Wednesday, May 30, 2007

Yes Sir, Little Man, Sir

I've grown up lucky enough to live in a democracy. For the most part, anyway. As in outside of my house. Because at home, I did live with my mother, which meant I wasn't allowed to watch more than an hour of TV (which consisted of whatever my parents wanted to watch, which was mostly French documentaries and newscasts). Also, I had to be in bed by 8:30, even when I was 13. And while most 16 year-olds had curfews of 11, midnight or beyond, mine was 9:30 or 10 p.m., because my dad had to be the one to drop me off and pick me up places, and he refused to stay up late.

But I was fed, I had a roof over my head, so it's hard to complain. Although I was yelled at, a lot, for doing horrible things like getting an A instead of an A+ or for putting the forks with the knives in the dishwasher, when we all know they should go in separate compartments. Also? I let my skin come off in almost invisible amounts sometimes, which would then create dust, and this really drove my mother nuts. And don't even get her started on my constant production of CO2 gas.

Then I moved out. And I could do whatever the hell I wanted, whenever the hell I wanted. If I wanted to eat ice cream for dinner? I did. Watch a marathon of Brady Bunch episodes? Sure! Not clean my dishes until Hazardous Material signs were posted on them by scientists? Yup!

Eventually, I moved in with Sweetie Pie, which meant that it wasn't anarchy so much, and I didn't really have an issue with that, because for the most part, I rule the roost.

And then entered Little Man. And more and more, I'm feeling like I've entered the military. Because really, this drill sergeant has a way with words.

And it's not just to me. Like yesterday, we were watching Law & Order SVU, which despite popular wisdom, is actually fantastic television for toddlers. A rape victim began to weep on the television, and Little Man looked at her and stonefaced said "NO CRYING!!!!!" Which I thought was a little rough, considering, she'd just been raped and all.

Getting home from work is also extremely stressful, because the second I set foot into the kitchen, Little Man expects me to have a seven-course meal ready for him. Forget Rachael Ray's 30-minute meals. In my benevolent dictator's world, I better come up with a 30-second meal. And it better be good and not include broccoli or green beans.

But this totalitarian regime? I don't mind. Because when you're this cute and you kiss and hug me spontaneously, I'm very likely to have a 10-foot high statue made in honor of your dictatorship.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, May 29, 2007

We're All About Subtlety

So 'twas the long weekend. A three-day weekend. Which means sleeping in until 7 a.m.! For three days straight! And asking "what do you want to do?" back and forth. For 72 hours!

We live in a freaking-tastic neighborhood. With two pools. One of which has sand all around it, and looks like a lagoon. So when you asked us "what do you broke folks intend to do this weekend?" We responded with "go on bike rides, go to the park, go to the pools..."

All of these are outdoor activities, you see.

But apparently, Texas is now the Eeyore of the United States. With a constant dark cloud over our heads and the kind of rains that will make you look like you're in a wet t-shirt contest if you stand outside for more than 0.2 seconds.

And that kind of weather is not conducive to pool going, biking or playing at the park. Not with a toddler anyway.

So by Monday, Sweetie Pie and I were so bored, that Sweetie Pie actually said he couldn't wait to get back to work. How sad are we, right?

And so we did what any desperate bored couple would do. We went to Home Depot.

And we bought paint. And painter's tape. And drop cloths. And rollers. And paint trays.

And we prepped our bedroom and painted it. WEEEEE! We are so freaking fun, people are lining up to come over.

And so I give you the before and after reveal now. No pictures, because one, it's not done. Two, until we have bought all of the furniture we want to complete the look, you don't get to see nothing (expect pictures some time around 2012).

Our master bedroom before: beige.

Our master bedroom after: beige.

Wh-what?, you say.

That's right, be-atches. We painted our beige bedroom beige. But it's a different beige. One with a little less pink and more tan in it. Huge difference if you've got hawk eyes.

But see, it's all about the soon-to-be put on top coat which is this effect. See how the light makes it shimmer? Our old beige couldn't do that.

In case you're curious, we painted our room in the Stony Mountain color. And we'll eventually paint our master bathroom in the Kaui color, although we won't do the candlelight effect in that room, because that candlelight top coat is a-freaking expensive!

So now, I'm just a little closer to finishing Little Man's room, because we painted the chair rail for his room. Next step is putting up the chair rail, touching up the red paint in the spots that could use some touching up and then painting his furniture navy blue (I know, sounds weird, but we got him all mismatched stuff, so I'd like it to look like it's a set) and then decorating it. I figure it'll be ready to move in by the time he's 18. And then he'll whine that he's too old for the fire truck theme. Because kids these days, they are so freaking ungrateful.

After the two bedrooms are done, we're moving on to the dining room, whoop! Our goal, as soon as we have the money (hopefully later this year) is to take out the cat-urine soaked carpet and replace it with hand-scraped dark wood floors. Hopefully we'll do the same thing in the living room too.

So what do we do when we get board? We renovate, that's what.

Little Man was all into it to, helping us strategically place small pieces of painter's tape, like in the middle of the windows and on the carpet. Because you never know where that paint will go.

Here's to hoping the fourth of July weekend is sunny.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, May 25, 2007

Running Over The World, One Small Car at a Time

For those of you who don't actually know me in person, I'm quite small. I'm 5'3 1/2". The half inch is very important, because I worked really, really hard on that last little growth spurt. Let's just say that I weigh 110 pounds, because that's what I pretend I weigh in my head. Although two of those numbers are complete lies, but what's a few pounds between friends, right? Let's just say that I can still squeeze into a half decent size, although a lot of times, I will sport a camel toe doing so.

But I'm totally digressing from my point. The point is, that due to my lack of height, I like to drive a vehicle that's proportionate to me. So for example, my first car was a Toyota Tercel. Then, I had a Ford Focus. Then I went massive by my standards with a Jeep Liberty. But I live in Texas, where a Jeep Liberty is like a Mini Cooper anywhere else.

Sweetie Pie, he drives a truck. Not just any truck, a truck that in some countries would be considered an 18-wheeler. But not in Texas. In Texas, they call this a compact car. If you think I'm joking, I'm not. You will find Ford F-350 pick up trucks parked in compact car spots here. Because really? Anything smaller than a freight train is tiny in Texas.

