Monday, April 30, 2007

Dinner Conversation

"Little Man, do you want a banana for dessert or..."
-Yeah.
-...a yogurt.
- Yeah.
- Which one, a banana, or a yogurt.
- Yeah.
- Can you say Abracadabra?
- Yeah.
- Can you say anything else than "yeah"?
- Yeah.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, April 27, 2007

Ensuring The Next Generation Of Therapists Are Successful

So there's a very possible chance that I might not be a better parent than Alec Baldwin. I mean, I don't leave Little Man messages calling him a thoughtless pig, mainly because he doesn't have his own phone yet, which is the cause of much ridicule in his 18-24 month old Toddlers' class in daycare, I tell you. But I still won't budge on the issue, despite his threats of continuing to make me read the same horrible book over and over every night which causes my brain cells to place a plastic bag over their heads to speed up their death. I say no cell phone until you're 3 1/2.

My point is that I've never called Little Man a thoughtless pig, but I did, once in my new mom sleep deprived state, call him a "little bastard" when he spit up an entire bottle all over himself in his infant carrier as Sweetie Pie and I were pushing him in a shopping cart about to walk into the grocery store and he was wearing his 10th clean outfit of the day.

Sweetie Pie was horrified that I called him that in public, but I didn't say it exactly like Alec Baldwin, it was more of a very loving "oh, you little bastard" kind of way. Plus, really, I was really, really sleep deprived. No, take sleep deprivation, coat it in more sleep deprivation, and that's about where I was, because the kid never slept.

But I now realize that I abuse my son in other ways. Like for example, I bought him Lucky Charms cereal last week. I've gone from believing that my son would never have sugar touch his lips to figuring out that Lucky Charms are a great source of vitamins and lookie here! They have whole grain!

But those marshmallows? They really don't add any nutritional value. So here's what I do to save my son's beautiful teeth: I eat all the marshmallows myself. I pour him a bowl of cereal, scour to find all the marshmallows and then inhale them before he can see me.

Some day, my son will see a commercial for "Frosted Lucky Charms... They're Magically Delicious!" and think to himself "what the??? Their cereal has marshmallows in every color of the rainbow! Why would my mother buy me the cheap kind with no marshmallows?"

And then eventually, he'll realize that I've been eating the marshmallows this whole time, and he'll have trust issues forever and blame us for his inability to move out of the house and get a real job.

Also, we've kind of, sort of, been pillaging his Easter basket. But in our defense, the kid received like 10 pounds of chocolate. And really, no 19-month old should eat that much sugar, because it's likely to cause him to twirl so fast that he ends up damaging many shingles off the roof of the house.

Plus, if we give him a handful of Easter M&M's, there's no cut off point with him. Which means that we get to listen to him moan "more? more?" for the next three hours. Last night, I walked in to check on him, and he actually whined "more?" in his sleep.

So our only option, really, is to eat all the chocolate as quickly as we can so that it will no longer be an issue.

As Alec would put it, we've just been pushed to the brink, that's all.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, April 26, 2007

The Most Shocking Post Ever

That got your attention, didn't it?

And here's the kicker. It's not the most shocking post ever. If I were to rate them, I'd probably rate the one from Monday or even this one or this one.

I thought I also wrote a post once about sitting down while farting which meant that I got the equivalent of farting in my own face, but I'll be you-know-what if I can find the thing. I've literally gone through every month of every year and I cannot find the post. Maybe it's like the poop shaped like a penis post that I was convinced I wrote, but apparently I did it. Maybe I have a blog in my dreams where I write all this stuff and then in real life I think I've done it, but I haven't... because it was in my dream blog...

Are you still with me?

Anyway, the reason why I wrote this misleading title is that last night Ryan Seacrest called it the most shocking vote ever followed by a million exclamation marks.

And then of course, anyone who watches the show knows they did this lame "oh, it's charity week, we're not voting anyone out, haha!" But hey kids! Don't worry, while we convinced you to give your hard earned money while we charged corporate America lots of money to advertise on our show so we can each buy a new Ferrari, we also decided that we'd just add these votes to next week's vote.

Did they just not like the results this week?

And will you please quit saying that it's the most shocking thing ever? Because you know what would be shocking? Is Ryan telling us all why he made out with Susan from Desperate Housewives when most people think he's gay. Or if Paula admitted that she's taking way too many drugs and needs to get her butt in rehab. Or if Randy didn't use the word "dawg" during a whole show. Or even better, if someone from this year's cast actually made me want to root for them. Because really? If Little Man wasn't all up into this show and clapped after every pitiful performance which officially confirms to me that he inherited my tone deafness, I totally wouldn't be watching this year. Because there's surely got to be something more interesting on MTV, like white trash couples who are in grad 11 and getting married and who are getting their own trailer! Wheeeee!

Not that I judge or anything.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

Putting It All In Perspective

The thing I love most about having a toddler, is that anything that you could maybe, potentially take seriously gets put in perspective.

Like work, for example. I love my job. For the most part, it's fulfilling. It's not stressful, allowing me plenty of time to keep up with my favority bloggers, I'm trusted to do my job and not micromanaged, and I work with great people, who make me laugh and not in the way that coworkers in the past have made me laugh. I'm talking the "you're actually a cool funny person" way, not a "holy crap, you're so ridiculous that I have to laugh at you, otherwise I might have a nervous breakdown."

But I get here half hour early and every day, I leave roughly half an hour early. Because I know what the important thing is. The important thing is that I go pick up my toddler and he runs to me, points out something obvious to me, like his frog or his shoe and tells me what that thing is. And then I get to spend about 2.5 hours with him before I have to put him down.

To a stay-at-home mom, that probably sounds horrible. I mean, in total, I spend only four hours a day with my son.

But the thing is, I make those four hours count. Sure, on Tuesdays, we spend it watching American Idol together, but hey, that's the kind of quality television we'll still be talking about in 30 years, I'm sure.

The point of this post is not to try to diminish my working mother guilt. This is the decision I had to make for my family and it wasn't easy, but it was necessary and I have no regrets. I got to spend the first 15 months of my son's life almost full time with him, which is so much more than most women ever get. And a part of me thinks that I didn't take advantage of that time together enough, the number of hours I spent on the computer or watching Y&R or Ellen, but really, at the end of the day, we all need our sanity and I did the best I could.

OK, so veering back onto the main highway of this post. The point is, that spending that quality time with my son is a priority. I am not willing to sacrifice that. I'm willing to do the best job I can for my company and should I need to work extra hours, I'm happy to do that work from home after 8 p.m.

That's probably my biggest change in perspective.

But then there's other little ones. Like yesterday, when Little Man was playing with his Target dollar bin moving train toy and he held it up to me and said, in his oddly thick Boston accent (especially strange for a Texas boy with a Texan father and a Canadian/French mother...) "CAH!"

"No, baby," I said. "That's a train, not a car."

And he responded.

"No! CAH! Vroom, vroom, beep, beep."

Because that's exactly what it sounds like when I drive.

And so I tried again and said:

"No really, it's a train. It goes Choo-choo."

And that where he looked at me with that "you cannot be freaking serious" and burst out laughing so hard, he got the hiccups.

Because really? What vehicle would actually go choo-choo in real life. A sneezing vehicle? Plain ridiculous really.

And then this morning, when Little Man and I were watching the Today Show and one of the news stories was about the finding of a new potentially habitable planet hundreds of trillions of light years away. But really close to a brand new mall and Target, so that's a bonus.

Just as I was thinking to myself that this could be a brand new planet for us to rape and pillage when we're done destroying this one, Little Man pointed excitedly to the screen, turned to me and screamed "BALL!!!!"

Oh to be 19 months again.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

My Version of Really, Really Strong Prozac

Ah Weeeeeeee!

Hello readers!

