Wednesday, November 29, 2006

Casualties of War

Sweetie Pie and I made one purchase this past weekend. Not a plasma TV for less than one-thousand dollars or a dirt cheap portable DVD player at Walmart that blue-haired ladies are willing to trample you to death to get to first.

We bought a Christmas tree. A real one. Our first one.

For the past 6 years of our lives in the same city together, we've put up my parents' old artificial tree. And for the past three years, we swore it would be the last year, because the thing looked like a beat up alley cat with missing patches of needles and branches that were held up dangerously, like a Jenga game about to end.

And every year, we'd pack up the Christmas tree instead of throwing it out and would bring it back down the following year, unaware that it was in bad shape, like if our collective memory could not retain 12 months worth of information and so each year, we'd be surprised when we'd open the box and find a crappy ass tree in serious need of retirement.

But last year, we actually did something amazing... We threw out the old tree, because when we took it apart, it turned to sand on our living room floor, afraid that we hadn't gotten the message to let it go.

So we headed to Home Depot, land of the drill bits, plywood and really cheap Christmas trees.

And while Sweetie Pie went hunting for some bolt of some kind, Little Man and I went about trying to pick out just the perfect tree. Which is hard, because they all look the same when they're sitting on concrete, their branches all huddled together from the shock of being cut down and forced into a life of slavery, decorated with cheap glass balls, shimmering lights and Hallmark ornaments with dogs and bears on them.

But I managed to pick one that promised me it would be a good tree, one that wouldn't let the puppy pee on its trunk and it swore it would keep my carpet needle free.

And so we hauled it home, put it in water and let it get used to its surroundings for a day. And then the next day, I dressed it from head to toe with lights, so that aliens could follow the blinding light to our little planet. Sweetie Pie now wears his sunglasses indoors and complains about retina damage, but I'm sure it's only a temporary problem. I like my tree bright.

Then I took out our mismash we call Christmas ornaments, some of them inherited from my parents and many bought throughout the years. Many of them have a story behind them, like the little snowman wearing a mountie jacket and holding a Canadian flag means that some day I'd like to go to Australia and hold a koala bear.

Anyway, for the past few days, we've enjoyed our tree and Little Man is amazed by it every time he sees it, oohing and aahing, the way an Oprah crowd attending her show would, even if she just showed up, farted and left.

And then last night, Sweetie Pie and I were in bed, me wearing my sexy "Canadian Girls Kick Ass" t-shirt, which has the power to make men within a 20-mile radius horny. Yeah, it's very hot. I was also wearing yoga pants, but really, this isn't a porn blog, so I'm just going to not even mention that part.

Anyway, it was midnight, which meant that Sweetie Pie and I were both asleep, away in dreamland, me dreaming of comfortable thongs and Sweetie Pie probably dreaming of doing the deed more often, Satan's dog snoring alongside me, his little heart beating next to my chest.

When all of a sudden, it sounded like the roof of our house had fallen. The horrible sound of breaking glass followed, but what really woke me up, was Satan's Dog rushing to see what it was and me realizing that the stupid dog would probably eat broken glass if I didn't follow him in.

And there was our tree. It had committed suicide, throwing itself as hard as it could on our tile floor. Unfortunately for the tree, all of our breakable ornaments broke its fall, killing themselves in the process but saving our 39.99 dollar tree with their bravery.

During this Christmas tree jihad, we lost our Mikasa crystal angel, the ceramic face of Sweetie Pie's no-longer-living grandmother's Santa Claus that we'd perched on top of the tree, Little Man's Lennox first Christmas ornament that his great-grandfather gave him last year as well as a bunch of cheap glass balls.

I spent hours carefully arranging the 50,000 bulbs on that tree, but now, they're all messed up. I'm so mad at that tree right now, I might pee on its trunk tonight.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Only One Day To Go...

Tomorrow, at exactly midnight, a bunch of money will magically appear in my bank account. This money is to thank me for showing up every day for the past two weeks and smiling and frantically taking notes while pretending I know what the hell people are talking about.

But the best part about this money, is that I am making more than Sweetie Pie right now. And this is the only reason that we are not getting divorced. Because a few days after I started my new job, Sweetie Pie found my hiding spot for the credit card bills and when he realized how far in debt we are, the only thing that kept him going is that my first six months worth of paychecks would get us back in the black.

I know that for some men, having your wife make more money than you is seen as being less of a man. I've never understood this. Who freaking cares who does what. Isn't a relationship being on a team and pooling resources? Who really cares what each figure is, what matters is the total bottom line and how many pairs of shoes at the Shoe Pavillion that bottom line will buy.