Sweetie Pie drives this ginormous pick up truck. You can't miss it. Actually, you can, because on the freeways of Dallas there are about 10 million just like it. To get into this pick up truck, I have to throw a harpoon onto the roof and then climb in like a cat burglar. Getting out of the truck requires me to park next to a soft surface and throw my body down, rolling to make sure I don't break anything in the steep fall.

Sweetie Pie had to drive to Houston yesterday, and since his big ass truck gets about 2 miles a gallon in fuel economy, he decided to swap vehicles with me. Which means that yesterday and today, I had to drive 17 miles each way in a tank that doesn't seem to fit in one lane of traffic. My average driving time to work has dropped by 50 percent, because I can no longer zip in and out of lanes. I am now the slow ass driver in the right lane who sits behind every moron who turns, because I'm afraid to switch lanes.

Yesterday, it was raining the way it always rains in Dallas. In many countries, it would be called monsoon weather, but here, it's called a light shower. It was the kind of rain that makes you convinced that your windshield wipers must not be on, even though they're on full blast. Petrified, I was in the left lane, since I needed to turn left about 6 miles down the road, and didn't know if I'd ever be able to get back in that lane if I got out of it.

But since the truck looks like it can't fit in just one lane of traffic, I was driving partly on the middle median to ensure that I didn't rip out the side mirrors of the cars on my right as I drove past them.

And then it happened. I heard the horrible scrunching of metal, right as I passed a Lexus. My heart sunk. I knew I'd just ripped off the two car doors of some poor old lady. I just knew it. I slammed on the brakes so that I could give her my insurance information, but she just kept driving past me.

Ends up I hadn't crushed her like a walnut with my vehicle of terror. It was just thunder.

And wouldn't you know it, this same scenario happened three more times on the way home. Thunder would rip, I'd think it was the sound of me driving over a Prius, I'd slow down to see if it would remove itself from my undercarriage, and then I'd realize it was actually just the storm.

Next vehicle purchase, I'm getting Sweetie Pie something more manageable for me to drive. Like a Vespa. Or Barbie's Ferrari.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, May 24, 2007

Oh Canada! A Texan (?) Perspective

So a long time ago, I said that if you guys had any questions for me, you could email me at catwoman.in.texas@gmail.com and I'd be happy to use them for fodder for a post.

Jodi (with no blog that I know of), delurked and emailed me to say that she's a Canadian who lives in the UK. Becky's mum might live next door to her for all I know. That's the thing with Canadians, we live all over the world. Because it's our pacifist way of taking over the world. We just infiltrate your countries quietly, get you to love us and then teach you important things like recycling and that maple syrup really is the perfect condiment for everything, not just pancakes.

Jodi asked me the following, probably about five years ago, but I had a backlog of posts, about Earth-shattering things like fart stories that had to be written before all the details went down the drain that is my grey matter. So Jodi, I apologize for the delay. And I'm sure this post will be a huge let down, the way this year's American Idol was.

The questions is: "What have you learned about being Canadian and Canadian-ness since you moved to the US?

I have pondered this question a lot since I left Canada nearly ten years ago and would love someone else's perspective.

Some things I have come up with and constantly revise as to their truth:
That it is better to say nothing at all if you have nothing nice to say. Social lubrication is important. It's better to get along than make an argument. Canadians think they're funny, but are probably only so to themselves."


See how Jodi talks? She sounds an awful lot like a mom from the 50's right?

Just to let you Americans know, this is exactly what Canadians sound like all the time. Unless we're drunk. Then all bets are off.

So here, Jodi, is what I've learned about being Canadian.

That even though I've been gone for 6 1/2 years, I still love that country to death. I don't care that the taxes are higher there. I don't care that in a lot of the country it is freaking cold for a long part of the year. There's something magical about Canada to me, because it is home.

I've said before that if someone had told me even two years before I moved here that I'd end up living in the U.S., I would have thought they were crazy.

Because in Canada, we're raised to have a very mild disdain for our neighbors to the South. Not that we'd ever tell them to their face, because that's just not the Canadian way. But much of Canada's culture is based on our snickering of the brashness and loudness that is America.

No offense to my American brothers and sisters, but you guys drink the cherry-flavored America Kool Aid by the gallon. You're like that popular blonde girl who talks about how pretty she is all the time. And we're the mousy brunette with glasses who's really cute if you look past the glasses, and who never has the confidence to speak up.

When you drive down any street in the U.S. you will see flags left right and center. Many, many American flags. And if you ask people about being American, they'll tell you that they live in the greatest country on Earth. Which always strikes me as amusing, because really? Have you lived in every country in the world to say that?

That's like experiencing ice cream for the first time and claiming that this in fact has to be the greatest flavor in the world. And it very well may be. But maybe, just maybe, somewhere out there there's a pint of chocolate ice cream with chocolate truffles in it. And chocolate covered almonds. And maybe that's better. But being American and admitting that maybe potentially one of the 193 other countries just might be better than the U.S. is probably considered treason.

Ask a Canadian if they live in the greatest country in the world and they'll launch into a long tirade about how we have universal healthcare, and golly that's really good, and we're really pretty good about not littering, and our beer is really great, but we've been told that the Swiss have an even lower crime rate and they have really great chocolate, and, well, Switzerland sounds really pretty cool too and really we should go visit there together.

I think the reason Canada and the U.S. are so different, is because of the ways we earned our independence. Because the U.S. had it just as bad or good as Canada in the 1770's. We were both overtaxed. And we were owned by the British. And the U.S. went "screw this! They may talk with a fancy accent, but we ain't giving them another cent!" And then to show they were serious, they dumped tea in the Boston harbor, which is totally a Little Man thing to do, by the way. And the British don't like people wasting perfectly good tea, so they went to war to teach the Americans about respect. But the British lost and they finally thought "these guys are too much trouble, lets them leave and we'll just get the Canadians continue to pay for us to build even more castles."

And the Americans were proud, and had every reason to be. They once were a colony, but now they no longer were. And more than 200 years later, that pride lives on, it's part of the country's identity. You're either American, or you're not. You either get it, or you don't.