I am sooooo happy to see you today! (Imagine this said in a slurred speech a la Anna Nicole. Even though it's really really mean to make fun of dead people. Which I'm totally not, I think.)

I am so freaking loopy right now! Wee! Look at me spin around in circles in my cubicle!

Isn't the world beautiful! It's so great! I'm right now surrounded by blue fabric walls and really, it's just freaking perfect.

I'm not even being sarcastic here, that's the really scary part.

I am totally freaking off the boat, or the car, or whatever that expression is when you've gone insane.

And all it took was one freaking Venti Chai Latte. My crack. Which today for some reason, has caused me to go completely wonkers. I don't know how much caffeine chicky babe barrista in our company cafeteria put in my cup this morning, but I can't remember the last time I blinked and I've totally just typed all of this up in under 8 seconds. I'm totally not crapping you right now.

And also? I'm pretty sure I could totally run a mile in under 30 seconds. Because I can totally go really, really fast right now. I dare you to dare me.

Oh and also, I really, really want to make out with every man I see. I'm thinking barista babe totally threw in an aphrodisiac.

Probably because I'm having a really bad hair day, because the humidity today is at a comfortable 156 percent.

And my hair is weeping, because really, what's the point of trying in the kind of humidity that will bring us newborn-baby sized hail and 50 tornadoes. But the tornadoes only like trailer parks, so hooray for God hating poor people, I guess.

And if you think I care about tornadoes and driving a lightweight Jeep Liberty in stormy weathers, well PFFFFFF! I say to you. Because I'm totally not. Because I totally just had a meeting where I showed way too much cleavage and grinned stupidly the whole time. And I don't freaking care! Boobs should run free! Like wild calves!

And man, it really feels like it's 350 degrees in here.

Which is the perfect temperature to cook my secret recipe for my Sombrero Casserole.

Yum. Which I totally won't divulge my secret recipe, because then I'd have to kill you.

Or you'd have to invite me for dinner and really, right now I think I'd be an atrocious guest, kind of like Borat. Except I promise not to invite a prostitute to your house.

I think I do, anyway.

So that's it for now! I'm going to go run down the hallway, really, really fast and laugh at anti-social neighbor's frizzy hair that makes mine look like it belongs on a well-coifed celebrity.

I said coifed. How freaking cool am I?

Anyone got a cigarette? This buzz totally needs to live on!

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, April 23, 2007

Weekend Recap

So let's start this recap with something tame, shall we? Because it's Monday morning and all, and well, I feel like I shouldn't start off with the tawdry stuff, because right now, you're probably thinking to yourself that it's Monday, and life sucks on Mondays, and you the last thing you want to read about is somebody's uhm... issues.

So we'll start with a Little Man story. Something that would barely be rated PG in the theater.

One of Little Man's reports from daycare stated that he really enjoys plaing "Ring Around the Rosie" with his buddies. Because that's what all the cool kids do nowadays, don't you know.

So we spent a good amount of the weekend singing Ring Around the Rosie, which consists of Little Man twirling around in circles by himself while pumping his fists in the air. It's the kind of moves that will surely earn Little Man a spot on Dancing With the Stars someday.

And because Little Man loves to sing along, to keep his vocal chords in shape for his future American Idol auditions.

And this is what Ring Around the Rosie Sounds like from a 19 month old's mouth:

'Ing a oun a osie
anana nana a osie
ASSES, ASSES

Say what?

I make him sing it again. With the same result.

I must capture on video the toddler twirling in circles, fists pumping, singing about asses as loudly as he can. I just might have given birth to the next Eminem here.

The second story does not involve Little Man. I mean, he was there, but he was asleep, napping in his crib, far far away from the horror that is me.

So, uhm. I've been trying to figure out how to put this delicately, because, as honest as Random Mommy claims I am, my balls are about 10 sizes smaller than hers.

So, uhm, cough, cough.

Let's just start by saying that Sweetie Pie was gone to lunch with a friend. And I got this email from a Web site that sells, uhm... Adult things.

And they were having a sale. And so I decided to browse their selection.

And this put me in the mood. And well, there was no one around...

So I pulled out a battery operated toy, the kind that should be kept out of the hands of children at all cost. And the kind that somebody needs to get rid of in my house the day I die so that my mother-in-law and mother don't find my stash.

Anyway, long story short, buzz buzz. Fast forward to a few minutes later and joy! And then extreme pain.

Really, really horrible pain.

I pulled a freaking muscle. An abdominal muscle, to be exact.

How out of shape do you need to be to pull a muscle during an orgasm?????

I've been cringing ever since when I have to get up, go upstairs or do just about anything normal humans do.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, April 20, 2007

More Interview Questions...

I know celebrities complain all the time about being interviewed, but really? I would do this all day every day. Because talking about myself is right up there in stuff I love, next to chocolate and rainbows and the smell of a (clean) baby's head.

So I also volunteered on That Chick Over There's blog to answer more questions.

And here they are. And those of you who volunteered for questions, I saw bwa-haha to you! I'll be sending you questions this afternoon. Except for Beebop, who's email I don't have, so drop me a line at catwoman.in.texas@gmail.com girlfriend for your personalized questions.

OK, here goes!

1) If you could meet anyone on your blogroll who would you choose and why?

That is such a freaking hard question! Because really? I don't blogroll anyone who I don't like. And I have "met" more cool women in the past year with this blog than I probably have in my entire life. So I choose them all. And how I accomplish this is by winning the lottery and taking you all to Bermuda. Or Hawaii. Or oooh! We could stay at that ice hotel in Quebec, so that we don't have to whine about wearing a bathing suit. I'll bring the chocolate.


2) You are suddenly a unicorn. Do you prance around majestically or impale evil things first? Why?

I would totally prance around majestically, after looking up all the people who were so mean to me in high school. And I'd be all "oh, what's that? I'm majestic and out of a fairy tale? Yeah, like, I know." And then when they'd ask me to grant them three wishes, I'd say that I don't feel like it.

Wait, do unicorns grant wishes? Is that leprechauns?

3) You are given top secret information at work. This information has the potential to seriously harm others, including people you love. Do you tell? Why or why not?

And here I thought I worked for a technology company that no one can explain what they do... Who knew it was that powerful!

Well, I'm not the best secret keeper, I'll be honest. I'll do well the first week or so, but eventually I just retain the information, and not that it's a secret. My brain can only retain so much information, people!

And if it's going to harm others, well, I don't think I want to work for that company. I mean I don't care how good the pay is, you don't mess with the peeps I love. But I think the people I'd tell would be 60 Minutes, because then, I'd be a whistle blower and become famous and write a book about it and then not have to worry about never getting a job again because I spilled the beans.

4) What places have you lived (you can be general about this if you want) and which was your favorite? Why?

General? Ok, I lived on planet Earth the whole time, in this corner and that corner.

What? Too general?

Ok, well this will be the world's longest blog entry, because I've lived in a lot of places, because I'm a hobo.

No, not really.

Because my dad is in the hotel industry and has a short attention span and would look for a new challenge halfway around the world about every two years. I'm pretty certain he's the one I inherited this from.

So here's everywhere I lived:

- Born in France
- Moved to Montreal at 3
- Then to Ottawa 3 years
- Then back to France (Paris, that time)
- Then Tahiti (yeah, the island with the beaches, and the water, and the pina coladas. Except I was 9. Which meant I was bored out of my mind, so me and my sister got really destructive, because there was nothing to do).
- Then Vancouver
- Then Montreal again
- Then Toronto
- And now Dallas (well, Frisco, and then McKinney. But I really don't count moving from one suburb to another as living in different places, really. Even if I do go to a different Target and all).

So now my favorite... Man, that's so hard... I'd probably live in any of those cities again, for different reason. Paris, because, well it's Paris! I love the Eiffel Tower something fierce and I can't think of a better way to start any day then standing in a little bakery and eating a croissant that nowhere on Earth can the recipe be replicated as well.