Luckily, I'm married to a real man. One that couldn't care less who makes what. Money in our relationship isn't power. And I don't see it ever becoming so. I guess the reason for that is that at different parts of our almost eight-year relationship, Sweetie Pie and I have taken turns supporting each other. I got laid off, we lived on his salary. He started a company, we lived on my salary. I got fired, we lived on his salary. And now, we're once again a dual income family, one with a crapload of debt and a high-cost daycare that Little Man hates.

But in a year, we'll be in a really good place. One where we can put money aside in savings. One where we can actually put some money down on my next vehicle.

Tomorrow, I will have money for a few hours. And then each and every one of those dollars and cents will go to people named "Visa" and "Mastercard."

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, November 27, 2006

Alarming Thoughts

Sweetie Pie's grandfather got remarried within six months of his wife of over 50 years' death. We were quite horrified by this, but we've since come to understand that the man just doesn't know how to be by himself, having been married since he was 18 years old. And that this new wife, his high school sweetheart, is really more of a roommate and companion than a story of true love like his first wife was.

The new wife moved into the grandfather's house and out went all of her stuff. Her porcelain dolls, her knick knacks, all the things that we women put out to mark our territories. These were divied up amongst the grandkids, most of us probably don't really want the stuff we were given, but being the only things to remind us of the grandmother that they all loved so much, all of us have made places for these little things with no monetary value, but priceless anyway.

On Thanksgiving day, we were over at Sweetie Pie's grandfather's house and, of course, the wife was there. And while she was talking to me, I had this horrifying thought that maybe, they have more sex than I do. After all, companionship or no companionship, they are newlyweds, barely married a year now. And despite the arthritis and the loose skin and the slow movements, they're still human beings and more than likely, they still have hormones seeping through their 80+ year old bodies.

And because I have a graphic mind that needs to display thoughts in my head like a movie, when I had this thought, I was picturing new grandma in lingerie a la Frederick's of Hollywood.

And then I silently screamed as my turkey dinner began to make its way back up.

Do old people have sex? And if so, do they have sex more often than new (and not-so-new) parents?

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

Super Canadian Chick

I'm proud to be a Canadian, but I don't think that I am the kind of person who's constantly throwing it in people's faces. Sure, rare is the person who speaks to me for half an hour and doesn't find out that I am in fact from Canada. I'm not sure how it always ends up coming up in conversation, but somehow it does, like, for example if somebody talks about having a tree in their backyard, the logical thing to say back to them is that Canada has trees, and I am, in fact, from Canada.

But then there are people who bring the quiet patriotic zeal that being Canadian out of me, and I end up sounding like I'm recruiting for some crazy cult. I'm always aware that I'm doing this, but it's like I can't shut it off, like diarrhea of the mouth, but with a slight maple syrup flavor.

Right now, this person would be my senior team leader. He's not really my boss, he's just the person on our team who's got the most seniority and with our boss being out, he's kind of in charge. I have literally not had one conversation with the man without turning to rabid Canadianism. Even if I walk into his office urging myself to not bring up any countries that start with "c," end in "a" and have "anad" in the middle, every single time I'll leave spouting Canadian facts or educating him on how much better Canada is, because our Thanksgiving isn't right before Christmas, spreading the turkey goodness more.

I'm sure he's convinced I'm a total freak and wonders why I even live here if Canada is so damn great. After all, that's always what I think when I hear immigrants spout off about how horrible America is. I always think to myself "well, if your country's so great, why'd you leave?"

And yet, I am one of those people deep inside. I don't by any means think Canada is perfect, no. I like the idea of socialized healthcare, but find it alarming that my sister's baby doesn't have a pediatrian even though she's three months old, because there's such a shortage of them. Or that my sister couldn't get her in to see a specialist about her daughter's hand until this week, and the only reason she got to see one at all is because she's an interesting case that they want to study more for some medical journal.

No country is perfect and it's trying to make the imperfections a little better and enjoying the things that are good about the place you live that could make the world a better place. But at the same time, I feel that since my heart is still in the US of A's neighbor to the North, I'm not really cheating. It's really the equivalent of giving some guy on the subway an accidental butt squeeze.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

I'm Thinking She Probably Doesn't Have Children

On Saturday, we took Little Man to the doctor's to hear the wonderful news that he caught pneumonia from those horrible cootie-infested kids he hangs out with in daycare. We were given a prescription and I rushed to the pharmacy to drop it off, knowing that each minute I wasted getting there, would be an additional minute spent with a sick, mucusy child.

When I picked it up, the cashier asked me if I needed to speak to the pharmacist about this prescription. Confused, since I'd never been asked this before in all of my years of picking up birth control pills and a few antibiotics, I responded "I don't know, do I?"