Canada didn't really see a need to get its independence. In fact, in 1812, the Americans looked over towards us and yelled out "dude, you're totally getting screwed by your British Mom and Dad! Run away with us!" And Canada said, "oh, we're fine, it's not that bad, we don't mind them. Plus we get to put their king on our money, which is pretty fun!"

And the Americans went "dude, you're so dense! We'll come up there and fight you to teach you that you should be independent."

The Canadians were like "what? Why don't you chill and have a great Canadian beer? And maybe a piece of this yummy maple syrup coffee cake we just made?"

And somehow, the Canadians won the war of 1812. Although, to this day, Americans still won't admit that. It's a sore point with them. They also won't admit that the beaver is a way cooler national symbol than the eagle, because really? Eagles, they're majestic and all, but beavers? they can karate chop you with their tail.

Canada finally became independent in 1982. I'm not freaking kidding you. And you know how we did it? We just asked. We said "hey there, Queen Elizabeth II, so we're thinking that maybe you'd let us be independent. Although we'd love for you to still be a figure head for our country, and our money's so cute with you on it, we'd like to keep your face on it."

Queen Elizabeth thinking that really, she was tired of getting shipments of beaver tails (the pastry, not the animal's appendage) and maple syrup, figured why the hell not.

So it's hard for Canada to have the rah rah rah sentiment that Americans have developed. You fought for it. We didn't.

Another difference with Canada is that for some reason, we're very good at infiltrating Hollywood. Name just about any celebrity and odds are pretty good that they're Canadian. William Shatner? Canadian. Avril Lavigne? Canadian. Alex Trebek? Canadian. Rachel McAdams? Canadian. Keanu Reeves? Canadian. Jim Carrey? Canadian. Pamela Anderson? Canadian. Howie Mandel? Canadian. Michael J. Fox? Canadian. 3/4 of the great NHL players? Canadian. Peter Jennings? Canadian. Mike Myers? Canadian. Celine Dion? She's really an alien who claims to be Canadian, we really don't have any part in that one.

Why are Canadians so good at entertaining? It's the snow. Not much to do on those long winter nights, except for practice scenes and Oscar speeches.

The thing that's great about Canada, is that nobody ever hates us. So living in the States, I don't ever have to hide that I'm originally from Canada. It doesn't matter what Canada does, it can't cause ripples. Like you know that little Iraqi war thing that won't end? Remember how France refused to go and Americans were horrified? Calling them all sorts of names, boycotting the entire country, like Jean-Pierre in suburban Paris had himself agreed to the government's decision. French toast and French fries were renamed. It was quite the debacle.

And Canada? Canada also refused to go to Iraq. And nobody raised an eyebrow. Because really? Picking on France? Way more fun. Plus, the fact that the New York City police force is larger than Canada's army might also make the U.S. think "well, if Canada's not going to send Bob and Joe out for this war, I guess we can do without two more soldiers."

Being Canadian in Texas means that you get to tell people how much better Sleeman's Cream Ale is than any microbrewery beerhere. It means scoffing at the weather people when they speak of doom for the entire city of Dallas because 1/4 inch of ice is expected. And then telling your coworkers about those times you dug out your car with your bare hands after four feet of snow came down and buried it.

Living in Texas means that I get to regale people of tales of Canadian TV shows like "Danger Bay" and "The Littlest Hobo" and "You Can't Do That On Television". And swoon when I watch an episode of Degrassi where I recognize something from Toronto. And feel homesick when the sportscasters don't bother talking about the Stanley Cup, because the Dallas Stars are no longer in it, and they figure who cares. And feel sad when a Canadian team wins a large sporting event and I can't be there to celebrate. It means that people look at you funny when you say that you don't get what the big deal is about College football and March Madness. And that you get excited when an American sitcom makes a reference to something Canadian. Even if it mocks the country.

It means that the second you find out someone else is Canadian, you feel an instant bond to them. Because really? No one bad ever came out of that place, so they must be a great person.

Living here also means that I get chills and goosebumps every time the American anthem plays, because it's such a gorgeous and heartfelt song that makes me misty eyed and proud to have been allowed to live here. And when I go home and attend a hockey game against an American team, I get to sing proudly to both songs without ever feeling like I've abandoned my home country.

Being Canadian in Texas gives me something unique from everyone else in my department. Something that they can tease me about and that I can talk about endlessly if they'll let me. Being Canadian is being able to talk about the country tongue-in-cheek without feeling like I'm being unpatriotic. As Jodi said, Canadians love to laugh at themselves more than anything. Having a self-deprecating sense of humor is as mandatory as thinking that maple leafs in the fall are one of the most beautiful things ever. Does anyone outside of Canada think we're as funny as we think we are? I'm not sure. But I don't think Canadians care one way or another.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

To My Future Potential Baby:

For a long time, I couldn't imagine my family being complete without you. Then I had your big brother and we found out that my body isn't very good at having babies. And I cried, grieved for you and eventually accepted that you'd always be a figment of my imagination.

But yesterday, your Daddy and I went to see a doctor that is a specialist in high-risk pregnancies. And she was amazed by the super-duper abnormalities in my abnormal medical history. Apparently, baby, your mama is a medical wonder. The kind that gets their own Discovery Channel special like the werewolf man or the mermaid baby. Except not quite as interesting and with a lot more whining about not getting to eat sushi for nine months.

But this doctor, she told us that we have no reason not to give your brother a sibling. And so now, little baby, it looks like that we get to visit the cabbage patch and pick you and bring you home. Just like that.

And I'm excited but highly frightened. Because in some ways, my mind had accepted that you wouldn't come to be and I'd accepted that. And so now? The realization that I'll need two car seats in my back seat and will have to go through a long stretch of sleepless nights again kind of terrifies me.

The good news, baby, is that I'll get to see you a whole lot during the nine months it takes for you to be here. Because of my crappy body, I'll get to see you on the sonogram machine a lot. Which is kind of a cool bonus that comes with having organs that like to shut down just because they have to share. Do me a favor, will ya? During the sonograms, wave at the camera and give me the thumbs up to reassure me that everything's ok while you're in there.