I love Montreal, because it's such a fun chill city. I love the fact that it's such a microcosm of Canada, but with a European flair. It's the only bilingual city in the country, I don't care what Ottawa says.

I have to go to Ottawa regularly now, since my parents live there. And even though it's a gorgeous, clean city and I love the canal running through it, it is so boring, I can't fathom living there. Although, in its defense, it might just be boring because my parents live there. Maybe I'd consider Party City boring if my parents lived there.

I'd love to go on vacation in Tahiti, but I just don't think I'd live there. Island life is too expensive. But I think it'd be a great place to retire, so maybe...

I love Vancouver, and I've told Sweetie Pie numerous times that I'd love to split our time between two homes and in the winter, I'd love to live in Vancouver. To see the Pacific Ocean every day and enjoy mild temperatures, and then to drive an hour away and be at some of the best skiing in the world? Just incredible!

Then there's Toronto. Toronto's funny to me, because I really didn't like the city at all when I moved there. Moving there from Montreal was a huge shock to me. I thought the people were rude, I just didn't like anything about it. But then I spent 10 years there, and over the years, the city grew on me, even though the entire time, I'd tell people I loved Montreal and Toronto more. Then I moved to Dallas. And it wasn't until I lived here that I realized how much I did love Toronto. It had slowly crawled into my heart, made itself a little place and that caught me by surprise. I totally miss the cultural side of Toronto. Greek Town and China Town and Little Italy, every culture has their place and people are for the most part color blind. It doesn't matter where you're from, in Toronto, because now, you're a Torontonian. I miss the individually-owned restaurants and pubs, now living in a place that is all about big chains.

But I'm in a different place in my life now, one where I don't hit pubs every weeknight and clubs every weekend, so I know that I would have ended up gravitating to the suburbs, which really, would feel no different than my life now.

How's that for an overly long answer? What was the question again? ;-)

5) At what moment in your life have you felt the most loved?

Man... You are one tough interview, That Chick "Barbara Walters" Over There.

There have been some specific moments in my life that made my heart explode. The first time Little Man called me Mama. Last week, when he kissed me on the lips for the first time. To know that much love has got to be what heaven feels like.

The time I ran away from home and my dad spent all night looking for me and tracked me down first thing in the morning and when I opened a door, he just hugged me and cried.

The time Sweetie Pie and I were having such bad issues with our marriage and he cried and told me he was scared he was losing me.

Apparently, if you want me to feel loved, you either need to cry, or call me Mama.

OK, that's all of Chick's questions! Thanks for asking some fantastic questions Chick! You totally make Matt Lauer look bad. And you definitely have better hair than Larry King.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, April 19, 2007

This Will Just Confirm What a Dork I am...

So Rachel posted a meme and asked for volunteers to take part too. And of course, me who loves to be included in everything had to jump at the chance. Plus, I figure there are only so many gushy stories about Little Man I can write this week, before you all die choking on your own vomit.

So thank Rachel for the break.

And see the instructions at the end to participate and have me interview you!

1. What do you miss most about Canada? What do you love most about Texas?

I miss the seasons. I miss the bright red and orange leaves in the fall, and the snow and Indian summer. I also miss stupid things, like my favorite Canadian beer (shout out to Sleeman's Cream Ale!) and my favorite fast food places like NY Fries. I also miss the vinegar bottle on tables at every restaurant, because I love me some fries with vinegar, yum yum yum! I also seriously missed socialized healthcare after we had Little Man and we had $12,000 in hospital and doctor's bills!

In Texas, I love the warmth of the people. One of the first times I came to Dallas to see Sweetie Pie, we were driving through his neighborhood and people kept waving at him. Finally, I asked him "do you know them?" And he said "no... they're just being friendly." At first I thought it was kind of bizarre. But now, I love it. I also love that on day three when I was here, the truck Sweetie Pie's parents broke down by the airport at 11 p.m. and a man stood with me at the gas station for the entire hour it took for someone to come rescue me. Even though I insisted he go home to his wife, he said he couldn't leave me by myself like that. I'm not saying that people in Canada aren't friendly, because they are, but people in the South blow us Canucks out of the water.

I also love the fact that right now, my family's buried in tons of snow, and I'm sitting here in a short sleeved shirt, and I didn't bring a jacket.

2. What is the one thing (thing, not person) you could not live without?

Man, that's hard... My gut instinct says chocolate, because a life without chocolate would not be worth living. The only other thing I can think of is any kind of lip suff like Blistex or Carmex, because my lips get dry and cracked if I don't use the stuff religiously. Sweetie Pie says I'm addicted, and maybe I am. But out of all the addictions to have, really, there's got to be worse than Blistex!

3. What made you start blogging?

Honestly? It's really lame. My friend Martini Gal told me she had a blog, about three years ago now. I didn't even know there was such a thing. And when I read hers I was all like "I want a blog too!"

Because I'm a big believer in being a sheep. And if my friends jumped off a bridge, hell yeah I'd jump off with them. Because who wants to be a wet blanket?

4. If you could do any job in the world, what job would you choose and why?

Growing up, I always wanted to be a veterinarian. I wanted it more than anything in the world. But I'm not that good at math, so that didn't work out so good. Plus, my vet had to manually empty my 17 year-old cat's colon a couple of years back and that's when I decided that PR was a much better route for me.

The only other job I think I'd love now is to be some kind of celebrity where people throw me free stuff all the time. And apparently, then I wouldn't have to wear underwear, which would save me oh-so-much money on Tide.

5. What's your top 5?

Oh the options on this one, it really makes me giddy... The top 5 guys who I could sleep with if I had the chance and get a free pass would be:

1. Tom Brady


2. McSteamy from Grey's Anatomy. But only if he was McSteamy and treated me like dirt. Yeah, I know, I have issues.


3. Paul Walker

He really should be on the list more than once, what with being Paul Walker and all.



4. David Beckham

I know, I know. He's married to Victoria for crying out loud. And sometimes, he looks like absolute crap. But I'd totally sleep with the hot David. And he can text me dirty messages anytime.



5. Jude Law

If you'd asked me last week, he totally wouldn't have been on my list. But this past weekend, I watched The Holiday, with Kate Winslet and Cameron Diaz, and now I am totally and madly in love with the man. Even if he did sleep with the nanny.



Apparently I really, really like blondes, is what I'm figuring...

And Rachel threw in an extra question, because she was asked #5 and apparently felt it wasn't a real question if it had already been asked.:

6. Would you ever (have you ever) have plastic surgery? If so, what kind?

I've been accused many a times of having fake boobs. For the record, they're real. I got these suckers when I was 18 after I did a lot of praying for boobs. Apparently God has a sense of humor and is willing to answer my prayers for boobs, but not world peace.

So no, I have not gotten plastic surgery, even though I would get my nose done in a heartbeat if I had the money and the cajones to do it. I'm just too chicken that it would look worse though.

But once I'm done having kids, I will seriously be looking at getting a tummy tuck and some liposuction. Because I wouldn't mind looking hot and working out is so much freaking work. And yes, I'm shallow.

So that's my answers!

Here are the rules, if any of you want me to turn into Barbara Walters and ask you questions that will make you cry and reveal your innermost thoughts.

1. If you want to do this meme, leave me a comment saying, "Interview me." (If I don't have your email address already, either leave it in the comment or email me at catwoman.in.texas@gmail.com)

2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.

3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.

4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.

5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

And that's all there is to it. Easy, right?

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Who Can Go To Bed Without Watching a Bunch of Losers First?

Little Man's been going through a phase lately where he's not that interested in going to bed at his bedtime. He likes to stay up. This is not a good thing, because Sweetie Pie and I really don't watch toddler appropriate television at night. We watch turds recycled as programming with titles like Real World/Road Rule Challenge: Inferno 3.