The cashier proceeded to go get the pharmacist, who came to the window and looked at me, looking rather annoyed at being disturbed from popping vicodins she steals from old people's vials.

She asked me what I needed. Which is an interesting question, considering I didn't know if I actually needed anyone. I smiled my most charming smile and explained the conversation between me and the cashier and my rather clever response of "I don't know, do I?"

She sighed, rather exasperated, the way I sigh at Satan's Dog when he snatches my underwear out of the hamper for the 19th time of the day. She proceeded to explain that I needed to give him Little Man this much medication twice a day.

"Uhm, ok," I meekly answered.

"But be sure to give him food first, so it doesn't upset his stomach."

"What if he's not eating anything, because he's sick and all."

Another exasperated sigh. "Then make him."

Ooooooh! Make him! Duh, why didn't I think of that??? Because it's so easy pharmacist lady to hold down a 14-month old toddler who's on a hunger strike from his pneumonia and force a big juicy steak down his throat.

I went home, gave Little Man a bag of chips, let him go at it and then gave him his medication. There bitch, I made him eat. You happy now?

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, November 20, 2006

Like Having My Heart Pulled Out Through My Nipples

On Saturday, the Little Man wasn't any better. His so called "cold" had brought his temperature up to more than 102 degrees and so it was time to see the on-call Saturday doctor. An hour after arriving in the waiting room filled with sick kids, we find out that my munchkin has pneumonia combined with a mild ear infection.

When I heard the word with the silent "p," my heart briefly stopped. People die from pneumonia! I know that much! But apparently it's not that serious in young kids, just old farts. So a prescription for antibiotics later, we went on a mission to make him all better.

And today, he is better. After a rough weekend where we did nothing but take care of a very angry toddler, I've learned that the silent "p" stands for pissy.

I've also learned that if you make your husband stay home with a toddler who coughs in your face because he hasn't learned to use his hand as a shield, your husband will develop ebola. Most of us would just consider it a mild cold, but to a man, it's the equivalent of ebola is what I figure, from the amount of moaning and complaining I've had to listen to. Around 9:30 p.m. last night, smothering Sweetie Pie with a pillow seemed like a good way to give us both relief. I'm kidding, of course. Well I don't know if I am. I'm pretty sleep deprived.

And so this morning, because Little Man was better, I brought him back to daycare. The place he hates most in the world. The place where he sits in the corner for most of the day, staring at the other children like he's thinking he's not one of them, that any second now, his Maman will rescue him and he doesn't want to be seen talking with these parentless children.

And every day, my heart breaks a little more at leaving him there, where I wonder if I'm strong enough to do this. It's funny, I really thought the first day would be the hardest, but in some ways, it was the easiest. Neither Little man nor I knew what we were in for, so it wasn't that bad.

But each day has gotten harder and harder and today and sat in my car and sobbed for five minutes, unable to put on my makeup, knowing that I'd end up smearing too bad if I tried before I was done.

I'm watching the little man on the Internet camera right now and he's just laying down on a cushion on the floor, still unwilling to participate with all of the other kids. Seeing him almost makes it harder and a big ball of grief is stuck in my throat. I wish it would get easier...

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, November 17, 2006

I'm In Love With McSteamy

In the past, I've had a mild case of letting guys treat me like shit. Not bad shit, not the kind where you're beaten up and scared for your life, thank goodness, but the kind where I'd sit all dolled up on a Friday night staring at the phone, hoping the guy would call because he'd said on Tuesday that "maybe we can do something on Friday night."

Usually when he'd call, he'd invite me to come out with his friends. But I was in love with this guy, I've never faltered from that, and I still google his name ever so often to see if I can track him down, not because I want to get back together with him, I'm smarter than that now, but just because I'm hoping that he's balding and fat and no longer has that awesome soccer butt I could have bounced quarters off of. Most of all I hope he's lonely and pines for me every day.

I don't really wish him the second part. Well, maybe a little, because it's always so heartwarming when it happens in Meg Ryan movies.

Three months after being told by hot-but-treat-you-like-shit guy (HBTYLSG) that I wasn't marriage material, I met Sweetie Pie. He wasn't overly romantic by any means, still isn't, but he was never a bad guy. He still isn't. This week, he discovered that I'd racked up a crapload of debt on our credit cards. He, the financially wise one, should have left me for being so stupid. He didn't even get mad. He did take my credit cards away though, sigh.

And then I got hooked on Grey's Anatomy. I could literally drink that show if they let me. I think it would taste like the nectar of the gods that I always read about in Greek mythology and used to close my eyes when I was 11 and try to imagine exactly what that would taste like.

