Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Expanding My Super Powers

Sometimes I wish I could go back in time. Because if I could visit the 13 year old me, with the bad haircut that made me look like a boy, the acne and the shy, awkward personality, I would tell her "fear not early-teen me! You may not be popular now and get the shit kicked out of you emotionally every day, but when you will be 31, you will have super powers. And these morons will be picking up trash in orange jumpsuits on the side of the road."

My super powers include being able to grow another human being in my belly. I'm not the only one with this power, a lot of you who read this have not only used this power for good once, but many of you have used your power multiple times, qualifying you for a premium quality satin cape and a pair of gorgeous Jimmy Choos.

But this weekend, I've also developed the power to predict when they dryer will go off, without even needing to look at the clock. I know, you fell out of your seat right? I mean, this is the kind of power that can literally save the world. It could stop global warming and world hunger, it's that great of a power. But twice this weekend, I've managed to get up from the couch to see if the dryer was done, and halfway to the laundry room, it would beep to let me know that, yes, indeed, it is done. Sometimes I'm so freaking amazing, I can't believe it myself.

And then I've also developed the power to state the obvious. This is a power that I like to throw around like it's no big deal, making me the envy of all, particularly Sweetie Pie, who gets to witness me every night state the obvious about TV shows that we are watching, or any situation really. Stating the obvious is becoming my strongest power. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because my brain cells have been sucked out by the Little Man. And my brain can no longer come to simple conclusions unless it states the obvious out loud. But either way, I swear that I will not use this power for evil.

Maybe I've been getting into the show Heroes too much. But I really am beginning to think that I'm one of the chosen ones. I think I'll shave my head next and join Britney for a smoke in rehab. Because that sounds like freaking fun. And why should she get to have all it?

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

My Idea of Hell

This is day 8 of my diet. Day 7, if you consider the fact that I didn't eat anything diet-like on Saturday, when I had cream sauce pasta for lunch and fried crab and fried shrimp with waffle fries for dinner. With a very large beer. It's called a Shooner or something like that. It's bigger than a pint. And it was tasty.

One needs to live, you know? And Saturdays were not made for dieting. I'm pretty sure that's a law somewhere.

My point is, that this is the longest period of time that I've been on a diet, which is really good. Pat on the back for me. Already, I'm convinced that my belly has started shrinking, although, when I walked past a mirror on the way to put my slimfast, cheese and low fat Ritz, strawberries and Soy Milk protein drink into the work fridge, I noticed that my butt still jiggles tremendously when I walk, like it's trying to separate itself from my body.

I've been a little cranky during this diet, I admit. Like that time on day 2 that I considered leaving my husband. But overall, I've done really well with it.

My secret, because I'm sure you're dying to hear it, is that I eat something every two to three hours. So for example, I had my bowl of Special K with skim milk with a cup of coffee with non-fat vanilla Coffee Mate right before 7 a.m. So now, I'm about to eat my banana. Then around 11, I will eat my 100 calorie pack of Doritos cool ranch. Then before 1, I will drink my Slimfast and eat my yogurt and cheese and crackers. Then around 3:30, I will drink my chai vanilla soy milk drink and eat my strawberries. And then I'll eat my dinner and life will be great, because I'll have another day of pat on the back good eating.

Now, on paper, this all looks good. But should I miss my window for eating, I turn into the Incredible Hulk. The Incredible Hulk does not like to be hungry, in case you wanted to know. When The Incredible Hulk does go hungry, small towns are wiped off the map from the sheer amount of rage that radiates from his body.

And yesterday, I made the mistake of running to the post office during my lunch hour, since I had auctioned off a bunch of scrapbooking supplies on eBay and I had to ship a couple to Canada, something you cannot do completely online.

I had paid for the two packages online, and printed all the customs paperwork, but apparently, I needed this magical see through envelope, which I had to stand in line for. The line was only about 5 people long when I got there. No problem, I thought.

But what I'd forgotten, is that the post office is the place that lives the mantra of my worst pet peeve. My biggest pet peeve, in case I haven't mentioned this before, is slow-moving people.

I can't stand them, they make me want to gouge my eyes out while screaming profanity. It's one thing if you're in your 70's and can't walk fast. I can find patience there. But when you're just your average person, and just the gesture of picking up an ink pad is a two-minute process, this is where my face melts off and the devil lady inside me rears her ugly head.

And so 25 minutes later, I was still standing in this line. I could feel the hairs on my legs growing. And my whole body was shaking from anger, rage, and hunger, since it was now past my window for eating my lunch, which I'd failed to bring with me, thinking this would be a 20 minute trip, including driving round trip.

When I finally got to the front of the line, I was barely human anymore, reduced to a ball of quivering rage that was threatening to swallow up any happy person within a 50-mile radius.

The employee looked at my two little packages for an eternity, and finally sighed. "You can't use that tape," he said, pointing to my small box, where I'd mistakenly used "Priority Mail" tape on the top instead of regular packing tape. Apparently this is a crime worthy of the death penalty at the post office. "Oh, ok," I responded. "I figured since it was going Priority Mail to Canada that it wouldn't matter." He sighed, annoyed at my ignorance of basic concepts like shipping laws. "It's not. You can't use that tape." I try to think of my happy place. "OK, I'll remove it. Just hand me some tape and I'll fix it."

He sneers at me. "We don't provide tape."

-Excuse me?

- We're the post office. We don't provide tape. You have to buy it.

- I have to buy it? It's five inches of tape! This is ridiculous!

- I don't appreciate you speaking to me this way.

Wa, what???? He doesn't appreciate be spoken to this way? I didn't say fuck. I didn't call him an ignoramus asshole who thinks he controls the universe by not giving hungry people a couple of inches of tape. Should I be calling you sire as I question your idiotic policies? Don't my tax dollars pay his salary and any tape that he provides me?

I begin to tell him that I have done all of this online so that I wouldn't have to wait here for 25 minutes, but then that I was told I had to anyway, and what the hell was the point of doing it online if you have to experience this nightmare anyway.

He smirks that stupid face of his and slowly lifts up a stamp that must weigh 80 pounds, instead of the three ounces that it looks to me to weigh, because of how slowly he lifts it. "You're standing in line, because of this stamp. You're package won't go anywhere without this stamp."

My eyes shoot radioactive rays at him and I hiss at him to just stamp my stuff and get it over with then, because I have a meeting in 10 minutes. He then slowly lifts my package and puts it on the scale. "I already told you, it's paid for," I protest.

"Oooooh!" he grins. "You wrote that this package is four pounds, but it's four pounds and two ounces. That's going to be an extra dollar and 35 cents."

- You put the freaking paper work on top of it! That's why it's over the weight limit!

Shaking, I throw the extra money at him and leave with my illegally taped package.

I'm going to run for president. I'm going to be the first Canadian who is president of the United States of America. As President, my first law will be that any taxpaying person in the USA can fire on the spot any bastard governmental employee who treats them like dirt. So post office worker, be warned, you're first on my list. Then it's on to you customs officers who treat me like scum, just because my passport says "Canada" on it.

I've said before that I don't know if I believe in heaven. But I sure believe in hell. Hell is the post office. And if my slutty past and my doubting the existence of heaven count against me, then I'm sure the place I'm going is one giant post office with a line that takes an eternity and I'm starving to death during the process.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, February 26, 2007

I Much Prefer Oscar the Grouch

I have to admit, I don't watch the entire Oscar ceremony. Call me a snob, but I really don't care to watch a bunch of people I've never heard of thank their mother for making them such an incredible costume designer or cinematographer or drug dealer to the stars.

And because the Oscars hate people like me who just flip it on during commercials of other shows, I only catch the crappy awards. Not the good ones. Or I catch the endless montages that makes me think that Hollywood will not rest until every single frame of every single movie has been shown to the world.

I also find the award shows particularly painful to watch, because self-obsessed stars can't even be bothered to clap until their own name has been clapped. Or if you're like Nicole Kidman, and you're not nominated, you don't clap. Ever. Is she afraid of breaking a bone if she breaks into a golf clap? What is that icy bitch's problem?

And then there's nipple-gate of 2007. I'm probably going to blow this out of proportion, because, you see, Sweetie Pie and I were still smoking during the Janet Jackson nipple-freeing episode. Thinking the half-time show would be boring, we stepped outside and missed the entire thing. It wasn't until I got in my car the next day to go to work that I found out we'd missed what might be the defining moment of our generation.