Because really, life wasn't complete enough with just Inferno 1 and 2.

If you haven't watched the show before, I'll summarize its cruddiness in one line. Basically, a bunch of people who've been on other MTV reality shows (in this case The Real World and its bad knock off Road Rules) are split into two teams, put in a house with too much alcohol and have to do these challenges and then each week one of them gets eliminated.

But really, the show is about these people fighting over absolutely ridiculous things and getting too drunk and hooking up.

Which means we're addicted. Despite yelling the entire half hour that these people need to get a life and a real job.

Because, really? How many times can you humiliate yourself, your parents and the United States of America in one lifetime?

And last night, I put Little Man down and he was quiet for about 15 minutes and then he realized that hey! There's crappy TV to be watched and he can't do so in his cage!

And so he yelled for me "MAMAAAAAAA! MAMAAAAA!"

And then he cried for me.

And half an hour later, I gave in and went to get him, because really? There's no point in letting a toddler scream himself to death for three hours.

It's easier to get him up, let him stay up half an hour and ask him if he'd like to go to bed. And you know what? When he's ready he tells me so, by answering "yeaaah?"

Because he doesn't say "yes" or "oui." He's too cool for that. So if I ask him if he wants to go to school in the morning he always says "Yeaaah?"

And yes, he says it just like that, in question mode. Kind of like he's on Jeopardy for toddlers and all answers must be in the form of a question.

Ever since Little Man was a baby, we've been working on kissing. As in, when he goes to bed, I tell him to give his Daddy a kiss. And a few months ago, he learned to blow kisses, and so I could get him to blow them to anyone I want, which is very convenient when you're in a place where people don't really want a kid there, because really? Even airplane riders who hate kids can only be cranky for so long when a sweet toddler blows them kisses.

But yesterday, oh yesterday... When I told Little Man to give his Daddy a kiss, he walked right up to him, gave him a hug and then kissed him. It was like that moment in Jerry Maguire where that cute precocious kid who knows that the human head weighs 8 pounds kisses Tom Cruise and you can see on the pre-craziness Tom's face that Jerry is a goner.

And then, when I told Little Man to kiss me when I put him to bed, he kissed me on the lips, and if I don't think I have ever been so happy that I made that kid, because really? The world couldn't have been that great of a place before him.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

This Will Show Nancy From 8th Grade...

It's happened people.

I'm finally a somebody. This is where every single one of my issues and childhood insecurities will resurface.

Because this blogging thing? It's totally junior high. All over again.

There's the popular group. And they're kind of snooty and they have advertisers and they get to stay at home all day and do squat while the rest of us write blog entries and stalk our comments section hoping somebody will comment.

And I'm smart enough to realize that I will never be part of that popular group. And the thing is? I don't think I want to be. Because really, that brings way more attention than I want and weird people downloading the pictures of my son and nasty comments about my life choices, because some people have trouble realizing that a blog? It's a space for personal thoughts. And if you don't like those thoughts? You actually have the option to not read them. And to read one of the other 300 million blogs available.

And also? I'm not sure I want to be talking to Matt Lauer about my pooping issues after I've written about them. My boss asking me how my doctor's visit on Thursday went was quite awkward enough, thank you very much.

And the other thing? The people I've met so far online aren't the most popular people necessarily either. Some of them get 20+ comments a day. Others get two or three. And so even though none of us are discussing buying custom H2's with our blog addresses stitched in the rabbit fur headrests with our blog profits, I don't care. Because really? This is one of the coolest groups I've ever been a part of. And now that I'm no longer 13, I understand the importance of knowing really, really great people, rather than be part of the popular crowd.

All of this long-windedness stems from the fact that today, Kellie got really, really drunk, or fell down and hit her head really, really hard, or else developed some kind of weird diseas, like on that TV Show House that's made her mind think that lame people like me are funny.

Whatever happened to her has caused her to give me one of these.



And so I'd like to thank Kellie's tequila, head injury or weird disease first.

I realize that it's not really a huge award. Kind of like that time I won Mom of the Month for my Mom and Baby Fitness class.

But the overachiever in me who needs to be recognized everytime she breathes or farts (sometimes at the same time) doesn't care. It's an award! And it's mine! All mine!

Well, mine and the other 300 million people who received the award before me. But none of that matters now. I will stroke that alien skull head logo lovingly and polish it and think back to those days when I wrote this blog and no one, absolutely no one read it. Except for Martini Gal. Who I'd link to, but her blog no longer exists because the evil people got to her.

And so now, I get to nominate five people, which is hard to do, because really? Almost everyone on my blog roll has actually received this award before. But here we go, here are the five people I will nominate, who I think are like me and love any kind of awards too.

But first, the rules:

1. If, and only if, you get tagged, write a post with links to 5 blogs that make you think.
2. Link to this post so that people can easily find the exact origin of the meme.
3. Optional: Proudly display the ‘Thinking Blogger Award’ button

So now, for my nominees, and once again, I'd like to say that this is really hard. Because really, most of you have already won it. Which really says that I have excellent taste in blogs! And since I can only name five people, I feel really horrible leaving anyone out. And please don't think that I love these five more than you. This is totally a blogger version of Sophie's choice... And some of you have asked for your blogs to be kept off the blogroll, so I'm not nominating them in order to not link to them...you know who you are! :)

1. Random Mommy: Where to begin? She's one of the few bloggers who I know in person and who I knew as a person before I knew her as a blogger. I think she is one of the funniest people online. No one else can write about child rearing, self-love or the craziness of Alabama like her. She always makes me laugh. And my son loves her son and someday, they'll be throwing dollar bills at strippers while high-fiving each other. And as long as it's with Buddha, I won't care.

2. Jempress: She is so totally different than me. For one thing, she is the freaking nicest person ever. Seriously, if you ever meet her, try to get her to say something mean. I'll give you my second-born if you can. OK, maybe not the actual baby. How about you settle for the placenta? Also, her and her husband are starting a church. And yet, she is the least preachy person you'll ever meet. She doesn't ever get in your business or tell you how to run your life. She's currently trying to become a counsellor, despite having one of the cutest 18 month-olds you'll ever meet. And let me tell you, anyone who's lucky enough to have Jempress help you work through your issues can only be changed for the better. If there's anyone who can leave this world feeling that they've made it a better place, it's her.

3. Beebop-aloobop: She found me first. I commented about poop (surprise, surprise) on another blog and then she commented on mine. And I fell for her hard, because girlfriend is freaking hysterical. And who said blondes aren't smart, because she is wickedly sharp. And she snagged herself one hottie. And hot men are always food for thought. Plus, she was at a really, really horrible job and instead of complaining about it for months, she blogged about it one day, and the following week, had herself a new job. In my next life, I want to be her, because really, she rocks!

**** Update So apparently Gerbil also nominated me for this award last month. I don't understand how I missed that post, considering I read her every day. But enough to say that being nominated by two different people now makes me feel like I could totally bring back bicycle shorts under mini dresses, or very tall bangs. Because that's the kind of power cool people have. Good thing I'm looking through people's older posts to make sure they haven't been nominated before. But I want to say: Gerbil? Thanks so much for the honor. To have my long-lost twin reach out to me like this, well, it's too much to take, really. ****

4. Emma in Canada: Emma will tell you that she's not funny. Or that she's boring. But really? She's full of crap. She's hysterical and she has four kids. And last month, she thought she might be having a fifth. She was one of the first bloggers who began regularly commenting on my blog and she opened up a whole new world to me by "introducing" me to so many other great bloggers who now read me.

