in front of our big hall mirror. You love to watch yourself get closer, than farther away, then closer again. The other day, I accidentally misjudged the distance and bumped your head lightly against the mirror. You glared at your reflection, as if it must be its fault. I laughed so hard, my eyes began tearing up. And you looked up at me and smiled, happy to once again have entertained the crowd.



And you'll eat just about anything now. Even stuff you probably shouldn't. You'll eat small pieces of Colby Jack cheese with me. Your little face distorting at the first bite, its pungent taste catching you by surprise. But then, as it never fails with any food, you opened your mouth for another bite, and another and I wouldn't be surprised if we ate a pound of cheese between the two of us. And then the other day, I took you to IKEA, my version of Church, while daddy was out killing innocent turkeys in the Texas wild. While at IKEA, I got hungry and so you and I split a cinnamon bun. I'm sure those few bites I gave you contained more sugar than you've had in your entire life and I was so thrilled to finally give you something crappy to eat. Me, the nutrition nazi when it comes to your food and there I was, feeding you something with absolutely no redeeming nutritional quality to it, but it was one of the best moments we've shared together. You, sitting in the cart grinning at me, and me grinning back at you, both of our faces coated in sweet cinnamon and frosting.

I'm sure you're still on a sugar high two days later, but I promise you, there will be other moments throughout your childhood where you and I will spend a quiet few minutes, just enjoying an ice cream cone, a slushie, a sno cone, a warm pretzel or some other non-nutritional food item. Life is too short to only be about cauliflower and lean protein. I'll introduce you to the great cultural flavors of foods like camembert, roast duck and sushi. But I promise that I will also be the one with you for your first bite of chocolate, Montreal-style bagels (never settle for the crappy bagels they sell here) and salt and vinegar chips.

Love,

Maman.