Grey's Anatomy is to me the perfect escape. And when the hour is over, I hold my breath for the preview of next week's episode, needing those extra 30-seconds to hold me over for a week.

I loved the show from its first episode. And then entered Dr. McSteamy. And something powerful happened. I fell in love with him. He's none of the things I want. He's an asshole and he has facial hair, another big no no for me usually. But if there's one person who can make facial hair look like the halo of an angel. It is McSteamy.

I don't know his real name and I don't want to know it. To me, he is my ultimate fantasy man. Looks great with just a towel and will treat me like crap and make me cry and love him even more.

I agree that this is messed up. I'm a 31-year old woman in a great marriage with a beautiful Baby Boy. But Dr. McSteamy, this imaginary character on TV, can stir up feelings in me that I thought I'd turned my back on when I officially became an adult and decided that I was worthy of being loved and treated properly.

But that's the great thing about TV characters: no risks of succumbing to your stupidity.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, November 16, 2006

Ensuring That I Stay on Birth Control a Little Longer

For the past two days, Little Man has been sick with a cold. Now, when I have a cold, my nose will spew slime and I'll cough, and that'll be the end of it. But in a 14-month old, a cold means a fever of over 100, constant cascade of boogers, more temper tantrums than usual and a highly irrational fear of being more than an inch apart from your lovey, in his case his green stuffed frog.

I've always been big on my kids having loveys, because I had a stuffed koala bear that I slept with until I was 13. The only reason I gave up that bear is because I started regularly going to sleepovers and even though I was a dork who went to geeks' houses for these things, I still knew deep down that bringing my lovey at an age considered officially part of teenagedom would condemn me to a lifetime of ridicule and ensure that I could never run for Prime Minister of Canada.

And so when Little Man was born, as soon as it was safe for him to sleep with a stuffed animal without dying, (sounds overdramatic, but if every magazine you read told you that a blanket is the equivalent of putting a Walmart plastic bag on your baby's head and tying it around his neck with duct tape, you'd take that crap seriously too) I gave him a couple of stuffed animals. He liked them, but then he met his frog, Max.

Max was a Christmas present from one of his aunts, and it was love at first sight. Little Man could not go to sleep without that frog. He only spent one night apart from it, and he was still fairly young enough where I was able to get him to sleep with it without too much trouble.

I won't however, let him carry his frog around. I worry about him being six and carrying a ratty frog everywhere and getting punched regularly by the bigger kids while being called "sissy freak."

So the rule is that when he wakes up, we say "Bye bye Max" because Max lives in the crib.

And he's always been fine with that.

Then he started daycare. And after the first day when he took his nap there, he hung on to that frog like he was sharing vital organs with it. And the teachers, really only caring about peace and quiet in the classroom so that they may discuss the K-Fed/Britney Spears without having to scream, happily let him keep the damn frog.

And so now, the same happens at home. Wherever Little Man goes, the frog goes too. I'm fine with it right now, since he's sick, but I can assure you that the minute we need to leave the house to go anywhere else than daycare, Max will not be coming. I can't take the chance of that damn frog getting itself lost and never finding its way home.

Like his daycare teachers, I need peace and quiet if I'm expected to remain tobacco free long enough to have another child.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

We Made It Three Days...

I really thought that my baby was germ-proof at this point. Don't ask me why I'm that naive, but I figured with him regularly letting the dogs lick his tongue, playing with weird kids at the McDonalds' playland, having been Mr. Popular for six months where he attended a lot of playdates, attending an in-home daycare one day a week for the past nine months and well, just generally living with parents who would rather set their hair on fire than become neat freaks, that the only thing he hadn't been exposed to was ebola.

Little Man has hardly ever been sick during his short life, and I figured that wouldn't change with daycare.

On Monday afternoon, I noticed that Little Man had a cough. I wasn't concerned. People cough.

But yesterday, I come to pick him up from daycare and there's an ominous sign on the door that states "This class has 1 confirmed case of RSV."

You might as well have told me that the plague was back. I rushed home to look through my What To Expect the Toddler Years and was relieved to find that RSV for a 14-month old is really like a cross between the flu and a cold. Nothing too serious.

That was until the first yellow poop.

Now this may be a coincidence, but Monday's school theme was yellow. And so they did arts and crafts with yellow stuff. And Little Man is a lot like Ralphie on the Simpsons, where he likes to eat art supplies. So this may explain the yellow pooping. But combined with the coughing and then combined with a fever of 101 this morning and well, my whole world goes dark.