So now, I've got to hype up the new nipple incident. And I'm talking about Gwyneth Paltrow. First, there was her hair. Don't get me started on that. Unless she's been growing it for locks of love, there's no reason for it to be so long she has to pull it out of the toilet every time she takes a dump. And is her right shoulder broken? Because why does every strand of hair need to rest on the left one.

But what gets me is that you're a mom of two and you come out on a brightly-lit stage in front of one billion people in a dress that is see-through at the boobie level.

Now don't get me wrong, I am not one of those uptight "boobies are gross unless I'm touching them" hypocrites.

I sunbathe topless in France. I'm completely for breastfeeding in public.

What I don't understand is the "look at me! I'm wearing a dress and you can see my boobies!" look. Especially when you're famous. And pictures are being taken of you. And your kids will see those pictures some day. And they may not want to see their Mommy's boobies. I'm just saying.

On a completely different note, I find that when Little Man greatly irritates me, that I tend to fall into Work Catwoman.

By that I mean that each of us has different personalities. Like there's Party Catwoman who drinks too much and used to flirt with weird men, only to bail out of there when they got creepy. Then there's Home Catwoman, who likes to do domestic things like organize her recipes and create the Family Recipe Collection that should be totally saved in case of fire, because my freaking Easy Mexican Dip recipe is to die for. Then there's Work Catwoman, who's sometimes serious and uses words like "perspective" and "at the end of the day." And then there's Mom Catwoman, who cracks up and believes playing hide and seek with a toddler for four hours is the best way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

When Little Man gets very irritating or whiny, I find that I'll sometimes fall into Work Catwoman. This is when I say things to Little Man like "I'm really not liking your attitude right now." or "Do you really believe that whining is the best course of action?" or "Your strategy for getting an extra cookie is quite flawed."

I guess it's better than screaming, but it is quite odd.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, February 23, 2007

A Better Day

I know many of you were concerned. And I really appreciate your thoughts. To me, this blog is really my diary, my journal. None of my family knows about this blog. Sweetie Pie doesn't know about this blog. And only a few of my friends, the ones who I'd tell my most personal thoughts to anyway, know about this blog.

Now any man would argue that if I'm going to write things that I'd tell my friends anyway, shouldn't Sweetie Pie know about those things too, since after all, your husband is supposed to be your best friend?

Any woman would scoff at that statement. Men and women are different. There are things we can tell our girlfriends. Like stories about penis-shaped poop. And sitting down and farting at the same time, only to be overwhelmed by the fumes. Men don't appreciate these stories from their wives. And there's only so much your man can hear about vaginal discharges when you're pregnant. Girlfriends could not only listen to you go on all day about how yours are strong enough to burn a hole in your maternity underwear, but they contribute their own stories.

But back to the saga.

So last night, I came home. Spoke to Sweetie Pie as little as I could. We ate dinner in silence, except for Little Man's babbles. And then I went to take him to bed. By the time I was done all of this, Grey's Anatomy was about to come on. And so I changed the channel. This was a big episode. Part 3 of 3. Would Meredith live or die? I need to know these things.

But Sweetie Pie said to me "I know you love this show, but I'm really scared right now."

My heart stopped. I knew there'd be a discussion. I just didn't know if I was ready to have it.

And then Sweetie Pie started to cry. Which is the equivalent of my black lab meowing. It just doesn't happen.

And my heart broke. And I felt horrible. Horrible for writing the things I had. Horrible for thinking the things I had. Horrible for breaking the love of my life's heart. And so we held each other for a while. And neither one of us said anything, except for the few "please don't cry" I whispered.

And then we talked. For the next hour, until the DVR forced Grey's Anatomy which I had paused to come on, because it was out of memory.

We talked about how disconnected we each felt. How I didn't feel loved. How two of my three worlds (Little Man and work) were so great, and made me feel loved and the third didn't. How he felt that he was sitting on the sidelines and watching the Catwoman and Little Man show. Which only brought images of me and Little Man wearing top hats and dancing on a stage in my head, which is a whole other story for another day.

And so we wrote a list. A list of things that we can do to reconnect as a couple. And as a family.

And an hour later, we had a plan in place. One where once a week, every Wednesday, Sweetie Pie will pick up some heat and eat items from the prepared food counter at our fancy grocery store and heat those up while I bathe Little Man. And then we'll have dinner just the two of us. No kids. No TV.

And the other nights, we'll move Little Man's bath routine to our big bathtub in our big bathroom and both give him a bath together. And then we'll do story time together. I'll read the French books and Sweetie Pie will read the English books.

Marriage is work. I think we all agree on that. And I'd gotten to the point that I just didn't know if I still had it in me to keep working at it. Because I didn't feel rewarded enough.

But what I've learned last night is that I need to keep remembering that I am married to an introvert. And that he's not going to run up and hug me, or say MMMMMMMMM about everything I cook for him, the way my toddler does.

So today is a better day. We both slept in the middle of the bed, Sweetie Pie with his arms around me for the first time in a long time. It's nice to not feel alone anymore.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, February 22, 2007

Webber Dictionary Defines It as Fed Up

I'm not really sure I can explain what's going through my head right now. But I've gotten to the point where I'm just ready to walk away. Some of you asked me yesterday who number 7 in the youyou was.

I wasn't ready to talk about it then, and I'm not sure I'm ready to talk about it now.

Number 7 is Sweetie Pie.

I couldn't exactly tell you where things went wrong. No big fight, no big blow out. Just a slow erosion of the relationship over the years and me working very hard at it, and then me having a baby and me getting tired of working so hard on something that really didn't feel very rewarding to me, so I concentrated that work on raising a child instead, which is rewarding on a level I can't even describe.

I guess I didn't realize how bad our relationship was until Little Man came along.

When I pick him up from daycare he runs to me, he's excited to see me, he hugs me.

When I go home, Sweetie Pie comes out to get the toddler, and acknowledges me. But no excitement, no I missed you, no I love yous.

Little Man makes "mmmmmm" noises at just about everything I make.

I've been cooking for Sweetie Pie for 6 years now and unless I ask, I never get compliments. And when I ask "how's your meal?" I'm told "It's ok."

There used to be some romancing of me to get sex. But now, just because I've gotten under the sheets, I'm expected to make the move to get sex. Which is about the biggest mood killer ever. This one is a fight we've had before. Him, claiming that he's afraid to make the first move and get rejected. Me, who told him that I'm his wife and that with how little he asks for it, I probably wouldn't reject him.

And now I'm to the point where I feel I've raised the white flag. I give up.

I don't know if I'm quite ready to have that conversation with him. I know that I'll say things that are cruel, that will sting, that will hurt him.

I know that I'll cry. And say things I may not mean.

I know that we may go our separate ways when the conversation is done.

This isn't new, I have to say. There have been fleeting thoughts for the past few months. Like the neighborhood not far from ours that I drove past and thought "If I was divorced, that's be where I'd want to buy the new house." That thought did come out of nowhere. But it didn't necessarily shock me as much as it should have.

Maybe the fact that I'm not sure I can have another baby was the straw that broke the camel's back. The fact that he seemed more concerned about my libido needing fixing than the fact that my dream of having three kids was officially dead, since two was a big question mark.

Maybe I'm thinking to myself that there's no point in staying in a marriage that doesn't make me feel whole and complete when I can't have more kids any way.

Maybe I'm too comfortable with the idea of giving up.

Maybe I'm the problem, expecting too much from a man who has never been emotionally available since the day I met him, over eight years ago. He was forever destroyed by his first love and I've spent a long time trying to fix him. I've tried loving, I've tried pitching fits, I've tried cuddling, I've tried crying. But it's not something I can fix.

Sweetie Pie asked me what was wrong last night "Is it something at work?" he naively pleaded.

I stared at whatever MTV show we were watching at the time. Really hard. Knowing that this was not the night I wanted to have this discussion. And so I forced a smile and said that no, work was great. Everything's fine I heard myself say.

When 9:30 rolled around, I just wanted to be alone in the dark. I went to bed.

I never thought I was the marrying type. And then there was the ex-boyfriend who told me I wasn't marriage material. I'm starting to think that maybe we were both right.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

I'm Not Staring At My Navel For the Next Five Minutes

So I found this to be so intriguing on Emma's blog, that I had to it myself. Instead of a Meme, it's a Youyou, where you write 50 things about people you know. Emma knows so many people, that she was able to do one for real people and one for the bloggers she reads. Not that we bloggers aren't real people, but you know what I mean. So here goes!