Because Mama won't be able to smoke or drink during this entire time, which means I might have to get into cock fighting or gun range shooting to have an outlet for my anxiety and stress.

Most babies get to stay in their mama's bellies for 40 weeks. But the doctors will get you out at 38 weeks just to make sure that my body doesn't mess with you. Because my body's a really crappy landlord that doesn't like people staying until the last day of their lease.

I don't know if you even want to be part of our family anymore. And maybe that will be the biggest irony of all, that now that I've gotten the green light to have another child, I won't be able to.

But I really hope that you do choose to join the party, because your Daddy, brother and I? We're really a lot of fun. And I know that you'd expect us to say that, but really? Except for banging the TV with power tools, there's not much we won't let you do. Plus, if you happen to be a girl? You will so get some really, really rocking clothes.

So I'm going to make the leap of faith and close my eyes and hope that some time in 2008, I'll get to see your squishy pink thighs, your wobbly neck and hear your high pitched wails. Because I'm sure we can fit one more in our king-size bed.

Love,

Your future Mama.

Tuesday, May 22, 2007

Sure, But He's The Cutest Flat-Faced Kid

Little Man had his first dentist appointment on Saturday. This was the cause of much stress for me and I had much vodka, tequila and rum to make sure I could deal with the situation properly. Which of course means that since I'm a responsible parent and never drive drunk, I had to let Little Man drive again, which allowed him to improve his parallel parking skills and deal with his toddler road rage.

I'd chosen a pediatric dentist, because I figured that my toddler and his stranger aversion would have a better shot at not being traumatized for life if it was somewhere with bright colors that is used to having patients wail.

I think I may have posted before that Little Man has a spot on one of his molars that the pediatrician was concerned might be a cavity, plus I read online that you should take your toddler to the dentist as soon as they have more than half of their teeth in. Since Little Man is probably working on getting his adult teeth in at this point, he was highly overdue. Or so the Web claims.

At the dentist's, the appointment started with the hygienist pulling out a large stuffed dragon puppet, who had humongous dentures in his mouth. The hygienist explained to Little Man that Pete the Dragon needed to have his teeth brushed. Little Man nodded gravely, thinking that the fact he could smell Pete's tobacco and human flesh laced breath from across the room, Pete was indeed in serious need of a brushing. Some Listerine might be good too.

And so Little Man brushed Pete the stuffed Dragon's teeth, very well I might add.

Eventually we decided that Pete's enamel had been completely scrubbed off by the super force of Little Man's biceps, and proceeded to the actual exam.

Because Little Man is so young, the dentist didn't want me putting him in the dental chair. Instead, he had me sit kneee to knee with him, straddle Little Man on my lap with him facing me, and then lay his head in the dentist's lap, so that Little Man felt like I was the one holding him the entire appointment.

And then it happened. The dentist spread Little Man's lips apart, and we saw that his top teeth were resting behind his bottom teeth. Try to do it right now, I can wait.

See how hard that is? Yeah, you're not really supposed to be able to do that. If you do, like Little Man does, it means you have a crossbite. Which means that should anyone expose their neck to you, you can totally make some plastic surgeon rich.

The dentist asked me if I'd ever noticed this before. And I felt so stupid, because I hadn't. I was concerned the dentist would think that I was bringing in some random child from the street instead of my own, so I began to rattle all the things that I did know about Little Man. Like the fact that he hates being barefoot in shoes. And that he has a huge crush on Simon Cowell. And that he thinks Avril Lavigne and Gwen Stefani kick ass.

But the dentist was really obsessive about teeth for some reason. And then he said the following words "see how he's flat faced?"

He's WHAT??? I have to say, I have stared at that child for thousands of hours during the past 20 months. Never, not once, have I ever thought, huh, he looks a little flat faced.

Then the dentist told me that if the cross bite didn't fix itself by the time Little Man was five, he'd need to have, sob, head gear.

My heart stopped. HEADGEAR????

I begged with him. I told him how Little Man had probably inherited my dork gene. And that upping his dorkiness factor by 1,000 percent was just cruel.

The pediatrician reassured me that Little Man would only have to wear the headgear when he gets home from school and sleep with it. Which sounds really comfortable and should convince him that he has been adopted, and his real father is Hannibal Lechter.

Hopefully, if we catch him in a good growth spurt, Little Man will only need to wear it two months to train his top jaw to move in front of the bottom one. Otherwise, it might be up to nine months, which isn't the end of the world.

But Little Man, oblivious to his pending doom was thrilled, because he got to pick a prize out of the gift box and also received a balloon.

Me? I got a bill and got to watch the dentist pick out his next BMW.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, May 21, 2007

Confessions of a Mean Sleeper

So I like to think that I'm a fairly good person. I mean sure, I take find great joy when people I dislike have bad things happen to them, like Paris going to jail makes me so happy, I couldn't imagine feeling any happier, unless Little Man went on to be a really cool white rapper who didn't say horrible things about his mama or about beating up women and he offered to buy me a pony with his money.

Because at heart, I still want a pony more than anything.

But Sweetie Pie ruined any chance I had this weekend of my being crowned the new Mother Teresa. I mean, sure there's the fact that I don't take care of dirt poor Indian orphans. And that would probably be held against me by those judgemental people in Vatican City. Otherwise, I'm sure I would have been a shoo in.

Except that apparently? I've turned into a mean sleeper.

Or so Sweetie Pie claims.

Apparently, when I'm deep in sleep, I do very mean things. Like for example, if Sweetie Pie scoots over to my pillow, I will get myself up, rip the pillow out from under his head and move to the far end of the bed with my back turned to him.

Mama doesn't share no pillow with no one, damn it.

I've also apparently shoved him when he's tried to snuggle with me. Once again, Mama likes her space.

I find it highly horrifying that I behave this way when I'm in very deep sleep. I mean what else do I do then? Kick puppies? Laugh at very old ladies when they fall down?

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, May 18, 2007

Kellie Will Nod Her Head Furiously During This Entire Post

So I got left out of the lunch plans by the boys in my department yet again, which is usually fine, since I usually hang out with the girls, but both of them had plans, and so I was left in my cubicle to ponder how to escape my blue fabric walls.