This is my third official day at work. I don't feel like I can call in because my Little Man is sick. Which freaking sucks. Luckily, Sweetie Pie can easily take off working for himself, so he's staying at home with the munchkin, and we're just waiting to hear from the pediatrician to find out if we need to bring him in.

Right now I'd love nothing more than to be in my pajamas, holding my Little Man in his little pajamas smelling the top of his head while reading him the same book over and over again, while he clutches his toy frog.

Never before has my baby been so sick, and now I don't get to be there for it. I know that there will be many things that I'll miss out on, being a working mom. And I know that the guilt of not always being there for him could eat me alive if I let it. But my path has been chosen, and now, I must do the best I can with the situation and hope that my kids grow up to be well-balanced adults who never doubt how much I've loved them.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

Poop, Farts and Kool-Aid

Well, it's official. I'm now a working mom. And trust me, this transition has not been without its hiccups. I'm now expected to shower before 7 a.m. every day. This is different since I would usually be barely awake at 7 a.m. in my previous life. Showers occurred in the late mornings when I had plans with other adults who I didn't want to believe that it really is true, French people don't have good hygiene (in fact, we really do. I swear). On days where it was just Little Man and I, I admit that a little deodorant and a toothbrush might be the only two things that I encountered. Sometimes a little deodorant if I could smell myself.

But so far, I've managed to rise two days in a row, get myself not only dressed, but made up and changed the Little Man into a cute outfit, drive 35 minutes, drop him off to daycare (or as he calls it "WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!" with an angry scowl and large tears streaming down his face) and get myself to work not only ontime, but early thank you very much.

But there are other things that I'm still adjusting too. The first one is pooping. You know this wouldn't be a complete Catwoman post if it didn't involve pooping. I have now been here three days. And I have yet to poop once. My body has long had the inability to poop in public, except for extreme lactose intolerance cases. When I became a stay-at-home mom, my body rejoiced and celebrating by pooping numerous times a day, giddy with all its pooping freedom.

But once again, my body has shut down and I no longer poop unless I'm in the sanctity of my own bathroom, with my Cottonelle toilet paper, and Sweetie Pie is out of ear shot. I have a very prudish colon, which is ironic, considering this next paragraph.

I'm a farter. Always have been, always will be. There are many reasons for my farts, none of which I'll go into except to blame the lactose intolerance and my love of cheese for a large portion of my gaseous stenches. For the past two years, I was used to being at home with dogs who farted way more than me, and so I partook in this release of excess air. Once the Little Man came along, he couldn't have cared less either and I didn't change my ways.

But now, I'm in a cubicle. With two immediate neighbors and three others within the vicinity of my potentially Hiroshima-like fumes. And so I'm conscious of my farts. Because I don't want to be known as the "new girl who fucking farts all the time" around the water cooler.

My cubicle has fabric walls. I'm afraid that they'll hold on to my farts and eventually my whole cubicle will stink of old farts. If my colon is so anal about pooping, why is it that farts are considered acceptable???

The good news is that I'm back to my old easily-brainwashed self. Cults beware! I can easily be convinced that being one of 50 brides to some fat hairy gross man is good because it's what the aliens want. I've only officially been in my new job one day, and yet yesterday I came home and told company news to Sweetie Pie that started with "We did..." "It's exciting because we're the first..."

Of course, I was forced to drink the Kool-Aid out of a fire hose all day yesterday, so what do you expect? At least it was cherry-flavored, my favorite.

Love,

Catwoman.

Sunday, November 12, 2006

Yet Another Place I Can No Longer Go In

Sweetie Pie is away being a Texan this weekend. That means that right now, his ass is sitting in a tree somewhere, approaching hypothermia, while he wears ugly clothes while waiting for an innocent animal to scamper by (probably on its way to lunch with a hot female) so that he can snuff the life out of it and serve it as dinner to Little Man and I.

In other words, he's gone hunting.

I started a tradition with the Little Man when Sweetie Pie is gone hunting, which I like to call How Much Money Can I Spend When I'm Unsupervised for two days? Since I'm starting work full time on Monday and will be making more money than Sweetie Pie, this no longer has the flavor of doing a bad deed, but I expect it will continue to be enjoyable for me.

Yesterday, I actually had a good reason to be out spending money. One, the holidays are practically next week, and my Christmas shopping is only 90 percent done. Secondly, I'm now two sizes larger than the last time I worked full times and all of my pants look like they've been painted on me, giving my new coworkers the ability to count the dimples on my butt cheeks if I wanted them to partake in such fun. My shirts are also now too short, so that they show off my un-Britney Spears belly, because I don't get tummy tucks at the same time as my C-section (although don't think it's because I'm righteous, it's really a question of not being worth 250 million dollars).

