Wednesday, October 25, 2006

Scaring Teenagers Everywhere Away From Sex and Alcohol

Our grocery store always has a teenager or very old man who's too broke to retire push your cart to your car and load up your groceries for you. This is because their shopping carts are their equivalent to the Hope Diamond and they don't want you running off with them. At least that's what the cynic in me has decided. But they're probably trying to be service oriented really.

The other day, a teenage boy was pushing the Little Man in the cart towards the car and we were making small talk. As we got to the car and he was loading my groceries, he noticed that I'd bought two six-packs of beer and a bottle of wine.

"Wow," he said. "You're having a party tonight, aren't you."

Awkward silence.

"Uhm, actually I'm not."

Awkward silence back.

"Oh."

I take Little Man out of the cart, laugh and say:

"Yesterday, I saw a baby t-shirt online that said 'Mama drinks because I cry,' haha!"

Blank confused stare from teenager.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, October 23, 2006

They Said This Might Happen, But I Thought They Were Lying

Before you get pregnant, you keep hearing from people who have kids that it'll change your whole life, your life will never be the same again, and on and on and on.

Makes you think that if you like your life at all, you're better off not having kids. Because after all, change is bad, right?

But if I never changed anything, I'd still have horrid bangs, wear tapered jeans and love New Kids On The Block. So I'm thinking change isn't that bad.

Plus here's the thing about change. Maybe you're not always the one who needs to change. After all, before Sweetie Pie and I moved in together, he'd watch the O'Reilly Factor in bed every night. But now, he watches Sex and The City. He's accepted this change because ever so often, he gets laid. He didn't get laid in the O'Reilly Factor days.

So when I began to cry every time a Johnson & Johnson commercial aired (with their tagline "Having a baby changes everything" mind you), I just figured my kid would have to adapt to us.

And for the main part, he has. He's accepted that his mother is so forgetful she may have to feed him refried beans in a Mexican restaurant at only six months. He's adapted to the fact that sometimes there's no room for him on the couch because the dogs like to lay there with us.

But now, now, he's gone and tried to change my whole lifestyle. One that I've meticulously maintained for now 31 years and one month. I'm talking about my messiness.

I've carefully mastered the art of messiness. Read the Sunday paper? Don't throw it out for a couple of days. You might decide you want to read old news.

But then my son comes along and he's showing signs already of my biggest fear: he's developing into a neat freak.

I can't leave anything sitting out anymore, or else the Little Man puts it away. And where he puts things away isn't always logical. Like last week, when he decided to put the remote control, which I had put away, well, left on the couch, in a pot in the kitchen cabinet. Unable to find it anywhere, I was stuck watching the Martha Stewart show instead of the Young and the Restless.

Having a baby changes everything, particularly your television viewing habits and your right to messiness.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, October 20, 2006

Things That Make Me Want to Punch You

There's a certain etiquette when it comes to motherhood. One of the biggest ones is that if I compliment your kid and say something like "your baby is so cute!" you need to answer with something like "yes, but yours is the most gorgeous on Earth."

And you have to mean it.

Because my baby is freaking adorable. He's a two-year old's head on a 13-month old's body, making him look like an edible bobble head.

I was IM'ing someone the other day and I mentioned that the latest picture of their baby were really cute.

The response to my IM was "oh thanks."

OH THANKS????

There's the world's cutest picture of my baby on my IM screen. In it, he looks like he could be an Abercrombie & Fitch baby model if there was such a thing. He is totally bringing sexy back in the picture, and baby girls with good dexterity would totally throw their diapers at him if they saw this picture.

And all you can say is "Oh thanks????"

This is why there's so much violence in this world. Because people break the most important rule of mommyhood.

This person's card is revoked from the cool mommy club for now and forever.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, October 19, 2006

Yeah, What He Said...

The Little Man's language skills have just exploded during the past few weeks. Now, more than ever, it's become essential for Sweetie Pie and I to watch our Turette's Syndrome like cursing.

Because the child remembers things. Yesterday, he was outside with his dad, and Sweetie Pie popped his head inside and said to me "what's the French word for bird." I told him (anyone one curious it's 'oiseau' pronounced wah-zo). "He just pointed to a plane in the sky and said it," Sweetie Pie said.

My legs went numb from the shock of how freaking brilliant my baby really is. We hadn't seen a bird together in a few days and so his little brain actually swallowed up that piece of information and used it days later.