1. You got a zero on the final exam in biology that was worth 50 percent of our mark because of me. I was the one who told the biology teacher you cheated. I knew you'd figure out it was me, so I switched schools that summer instead of facing even more abuse and bullying from you and your friends.
2. You are the nicest, most polite person I know. I strive to be more like you every day.
3. I worry about you even though I don't even know you. I really hope that everything works out for you.
4. You're my best friend. I'd give you a kidney, or any other organ, if you needed it.
5. I think you are one of the coolest chicks ever. I don't know if you know how funny you are.
6. Your blog inspired me to make mine better. Reading your letters to your daughter when I was pregnant made me cry and made me start writing my own to Little Man.
7. I don't know if we'll still be together in 10 years. Right now, I can't even say that I hope that we will be.
8. I didn't like you growing up, but now, I'm really, really glad you're in my life. I wish I'd tell you that more.
9. I think you're the most gorgeous baby girl ever and I hope the world looks past your "disability" and sees you.
10. You're the light of my life.
11. I didn't think we'd get along, but I really, really like you, even though I think you're very flawed and could be much happier if you tried. The reason I thought I wouldn't like you is actually one of the reasons I do.
12. I think you might be in love with me. Or at least have a crush on me. But I'd never say that to you because it would make things forever awkward and either make me look conceited or make you feel horrible.
13. I'm so glad I recently discovered your blog. I think you're hysterical.
14. I feel bad that I've avoided your calls for the past three days. I hope Little Man never avoids my calls like that.
15. I think your daughter should be a model or in pageants.
16. I miss you now that you've moved, even though I only got to see you maybe once every two or three months.
17. You were my favorite gay best friend. I still miss you and I hate that you didn't keep in touch when I moved.
18. I think you're selfish, self-absorbed and conceited. Now that we don't work together anymore, I wonder how we ever became friends in the first place.
19. I don't like the way you cut your child's hair.
20. When I got the message that your father died, I didn't call you. I pretended my answering machine didn't work and acted surprised when you told me months later. Even though you were 2,500 miles away from me, I should have been a better friend to you.
21. You were my first love and I still think of you. I'm pretty sure you're gay.
22. Although you don't discuss your conception issues with me very much, I think of you all the time and I wish I could make it better. I felt guilty most of my pregnancy for getting pregnant before you.
23. You taught me that I needed to love myself before I could ever be loved by someone else. Even though you left me with some emotional scarring, I'm grateful to you.
24. You were the best boss I ever had. I wish I'd stayed in touch with you.
25. I don't understand how you can be 33 and smoking pot every night. I'm very worried about you.
26. You saved my life, even though you didn't know me and had never met me before.
27. I wish you'd blog more frequently, since I don't get to see you as much now.
28. You are my twin separated at birth. I'm so glad you left your job and recommended me for it.
29. You move way too slowly which infuriates me and makes me want to smack you around. But since I have a toddler, I just pretend that you're him and then go to my happy place.
30. You told me that my personality sucked and I didn't belong. You created a viper's nest and I'm glad I didn't belong.
31. You are such a horrible person that I cried every night during my one hour commute for six months. I found out you were pregnant recently and can't believe that the universe would let you have a child when so many great women can't get pregnant.
32. You're one of the reasons my credit card debt is as high as it is. I don't blame you, I'm just saying we're too much alike on the shopping front.
33. You are Little Man's other mom. I'm not jealous of this fact, even though I thought I would be.
34. You didn't ask me to backpack through Europe with you. I still wish you had.
35. You called me a slut when we were in university together. It didn't bother me then and it still doesn't bother me now, because I've always known that you were just an unattractive bitch who was jealous that I could talk to boys and flirt with them. I know I was never a slut. But you are probably still a bitch.
36. One of my favorite memories ever is laying in the grass at a park in Barcelona watching the sunrise after we fooled around for the first time.
37. I really hope our two sons will grow up and be very close, because that way you and I will be friends for a long time.
38. You've made my husband miserable for too long. I won't be sad when you die.
39. You're one of the nicest guys I know and I'm so proud of you for making it in the big city and still being so nice. I really want to come visit you.
40. Your habit of winking all the time totally cracks me up and makes it hard for me to keep a straight face.
41. Your daughter is adorable and hysterical.
42. I hope you never stop blogging, because even though I don't know you, through your writings, I really feel like I do.
43. I hate how tough your life and relationships have been for the past few years. I don't know how I can be a better friend to you and I feel like I'm not there enough for you.
44. You make amazing chocolate chip cookies and hope that you make them for Little Man often as he grows up.
45. I know you miss your wife like crazy, but I'm glad you've hung in there as long as you have. I really love you and want Little Man to get to know you.
46. I'm your favorite and I don't understand why. I wish you'd love my sisters as much as you love me. They're really better people than me and I wish you could see that.
47. Just the mention of your name makes me break in hives. I don't understand how you ever got popular and even though I like one of your songs, I can't stand any of the rest of them and really think you're gross.
48. You really have horrendous breath. I always feel faint from the lack of breathing when you go into one of your rants, but it's better than the alternative.
49. You're a fantastic mom and I'm so glad I can call you my friend.
50. You always know how to make me laugh.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, February 20, 2007

A Day of Tears and Jackasses

"I have to warn you," I said. "I'll probably cry."

I sat in her office wringing my hands, took a breath, and told my new doctor my previous pregnancy's story. I was fine, there weren't any tears. So far so good. I then asked her if she was familliar with HELLP Syndrome.

"All too well," she explained. She'd done her internship and residency at the Dallas public hospital, known for having more births per year than any other hospital in the country. Most Ob Gyn text books are authored out of that hospital, because really, they've seen it all. This doctor saw 80,000 births per year in the hospital, where she became Chief Resident during her tenure. She also has two boys, so she's a mother herself, she understands. And she's also gorgeous and sweet. Which are two things I look for in any man who's going to see me naked, so really, should also be an important criteria for my Ob Gyn.

And then I lost it. "I want to know if I can have more kids," I sobbed. "I want more kids. But not if it means risking my life, I love my baby too much for that."

I told her that I'd read online that my chances of having HELLP with the next pregnancy were 26 percent. Through my tears, I saw that she was holding both of her thumbs up.

My heart skipped a beat "It's not true? My odds aren't 26 percent?"

And then my heart was broken "No," she explained softly. "They're much higher than that."

I had one more question in me. "Have you ever had a woman with HELLP have a normal pregnancy the second time around."

"No. I haven't."

I wanted her to be blunt with me. I appreciated her candor. And I wanted her to make the decision for me. Should I have any more kids?

"I won't make that decision for you," she said.

She went on to tell me that I'm lucky. That we have hindsight on our side. That because my HELLP came so late in the pregnancy, it's more than likely to occur again at the same point during the next one. And so we'd watch me like a hawk. And we'd schedule a C-section at 38 weeks, to try to minimize any risk to me and the baby to go through HELLP again. We'll take care of you, she promised.

And so the dilemna begins. She wants me to see the prenatal specialist she said, because he can give me the percentages I'm looking for to make up my mind.

I wanted to hug her. I felt safe and armed with more information than I have been since the Little Man was cut out of my big-bowl-of-jelly belly.

Then she took me in another room, squeezed my boobs without making a honking noise, stuck fingers up my rectum and any other entry ways she could find and told me to up my dairy quota.

I got in the car and called Sweetie Pie. I told him I wanted him to go to the specialist's with me. He didn't say much, and I'm pretty sure he was thinking "we're not doing it. It's not worth it." But it is worth it to me. I told the doctor that even with hindsight, I would totally have Little Man all over again, even if I'd been told my chances of survival were 60 percent before I got pregnant. He's the best thing I've ever done. Nothing else matters. And when all three of us were sitting on the couch last night goofing off and he laughed so hard he snorted, I know I'm lucky to have been able to have even one baby. And wanting more seems selfish, but I can't imagine only getting to experience the amazingness that the past 17 months have been just once.

But now that Little Man here, I won't gamble my life with a second one. I've read that a mother with HELLP's survival rate is 90 percent. Are those odds enough for me? I don't know.

After a moment of silence, Sweetie Pie asked the question that was really on his mind.

"Did she give you any pills for your lack of libido?"

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, February 19, 2007

Because It's All About Meme and Me

So too many people I read have done this Meme now, so I feel like I should too. Because I'm a sucker for peer pressure, even when it's not really there. You people probably know more about me than my own husband at this point. And definitely more than my mother.

1. Are your parents married or divorced? surprisingly, still married. I kept hoping they'd divorce when I was a kid, so that I could choose to live with my dad. I still feel bad about that. Although, even as an adult, I think it would have been better to live with my dad. I wouldn't have had a 9 p.m. curfew at 17 in college if my parents had divorced.