5. Dribble & Drool: Apparently only moms blog... Or so it would seem from my nominations. This nomination is funny to me, because I don't even remember who found who first. But the first time I read her blog, she'd posted post-Katrina pictures after her husband went down to help rebuild. And I was hooked. She has heart, she's a great mother who ponders whether to start standing in line at 6:30 in the morning for kindergarten regisration when it's 10 below out, plus, she has fantastic taste in shoes and proudly buys Jessica Simpson shoes (even though she swears it was accidental).

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, April 16, 2007

The Kind of Adorableness that Seriously Pisses Off Adorableness Haters

Sometimes I'm not sure I'll have any teeth left by Little Man's second birthday, because really? This much sweetness? It's got to be causing some really freaking serious tooth decay.

And this weekend was so jam packed with sweetness, that I really didn't want it to end.

Let's start with Friday. When Little Man fell in love. Not in a dirty way. In a we're-going-to-be-best-friends-for-life way.

Unfortunately, Little Man fell hard for Buddha. And Buddha lives all the way in Alabama.

You see, Random Mommycame to town this weekend. And it was so fun to see her! And it was so fun to see that even though she's more than four months pregnant, she looks like she's swallowed a walnut, so when she showed up, I forgot she even was pregnant until she brought it up. But she's hysterically funny, has a sharp and dirty mind and she has great hair, so we'll forgive her for that. The not being fat part, not the mentioning her pregnancy.

Anyway, moving right along. There's a core group of Mommas that I'm a part of, and I've known them all for about a year now. That means that ever since some of our kids were still spitting up and not yet crawling, we've been getting together.

As anyone who's been on a playdate for babies will tell you, the playdate is really not about getting your kids around other people their age. Because the babies? They really don't freaking care. They sit there and chew on a toy and drool on themselves and should another baby try to take that toy, then that's when they notice that that there are other creatures like them there.

Otherwise? They don't care, really.

But playdates do prevent the Mamas from going nuts and smoking Marlboro reds all day, so they are really, really important. And eventually, the babies get to an age where they want to play with others, and that's when it gets to be fun.

Anyway, on Friday there were four of us Mamas getting together with our now toddlers and Little Man reacted the way he always does when there are other kids around. He mostly ignored them and did his own thing.

Buddha, Random Mommy's toddler, who was previously as shy as Little Man, has apparently broken free of the shyness cult because of the moonshine in the Alabama water, and he was outgoing, climbing on things and showing us how well he's trained his Mama to say "no" on command.

Little Man was apparently impressed by this.

And all of a sudden, while the Mamas were all eating at the kitchen table and Little Man and Buddha were loose in the living room, there was the distinct sound of world peace.

Our two toddlers had a laugh off.

It's hard to say what provoked it or who started it. But either way, once one of the toddlers laughed, it caused the other one to laugh too, which caused the first to laugh harder and so on and so on.

It was the most amazing thing ever. They were interacting. And not only interacting, they were having the time of their lives.

I caught the tail end on tape, and I have to say, that I spent most of the weekend watching it and each and every time it made me smile. I have no idea how to post video on here, if someone in comments can tell me how or email me, then please do, because really? The only cuter video I've ever seen is of that chubby baby laughing at his dad in the high chair that made You Tube famous.

When everyone was about to leave, Little Man and Buddha began chasing each other laughing their hineys off around the dining room table. Little Man, my little antisocial bunny, actually has a friend he wants to play with! And unfortunately, he picked the one who lives far, far away. Damn you Random Mommy and your love of States with more trailer parks per capita!

On Friday night, Little Man and I were just chilling after a birthday party he attended where he got high on cake frosting and apple juice. And for some reason, I sang to him Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, a song that I actually quite despise and never sing to him, but for some reason popped into my head.

And that's when my child, my little musical protege, broke into song and freaking sang Twinkle Twinkle Little Star with me.

I flipped out! I'm assuming he learned it at daycare, but it's like once again, how much does this child know that he's not telling us about???

I tried to get the singing on tape, but every time I do, Little Man just wants to watch himself on the screen and so all the footage looked like this:

Little Man: "Tinkle, Tinkle ible ahr"

(spots camera)

Little Man: "MAMA!!!!!! Ba-bee!!!!!" (grabs camera violently to see himself)

The Twinkle Twinkle Little Star floodgate was opened, and once it was, I literally had to hear the song all weekend.

On Friday night, Little Man refused to go to sleep, so he stayed up with me until 10:30, when I finally was too tired and went to bed. He came with me, and as I laid there drifting off to sleep, he was sitting up, patting me on the head, singing "Tinkle Tinkle ible ahr, a a ader a oo ahr."

I'm not sure how long he sang me to sleep, as I woke up the next morning with his feet firmly planted into my eye sockets.

I also began painting Little Man's big boy room this weekend. And at one point, he refused to be away from me, and since the bottom color of the walls was dry and I had the windows opened, I let him hang out in the room while I worked. I was taping off parts of the ceiling up on a ladder, when I dropped the painter's tape. And just as I was thinking "crap, I've got to get all the way down to pick it up," Little Man ran up to the ladder, stood on his tippy toes with the tape in hand, his little arm stretched as high as he could and he yelled "Mama! Mama!"

I've got me one fine little helper, yes sirree. And painting a room when you get to hear "Tinkle Tinke ible ahr" over and over again makes the job so much more fun.

I really wish my next baby could just be born a toddler, because really? This age is so freaking fun that somehow I can't stand it.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, April 13, 2007

Redefining the Word "Emergency"

So I've talked about this before. A few months ago, right after I started working here, Sweetie Pie found the credit card bills and realized what a big ginormous hole I'd put us in. So he took all of my credit cards away from me, the way you'd take cocaine away from a drug addict.

But he did leave me one, "for emergencies only" he said.

So for the past five months, every cent I've made that didn't go to our bills went to the credit card companies, and I'm now halfway there to getting us out of debt. This is a feat equivalent to filling half the Grand Canyon using only your spit.

As far as amazing feats go, this is probably one of them. And with the nice tax return we'll be getting in about three weeks, I'll be able to reduce our remaining debt by another half and if Sweetie Pie gets the bonus he's expecting this month, we'll be completely out of debt.

But the other day, I kind of, sorta, a little teeny bit added to our debt. Kellie will probably understand this better than anyone else out there. I went to Target.

You see, when I went to a Target last weekend, I fell in love. The kind of love that makes your heart leap into your throat, and angels begin to sing and The Carpenters' songs play in a constant, yet non-irritating, loop.

I saw a suit. But calling it just a suit seems oh-so-wrong, because it was so much more than that. Calling it just a suit is like calling Paul Walker just an attractive blonde guy.

I saw the suit and I had to have it. It was designed by Isaac Mizrahi, who's Canadian by the way. And it's cute, it's seersucker, with 3/4 sleeves and it's just more gorgeous than anything I currently own. And it was affordable, in the way that Target could take the Hope Diamond and make it such an incredible deal that you'd have to buy two, because really, how often can you buy the Hope Diamond?

But that Target location was out suits in my size! Target obsessors like Kellie, who stalk the truck and visit there regularly had apparently already gotten their grubby paws on my suit!

But I didn't despair, shopping lovers! I spent my lunch earlier this week at another Target, where I not only found my suit, but three tops to go under the suit.

And a pair of black pants. Because I only have three pairs of those. And these were on sale. And they make my butt look like it could potentially belong on Jennifer Aniston, so I had to buy them.

And I bought four other tops. Because they were all really good deals. And because I really don't have a summer wardrobe for work. And the dress code specifically states that we are not to show up naked.

So really, what choice did I have?

And so as the nice cashier at Target scanned in my clothes, complimenting me on every piece I'd bought, which only cemented my belief that I was indeed doing the right thing, I confidently held my bank card. Until the amount passed 100 dollars. And then it passed 150 dollars. And then it got to 200 dollars.