But then there's also the fact that things he says sound like other things. Like he says "wat dat?" a lot. And tonight, when he pointed by Sweetie Pie at some random thing in the garage and said it, it sounded different. Sweetie Pie looked at me and said "did he just say 'what the hell?'" I answered that no he hadn't, but that now he was certain to say that expression around my very Baptist mother-in-law the next time she watched him.

A friend of mine watched the Little Man for half an hour a couple of weeks ago, and when I came back home she swore to me that he'd called her "Old Lady." Because much of the Little Man's gibberish sounds like actual random words and sometimes the combination of sounds can actually come out like random words, like the time a couple of months back where he randomly said to me "I like your dog." His only word at the time being Mama and Dada, I knew that he definitely couldn't have said it. But if we'd been a reality show, I totally would have made them instant replay that, because it sure as hell sounded like a complete sentence to me.

But a lot of his conversations still remain in his little alien language and at times, he'll ask me what is clearly a question, and as he watches me look around in a state of panic, like I would do in algebra class in high school, his brow furrows in a look of annoyance like I am the worst student he's ever dealt with.

A few years ago, someone invented a dog translator, which supposedly could translate your dog's barks into real words like "I want a treat" or "I need to take a big steaming crap in your flowerbeds now" or "I'm going to stick my snout up your butt the next time you're having sex." Why haven't they invented a toddler translator yet? I'd do it myself, but really, I'm too tired and tonight's a pretty good TV night.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

Struggling

I'm in the process of changing my entire life right now. And as much as I'd like to talk about it, on this blog, as well as to many of my friends, I'm too superstitious to do it.

In many ways, I feel like a liar to my friends, because I'm keeping something secret, something that I'm not ready to share with, because there's no guarantees that it will happen. But should the stars line up and everything happens, my life as I know it will completely change. This brings with it great excitement and tremendous sadness, because I really love my life right now. Unfortunately, I know that things can't stay like this forever.

It's like when I was in Spain for three months. It wasn't real, it was only three months of partying and the entire time, I knew it would come to an end and that last week in Barcelona, although I felt sadness at the fact I would never be that free again, I was also ready to face the real world again.

But this life isn't a fantasy. It's very real and I've loved (almost) every minute of it. But unfortunately, like Barcelona, it's gotten to the point where I can't keep going like this, simply because there are external and internal factors that make it that changes are necessary.

I know I'm speaking in code and in circles. This is my way of needing to cleanse a festering wound and a guilty conscience to all of you. I want you to know that I'm not keeping this a secret because I don't like you. It just needs to be this way right now because at the end of the day, I have a bit of Sicillian blood in me and it tells me that talking about things before they happen is the best way to ensure that you'll jinx yourself.

So know that when I do tell you what is going on that this has been a difficult decision, the equivalent of ripping out my hairs one by one with rusty pliers. And please don't be hurt that I didn't share this news beforehand. Just think of it as me attempting to share it telepathetically.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

Oh Canada...

Last week, Little Man and I headed to Canada. You're probably thinking "yeah, we know that and we're thinking it must have been really traumatic since you didn't post about it for a week."

Well kind reader who comments in really long sentences, it actually wasn't. That's the problem. To write this blog, I must have things that occur that are exciting. This trip, alas, was quite uneventful.

The few "spicy" things I can share is that Air Canada Jazz does not have changing tables in their one bathroom on their little propeller planes. And so I had to blackmail the Little Man into staying poop free during the two hour journey from Washington Dulles to Ottawa.

Apparently being threatened with having a video of yourself discovering your wee wee broadcasted on You Tube is enough to scare even the most regular toddler.*

The Little Man got to eat all sorts of things that he'd never had before, some things that would have made Sweetie Pie leave me and sue for full custody. This isn't a Canadian thing, it's a French thing.

Little Man loved shrimp cocktail (minus the cocktail sauce. So I guess it would just be shrimp then), so much that as he was sticking dices of shrimp in his mouth, he got thirsty and began sucking milk out of his straw while still attempting to continue sticking shrimp on the other side.

He also loves to suck on a cinnamon stick. I think I'll introduce him to the wonders for ground cinnamon and flour, a concoction I invented when I was eight-years old and that I lived on for a couple of years. I was probably the only ten-year old with osteoporosis.

The Little Man's brilliance, especially when it comes to food, regularly blows me away.