2. Are you a vegetarian?

Not currently, but I was for a summer when I was 18. I still feel bad eating meat, but I really love it. Although, I haven't eaten any veal since I was 17. I hate the way the calves are treated, it's too cruel and horrible. So at least I've stuck with that.

3. Do you believe in Heaven?

I don't know. To me, it sounds like a great story, but too good to be true, you know? Why someone like me who believes every claim infomercials make can't have faith is mind boggling. There's a big part of me that wishes I could just take that leap and believe. I know Sweetie Pie sure as hell (oops, sorry!) wishes I did, because he's convinced that my lack of faith means that I won't go to heaven. I believe that my being a good person would guarantee me a spot if there is such a thing, but apparently that's not how it works.

4. Have you ever come close to dying?

Yeah, a few times. I'm like a cat. There's that time when I was four years old and a lady tried to kidnap me and almost got me out of the department store, but my mom saw my boots and yelled my name, so the lady threw me out of her trenchcoat. Who knows if she would have actually killed me or was just some crazy lady who wanted a kid of her own.

Then there's the time I was nine, when I was running with my friend around her underconstruction pool. Her Great Dane was also running around the pool with us. I was on the edge, he ran past me, wagged his big tale and I fell to the bottom of the empty deep end. The doctor said the fact I was wearing a sundress saved my life, because it acted as a parachute. So instead, I got two really mangled knees and calves.

Then there's the time I was 14 and my mom gave me a Contac C cold medication pill to help with a cold. I woke up in the middle of the night because I couldn't breathe. Not from being congested, from my throat closing because of an allergic reaction to the medicine. I sat there, totally unpanicked for some reason kind of thinking "crap, why can't I breathe" and all of a sudden, I started breathing again. The next day, my whole face had puffed up and when my mom rushed me to the hospital, the doctor asked me if I'd had other symptoms and I said "oh yeah, I stopped breathing last night." He was horrified and my mom asked why I didn't wake her. I told her that she was working hard and I didn't want to interrupt her sleep. The doctor said that people who go under ana-whatever shock hardly ever live without medical intervention.

Then there's the two times I was on planes that caught on fire as a flight attendant.

Then there's the whole having my whole body shut down because of my pregnancy and not even being able to have an epidural because I would have bled to death and being potentially minutes or hours away from having a stroke or going into a coma.

So really, I don't think I have too many cat lives left. You won't catch me playing Russian Roulette. And I think I'm reconsidering my wanting to go bungee jumping and sky diving goals.

5. What jewelery do you wear 24/7?

The new bracelet Sweetie Pie gave me for Christmas. But only because it's impossible for me to take off by myself. Even though it gets in the way for hand jobs. Sorry, that's probably too much information.

6. Favourite time of day?

When I pick up Little Man from daycare. When he runs to me going "Ahhhhhhh!" and throws himself at me in the biggest bear hug, the whole world could implode and I wouldn't care.

7. Do you eat the stems of broccoli?

Yeah, but the question is, how often do I eat broccoli? Which is about once in a blue moon.

8. Do you wear makeup?

During the week, yes. Because I'm pretty scary looking without it. On the weekends, only if we're going out to eat. Otherwise, I don't care what people in the grocery store think of me.

9. Have you ever had plastic surgery?

No, despite many a rumor about me saying that I've had my boobs done. They're natural. The fact that they sag without a good bra should be proof at this point. I was a size 2 with big boobs in my younger days. What's it to ya?

10. If you did, what would you do?

Man, where to start... I'd definitely have my nose done, because I hate, hate, hate my profile. I''d also have a tummy tuck and lots, lots of liposuction. And I'd probably have my boobs lifted so that people could once again wonder if they're fake.

11. What do you wear to bed?

Depends on the season. Right now, my black yoga pants with my black "Canadian Girls Kick Ass" t-shirt. This is why I'm known as a sex symbol around the world people.

12. Have you ever done anything illegal?

That could be a list of its own. I mean, nothing too horrific really. Just a little smoking of things and a little underaged drinking and shoplifting a couple of lipglosses and drinking when I was probably close to the limit if not a smidgen over.

13. Can you roll your tongue?

Nope, I can't. But Little Man can since Sweetie Pie can, which caused even more issues when we tried to breastfeed.

14. Do you tweeze your eyebrows?

I do, but not because I want to. I do it only when my eyebrows are turning into Bert's.

15. What kind of sneakers?

I don't even know, it's been so long since I've worn them. I'm more into buying them for Little Man. He's got some New Balance and some Nikes. And his really cute Tip Toey Joey ones, that I just got him the 18 months size ones.

16. Do you believe in abortions?

This is such a hard one... Before Little Man, I was definitely more for it than I am now. Would I have ever had one? I don't know, it depends, I highly doubt it though. I don't want abortions to be illegal though, because I believe in a woman's right to choose. And when you hear of 15 year old victims of incest forced to have abortions because of ridiculous laws, it's enough to throw me into a rage. My sister had an abortion, and I know it was the hardest decision she ever made. Is she over it? I doubt it. But I know some women use it as a form of birth control, and that, I can't fathom. Those women should just tie their tubes, because really, they should never be allowed to be mothers.

17. What is your hair colour?

It's definitely brown. I went through a blonde phase, but my family said I just didn't pull it off. So now I'm brown.

18. Future child's name?

There's a list on the fridge right now with too many options for boys and girls to list here. So I don't know. I won't know until after today if I even SHOULD have future children, so let's start with that.

19. Do you snore?

I don't think I do. If Sweetie Pie complained about me snoring, I wasn't paying attention.

20. If you could go anywhere in the world where would it be?

Definitely Australia. Until I've been there, I can't think of anywhere else to say.

21. Do you sleep with stuffed animals?

Uhm, no. I'm not five. I do however sleep with two live animals. One furry man and one black lab puppy. Our other dog sleeps in our closet, because he likes to be as far away as possible from us, ever since Little Man was an infant and would wake up constantly screaming his little infant face off.

22. If you won the lottery what would you do first?

Pay off our credit card debt. And then have one hell of an expensive dinner at some fancy restaurant.

23. Gold or silver?

I don't like yellow gold. So definitely white gold or platinum.

24. Hamburger or hotdog?

Depends. Only Hebrew National Hot Dogs, because they're made with beef meat, not weird parts, unlike other hot dogs. And hamburgers, only if they're from Steak and Shake or McDonald's. I don't like big fat burgers. That's just too much meat.

25. If you could eat one food for the rest of your life what would it be?

Oh God. That's a hard one. I guess I'd say Cadbury milk chocolate with hazelnuts in it. Because I'd hate to think I'd have to do without that for the rest of my life if I said something else. Or else, it would be sushi. Or real croissants from France. Or goat cheese. There's too many things I love to have to just stick to one.

26. City, beach, or country?

I guess I'd say beach. But not to raise a baby. Definitely city to raise a baby. Although, as far as cities, I'm thinking more of a Toronto, Vancouver or San Francisco than a Dallas. But this is where I am and unless things change, it'll probably be where I die.

27. What was the last thing you touched.

My water bottle. Trying to drink enough water to convince my stomach that we're not really starving to death.

28. Where did you eat last?

At home, in front of CNN. Had some Special K with chocolate.

29. When was the last time you cried?

Grey's Anatomy on Thursday. I'm a sucker for that show.

30. Do you read blogs?

Duh. Who has a blog and doesn't read others? You'd have to be a pretty damn self-absorbed person.

31. Would you ever go out dressed like the opposite sex?

I'm not sure what this means. I don't go out with a fake mustache or anything. I do wear Sweetie Pie's shirts ever so often, but I only go to the grocery store like that.

32. Have you ever been involved with the police?

Uhm, not really, no. I did get pulled over once for speeding. I've never dated a cop. Always wanted to. I did make out with a firefighter once and he ended up stalking me really bad, so I don't think men in uniforms are right for me. Sexy, but not for me.

33. What's your favourite shampoo, conditioner and soap?

I'm not too picky. Whatever I have a coupon for and smells nice. But I only like liquid body soap.

34. Do you talk in your sleep?

Yes I do. This is one of the many reasons I'd never have an affair.

35. Ocean or pool?

I like the ocean, but only when it's somewhere beautiful like Aruba or the Virgin Islands. I'm an ocean snob.

36. Sauna or whirlpool?

I don't get the whole sauna thing. But I'm not a huge whirlpool person either. Sitting in water sweating with a bright red face is not my idea of sexiness.