I realized that I had errands to run. And so off to buy make up I went and then off to Target to buy some play-doh.

Please note that next to the name "Target" I've only listed one item to buy.

That would be Play-Doh. In case you missed it the first time. I needed to stop by Target to buy this one item, because Little Man received two little cans of Play-Doh at a friend's birthday party and it has since dried out to the point that Niagara Falls couldn't revive it and Little Man has been crushed ever since that he doesn't have a bright orange piece of squishy goo to hurl at the LCD TV, the dogs, our heads and anything else that can serve as a target.

This is what I walked out of Target with:

- 2 Tupperwares (both from the dollar section)
- A little notepad with a black lab on it that looks identical to Satan's Dog
- 2 board books
- a set of plastic toddler spoons and forks
- a large box of Whoppers
- Beach shoes for Little Man
- 2 packs of gum
- a pin wheel
- a beach toy set that included a pail, a water runner thingie, a shovel and rake and truck

Note that nowhere in this list is Play-doh listed.

How does one walk into a store with one item in mind and walk out with 12 other items?

Oh the brilliance that is Mr. Target!

Love,

Catwoman.

Combining Two Memes on a Friday...

So I was tagged earlier this week for this "When I'm an Old Woman" meme by Jesse and a long time ago I think somebody tagged me for the Real Moms... meme, so I'm getting them all done here.

I still need to respond to the questions Jodi sent me by email that I promised to turn into a post. They're coming, I promise.

On to the memes:

When I’m an old woman I hope to:

- Travel the world
- Have a cool hobby, like doing freelance writing for magazines or raising goats and milking them to make my own cheese to sell at the market (which I mentioned in another meme recently)
- Still be with Sweetie Pie and still be happy, instead of one of those cranky miserable old couples who seems to hate each other
- Have lots of grandchildren that I will spoil rotten
- Be considered cool, with cool clothes and a kick ass convertible car
- Have finished hundreds of scrapbooks that detail my life, my children's lives and our family tree

When I’m an old woman I will not:
- Complain constantly about being old and all my aches and pains
- Lecture young people about how they don't know anything because they're not old
- Constantly tell young people that things were so much better in the "good old days" because really, they can't do anything about it
- Force my grandkids to listen to the oldies station that will play 80s and 90s music all day long. My grandchildren shouldn't have to be forced to listen to Right Said Fred

And here's my take on real moms:

Real moms don't care that their cars are full of cheerios, goldfish crackers and McDonald's dollar toys

Real moms laugh at the rules they made for themselves when they were pregnant when they swore there'd be no TV before two and candy would be off limits

Real moms think that there are worst things in the world than reading Green Eggs and Ham five times in a row

Real moms pretend they didn't know the toddler pooped in his diaper when dad's only five minutes from getting home

Real moms don't judge other moms who do things different than them

Real moms think their kid is the smartest, cutest kid in the world, no matter what

Real moms weep every time they hear of a child that's been abused, kidnapped or has developed a terminal disease

Real moms do nasty things like pick ear wax out of their child's ear and boogers out of their nose

Real moms don't always shower, don't always apply make up and don't care

Love,

Catwoman

Thursday, May 17, 2007

One Step Closer to Becoming Bubble Boy

I've written before about my son's overwhelming clumsy gene. Which he gets from me, for sure. But it seems that my clumsy gene morphed when he added it to his DNA and turned into some kind of reverse superpower. Which instead of giving you great ability, focuses on hindering you as much as possible.

Anything can cause my child to fall. Carpeting. A blade of grass. The Grand Canyon. A warm summer breeze.

Luckily, he didn't inherit his father's daredevil genes, because the combination would most likely be deadly. While other toddler boys his age are busy trying to scale houses to get on the roof, my son is perfectly happy body slamming very high count goose down pillows.

Which means his Mama is a little less likely to be put on prozac.

Yesterday, I return from lunching with an old friend of mine (old as in I've known her for a few years, not old as in she's over 90), and there's a message on my voice mail. And of course, it's Little Man's daycare.

These messages are always stressful because they always start off with "hello, it's so and so from daycare. And uhum. I must tell you first of all that your son is just fine, he still has most limbs and they say his head can be easily reattached. However, we needed to call you to let you know that even though Little Man is just fine he did have an itty bitty so tiny little accident..."

And so I always brace myself, because I'm worst-case-scenario girl. And right away, my brain worries that he's in the hospital, crying that his Mama isn't with him. Or that his friend, who is the biter of the class and I've nicknamed Hannibal Lechter has swallowed his severed finger and now there isn't any way to reattach it.

Finally, the lady in the message tells me that at lunch, my son fell out of his chair.

Wh-what?

For the record, my child is not at a daycare that uses precarious future-looking bar stools.

The kids eat in these plastic chairs that are approximately four inches off the ground. The kind that an adult can't sit in without having their face buried in their own ass.

But my son, the wonder boy of clumsiness that he is, managed to somehow fall off the chair and slam his face into it or the table (this part's not very clear) and now has a boo boo.

When I went to take him home after work, I show up and his eye is swollen and he has a scrape more than two inches long on the outside of his eye, from his eye lid to the bottom of his nose.

And this, people, is why I'm not paranoid when I make my son wear a football helmet to bed.

Because if anyone could split his skull in his sleep, it would be my child.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

When the Hippy In Me Screams to Come Out

There are things you become more aware of once you have a child. Like the number of times the local news covers stories of young kids hit by cars, or who've fallen into pools.

Or the number of kids who have horrible diseases that make your heart hurt just thinking about the remote possibility of your child developing it.

The fact that the US has been at war the entire time of pregnancy and the entire time Little Man has been alive is affecting me more and more every day.

This morning, CNN and the Today Show talked about the 7 soldiers who were ambushed by insurgents in Iraq. Four of them are dead, three are still missing.

And as they showed the pictures of the soldiers, one of them was 19 years old. He was just a kid! And on Mother's Day, his mother found out that her child was killed.