Little Man took a nap in the morning, and then we were off to the races! To make sure that he'd be happy throughout our day, I kept him fed with snacks. Fruit puffs, goldfish, dried fruit, nothing junky, but damn, that kid probably ate his weight in it, since he literally munched non stop for five hours straight.

I decide that since it's now 6:30, I'm going to swing by Blockbuster, get me a movie for the night and then grab some McDonald's for dinner for the two of us.

Little Man's had enough by this point. He's cranky, tired and I'm assuming, hungry. When I parked the car at Blockbuster, I realized he was asleep. After debating what to do for a minute, I decided that I'd wake him up and bring him in with me, because kidnapping is now my number one fear. And I'm a selfish bitch, who really wanted a movie for the night.

I pretty much had an idea what I wanted, so I grab a movie in under 30 seconds, clutching my very pissed off toddler and stand in line to check it out. Little Man notices the display of candy bars and asks nicely to be put down. So I let him.

He begins to touch all the different candy bars and all of a sudden, turns to me with a funny look on his face, a look I know very well, because it's the look of a giant baby turd being deposited into a diaper.

I ask him, a little annoyed, "are you pooping again?" Which I'm sure the people in line around me appreciated hearing.

Just as I look at Little Man and grin at him, he begins to projectile vomit. Not once. Not twice. But four times in a row.

My biggest concern was that he didn't throw up on his shoes, because really, they're very expensive and from France. They're so expensive, even 50 years from now, I will never admit to Sweetie Pie how much they were.

Little Man finishes his projectile vomiting, which luckily is on the floor next to the candy bar display, not all over 10 cases of candy that I would have probably been obligated to buy if his head was turned eight degrees to the left.

Surprisingly, he's completely unphased by his massive purging, despite the fact that half chewed penne pasta from his lunch six and a half hours ago are laying on Blockbuster's floor. There's no crying, no screaming, but he does point to the candy bars and asks if he can have one in his toddler language. After all, he did work hard to make room for it.

I tell someone to get an employee over here to clean this up, before the whole store gets sick. A woman in her mid-40's who was in line in front of me says that she's told the employees. She then says "I'm sure if you want to just leave your movie here and take him home they won't mind."

To which I reply without thinking "Oh, I'll still get the movie."

My puke covered child and I are asked to go to the front of the line, where I pay for the movie and decide to skip McDonald's.

It never even occured to me to not get the movie.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

This Crosses the Line, Even for Me...


I have to say, it takes a hell of a lot to offend me. I can watch just about every episode of South Park and never feel offended.
I'm a huge Bill Maher fan. I think he's funny, witty and a lot of what he says is oh-too-true.
But this? This??? Why anyone would think that it's ok to dress as someone who died only a month or so ago. Someone who had a wife and two kids. You're a celebrity Bill, freaking think about it! Of course pictures are going to be taken of you dressed as a dead Crocodile Hunter and more than likely his family are either going to see them or at least hear about it.
Why he would think this is a great Halloween costume makes me rethink everything I thought about him. Maybe (and this is a very teeny tiny maybe) I would have seen the humor in it before I had kids. But now, now, I can just imagine after my death someone dressing up as a dead me and Little Man finding out about it. To cause that kind of pain, unforgivable.
I hope the ghost of the Crocodile Hunter castrates him a stingray barb.
Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, November 06, 2006

I Suspect He Might Cut The Satellite Cables After Yesterday

A few weeks ago, Sweetie Pie asked me if I'd stopped loving him. Particularly, he asked me why I was no longer attracted to him.

This broke my heart, because if anything, I love Sweetie Pie more now than I did when we got married. I love him not only for the man he is, but when I see him with the Little Man, I know that I can spend the rest of my life with him and never ever have second thoughts about our commitment.

We used to have a pretty good sex life. We weren't one of those couples who did it all the time, we'd kind of fallen into a comfortable twice-a-week routine, but for crying out loud, I sell sex toys and sex manuals, so those twice-a-week sessions were pretty darn good!

But I have to admit, that since the pregnancy, I have been slacking in the wifely duties category. Some pregnant women have raging hormones that make them horny all the time. I was not one of them. All I craved when I was big and pregnant was sleep and tortilla chips with sour cream. Everything else could go to hell as I was concerned.

Then Little Man was born and I was told I couldn't have sex for six weeks. This was the equivalent of telling me that I could eat my weight in chocolate and not get fat: total bliss.

Then Little Man was a nightmare newborn who was up every two hours for the first three months, so both Sweetie Pie and I were too sleep-deprived to let our hormones bait us into any physical contact.