37. Starbucks or Krispy Kreme?

Yes and yes. At Starbucks, the Caramel Macchiato with extra caramel is oh so yummy. And the Vanilla Bean frozen something Creme or other is freaking addictive!

38. Window seat or aisle?

Window. I love to watch the world when we take off and land. And now that I have the Little Man, window even more, because he loves it even more than I do.

39. Ever met anyone famous?

Yeah, a few people. Mainly from when I worked at the TV station. Like Joshua Jackson, from Dawson's Creek. He's Canadian by the way. And super tall. And hot. And was really nice back then, but it was before he'd made it "big."

40. Do you feel you've had a truly successful life?

Well, I'm only 31, so I don't know. I think I'm doing ok. I have a good job that pays well, a great kid and my relationship is fine after almost five years of marriage. All three of these things means I'm doing better than 99 percent of Hollywood (even if I'm not rich like them)

41. Do you twirl or cut your spaghetti?

Definitely twirling. Although I'm not able to do it in a beautiful way.

42. Ricki Lake or Oprah Winfrey?

Since Oprah is a little too full of herself right now, I'm going to steal someone else's answer and say Ellen. All the way. Love her, want to be her friend.

43. Basketball or football?

Uhm... Neither? If I have to be forced to watch one or else I'll be killed, than I'll go for football because those pants are TIGHT! And Tom Brady's hot.

44. How long do your showers last?

No matter how quick I try to make them, they're never under 15 minutes. Although, when Little Man was born, I had it down to a science and could shower in about 2 minutes flat. But my hair would never get washed then and I was doing basic grooming.

45. Automatic or stick?

Definitely automatic. I am not a good driver and driving an automatic is hard enough already. It took Sweetie Pie many-a-tries in Europe to teach me to drive a shift and even then, I didn't go that far when I had it down because it terrified me.

46. Cake or ice cream?

Uhm... Why choose just once? Although it depends on the cake. No fruit filling please. Why ruin a perfectly good fattening cake with something that's supposed to be a little healthy? Also depends on the ice cream. Although, I do love most. Except for rum raisin, the nastiest flavor ever invented. Just the thought of it makes me want to throw up.

47. Are you self conscious?

Oh so very much. Not enough to get all decked out when I run errands, but enough to always wonder if people are talking badly about me.

48. Have you ever drank so much you threw up?

A few times, but not excessively. I used to be one tough cookie when it came to drinking. When I was in Spain for the summer, I got to the point where I could outdrink most of the Irish boys. They were very impressed. Of course, all that drinking did lead to much making out with said boys, including my best friend from Ireland, Sean, who I then avoided like the plague because I was 18 and immature and didn't want to deal with the repercussions of my actions.

49. Have you ever given money to a beggar?

Yes I have, although I hardly ever anymore, simply because I never have cash. My sister and I once gave our entire allowances to this girl who was probably in her late teens and had this sad looking dog. We crossed paths with her again half an hour later and she was walking out of a store with a carton of cigarettes. We were 11 and 8 and really devastated by the experience.

50. Have you ever been in love?

Yes. Four times now. Five, if you count Little Man.

51. Where do you wish you were?

In a place where chocolate and donuts make you skinny instead of fat.

52. Are you wearing socks?

Nuh-huh. It's warm enough today that I felt I could wear open-toed shoes.

53. Have you ever ridden in an ambulance?

Knock on wood, nope.

54. Can you tango?

Hahaha! I can barely stand without falling. And I'm a white girl. I ain't got no rythm people.

55. What was the last gift you received?

A $40 iTunes card from Sweetie Pie for Valentine's Day. Which was $20 more than I expected, so I was excited!

56. What was the last sport you played?

Oh God... No idea... Uhm... I played on the Softball team at a software company I worked at a few years ago. And I got hit by the ball right in the knee cap when I was playing the catcher position. I'm sure I cursed a lot.

I totally forgot about that until right now.

57. What things do you spend a lot of money on?

Just about anything that isn't latched down at Target or just about any other store. And baby clothes, love, love, love baby clothes. Love baby girl clothes more, but hey, he's a boy, so I do what I can with what I've got.

58. Where do you live?

Right now? In a cubicle. At home, in a house filled with pets and baby toys. It's my piece of heaven.

59. Where were you born?

Lyon, France.

60. Last wedding attended?

My sister-in-law's wedding a month after I gave birth to the Little Man. And I was a bridesmaid and looked fat, fat, fat. Ugh. Hate all the pictures of myself that day.

61. Apparently there is no 61.

62. Favourite position? Depends for what. For eating, I like to sit. For sleeping, I like to lay down. For walking, I like to stand.

63. What is your most hated food? Bottled salad dressing. EEK!

64. What is your most hated pop? Fresca. Tastes like Mr. Clean or something. Disgusting!

65. Can you sing? Define "sing." I sing constantly to myself, in the car, to Little Man. In my head, I sound just like Kelly Clarkson. But Sweetie Pie claims I sound like a dying coyote.

66. Who was the last person you instant messaged? I haven't instant messaged anyone today. And no one's IM'd me (bastards!). So I guess it's a coworker of mine on Friday.

67. Where was the last place you went on holiday? I guess Canada to see my folks, although I wouldn't call that a holiday.

68. Favourite regular drink? Depends... I love me some coffee with coffee mate, my current obsession. I also love tea with milk.

69. Favourite current song? Beyonce's "Irreplaceable" To the left, to the left, everything you own in a box to the left.

70. Tag 3 people. I'm too tired to run.

Day 1 All Over Again

Oh there will be much bloodshed. And crying. Lots of crying.

I have now been on a diet for approximately 14 hours, since that was my last real meal.

I am on a mission. I will lose 15 pounds. If people have to be killed for me to get to that goal, well, they just shouldn't have stood between me and my Special K.

So far, so good. I've eaten a bowl of Special K with non-fat milk and had a cup of coffee with fat free Vanilla Coffee Mate. Did you know they make Special K with chocolate now? I'm serious. This is the equivalent of offering a lesbian with a penis. But Special K has managed it.

So I had my bowl of Special K with chocolate. And when I opened the bag, I admit, they'd sprayed it with chocolate scented Febreeze or something, because the aroma of chocolate made my whole body tingle. And when I poured the cereal in the bowl, I was amazed that the chocolate was not only quite present, but they weren't merely chocolate dust, oh no, these were full size chocolate chunks. At this point I was giddy, and not just because John Roberts was on CNN Morning with Soledad O'Brien, because he's Canadian and I love him. I've known him (in the way that he's been on my TV screen for 20 years) since he was JD Roberts on Canada AM.

Anyway, so I'm sitting with my bowl of chocolate, watching John Roberts tell me all about how Prince Harry might go to war and I'm thinking to myself "I can do this. I will lose 15 pounds and not look like a beached whale in those new seersucker shorts I bought last week."

But now, it's 9:39. And I'm freaking hungry. And I might rip out the nose hairs through their nostrils of anyone who dares to step into my cube to talk to me.

I've heard that if you stick to a diet for three weeks, then you're going to stick with it forever and lose the weight. Or something equally idiotic. Three weeks? How is that humanly possible? What have I ever done that's lasted three weeks?

For lunch, I'm having a Slimfast, some strawberries and a pap smear.

The pap smear isn't part of my diet. That'd be really weird. Although, if I could eat fast food every day and lose a ton of weight from having a daily pap smear, I would totally do it.

That's way easier than eating less food. But if I don't lose 15 pounds, I will be even fatter after baby number two. And then I'll have to be on a diet even longer. The impossibility of this makes me hate Heidi Klum very much.

Except for when she's on Project Runway, because I freaking love that show.

I'm going to go now. Maybe if I chew on my hangnails I can convince my brain that I'm not really starving to death.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, February 16, 2007

At What Point Is He Going to Take Responsibility?

I don't ask for a lot. In the mornings, I do just about everything. I blow dry my own hair. I make my own cup of coffee with so much Vanilla and Hazelnut Coffee Mate in it that the coffee flavor is completely gone making it very yummy. I open all the blinds so that the sun can heat our house as much as possible to cut down on our ridiculously expensive gas bills. I let the dogs out for their morning poop. I feed the dogs. I give the dogs water. I get Little Man up. I make sure Little Man isn't in a foul mood by letting him watch a few minutes of Play With Me Sesame before trying to offer him food or get him dressed. I feed Little Man. I change Little Man's 10 pound of night pee diaper. I dress Little Man. And then I dress myself. I fill Little Man's sippy cup with milk for the road. I fill Little Man's snack trap with fruity Cheerios. I start the car to heat it. I load Little Man, his frog, his Ernie doll, his sippy cup, his snack trap, my purse, my lunch and anything else we need for the 35 years we'll be gone from home it seems, in the car.