And that's when I knew that the credit card had to come out. Because I wasn't getting paid until today. And really, we're not the kind of people who have hundreds of dollars sitting around. We're the kind of people who have to pour every single spare dime into the credit card debt so that we're living paycheck to paycheck.

And so if Sweetie Pie asks any of you, please explain to him that finding a suit in your size and there's only one left consists of an emergency.

For the record, I wore the suit the other day and I looked freaking hot. I looked like I'm professional and if those "What Not to Wear" people saw me, they'd hug me and ask me to help spread my fashion sense.

I love you Target!

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, April 12, 2007

Like There Was Ever Any Doubt...

Because I'm such a brave, brave soul, there's something I've hidden from you, dear readers all week.

You see, on Monday, after I dropped my parents off at the airport, I swung by McDonald's and got one of their new Southern Crispy Chicken Sandwiches, despite the fact that I hate them for stealing Chik-Fil-A's signature sandwich. But the line at Chik-Fil-A was insanely song and I had to get back to the office for a conference call.

I inhaled my fried sandwich. And my large order of fries. And then I drowned it with half a liter of blue Powerade.

I was a little full, but hey, life was good.

Until about 4 p.m.

When I started not feeling so good. And as the evening wore on, my stomach was hurting, my kidneys were hurting and really, it felt like I had a sword going through my stomach.

Sweetie Pie made me a hot pad using one of his socks filled with uncooked rice that he microwaved (the only useful thing we learned in our 350 dollar Bradley's birth class, since I had an emergency C-section), and I laid on the couch groaning for the rest of the night. I took some Advil around 7 p.m., skipped dinner and then the pain finally subsided enough around 10 p.m. and I went to bed.

On Tuesday morning, woke up, felt like someone had kicked me repeatedly in the kidneys in my sleep, otherwise, I was fine. I wasn't hungry, so I skipped breakfast, and since I was still a little tender, I had soup of lunch. Fine, it was La Madeleine's Tomato Basil soup with the first two ingredients being cream and butter. But it was still soup, people!

That seemed to go fine, until late in the afternoon, where I was hurting really bad, once again. I still ate some pasta with tomato sauce for dinner, even though I really wasn't hungry.

But the pain was pretty bad, I couldn't even go up the stairs without wincing, kind of like when you do too many abs the day before (which for Britney Spears would be about 500, for me, it would be at 18) and your body's really, really mad at you.

On Wednesday, same thing, and that time, I just went straight for the Advil in the afternoon, after the salad I'd had for lunch starting pissing my stomach off too.

And Sweetie Pie got mad at me, and told me that I needed to go to the doctor's because, had I not learned anything from that time I felt crummy and was refusing to go to the doctor's and then ends up I was actually dying?

But I figured that I'd probably just feel better the next day. And then I'd be one of those morons who wouldn't have anything wrong with them anymore and who'd be like "but doctor, I felt so crappy YESTERDAY!"

But I made the appointment for this morning.

The doctor asked me what was wrong. I told her. Then I told her how my period came two days early and how I thought that maybe it was a miscarriage instead of my period, since I'm usually (ok, that one time) so fertile.

So she prodded, and she listened to my stomach and banged on my foot to see if it was my appendix (that one mystified me, but hey, she does have a diploma on her wall, and I just watch Grey's Anatomy, so surely she knows more than I do).

Finally she decided that since I seemed to be so tender everywhere, we needed to take X-Rays.

And so I laid on that table.

And I swear to you, that this is how much of an idiot I am. I actually sucked in my gut so I could look thinner on the damn X-ray.

Hey, a picture's a picture, right? And who wants to look fat ever?

A few minutes later, the doctor walked in with my X-Ray and the first thing that caught my eye was this syringe looking thing in my thigh.

"Holy CRAP!" I thought. "Someone left a syringe in me during my C-section! No wonder I feel so cruddy!"

But ends up that was just the zipper of my pants because we'd rolled them down to get a better shot.

So that was a relief, cause you know, I don't really like needles and all, so I'm not really wanting to walk around with one in my thigh. Although it would have been good to hear that they're that wide because I have medical equipment in me.

And then she pointed at something.

"See this?" she explained, her finger following a long tube. "That's your colon."

I was relieved to hear I had one, yet not really surprised since I'm a farting and pooping machine.

"See all that white stuff?" she continued.

I nodded.

"That's poop."

Wh-what?

There you have it, ladies and gentlemen, I am officially full of crap.

Apparently, despite the fact that my body is still dropping kids at the pool once or twice a day, I'm like the family with 17 kids and I'm seriously behind on my carpooling.

So at lunch today, I get to go pick up my laxative. How much fun is that going to be! Yippee!

Maybe just to add to the embarrassment factor I'll add some weight-loss pills, some condoms, a couple of pregnancy tests and a box of tampons. And maybe see if they have some sexy magazine with big boobies in them.

Here's another sad part to this story. I'm only allowed to eat fruit and salads for the next few days. And my first thought was "OMG! This stoffing up of my colon is totally going to make me skinny."

How Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion of me was that???

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

Things I Really, Really Want to Yell in My Cubicle

So here are the the top 10 things I think I should yell out to most freak out my new anti-social cube neighbor:

10. "Whooooo-eeeey! Do I ever have to take a dump bad!"
9. "I wonder if this rash is as contagious as the doctor says it is."
8. "Hey, who's pissed off my voodoo doll?"
7. "Dang it, my pet rat Sparky gnawed through his box again."
6. "I really shouldn't have had those refried beans for breakfast. My silent but deadly farts are really extra deadly today."
5. "Oh crap! I forgot to put pants on again!"
4. "Holy crap! That's the world's biggest booger!"
3. "This next conference call will be the perfect time for me to pluck my bikini line."
2. "Damn it! Brad Pitt renewed the restraining order again! That mofo is so going to pay for this!"

And the number one thing I want to yell in my cube to freak out my new anti-social neighbor is...
1. "I wonder how much I'd bleed if I cut off my ring finger."

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

A Little Like Martha Stewart, Just Not as Bitchy

So I rocked Easter. No really. I really, really rocked Easter. I made scalloped potatoes, the kind that all potatoes hope they get to die and become. I'm talking creamy cheesy goodness that fills your entire mouth with the kind of pleasure that makes you glad you're alive.

And then my desserts. Oh, my desserts. Trying to describe their greatness would be like trying to describe a rainbow to a blind man. Or the sound of a baby's laughter to a deaf person. But I will try for you, my kind readers. First, there was my coconut cream pie. As far as coconut cream pies go, it demands to be called by a completely new name. Because it was that freaking good. We're talking a perfectly golden crust (store bought refrigerated crust. But it was perfectly baked, thank you very much) with a filling that quivered gently on your tongue as it embraced your taste buds with just enough sweetness to make them weep from joy. And a whipped topping that made hairs you didn't know you had stand up and sing.

And then check out my table. Yeah. That's my dining room table. Decorated. I know, I know, you're thinking only Buckhingham Palace would have such a spread. I'll give you a moment to recover from the greatness of it.

OK, now, I must admit that I'm not crazy about the card table tacked on the end. But our table holds 8 people. And we were 9. I'm sure Buckingham Palace has these issues too and covers a card table when the Swedish monarchy shows up unexpected.



Now here is what I am most proud of. Check out my eggs. I dyed them myself, thank you very much. And only had one pink nail and one blue nail after they were done. But look at the greatness of each place setting. The blue water glasses don't go perfectly, but I wasn't about to buy different water glasses just for the occasion. I only have so many cabinets.



Adorable, right? I'm available to do your next party, although I have been asked by the White House to take over all of their events, so I might be a little busy.

And then, because I can't do anything without being just a little too much, I had to do something with the little egg decorations I got from the Target dollar section. And so I did what anyone would do: I dangled them from the chandelier over the table.