He also ate turkey with cranberry sauce which he "MMMMM'ed" over like Paris Hilton staring at herself in the mirror.

I also found out that 13 months is the ideal time to have baby number two. I wish someone had told me that when number one was four months old, because now, I'm going to get pregnant and have a two-year old. And it won't be so great. I held my niece a lot while I was in Canada, and each time, not only did the Little Man not get jealous, but he tried to feed his seven-week old cousin cheerios and yogurt.

He's totally getting the Nobel Peace Prize next year. I'd send him to North Korea, but they don't probably don't have shrimp cocktail there, what with the oppressive regime and all.

My mother was surprisingly sane, which made the weekend more enjoyable for the rest of us, but lame for this blog.

On the way back, there were no free seats on either of our flights, so Little Man and I shared a space about ten inches wide by 15 inches long, but luckily I had a window seat, and so I stuck my toddler in the little opening that surrounds the window. Amazing how pliable those kids are. He oohed and aahed over the trucks and planes passing by, even as we remained stuck on the ground because our engine was leaking hydraulic fluid. Two guys with their butt cracks showing began to work on it, which made Little Man clap and cheer for them. I was convinced we were going to die, but I didn't tell him that. Considering he doesn't even know his colors yet, I figured death might be a little bit of an abstract concept for him.

Then we took off and since it was a cloudy day, we soon couldn't see anything out the window. Little Man whipped his ginormous head at me and screamed his fury, mad that I would take the ground and the trucks and planes away from him. Because everyone knows I'm a bitch like that.

We landed in Chicago an hour late, leaving me 25 minutes to run across two huge O'Hare terminals with a thirteen month old in a dirty diaper and one full bladder.

And somehow I not only made that flight with nine minutes to spare, I also emptied the bladder, changed the diaper (his, not mine) and paid 17 dollars for a small pizza, a bottle of water and a bottle of milk.

The highlight of that second flight was that Little Man sucked on a piece of pizza crust for five minutes, turning it into a gelatinous mass and then, smiling, stuffed it in my mouth.

I've never been so disgusted and, yet, felt so loved at the same time.

I have the best travel partner in the whole wide world. I can't wait to take him somewhere again.

Love,

Catwoman.

*Note: Such a video doesn't exist. But that's our little secret.

Sunday, October 15, 2006

One Incident Away From an Episode of "Intervention"

There's this show on A&E that's really, really scary. It's called Intervention and each week it figures an addict who's family is so desperate to set them straight that they throw a party that's no fun at all and never involves booze: an intervention they call it.

Usually the addict has done really horrible things to deserve such a party, such as prostitute themselves or get weird piercings that makes them ressemble Swiss cheese.

Yesterday, was a bad day in the Sweetie Pie and Catwoman household. The Little Man woke up numerous times the night before simply because the world hates us and has given us a child who needs to grow all 90 of his teeth at lightning speed. And so Sweetie Pie and I were up with a screaming toddler repeatedly throughout the night and then we spent the day taking care of an over-tired, cranky whiny cry baby. By the time 5 p.m. rolled around, I needed a drink like there was no tomorrow. In fact, the 20-year old in me told me that I should get really wasted, black out and have sex with some guy whose name I don't know. Which really, always made things better when I was 20. But since there's a shortage of that in my house, I figured I'd just treat myself to a cocktail.

Problem is, the 31-year old me lives in a freaking non-alcohol County. Something that is unheard of in Canada, where we believe beer is a part of a healthy breakfast. In Texas, there are dry Counties where no alcohol whatsoever is allowed and sex before marriage is probably considered a felony. Then there are counties that figure beer and wine is ok, but hard alcohol is definitely the drink of the devil. Then there are counties that have hard alcohol and they embrace their crappy neighborhoods and call these liquor stores hilarious names like "Goody Goody Liquor."

Goody, goody liquor, indeed I said yesterday.

Unfortunately, I've never been one to keep a stocked bar, and now living close to 20 miles from a liquor store has made the situation even sadder. My options were tequila, a tiny bit of vodka (used the day before to marinate flank steak. Who have I become????) and some coconut rum. As well as weird crap like curacao and creme de cacao, which obviously you have to mix in with other stuff to make kick ass martinis.

Now, I've had a fetish for coconut rum and orange juice for a long time. For a while, that drink was my only source of fruits and vegetables. Add to it that I'd use the calcium-fortified OJ, and I'd say I was one mighty healthy drinker.