So why is it that this morning, I drive for 10 minutes, her Little Man cough and almost swerve off the road when I realize the freaking kid isn't wearing any shoes?

I admit, there was a break in my routine. I usually dress Little Man and then go get his shoes in the garage and put those on when we're ready to go. But this morning, we were running behind, I loaded him in the car seat and was going to put his shoes on him then. And I forgot.

But I'm not taking the blame for this. He's been on this planet for 17 months, really, at some point he needs to take responsibility for his own two feet. I swear the kid would forget his own head if it wasn't attached to his body.

When I spotted the socked feed in the backseat, I screamed "Oh my God! You're not wearing any shoes!" The same way I'd yell if he was being eaten by a grizzly bear. Because really, it's that serious.

He looked at me blankly, and as I U-turned, he started interrogating me "shoes? Shoes? Shoes?"

Which really, would have been a lot more useful for him to chant over and over again six miles ago.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, February 15, 2007

My Brain Really Is Wired Wrong

This has always happened to me. I'll be in a situation and my brain will short circuit with 1,000 thoughts of "what if I suddenly did this..." and it's always something inappropriate, like take off all my clothes, or pick my nose, or set my hair on fire.

My brain does this out of boredom, I guess. Or else my brain actually has Turette's, but my body won't let it act on it, so it thinks these inappropriate things, but my body doesn't actually respond.

This morning, I had to stand somewhere with a microphone and run to people with questions so they could ask important-sounding questions and receive important-sounding answers.

The whole time I'm standing there with the microphone, waiting for the speaker to finish his speech and open it up to questions, my brain's thinking "what if we farted when the microphone was held to our side?" and "what if I burped really loud close the microphone?"

I'm not sure if my brain was saying we should do these things. Or if it was afraid these things would happen.

Either way, I always find any thoughts my brain has very, very disturbing. Note to brain: stop thinking.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Happy Hearts Day, Or As I Call It, The Day Men Can't Do Anything Right

Yes, it's Valentine's Day, the day that makes women who are single think that their lives suck and they should put out for the next loser and make women who are dating and married feel like they are with Mr. Wrong because he hasn't whisked them off on a romantic trip to Paris or booked a table at the best restaurant in town.

It's the day where cars are parked on the side of the highway at 3 p.m. and desperate men scramble to spend 10 dollars on wilted flowers that are sitting in some illegal immigrant's trunk.

And Hallmark makes gazillions of dollars from cards that aren't really clever and tell the receiver some cheeseball slightly dirty comment that's supposed to make them feel loved. Or has Snoopy on the front.

I don't think I've ever really had a fantastically great Valentine's Day. The same way that I've never had a fantastically great New Year's Day. There's just too much pressure. It's not possible. It's like telling my dog that he needs to spend one day not licking his butt. It just can't be done.

I remember being a kid and dreading Valentine's day. Because I was never the pretty girl or the popular girl and so I'd always get a few Valentine's day cards, but I'd envy the pretty popular girl who needed a couple of assistants to read all of the cards for her.

And then there was the time in 10th grade, where a bunch of boys sent me a fake Valentine's Day card from this poor guy named Robert, that told me how much he loved me. Not realizing it was a fake, I fell in love with Robert because of the poem contained in the card. And proceeded to stalk him, because I was 14 and not popular and I thought that's how it was done.

But now that I'm an adult, I'm over the whole Valentine's Day craziness. I refuse to fall into those traps. I don't expect jewelry, I don't expect an expensive dinner that will make us take out a second mortgage.

I do expect a card. And I do expect some kind of token of love. This year, I specifically said that instead of spending 10 dollars or more on flowers, that I'd rather get that amount on an iTunes gift card so that I may add songs to my iPod. They might even be love song.

The nice grocery store by our house has this complete Valentine's dinner that you just reheat at home. It's stuffed prime rib with asparagus and potatoes and a chocolate mousse cake. For $29.99, we can eat at home as well as at any restaurant.

So we'll put the Little Man to bed, open the bottle of wine I bought at CVS pharmacy (this place cracks me up!!!! There's dry counties left right and center where you can't buy alcohol, but the pharmacies can sell wine!), light some candles, turn on some music and just chill at home.

But then again, shouldn't that be what we do every night?

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

Uh-Nee!

Little Man is in love. The kind of love that makes you weak in the knees and makes you smile the second the object of your affection's name even begins to cross your lips.

While most toddlers are in love with Elmo, my Little Man has realized that any infatuation with Elmo is doomed, because Elmo is a narcissist who calls himself in the third person and thinks that just because he's interested in jumping, you should listen to him talk to his goldfish for half an hour about how great jumping is. Little Man, despite his young age of 17 months, understands that you sleep Elmo and sneak off the next morning before he wakes up. You don't marry puppets like Elmo. You use them and lose them.

The kind of muppets you do fall in love with and talk incessantly about to your mother are orange, love animals, particularly the rubber kind and have moved out of their parents' home to move in with a roommate in a basement.

That muppet is Ernie. And Little Man is completely infatuated with him, calling out his name constantly.

It's all Jempress' fault, really. For Little Man's birthday, she gave him a Sesame Street toddler book, think of a Where's Waldo for toddlers, where the muppets do weird things on each page and you get to point out all the red things on the page, like the red fuzzy slippers on Bert's feet.

But Little Man couldn't care less about what's red or blue on each page. Screw that! Those activities are for the single and lonely!

Toddlers in love like himself only have one purpose: to find Ernie. And when he does, the chubby index finger is pointed, smacked down on the page with as much emphasis as possible and the head turns to me and I am told, over and over again "Uh-nee!"

Yes, I nod. That is Ernie.

"Uh-nee!"

And on to the next page.

We do this for about an hour each night before I proclaim it's time for bed. On the weekends, that book is used an average of three to four hours straight, until either Sweetie Pie or I go insane and try to tempt Little Man away from the Sesame Street book with chocolate cookies or cigarettes.

But that kind of dedication can't be broken with vices. Oh no. Little Man looks at us, shakes his head and proceeds to close the book to find Ernie on the cover.

I'm forced to feed this addiction by starting the Tivo in the morning with the latest episode of Play With Me Sesame and I pause it when the theme song gets to Ernie.

Then I go wake up my toddler and bring him down so that his whole face can light up and he can say "Uh-nee!" which, loosely translated means "Oh Ernie, love of my life, I've missed you for the 11 hours we were apart, even though my dreams were all about you and running hand in hand laughing through a meadow, let's never part again."

Who am I to get in the way of true love, especially the week of Valentine's Day.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, February 12, 2007

I Know, I Know, You Shouldn't Speak Ill of the Dead

So in case you were living in a cave last week, or were stuck under something really, really, really heavy and couldn't watch TV, listen to the radio or talk to any one ressembling a human being, I have some news for you.

Anna Nicole Smith is dead.

And apparently, I wasn't aware that she was the one who was going to save humanity. That she was the one who was about to find the cure for cancer and fed babies around the world with her enormous boobies.

I say that I wasn't aware of this, because, the ignorant baffoon that I am, I thought Anna Nicole Smith was just some drugged up tabloid fodder chick, famous for once upon a time having a great figure, getting naked for Playboy, landing a Guess contract and then marrying a really, really old man and then fighting his kids (who were old enough to be her grandparents) for his money.

But then she dies under "strange conditions" and next thing you know, 20/20 is devoting an hour of Friday's program to her. Entertainment Tonight is talking about her tragic life cut short (why reserve that label to 6-year olds who die of cancer? They don't matter to Entertainment Tonight) and they call her an icon.

An icon??? An icon of what? As Sweetie Pie said "I've never seen her on my computer screen."

Because really, last I checked, Anna Nicole Smith had actually never accomplished anything, had she?

That doesn't mean I wished the woman ill when she was alive. I thought she was just some poor white trash girl who had a pretty face, got huge implants and was able to ride the celebrity train.

But to warrant that much coverage? Really? Most presidents don't get this much air time when they die.

What I found most interesting though during the past few days, is the speed at which Anna Nicole's mom was in front of the media trash talking her daughter. "She never gave us money!" she brayed on the Today Show.

Excuse me?

Your daughter's dead and this is what you choose to whine about? How about saying something along the lines of "my baby is gone! How could this happen? Why was the world robbed of her presence?"