I know, I know, you wish you'd thought of it first. But my brain's limited enough as it is, I can't start sharing it with all of you.

Did I mention that hosting this stuff makes my whole body tingly?

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, April 09, 2007

We Survived

That's about all I can say about my Easter weekend.

They came, she didn't criticize too much, they left.

And tonight, I get to go home, and let the house get messy and watch bad TV and let the dogs lick my son's face and all of those things that I usually do that are frowned upon by my mother.

Little Man got spoiled rotten and found many a egg sitting around the living room. He was particularly excited when he broke one open and realized that they were filled with pastel-colored M&M's. I don't if life can be any better than be 19 months old and realize that someone decided to leave chocolate all over your freaking living room.

I will post tomorrow with pictures of my Easter table. It was so gorgeous, I wept a little. And somewhere, Martha Stewart was banging her head thinking of how she'll steal my idea for next year's Easter issue of her magazine.

Yeah, it was that good.

My mother spent most of her time at my house looking for stuff she'd given me in the past that I either don't have anymore for a reason or another (like an ugly fluorescent top she gave me for my birthday two years ago that I never wore and think I finally gave to charity last month. Wouldn't you know it, my mother remembers the damn top and asks me to give it back to her if I don't like it so that one of my sisters can leave it in their closet to gather dust for the next two years.

Who the hell remembers that they gave someone a top two years ago?

My mother, of course.

And then she asked me where the bear she gave Little Man when he was born is. I told her that it was in a box in the attic, it was retired with a bunch of other toys we put away last weekend. I should have been smart and realized that my mother would want to know where the damn 20 dollar bear was. But I'm not smart like that. I'm surprised she didn't get on me for pooping out the dinner she bought us on Friday night.

Because I'm ungrateful that way.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, April 05, 2007

Civilized People Have It Really, Really Rough

So my mother is coming to town tonight. In my world, this is the equivalent of having the IRS come to your house when you're a gazillionaire with lots of undeclared Monets and tables made of gold and you've never declared any income.

In other words, it involves a lot of hiding of stuff (battery operated things for me) and a lot of stress.

As my sister put it earlier this week when she was asking me how the cleaning of the house was going, our mother coming to visit equals a cleaning about 10 times as powerful as that of spring cleaning.

My preparing the house for my mother is a one-week cleaning ordeal. It's extremely stressful. It includes vacuuming so much that every fiber of the carpet is stripped of its cozy dog fur coat. It means ungluing things from the refrigerator shelves that have been abandoned sometime since the last maternal folk visit. It means cleaning base boards that haven't seen a sponge since the last time the carpet cleaners came over.

It means pretending that we're civilized people.

Which we're not.

Our house is in a constant case of chaos. I'd blame it on being a working mom. But really, that's like saying an apple rots because it wasn't in the fridge. The apple would have rotted anyway, the ambient air just speeds up the process.

Things I still have left to do before the big Canadian invasion of tonight: get car washed inside and out. I threw out all the crap, Rice Krispy square wrappers, dollar section books with mold on them from milk spills. But the 300 pounds of Fruity Cheerios on the backseat and floor still need to be vacuumed up by a professional. Who I'm hoping will make my car look like it just rolled off the lot, rather than the dump I'm currently driving.

I also still need to sweep and mop the floors so that it looks like we don't have two dogs living with us.

And then the carpets all need to be vaccuumed up again.

Sigh. I'm so tired just thinking about it.

But wait until I post pictures on Monday of my Easter table. It'll make Martha Stewart wish she was me.

I ain't kidding.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, April 04, 2007

It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

For the past few months at work, I've basically lived on my own, because the cubicle next to mine belongs to a contractor who only works from the office sporadically. And the cube behind me was the home of a printer.

This is nice, because it's allowed me to use words like "pre-conception" when calling the perinatal specialist, without having to try to whisper or going to my car to make the call.

My days of being able to remind Sweetie Pie to shave his balls from work are however over, because on Monday, a new person moved into the cube behind mine, and I now have to share a fabric wall with another human being.

This makes the anti-social buried deep inside of me highly unhappy.

What makes it even more unhappy is that rather than some cool chick in her 20's, 30's or early 40's, a frumpy woman in her mid- to late 50's moved in. And she looks like she will not appreciate overhearing conversations that involve any male appendages. Or female, for that matter.

But since I'm an overly friendly person, when our admin took the new person around to be introduced, I launched into my Super Friendly Catwoman mode, which has been known to scare mice and very young children.

I warmly welcomed her and then went into my whole tap dancing routine, telling her that I've been known for being a little too enthusiastic on the phone, which can make me a teeny tiny loud, but that she should let me know if I got out of hand. And then I joked to her that since I've been here almost five months, I know the place inside and out and she shouldn't hesitate to come to me, haha.

And cue crickets.

Not a peep from the woman. Just an awkward stare.

Yesterday afternoon, when I was leaving, she happened to already be waiting at the elevator.

So I launched into friendly neighbor chatter.

"How did day two go," I asked in a loud sing-songy voice, all of my teeth bared in a smile that probably ressembles that of a shark before it swallows an entire kayak of tourists.

"Ok," she answers.

We work on the top floor of our building, and obviously the parking garage is way down below, but it's not like the elevator ride is excruciatingly long.

But apparently, my new neighbor thought that it was. Because the elevator stopped one floor below ours to pick up two employees and I'm not kidding when I tell you that new cube neighbor bolted from that elevator, the second the doors were wider than three inches. The two women who were about to get on were kind of stunned and had that WTF look on their faces. My neighbor, realizing that we hadn't arrived at the correct floor and that she had to get back on with me, got this look of defeat, a lot like the one Little Man gets when he realizes that despite ten minutes of screaming and wiggling, I am still going to cut his other nine fingernails.

I just don't know what I could have done or said in only 16 hours of work days to scare this woman so much.

But since my period started last night (two days early, might I add), dashing my kind-of hopes of being pregnant, it's enough to say that torturing the poor woman will be distracting me from these woes. She'll be really, really sorry she's ever shown fear, wah ha ha.

Any suggestions for scaring her further without being obvious are welcome in comments.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, April 03, 2007

Stupid Attachment Issues

On my desk sits (amongst a lot of clutter of papers, 50 empty water bottles and just a bunch of other junk that I will probably never go through) a tube of Blistex Silk & Shine.

This tube is run down of its silky goodness. Every time I use it, the hard plastic container hurts my lips. But yet I refuse to throw it away.

I'm attached to that tube of Blistex. Stupidly so, maybe.

It was given to me by my sister-in-law. After I'd had Little Man.

Because I'd had a tube down my throat while I was under general anesthesia, I came to with lips that were so chapped, they soon started bleeding.

I hadn't packed any kind of carmex or other lip stuff, because one, I'm an idiot who's often unprepared for things. and two, I really didn't know I was going to have a baby that day. I was only supposed to have a freaking gall bladder sonogram!

When I complained about my lips hurting, my sister-in-law pulled out this tube of slightly used Blistex out of her purse and told me to keep it.

And so for the three days of my hospital stay, I'd slather it's buttery slightly sweet goodness. And now, since it still sits on my desk today, every time I look at it, I remember the day I became a mom. I remember the wrinkled tiny hands of Little Man, or the way his hair was already long enough in the back to make him look like he had a mullet. I remember the way he felt laying on my chest, all sweet and tiny and blissful, his little breaths the only sounds I could hear, the rest of the world just disappearing forever. I remember feeling invincible and powerful and yet so terrified. I remember crying over my broken boobs. I remember the kindness of the nurses, the streams of visitors, the plastic bassinette by my side the entire time, because I didn't want anyone to take my baby away. I remember the secret passwords the nurses had to use, Snoopy, Princess, and Shrimp. I remember the tube in my left hand that kept my vein open so that I could be pumped with medicines at any time. I remember thinking that someone would think they made a terrible mistake and take Little Man away, because he seemed too perfect, too good to be true.