While I laid in bed, eating waffles with my toddler, grinning ear to ear, able to tickle him, kiss him, run my fingers through his silky hair, this woman had to come to the realization that she would never ever get to do the same with her son.

I'm a pacifist. I'm from Canada after all, the country that invented peacekeeping. And now that I have a son, the idea of Little Man joining the army breaks my heart.

I don't care if that makes me selfish. I don't care if the idea of my son being blown up by a bomb in a hot desert doesn't fill me with pride makes me sound like a bad person.

This morning, I took Little Man and I asked him "can you make your Mama a promise right now?

- Yeah.

- Can you promise Mama that you will never, ever joined the army or any kind of armed forces?"

He hesitated, thought about it for a second and responded "yeah."

I probably should have gotten it on film, but hopefully he'll just stick to his word. To all of the moms of the thousands of soldiers killed in the line of duty, I say to you that my heart bleeds for you in more ways than you can ever imagine. And all I wish for is for your sons to come home into your arms. Because no mother should have to find out her baby died in a war on Mother's Day. Or any other day for that reason.

And to the sons and daughters around the world fighting for their country, I want you to know that whether we agree with the war or not, we support you and want you to come home soon.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Yes Sirree, That's My Baby

I've talked numerous times about Little Man looking so much like his Baby Daddy, that when he was born the nurses kept going on and on to my recovering half dead self that he looked nothing like me, no really, he looked just like his daddy, there was none of me in there, and it's really amazing that a baby would look so little like its Mama.

There would have been much bloodshed if I hadn't been so weak. And been connected to so many tubes, which made it difficult for me to spring out of bed and maul them. Plus I wasn't allowed solids yet, which I'm sure mauling nurses would have been frowned upon by my doctor who would have argued they fell neither in the jello nor the chicken broth category.

But as Little Man grew up (let's face it, he's so grown up now that he's 20 months old), he began to look a little less like his dad, although I don't think he looks all the more like me because of it. He's got my lips. That's it.

What he did get from me though is my mannerisms, the good and the bad. The way that he'll run right smack into a table and not even blink. Or dance in a manner that suggests that maybe his hair has caught on fire. That's all me.

But on Sunday, when we were at dinner for Mother's Day with my in-laws, Sweetie Pie was playing with his new cell phone and caught a few candid shots with the camera on it. He sent me this one, and titled it "Like Mother, Like Son."

Since I was asleep my entire c-section, I guess there could have always been a doubt on whether they gave me the right baby at the hospital. But this? This? This shouts to the world that I threw all sorts of bad genes into this kid and that he's at least 50 percent me. Maybe even a little more than that.

Oh, and ignore the bad hair. I hadn't styled it that day. Because it's mother's day, and I can't be bothered to go through the whole routine on my special day. I'm also not wearing make up. You do get a peek at my splendid cleavage though, so focus on that and the baby please.



Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, May 14, 2007

There Were Also Big Rocks Involved

On Saturday, I used the gift certificate Sweetie Pie gave me for Mother's Day 2006 for a spa near our house, exactly one day before it was scheduled to expire. When I made the appointment, I was told my masseuse would be a man, which is actually fine by me, because I've heard many times that men don't like to be massaged by men and women feel like it's weird and sexual, which leaves men masseuses with no one to massage. And I'm all about helping the underdog. Even though I do still go to a woman OB GYN, but that's because I believe that someone should have the same plumbing to really understand how bad a pap smear is.

I got a hot stone massage, which I had no idea what to expect, except that I figured there would be stones, heat and massaging involved. And I have to say, it was fantastic, although always-on-edge little me always finds that the experience was really wasted on me and leaves me feeling guilty that I stole the opportunity from someone who would actually know how to relax.

Either way, I was a little relaxed when I walked out of the spa, so much so, that I left with the plastic goblet filled with water that they gave me, thinking that it was disposable. Which it wasn't. Which makes me a spa plastic glass thief. Please don't turn me in, I'm pretty sure I can be arrested for petty theft, even if it's acciedental petty theft. I also stole a receiving blanket from the hospital where little man was born, but honestly, I was so sleep deprived and achy, they should consider themselves lucky I didn't accidentally steal the bassinette.

Anyway, when I got home, Sweetie Pie asked me all about the massage.

"It was great! I had a male masseuse named Jared.

- A man rubbed your body? Did he touch your boobs.

- No, they don't massage there. Besides, he was kind of nerdy, and I think he might have been gay.

- You didn't find it weird?

- No, I really didn't. (pause) Although, at the end, he did ask me if I wanted a happy ending.

- WHAT?!?

- Yeah, but I told him 'no thanks, I'm sure my husband will give me one later tonight.'

- They actually do that? They actually offer happy endings?!?"

Apparently, people can't tell I'm kidding when I'm speaking of random offers of sexual favors. Must learn to use this power for good, not evil.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, May 11, 2007

When Lassie Would Come in Handy

Last weekend, Sweetie Pie and I were putting away laundry in our walk-in closet when Little Man walks into our bathroom and shuts the walk-in closet door. We laugh, until we hear him opening the drawers of my vanity, which are directly behind the door. We hear him rifle, and then we hear him walking away. But we don't hear the drawers close. We try to open the door, but we are trapped, the open drawers behind the door serving as the perfect door stopper.

And our arms are not long enough to reach through the door opening and reach the drawers. We are pretty much prisoners of a 20-month old.

We start calling Little Man over. A minute later he walks in, and seems surprised by our situation.

So he laughs at us.

We plead with him to close the drawers. Which normally, if he opens a kitchen cabinet and you ask him to close it, he'll happily do.

But not this time, oh no. You can clearly see on his face that he is thinking that finally, he'll be able to bang the crap out of our flat-screen LCD TV with his toy truck without being told to stop.

And so he laughs and walks away.

The booger left us to rot.

Luckily, I spotted my hand washed clothing hanging rack, which has been used about twice in six years, and we were able to use it as an arm extension to close the drawers.

Otherwise? Our options were to die a slow death in our walk-in closet while hoping Little Man would decide to free us.

Or call my mother-in-law so that she can rescue us and she would totally find out that we live like complete slobs when we're not expecting company. And that I have a sparkly purple rabbit vibrator, since it was sitting on my bathroom counter.