I don't know much about Anna Nicole's family. But from the little I've seen these past few days, I say good for her for cutting those leeches off. And now that she's gone, I hope they get nothing. Especially not that poor little 5-month old baby who's left behind without a mother. And without any idea of who her father is.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, February 09, 2007

I Hate to Say It, But I Told You So

So I'm not pregnant. I knew I wasn't. Because I'm really in tune with my body and always know what each cell is doing at any given point, at any given time.

I'm actually just messing with all of you. I just figured that the odds of me conceiving from having sex once in a month would make this baby just one step removed from the immaculate conception.

But I know, the world is full of pregnant teenagers who thought they couldn't get pregnant the first time they had sex.

And so I now sit in my cubicle crabby, bloated and craving sweets and saltiness, all of which means that I'm not pregnant.

By the way. Who the hell ever came up with the idea that a great euphemism for "having my period" is Aunt Flo?

It's just ridiculous.

And don't even get me started about people who say "at the end of the day" every other minute. Makes me want to kick their asses until the end of the day. I'm going to start saying random other times like "At the end of the lunch break, it's really only "

If I was a criminal, I would totally go hold up a Ben & Jerry's right now, just so I could eat all those ginormous tubs of ice cream.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, February 08, 2007

Farts and Beds

So I'm wearing a pair of new shoes today. These are new because I've never worn them before, but they were actually one of the two pairs of shoes I got from Aldo while I was in Canada. This pair is open-toed, they're high and gorgeous and I've been stopped twice today by people who were in awe of the fantasticness that are my shoes.

One problem. The left one farts. I'm not kidding. Don't laugh, it's not funny. It's hard to feel sexy when every other step you take, this pffff sound comes out of your shoe.

Why this sound is being made, I don't know. All I know is that if someone said to me "hey, walk with me," I'd reply "oh, no thanks, I think I'll just sit here and wait for you to return."

I think this is God's way of punishing me for wearing open-toe shoes when it's 40 degrees outside. But it was warm and balmy earlier this week, so I thought that today it would still be warm and balmy.

But it is not.

And now my shoe farts.

And now, dear reader, I am going to ask for your input. Because my blog hero Dooce has posted about transitioning her daughter in a toddler bed and happened to post a link to where she purchased hers, I, looking to kill time until I can go pick up the Little Man, decided that I too should look into purchasing a toddler bed. Because I always said that I would do this between the age of 18 and 22 months. And Little Man is now 17 months and 6 days old, so the window is closing fast.

So I am including pictures of toddler beds I love. Which one of these do you think I should purchase, if money were no object.

So here is Option #1.



This bed says "hey, I'm never too young to fall asleep at the wheel."

Option #2



This bed says "I'm serious about this sleeping thing."

Option #3



This bed says "I may be approaching my second birthday, but I'm still fun and whimsical."

So readers, what do you think?

Love,

Catwoman.

Do Not Think of Running Water

Or brooks. Or waterfalls. Or leaky faucets.

I'm sitting at my desk right now. On a call. I have been on calls since 8 a.m. this morning. I have had to pee since 8:22. My bladder now feels like it contains the entire Atlantic Ocean. And maybe Lake Ontario too. If this call doesn't end soon, I will be forced to get on my 10 a.m. call and will probably pass out from my bladder exploding.

I could just get up and run to the bathroom and pee. But I keep getting called on, like the kid who hasn't studied for the class who the teacher can smell the ignorance on.

I never thought I would die from pee overload in a blue cubicle.

But here we are.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, February 07, 2007

If a Tree Falls in the Forest

So I don't have anything to say today. This is the equivalent of hell freezing over, I know, but I'm going to blame it on the pink eye. And the swollen glands that feel like two golf balls pressing on my neck.

So I thought I'd share five things with you that you might not know about me. Because I really don't know what else to do.

1. Before I die, I want to get to hold a live koala bear. I love koala bears. I have since I was a tiny little catwoman. I don't care if you say they're stinky or full of fleas or have sharp claws. I love them. And I will hold one someday. And I will grin really wide on the pictures, not caring that my weird tooth is showing, that's how happy I'll be.

2. I also want to learn how to milk a cow before I die. I don't know why, but I always thought that it'd be so cool to be able to brag to people that I know how to milk a cow. Like I could say in a job interview "sure, I know how to write concise and inspiring key messages, but I can also milk a cow."

3. I always look at the toilet paper after I wipe. My sisters have always thought this is really gross. They know I do this, because we've share a bathroom growing up and no one had any qualms in being in the bathroom doing her hair while another was taking a dump. I can't help but check out the t.p. because how else will I know if I need to keep wiping?

4. I can change Little Man's diaper while he's standing up. This is a talent that I never thought I'd develop when I was younger, but well, here I am, 31 years old, and I can remove Little Man's night diaper while he's standing up watching Play With Me Sesame and get another one on him perfectly. In under 30 seconds flat. If there was a world competition of diaper changing, well, I don't want to brag, but I'd probably be your champion.

5. When I was laid off in 2001, I considered becoming a Hooters girl to make money. I figured I had big enough boobs to do it and maybe they wouldn't think I was too chubby. I figured to do this, I'd have to do it behind Sweetie Pie's back. I finally decided that I'd rather be broke than have to wear those hideous orange shorts and never applied.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, February 06, 2007

She Saw The Panic In My Eyes

Yesterday, I went to the doctor's to get my eyes checked out, because I knew I had pink eye, thanks that that old episode of South Park where there's a pink eye outbreak that turns the characters into aliens and Kenny dies a horrible death at the end. Most of my knowledge comes from television.

I'm not sure how I got pink eye, considering that I'm kind of obsessive with the hand washing and the purrell use, and I don't poke myself in the eye to entertain myself when I get bored in the office and I've read all my blogs.

I'm sure I got pink eye because I have a cootie-carrying possession known as a toddlerus maximus. See, once again, knowledge from TV, this time from old Wile E. Coyote & Road Runner episodes that taught me that if you write stuff in fake latin, it's always much funnier.

The point is, I went to the doctor, something I haven't done for a sick visit in so long that I don't remember ever going to a doctor before when I felt like crap.

I told the doctor my symptoms, that my eyes were gooped shut in the morning, that my glands were swollen, that I was tired, etc. She looked at me suspiciously and responded "Could you be pregnant?"

I froze. Could I be what?

"Pregnant," she repeats. "Could you have gotten pregnant during the past few weeks. Are you using contraception."

Oh, contraception! No, I've never heard of this said contraception doctor.

So I proceed to meekly explain to her that we're currently not having sex because I'm a woman who's married which means I've snatched my prey and never have to put out again or shave my legs.

And the few times where the whining about the lack of sex gets to me, I only put out when I'm not supposed to be ovulating. And that once, we did have sex during the crucial time, but I made him wear a condom.

"Are you on the pill?"

uhm. no.

She sighs.

My heart is pounding. We're going to start trying, I tell her, but in April or May. Not really now.

And then I tell her that I'm quite fertile. When we were trying for Little Man, we only had sex once during my ovulation period and 39 weeks later, I had a bundle of joy.

Getting pregnant's not the hard part for me, it's staying alive for nine months while my body shuts down under the pressure of growing another human being.

She diagnoses me with pink eye and tells me that it doesn't "look" like I'm pregnant, but I definitely have a bacterial infection which matches all my symptoms.

But of course, the nagging can't stop in my brain. There was that one time earlier this month where I figured that I was one day away from the ovulation window and thought "we should be fine."

I don't care when the next baby comes, I just need it to be after I've been in my job 12 months so that I get the maternity benefits. If I were pregnant now, I'd be just two weeks shy of that if the baby was full term, which probably wouldn't happen.

This doctor also told me that because I had a c-section, no one "except for county hospitals" would allow me to have a vaginal birth. I smiled and nodded, but I thought to myself "your closed-mindedness is why you will remain as my pink eye doctor and not my ob gyn."

On the way home, Little Man and I stopped by Target and got a two-pack pregnancy test. Little Man proudly clutched it in the store, waving it around so that everyone would know his mother puts out, despite what daddy says. I paid for it, went home and took one of the tests, despite being four days away from my period and using evening urine when you're supposed to use first-thing-in-the-morning urine.

The box said the test would be 53 percent accurate with morning urine four days before.

It was negative.

This morning, I didn't take a test. I don't think I'm pregnant.

I can't be pregnant.

My ob gyn appointment isn't until the 21st and that's the appointment where her and I will be discussing whether I need to meet with a specialist to decide if I should even be trying to get pregnant.