It's just a three-inch tall light purple tube of lip gloss to most.

But to me, it's a flood gate to memories that 19 months later are still so raw, so real, so overwhelmingly good.

I told Sweetie Pie about that empty tube of lip gloss last week, and how I couldn't bear to stop using it, or to throw it out.

He didn't understand. "Throw it out," he said. "You have the baby to remember that day."

But I no longer have that baby. That baby has been replaced by a toddler now. That little newborn is gone, never to return to me again. But that lip gloss still lives on and with it the memories of the day my life changed forever.

Throwing it away would be unbearable.

Look for me in 50 years on one of those 60 Minute stories of those people who suffer of hoarding issues. I expect I'll be killed by a collapsing pile of People Magazines.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, April 02, 2007

Hello Target Cashier Who Knows Way Too Much About Me Now

So today during lunch, I bought the following at Target:

- 1 Jar of Carmex Lip Balm
- 3-pack of Early Response Pregnancy test

And even though I'm married and have a kid already, I still feel really, really awkward buying pregnancy tests, because they tell the cashier "hi! I've had sex! And it was unprotected! And now I think there's another human in me!"

Which is a lot of information for a perfect stranger to know about me.

The cashier also knows that I like for my lips to not be chapped, but this information, I'm not as worried about her being judgemental with.

Although, maybe my having soft moisturized lips is what led me to have the sex that has now led me to have the pregnancy concerns.

Either way, the Target cashier felt the need to make small talk with me. She held up the pregnancy test and said "is this going to be your first one?"

Confused as to whether she meant this is the first time I think I'm knocked up or the first kid I'm having.

I told her that no in fact, this would be number two.

"Oh," she said. "I'm sorry."

Wh-what????

Did I miss the memo that said that we weren't supposed to have more than one kid?

Love,

Catwoman.

Nineteen Months: My Letter to Little Man

It used to be that when I did these newsletters for you, I'd have trouble picking just a few pictures of the past month to include. The reason would be that you've been my photographic muse for the past 19 months. I have probably taken more pictures since you were born than I have the rest of my life. What would be the point of taking a picture before you came along? There was nothing I felt I needed to remember this vividly before you.



But now, I'm challenged to find pictures to include for a whole new reason. And that is, I just don't have that many new pictures of you. This is partly because I'm working full-time and therefore we don't spend as much time as we used to. But the biggest reason I think is that you won't sit still. EVER. Unless you're reading a book. And how many pictures of you reading can I possibly have? This hasn't been a problem just this past month, mind you, it's really been ever since you figured out that if you move your legs really fast, you can get out of the frame before my slow camera has taken the shot. So I have thousands of deleted pictures of the back of your head. And of the couch where you were standing with a cute expression only 0.75 seconds earlier.

So if I'd have one request for you, it would be can you slow down? Please? Just long enough that I can take another 10,000 pictures of you and bore your future girlfriends to death with a 49 hour slide show.



Years from now, I'll look back on this month as the one where I officially became the mother of a toddler. Before the month of March 2007, I have to say that I had it pretty easy. You'd eat whatever I'd give you to eat. You'd ask me to go to bed. You'd happily wave bye bye at whatever I took away from you, whether it be the fur you ripped off the dog's head, scissors, or a steak knife.



But sometime this past month, you must have gotten a hold of the popular book "How to Become a Toddler and Let Your Parents Look at Each Other as They Wonder Where Their Sweet Baby Went."

Don't get me wrong. It's not that you're not sweet anymore. You still have the best smiles. You heartily laugh at anything we do until you get the hiccups. And you still give the kind of hugs that could bring peace on Earth if only we'd take you on a tour around the Middle East, which won't happen since I'm the only parent of yours that likes couscous.



But your qualities aside, there's the fact that you now answer everything with a stern "no." Your father says that you sound like an adult when you say the word, since you've had so much practice at it. Your intonation is perfect when you say "no" and your voice doesn't sound like a baby's. How often do you say no? It'd be easier for me to count the few instances when you say anything else. If you're eating chips and you look at me and go "MMMMMMM!" and I dare ask "Is it good?", you'll promptly catch yourself, shake your head and say "no." If we ask you if you'd like to stay up all night for the rest of your life and live off of chocolate and sugar, you'll also answer "no." We have yet to find a question that will prompt any other answer.



And then there's the wrath of your temper tantrums. Where your whole body will go rigid, almost like you've been shot, and then you'll throw yourself down hard enough to crack the foundation, while your wails peel the paint off the walls. I caused such a breakdown yesterday by politely asking you to please stop punching the dog in the nose. Other causes of meltdowns have included the sun shining, the sun not shining, Play With Me Sesame freezing on the television, me not allowing you to drink my coffee, me not allowing you to put your dirty hand in my coffee, me not letting you tear up the magazine that I was reading, your father deciding to go to work, and be assured that this is only a partial list.



When you're not throwing one of these tantrums though, you are actually funny, sweet and so dang adorable that before I left for my business trip last week, I watched you sleep for 20 minutes, and inhaled the scent of your little feet multiple times, so that I would have the strength to leave you for three days.



You are such a sponge these days, that I constantly have to remind myself that you're in the back seat when I'm on the phone whining to a girlfriend, dropping bad words out of habit. I know the day will come that we'll be at church with your paternal grandparents, and you'll drop an F-bomb in the middle of the service just to prove to them that their son married a terrible, terrible person.

You obsess over books and make me read the same ones to you over and over again. One of your favorites is called "Pots and Pans," and I've read it to you so much, that you can recite it word for word, to my rythm in your toddler language. It goes like this "Pots and Pans, Pots and Pans, Baby's in the kitchen with the pots and pans."



The other day, you brought the book downstairs, sat yourself on the couch and read to yourself outloud just like I would. And wouldn't you know it, out of your mouth came "Pa an pa, pa an pa, an na nana baba i da pa and pa." Exactly like I would have read it.

It freaked me out! And it made me realize that all of that time I spend with you reading page after page, my face buried in your blond hair, murmuring the words against your head are helping you develop. I knew that it did, I've read all the parenting books, but to actually see it in you, it was like seeing you for the first time in that hospital room and thinking "holy crap! I made that!" Watching you read that book to yourself made me think that all over again.



You're going through another bout of stranger anxiety. Although you've finally more or less adapted to your new class and now call one of your teachers by name, you just don't like to be around people you don't really know. This should not be a shock to anyone, when your father was voted runner up for most anti-social person, losing only to Saddam Hussein and Bill O'Reilly last year. I still hold hope for the fact that you'll get over your shyness, like I did and become one of those people who'll talk to anyone and who people complain about your loudness and enthusiasm when they share a cubicle wall with you.



Your father and I have noticed lately how much you've been learning at daycare. It's nice to know that the fact we're spending more money on the tuition than the monthly payment on a BMW convertible isn't so you can bang your head on a wall all day. You've learned the color yellow this past month and your vocabulary keeps growing by leaps and bounds at a rate that makes me think that it would be hard to keep track of every word you say at this point. And you've learned a new song at school that you sing to us all the time. Luckily, I'd happened to pick you up once when one of your teachers was singing the song, so when you performed it for us days later, I was able to recognize your babbling as your karaoke version of that song.



If I may say so myself, you freaking rock kid! I'm so proud to be your mother. Every day, when I show up at your daycare and peek in at you through the glass, I feel like the luckiest person alive, because the cutest, smartest, sweetest, funniest kid in that class belongs to me. How the universe ever decided that I'd be lucky enough for you to call Mama, I'll never know. But I want you to know that I am grateful every single day that I wake up to your free-me-from-my-cage wails.

I love you my Little Man,

Maman.