Unfortunately, I didn't have any OJ. But upon scouring the pantry, I realized that the case of baby juice that I bought for the Little Man did have some orange and tangerine juice, with Cookie Monster's smiling face on the box.

I hesitated for a minute, but then Little Man screamed at me with his fists closed and I grabbed two of those juice boxes and I made me a cocktail.

When you're at my Intervention, don't you dare bring up that event. Because if you'd been in my bare feet that day, you would have done the exact same thing.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, October 05, 2006

We're Off to Canada...

I'm going to attempt something that should never be tried by a woman of unstable mind.

I'm going to attempt to convince a mobile toddler that sitting in a spot too small for a baby half his age for six hours straight is really, really a lot of fun.

I'm bringing with me 300 pounds of candy and junk food to stuff him until he's comatose.

If the people at security give me grief for my ginormous junk-food filled diaper bag, I may clock someone. Pray for me that my mug shot makes me look kind of cute, and not like a drug addict the way my green card does.

I should have plenty of stories about my crazy family when I get back. Look for them Wednesday or Thursday, depending on how drunk I am when I get back from surviving five days in a tiny house with really insane people.

Love,

Catwoman.

A Letter To My Spammers

Dear Spammers:

When I first got email, roughly around the time Nirvana was still a band and Britney Spears was a virgin, a.k.a. ages ago, you weren't around. Then, you began emailing me and at first, I was flattered by the attention.

But now, you are like that guy whose calls you haven't taken in months and still tells people you're an item. I don't open your emails, my account was disconnected for almost a week when there was a power failure, which should have made you think that I'm dead, yet, you keep emailing. And I'm not talking once or twice a day. This morning, I had 132 new messages in my inbox and only one of them wasn't from you. I feel like I could join the witness protection program and you would still find me. Do you work for the mob, spammers?

I just want to take this opportunity to clarify a few things with you, because these items tend to be the things you're persistent about:

1. I don't have a penis. I'm a girl. Girls don't have penises. Should I decide to go out and get a penis, I will be certain to get a really large penis, the world's largest penis that constantly gets caught in my socks so that I have no need for your penis enlargement pills, patches and whatever other ways you've found to make human flesh, blood vessels and nerves grow.

2. I'm not interested in being a god in bed. Once again, I'm a girl. Girls get to be goddesses in bed. And frankly, I'm not interested in being that either, because just mustering up enough interest to have sex at all is work enough. And don't tell me I have libido issues and try to sell me some other pill. I don't have libido issues. Sex is for horny teenagers. I'm 31 now. I have Tivo and that's my new idea of sex. Until I'm ready to make more babies that is. And frankly spammer, I don't want you to have anything to do with baby making either.

3. I appreciate you caring about the diseases I may have, but for the record, I'm offended that you believe I'm a disease carrier. Personally, I sure as hell wouldn't email anyone who's diseased, as I'd worry I could catch their ebola or chlamydia simply by typing in their email address. But if I did have diseases, I wouldn't buy drugs for them from someone who spells the word as "desease" in the subject line. I'm pretty sure I'd go see a doctor instead.

4. I don't know who "she" is, but I'm not interested in making her horny for me. First of all, because I'm straight, and it'd be really weird to have some woman in heat following me around. I have a baby with me all day. This would be very inappropriate, and her constant attempts at licking my face may scar him for life.

5. I'm glad to hear 67 percent of your members get laid (oh, and learn the concept of irony, 69 percent would have actually made me open your email as a mini-kudos to your 14-year old boy humor), but here's the thing: I'm married. I could pick up the phone right now and tell my husband to come home for sex, and he would. So I can get laid anytime I want to, I just usually choose not to, because the fall TV schedule is really, really good. Either way, I don't need your members to do it, especially the ones using your penis growth drugs.

So please, go email my neighbor from across the street, the one who parks his car on our side yard all the time. He's bald, which I'm sure is a "desease" in your book and I'm sure he's got a small dick with the way he thinks other people's sprinkler heads should serve as his very own parking spot.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

Disturbing, Very Disturbing

So Huggies recently changed their design for their Supreme diapers. I'm not sure why they felt the old diapers were looking outdated, because really, my child is rarely in only a diaper and neither one of us really cares what's on the diaper, as long as it's not pooped that leaked out from the sides.