As for the pink eye, well, the doctor didn't even freaking remember to call in my prescription, so when I went to pick up the drops last night, they weren't there. Glad that my main practitioner is so good at what she does.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, February 05, 2007

Sweetness That Great Should Be Bottled

There's no doubt about it, Little Man inherited my clumsiness. He also probably inherited my lack of athleticism and my obsession with books, although I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt on the athleticism and think that with his father's coaching, that he can develop more of an ability than I ever did, as I was the kid who prayed for an upset tummy before every P.E. class.

In the past two weeks, we've gotten called twice by the daycare because Little Man had had accidents. The first time, he ran into a bookcase head on. How one doesn't notice a bookcase that's a whole foot taller than oneself, I can't explain. Except to tell you that accidents like these happen to me on a weekly basis. As I happened to be watching Little Man over the Web cam when they called me at work to report the incident, I knew that he was fine, as he was running around, live on my computer's monitor.

And last week, we got called again, this time to report that Little Man decided to slide head first down a one-foot high angled mat, only to be stopped by the carpet. I was assured that he was fine once again, that he'd simply added a carpet burn to the bump that was healing in the same spot from the previous accident.

Some mothers might freak out at the daycare, asking them why these things keep happening. But not me. Because having been at home with my son for 14.5 months, I know that the only way to prevent him from injury would be to put him in a padded suit, in a padded room, and duct tape him in one place.

What I have done instead, is figure out a way to make Little Man stop crying as promptly as possible when he slams his hand on the table while excitedly waving to the dog, or manages to get his leg caught under the couch cushions.

What I do, and I hope you're taking notes about his, because this is only the greatest invention you have never heard of, thought of, or even could have imagine would be invented during your lifetime.

I kiss it better. That's right. I take the injured appendage/head/internal organ. And I kiss it. Repeatedly. Until the tears are gone.

I know, I'm a freaking genius, and I should be selling this stuff.

I can assure you that as out there as my method may be, they actually work. The scientific explanation for this is that the kissing confuses the nerve endings. While they're going into melt down, thinking "holy crap, ouch! pain!" you start kissing and they go "what? What is this? a pleasing feeling? I don't understand..." And they calm down, which in turn calms the toddler down. I call this scientific phenomenon maximus painus reductionis. Patent pending.

This morning, I walked into Little Man's room to wake him up and when I went to get him out of his crib, he managed to press his wrist really hard on the bracelet I was wearing. I can't really explain to you what happened, because it really sounds like it wouldn't be physically possible. But let me assure you, dear reader, that there was a wrist involved, a bracelet, and a little pain for Little Man.

He wasn't crying as I lifted him out of the crib. But he looked at his wrist and proceeded to press it against my lips so that I could make it better.

Having a baby is what convinces me that I might, just might have super powers.

Of course I'm pretty sure that Superheroes don't get pink eye, which I'm pretty sure I have.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, February 02, 2007

Seventeen Months: My Letter to Little Man

And I thought you couldn't get any cuter...



The other night, I was watching you sleep. This may sound really creepy, a la horror movie, but really, watching you sleep is one of my favorite parts of the day. Yes, I know, I'm still sounding creepy. The thing is, that every night, I go up to open your bedroom door so that your room doesn't get too cold overnight. And I can't help but tip toe in, peer over the crib railing and squint in the dark. Each time I spot you, my heart melts into a puddle of chocolate goo. You look so sweet, huddled into a corner of your big crib, usually with your stuffed frog Max tucked under your arm. And as I listen to you quietly breathe, I feel at peace and know that the best thing I ever did was you.



What made this other night different than the other 510 nights I've watched you sleep is that all of a sudden I flashed back to that first day, on September 2, 2005 when you were born. And you were laying in a bassinette next to my bed. When a nurse walked in, I asked her if I was allowed to hold you. She looked at me, laughed and told me "honey, he's yours, you can hold him as long as you want!" I looked at her, stunned. "What if I want to hold him all night?" She smiled and said "Then you can hold him all night."

And so that night I held you on my chest and listened to you breathe. And I didn't sleep one wink, because I felt like the happiest person in the world and I was afraid that the spell would be broken if I went to sleep.

And even better, is the fact that this month, I've gotten to rock you to sleep, something that you've never wanted before. Your molars are pushing through and they are causing you a lot of pain. So much so, that you have woken up many-a nights this past month screaming. When you do, I give you some Tylenol and then I'll pick you out of your crib, sit down with you on my lap and just rock you silently. Sitting there with your head on my chest, complete silence surrounding us makes me happy to be up at three in the morning. Strangely enough, I know that those are some of the memories I'll look back on fondly when you're grown up and out of the house.


And since we're on the topic of physical contact, I must tell you that this past month, you've discovered that holding my hand is not the equivalent of selling out. Ever so often, I'll take your hand to walk you down the stairs. Or even better, you'll grab mine. And when I walk, with your little hand in mine, never have I felt more like a mom. And the crazy thing is? I love it.

My other favorite part of the day is story time. I'll sit on the floor in your room cross-legged. You grab a book and you'll sit yourself on my lap. There are times you'll bring me three books, then a fourth and a fifth, and to be honest with you, I'd read to you all night and for the rest of your life, if you'd just stay this big and sit on my lap like that. Listening to your commentary while I read the book into your hair brings me the kind of joy that I didn't even know could exist on this planet.



I hate to tell you this, because if someone told me I'm a lot like my mom, I'd want to beat the crap out of them. But here goes. You're a lot like me. There are times that you are so much like me, that I can't help but laugh. You may be almost nothing like me physically, except for your lips and chin, but man, are you ever a lot like me personality-wise.



How?, you ask defensively. Well, first of all, there's the fact that you get obsessed with things. Like food. I go through phases of food. Unfortunately for your father, since I do all the food shopping, when I'm in my rice phase, he knows he's stuck eating rice three or four nights of the week. And the only reason it's not seven weeks, is because I try to be understanding about the fact that he lives in the house too. You're this way too. You went through a blueberry phase for a couple of weeks, where it seemed like you were on a mission to eat every blueberry on the planet and make them go extinct. In one weekend, you ate a pint and a half of blueberries. We were convinced you would poop purple. And on Monday, your teacher told us that you'd had diarrhea three times during the day and when we told her how many blueberries we allowed you to eat, I could see that she was alarmed at the fact that we would feed you this much fruit instead of McDonald's, like the other more normal parents.

But this past weekend, I purchased another pint of blueberries and you looked at me completely exasperated like "that was so last week, Maman.



Because the thing with our phases, is that no one else knows when we'll be done with them.

Girls. I really believe that girls will be your downfall. Some of this isn't your fault, because really, what female toddler could look at you and not want to write your initials in crayon all over their stuff or wear tighter diapers, just in case you happen to look at them. But you also have a way with the ladies under three-feet tall. The other day, when I brought you to school, I sat you down in a chair around the table for breakfast and when I went to put your coat and frog away in your cubby hole, one of your girlfriends walked right up to you and ran her hands, through your hair. It perturbed me that she'd be so forward in front of your own mother. Should you really be going after girls of her kind? She's probably eating pure sugar behind the playground and listening to Old MacDonald backwards looking for mentions of Satan. But your teacher assured me that she wasn't your main squeeze. That another girl, who I did notice tends to suck up to me whenever I come to pick you up, is your main squeeze these days. Apparently, she'll lay her head on your lap and you'll rub her back. Which irritates me, I'll admit, because all you do to me is slap my hair away when it tickles your face. She also is the one to wake you up every day from your nap, which she does with a hug, which means you're nothing like your father, because if I woke him up this way, well, let's just say we wouldn't be together anymore.

Can we talk about your vocabulary for a second? You already talk more than your father now. We calculated a couple of weeks ago that you could say 18 words. And we're only talking words that you pronounce properly, not the ones that we understand that no one else does like "nah" for milk.



Your newest addition is "down." When we hold you in our arms, or you're in your booster seat and you're done dinner, you'll point to the ground and say "down?" Which is pretty damn cool on its own. But to you, the word "down" is about going from point A to point B. So if we're sitting on the couch and you want up, you'll put your arms up and say "down?" and we'll laugh and say, "no, Little Man, you want up." And you look at us, completely exasperated, and enunciate every single letter and say "doooowwwwnnnnn," like "I don't know what the hell you people are saying, about this up thingie, but I want down on that couch and I want it now."

And, really, you're right. There's no freaking reason for that up word to exist. Down should be an all-purpose word like "the" or "chocolate."

Love,

Maman.