I've never been so glad to have a drying rack. Best 10 bucks I ever spent.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, May 10, 2007

Waffles, Near Death Experiences and Rain

So I'm back home! Hurray! Of course, being home meant that half an hour after I laid my exhausted head on my pillow, my Little Man decided to wake up screaming and kept waking up every hour or so. So really? Not so much rested today.

But I'm still here. Because I'm giddy with stories that I need to share with someone. And since there's no one else to do it with, I'm choosing you Internet. You are my confident, the one I whisper sweet nothings to and smile about when my thoughts drift and return to you.

See how I sucked up to you there after blasting you for being all responsible and stuff?

Anyway, San Francisco was fun. Although, really, I could have traveled to Armpit, Alaska and I'm sure it would have been just as fun, because really? I didn't get to see anything. Seriously.

My hotel was attached to the event location. That meant that the only outside I saw was the drive from the airport and back to the airport. I walked a total of three blocks for dinner on Tuesday night. And that's all I saw of San Francisco.

Really, really sad.

So I did my favorite thing, and that is order room service. I know I've said this before, but how awesome is room service? Now, I would never get it on a personal trip. The prices are obscene. But oh when I have to get work done and I'm way too busy to walk down to a restarant, is there anything better than Room Service? Room Service makes me dream of being really, really rich and having a chef bring me breakfast to bed every morning while I watch Regis and Kelly talk about the party I attended with them last night.

And so at 7:45 a.m. on the dot, a nice woman wheeled in an entire table for me. With crisp white linens. And plates with silver domes on them. And a little vase with an orchid in it. And a little thing of syrup with Saran Wrap on it. And I sat on my bed and I ate in front of the TV. And really? I don't need Mother's Day on Sunday, because nothing could beat that.

But the craziest thing? Here's what I ordered:

- Belgian Waffle with fresh berries and syrup
- Side of Bacon
- Pot of tea with milk on the side

Total cost: 40 dollars.

FORTY DOLLARS!!!!

I had a forty-freaking dollar breakfast people! All I need to do before I die is have one of those hundred-dollar burgers.

Can you imagine? Do people really buy forty dollar waffles with their own money?

Because when I make that breakfast at home, I'm pretty sure it costs me about two or three bucks tops to make.

But I do have to say, it was a damn tasty waffle, but only because I wasn't paying for it.

Of course, I had an inappropriate moment during the trip, where I told a story to the three execs I was traveling with that included the word dick.

In my defense, it was 11 p.m. which is 1 a.m. Dallas time. And I'd had a martini, some wine and was sipping on a mojito.

So the brain's appropriateness filter was a little porous.

The ride back to the airport yesterday was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. The four of us piled into the cab of a large Russian man who was wearing racing gloves. That should have been our first hint that something terrifying was about to happen. The squealing of the tires when he left the front of our hotel should have probably been our second hint to get the hell out.

But no, we're apparently either too polite or stupid.

The trip to the airport took about 7 minutes. I think it's approximately 20 miles between our hotel and the airport. And we were slowed by three red lights before getting to the highway.

Our cab driver did remain in the right lane of the highway, explaining to our one coworker who was unfortunately stuck with the front passenger seat that when you drive as slowly as he does, you don't drive in the left lane.

Of course. Only people driving 160 miles an hour should be in that lane.

Our cab driver also enjoyed changing lanes every two seconds, apparently feeling the need to contradict his statement of driving slowly and sticking to one lane. Every lane change was done with the determination of a pissed off bull, propelling me from my middle position to find myself on the lap of either coworker sitting next to me in the backseat. I'm pretty sure I also have whiplash from the braking on a dime that happened whenever we were less than one millimeter away from the car in front of us.

Luckily, Russian techno music was blaring at top volume, so I was able to focus on the beat and close my eyes and pretend that I was some hot russian model in some really hip Moscow club. And that the screams surrounding me were not those of terrified coworkers, but of drunk people having a good time.

After surviving that cab ride, I figured that I was unstoppable. But I'm not. Because the Dallas/Fort Worth airport is unable to deal with any type of moisture, and because it apparently drizzled sometime in the early evening, our flight was unable to land, due to a backlog of take offs and landings.

This is peculiar to me, as when I was a flight attendant in Toronto, I've flown in snowstorms that have buried homes, hurricanes, you name it. But I guess all that polar bear wrestling we do just makes us tougher than the Texans.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, May 09, 2007

Meme? Of Course!!!!

Oh the sheer joy of being tagged! When I was a kid, being tagged just reminded me that my legs were really short and that I could be outrun by anyone. But now, being tagged means someone in bloggerland needs a sucker. And I'm always happy to be the sucker!

So here's the latest meme to cross my path, courtesy of Jesse.

First, the rules: each player starts with seven random facts about themselves. People who are tagged need to write on their own blog the rules and answers. Then you choose seven people and make sure to leave a comment on their blog.

1. I have a scar on my right forearm. I was born with a strawberry (a type of birth mark also called a hemangioma) there and my mom, emotionally scarred by the fact her father has a port wine-stain on half of his face that she was teased about all growing up, had the doctor remove it, which left some scarring. My mother didn't know that strawberries tend to disappear by the age of two, the doctor never told her. She still feels guilty about "scarring" me, but since I've had the scar since I was born, I always forget it's there until people point it out to me. I don't even think it's very noticeable, it's just a few blotches of paler skin and have never bothered by it, unlike everything else about my physical appearance.

2. When I was 13 years old, I told my grandfather that I was going to go to a sperm bank in my 30's and have a baby by myself, because I didn't think I ever wanted to get married. Apparently my very conservative and strict grandfather almost choked on his piece of baguette.

3. I was a flight attendant for most of the time I was in university. During that time, I was on two planes that caught on fire. I'm pretty much convinced that I could never be in a plane crash now, since I'm supposed to be more likely to die in a car crash, right? Right?

4. I'm kind of afraid of drycleaner coat hangers. Not in a complete phobia kind of way where I can't even see one, but I always have these frightening flashes of having the hook part stuck in my throat and of desperate women trying to abort a metal hanger when I put my dry cleaning away. I just can't associate those sharp metal things just with clean laundry and they just turn my stomach every time I handle one.