The new design still has Winnie-the-Pooh, which I love, because really, who wouldn't love a bear who loves honey and is friends with a stuttering pig?

What is disturbing however is the fact that they've put on the front a picture of Tigger with one hand in the air. Which makes it look like he's pointing right at the Little Man's penis.

Either that or supporting it.

I hate to throw the "M" word around, but it literally looks like Tigger is molesting my son.

Did no one at Huggies notice this when they put the newly designed diapers on a test baby, a rabbit or whatever else they use at the Huggies laboratories?

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, October 02, 2006

Thirteen Months: My Letter to my Little Man

The other day, I was driving along without you, when this song by a band named Snow Patrol came on and made me cry. The song is called Chasing Cars and the chorus that made me weepy goes:

"If I laid here,
If I just laid here
Would you lay with me and
Just forget the world."

You'll probably roll your eyes at me when you read this, because no one wants their mother to get sappy about them. But this month, you've started walking and you're going as fast as you can all day long. But ever so often, you'll run to me and give me a hug.



And when you do that, it makes me realize more than anything that our love affair is only temporary. One day, you'll leave me. You'll go explore the world, you'll meet the woman of your dreams and have kids of your own. And as you run through your life, you'll forget to hug your old mother.

And so when I hear that Snow Patrol song without you, it makes me think of you and it makes me wish that I could just lay down with you and blabber on about nothing and laugh for no reason. Because those are my favorite moments with you.



Don't get me wrong. I don't want you living at home asking me why we're out of Twinkies when you're 30. If I didn't make that clear to you, I'm putting it in writing here. Get out of the house, go live your life. And do your own laundry, will you?

I once read that a mother's job is letting go of her babies. And I fully intend to do that. But in the meantime, I'm going to savor every moment with you, every giggle, every screech, every bump on the head that you ask me to kiss to make it better.



Besides walking, this month you've shown me that you'll eat nothing but macaroni and cheese if I let you, but that when we're out in the world, you're all about impressing your peeps and will eat anything from olives and cottage cheese to anything else I put in front of you to show off your eating skills.

But you do love dog food. I've told you numerous times to stay away from the puppy when he's eating, so now you'll stand, hovering near him shifting your weight from one leg to another, like you're mustering all of your self-control to not run over there, kick his ass and steal all of his food.

You also discovered that if you step off our patio and step on the lawn's grass, you don't die. For months now, you've stayed contained on the patio like it was surrounded by invisible barbwire fencing. And then one day, you went for it. And you discovered that the backyard contains the most magical thing ever: the dog's water nipple.



Now the germophobe in me should be horrified that you choose to drink out of the same thing the dogs use. But your father and I found it so hilarious that I took pictures. It's kind of your fault, little man. You share crackers with the dogs, and you regularly walk up to them, open your mouth wide, so that they may lick the inside of your mouth. With that, it's hard for me to think that using their water nipple is gross.

I think you have a future as an infomercial actor. In case you inherited my unsportiness gene, at least you'll have something to fall back on. You can ooh and aah like nobody's business. I can picture you now: Host: "It chops and it slices," You: "OOOOH! AAAAAAH!"



You still talk all day long and I can tell that as far as you're concerned, you think you're enunciating real words in French and English. You're not quite there yet, but I know that soon enough, you'll be discussing the effect of our social economic system on the Third World. I'd love nothing more for you to be a mini Liberal, just because it would piss off your Fox News loving daddy. And it would mean that your Canadian roots are strongly implanted.



Next week, you and I head to Canada again, and I'm curious to see how you will do as a traveler, now that you are mobile and won't appreciate being restrained in a 10 inch by four inch space, a.k.a. an airline seat. And then after that, you'll get to go Trick or Treating, which I'm so excited to introduce you to the world of door to door candy getting. Imagine! You ring a doorbell and people give you free candy!
Although, I must warn you now that this only works one day a year. Going door to door the rest of the year would make you a mormon, which would be really odd considering you're half baptist and half catholic.

And then there's your squeals. I love to spin you in my arms as fast as I can go, or lay your tummy on my head and twirl around like you're a helicopter propeller. Both of these things make you laugh so hard that I think you're going to pass out. If heaven exists, Little Man, it is filled with the sounds of your laughter, because when we're home alone, and the house is filled with nothing but your squeals, I feel nothing but complete and utter bliss.

I love you my little man,

Maman.