But eventually, life went back to normal and I was out of excuses. Yet, I still had no interest in sex. Some days, I felt like I could go the rest of my life without sex and be completely fine. And so, I went from being the woman who initiated almost every session of sex, to hubby waiting and waiting for me to show any interest.

Once, I even pretended to be asleep when he put the moves on me. I'm not proud of this, but give me a break, ok?

But when Sweetie Pie whispered in the dark, painfully asking me for reassurance that our marriage wasn't over, my heart completely broke. And I decided that it was time to get back on the horse so to speak.

I have to admit that it was a little like doing laundry. I hate doing laundry and will watch our hamper overflow more every day and eventually get down to my period panties and realize that I'm three days away from having to go commando. And once I do the laundry, I realize it's not so bad.

And so I've worked hard the last couple of weeks to have sex with my husband again. I know it shouldn't feel like a chore, but I swear that the baby sapped every drop of estrogen out of me, because I am never horny anymore. But the good news is that I'm getting into the habit again.

Yesterday, our satellite went out because of a really bad rainstorm. And so I took matters into my own hands, since there was nothing else to do. I seduced my husband. And he was so freaking grateful, that you'd think I'd given him the world.

I promise to give him the world at least twice a week now until the day I die. Whether I feel like it or not.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, November 02, 2006

Fourteen Months: My Letter to Little Man

I feel like your fourteen-month birthday is a very big one, simply because this month will bring a lot of change to your life. I've been lucky enough for the past fourteen months to be at home with you full-time. You went to daycare one day a week during the past 9 months, but that was just so you could get some social interaction and not become one of those crazy antisocial kids that repeatedly their eyeballs for fun. And so I could waste the day surfing on the Internet and then tell your dad that the reason the house isn't clean is because I was so darn busy with work again. But that's our little secret.

But the time has come for me to get a full-time job. Not because I don't love staying with you at home, because I do oh-so-much, if anything, I love it more now than before, because we have so much freaking fun together and you're more entertaining than anything on TV, even Grey's Anatomy. But I want you to have the best in life and the only way that we can make sure we go and ruin your life by giving you siblings is by going back to work. Trust me, some day when you're 31 and your baby picks up a dog turd in the backyard because you turned your eyes for a second and you want to tell someone who won't judge you and will laugh with you and never tell another soul, you'll be glad to have a brother or sister like I am now.



But I just want you to know that you didn't do anything that made me decide to send you to daycare full-time. If anything, I know you get bored with me, and your eyes lit up when we visited the daycare where you'll be going like you were saying "this place has been here this whole time and you've selfishly kept me to yourself???"

I'll be able to watch you all day long if I want, because they have security cameras at your daycare that I can view over the Internet. I know that you will soon become my favorite TV show. And as my heart will certainly break as I'll watch you having fun with other kids, please look up to the camera ever so often and wave at me to let me know you haven't forgotten about me.



When I filled out the paperwork to sign you up at daycare, I cried twice. It felt like I was giving up the most important thing in my life. So I'm warning you now, there will probably be tears on your first day of kindergarten, high school and when we drive you down to college. Just humor me, pat me on the back and tell me that I'll be ok, will ya?

You've become the funniest person I know. You love to copy everything your Daddy and I do now, to the point that we've got to be so careful. The other day, I made a horrible mistake on the phone with someone. I was driving and when I hung up, I was so mad at myself, that all I could do was let out this string of expletives and bang on the steering wheel. All of a sudden, this little voice in the back began saying "uck, uck, uck" and you were banging on the car seat. I promptly Tivoed you back a few seconds and fixed the situation by singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Ok, I didn't, because you can't Tivo real life. But I did manage to convince you that we were talking about trucks. I'm hoping you don't recall the exact word I used at your grandmother's church for Christmas.



You've also grabbed a kleenex out of my hand after I blew my nose, held it to your nose and made this really loud noise out of your mouth. I should be offended, but I found it quite hysterical, and you were pleased.

You also confuse the cat, by following him around all day saying "wow, wow, wow." You're convinced that's what he says when he meows, but really, you're just confusing the cat who worries you think he looks so tasty that you'll stab him with your toddler fork.

Your vocabulary keeps growing exponentially, which is making life easier every day. You now say "ball" and "thank you" and "wat dat?" and "dodo" for sleep, which added to your signing for "more," "milk," and "please" covers many of the basics. Most of your vocabulary revolves around pets, you can say "Tata" for all animals and "dog" and "puppy." Why you choose to have three words for the same darn thing when you could be using that time to learn how to make Maman a cup of tea is beyond me. And of course, you haven't lost your enthusiasm, using "ooooooh" and "wow" for everything either new or interesting. I love your passion for life. My biggest fear is that the world will take that away from you. Nothing makes you more endearing to your family, your friends, even perfect strangers than that enormous genuine enthusiasm for life that you have. Besides your blue eyes, it's what makes you so beautiful.



This year marked your first real Halloween and your Daddy and I fought for a long time about what you would be. I wanted you to be something cute like a puppy. Your father wanted you to be a superhero. We finally settled on a cowboy costume and I have to say, you took your role very seriously, even developing a swagger for the occasion. I may be biased, but your costume rocked. Your cowboy boots even had spurs, because we're all about authenticity at our house. You attended many dress up parties, and I think by the day Halloween finally rolled along, you were as sick of your costume as I was. But hey, at least we got our money's worth on the $14.99 we spent on your hat.

You only went trick or treating at your Nonnie and Papaw's house, which you didn't think was the world's greatest experience. And since you were getting awnry about your dinnertime getting delayed, we chose to take you to McDonald's after that which made you much happier because you would knock down an army of other babies if they were standing between you and one McDonald's french fry.



Not that you're one of those toddlers who'll only eat french fries and chicken nuggets. Not my munchkin! You're the coolest kid ever because I get to boast about your eating habits all the time. You've eaten Indian food, sushi, cherry tomatoes, salad and much more this month all with a big "MMMMMM!" from you as you were tasting it. You're the baby who gives other parents false hope that maybe, just maybe, their kid would be willing to eat something else than Mac and Cheese. And I'm so lucky to have you as my baby, since to me, food is a religious experience and I can't wait to take you on many a culinary adventure, just you and I.

And did I mention you ask to go to bed now? You've grown into this cool toddler who now asks for naps and bedtime. I can't believe that you're the same person as that newborn who used to stare at me all day and who I used to beg to go to sleep for 30 minutes just so I could take a shower and wash my overly-greasy hair. Now you'll stop playing, look at me and say "dodo." All I have to do is scoop you up, put you down in your bed and you'll happily go to sleep. Considering I'm not that great about going to bed myself, you are everything I strive to be in life.



One thing we do need to talk about is the fact that you're becoming a neat freak. I'm spending a lot of money on little gym classes for you and your favorite part of the class is cleanup time after each activity. Getting to put the balls away in a giant trash can almost makes your head explode with the excitement. You run around, tearing the balls out of the hands of the other babies so that you can put as many of them away. And then you come home and should I leave anything laying out, a common occurence for my lifetime of messiness, you will put it away in places that I don't even think about. The other day, you put the remote control away in one of the kitchen cabinets. I couldn't see the buttons on our new tv to shut it off or change the channel, and so I missed my soap opera and was forced to watch Martha Stewart's show. I did learn how to turn a pumpkin into a fantastic centerpiece, so not all was lost. A few days later, you put my two hairbrushes away in the hamper and I was forced for two days to use your dad's comb to do my hair. I am excited that this might mean you'll ask to do chores later, but in the meantime, I'm stuck trying to ask a toddler where my stuff is only to be asked back "ball?"

Love,

Maman.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

It Was a Small Dream, I Admit...

When I was little, I used to always love the houses that were the "good houses" on Halloween. You know the ones I'm talking about. The ones that used to give the full-size candy bars, or a big handful of candy. Not the houses where the old lady would give you an apple or the guy who was a dentist and would give you a freaking toothbrush. I mean who does that? Did someone kick the shit out of you as a kid and now you hate all kids? It's Halloween, asshole. Pony up for candy.

When I was little, I swore to myself that someday, I would be that good house. And for the last few years, I strived to make that goal come true.

It didn't matter how broke I was, I'd always buy a huge bag of candy and some little candy bars and then I'd give the kids one candy bar and a huge handful of candy.

But the children were unimpressed. Apparently they'd seen better.

So this year, I went all out. I bought goodie bags people. Sure they were only 20 for a dollar, but the point is that I wasn't just some person handing out candy. I was the person handing out mother freaking goody bags.

When I was assembling the goodie bags, Sweetie Pie was horrified. "That's too much candy!" he said, the kid in him obviously dead.

He then went on about me trying to bankrupt our family but I'm pretty sure my persistent eye rolling shut him up.

And last night, I had my moment of glory. I had all my goodie bas laid out like little soldiers on a silver tray. And when the doorbell would ring, I'd open it with a smile holding my tray like Bree on Desperate Housewives would.

The kids were impressed. "Goodie bags???" they exclaimed.

"Yes," I said. "Goodie Bags, because we're the good house. You tell all your friends now."

I think this may have been the happiest moment of my life.

I've accomplished my dreams. I can now say that I can die happy.

Love,

Catwoman.