5. When I retire, I wouldn't mind just raising goats, milking them and making my own goat cheese. I think that would kind of be fun. And then I could have a stand at a market once a week and sell my own cheese. I'd also like to grow veggies and fruits. And then I realize that with my short attention span, I'd probably only last a couple of weeks doing that stuff. But in my head, it sounds really fun.

6. I can eat a four-pack of Cadbury Cream Eggs in one sitting. I feel horribly gross afterwards, but when I'm doing it, it's like the whole world glows in beautiful colors. I'm pretty sure they contain some kind of illegal substance to taste that good.

7. I ran away from home when I was 18 because I practically failed out of university from doing absolutely no work in my third year. I figured it was easier to run away rather than deal with my parents' disappointment. My father tracked me down by stalking one of my best friends and convincing her at 3 a.m. after staking out her house until she came home from a bar to tell him where I was. She felt so sorry for him, she did and so my dad found me by sunrise. I really shouldn't try to hide out from the mob if I ever piss them off, because I probably won't get far.

So now, 7 people I tag are:

Emma in Canada
Random Mommy
Beccy
Beebop
Julie
Kellie
Gerbil

And really, anyone else who wants to be tagged, I just figured these were the 7 more likely to not be irritated at getting tagged, because they seem to get tagged regularly and never complain. Well, a couple of them don't, but I figure they're crazy women and I'd love to hear their random facts!

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, May 08, 2007

I Wonder If They'll Ship My Heart Back to Me If I Do Leave It

Before I begin my real post, I need to scold you, Internet. Because, really? You're not any fun. Yesterday, I asked you to be my bad side and root for me to get pregnant. And what do you do? You get all good on me and tell me that I should be all grown up and wait for the doctor's advice. So I only have one nasty thing to say to you, Internet, and then I'll move on. And that one thing is, when did you turn into my mother?

Plus, I'll have you know that it really doesn't matter what you think, because even if you put a gun to my head and demanded I get pregnant, I can't this month. Because the joke's on you Internet (well, actually, the joke is kind of on me, but that doesn't suit my scolding, so we'll just stick with you), because I'm off to San Francisco today, come back late tomorrow night, and then Sweetie Pie leaves to go hunting on Thursday and won't be back until Saturday, which means that more than likely, my ovulation window will have come and gone during those four days.

So there.

And yeah, I know that you're all right and stuff. But I'm not going to admit that ok? So now quit nagging me.

At least now I know that if I want to ask someone if I should go jump off a bridge wearing nothing but a tea towel around my neck, I totally should ask you.

Because apparently, I'm not on the fun Internet. Which freaking figures.

You guys know I'm kidding right? You know that I love you, right?

Anyway, I'm off to San Francisco today. The land of rice-a-roni.

And hills. Something that Dallas doesn't have.

And Alcatraz, where Paris Hilton is going to spend 45 days which fills my heart with such glee, that I'm reminded that I am quite the bitch.

Because she claims that her publicist told her that even though her driver's license was suspended, she could keep driving to work.

OK, I don't even know where to begin with this... First off. Paris? Work? What work? Does clubbing count as a job? Because I totally didn't get paid in my early 20's for clubbing. And I could totally use some cute new shoes, which I could buy with that clubbing money owed to me. In fact, I'm such an idiot, I think I actually paid to go clubbing. I guess I'm that sucker born every minute.

Then, if you're a gazillionaire, why are you driving yourself to clubs. Can't you just get a limo or have your personal assistant drive you so that you don't have to worry about alcohol blood levels?

And then you get two more warnings that your driver's license is suspended and you shouldn't drive, the last one of which you sign and you still claim you didn't know you were supposed to drive? And then you say you're treated unfairly?

I mean seriously.

But back to San Francisco. I'm going there for one whole day. Flying out today and back tomorrow night. Because that's how I roll. I'm very important. Very, very important. And I have to do stuff and then I don't have time for touristy things like Fisherman's Wharf and the gay village. No sir-ree. Not me, important business person lady.

I get fed while I'm there. Do you know how giddy that still makes me? You'd think that after 10 years of being in the working world and going on business trips, the thrill would be gone. But free food? That I don't pay for? And that doesn't consist of fast food? Still makes me happy.

I'm a simple, simple gal, what can I say.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, May 07, 2007

Mayday! Mayday!

I realize I'm a little hormonal. What with my period still in the midst of its enthusiastic grip on my bloated body.

But this morning, I walked by a coworker's desk where she'd displayed the pictures of her four-month old baby and I started to cry.

Because I really, really want one of those.

Not the picture, the baby.

Now I realize that I have a toddler at home. And that despite my irresponsible flying without a net and showing the restraint of a hormonal teenager these past two months, I know I'm not supposed to get pregnant right now.

Because I've still got to be told by the specialist that I'm not about to commit suicide by pregnancy.

My appointment is in 8 days. During those 8 days, I will be ovulating.

The question is: do I just go for it?

Or do I do the adult thing, wait for the appointment where I'm almost certain that the doctor will tell me that I can proceed, that I just need to be monitored carefully and start trying next month?

It's not like another month is going to kill me.

Doesn't help that a lot of my mommy friends are either pregnant or have just popped baby number two.

Damn peer pressure and all.

So, Internet? What should I do?

My procreating is in your capable hands.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, May 04, 2007

You Can Never Learn Enough About Me...

Because I'm full of myself, I've gone and requested more interview questions. Because I'm a freak like that!

But mostly because it's a great way for me to have something to blog about. So really, if anyone else has any questions they want to ask me, please, email me at catwoman.in.texas@gmail.com. Because that way? I'll have stuff to blog about and you might learn something interesting about me. OK, probably not on that last part.

Anyhoo... On to Elle's questions:

1. You are on a cruise and there is a shipwreck. You are stranded on a deserted island with no hope of rescue. The only other two survivors are two men. One is extremely handsome but rather stupid and clumsy. He doesn't have any talent other than smiling seductively at you. The other is smart and resourceful but very unfortunate looking. There is nothing remotely attractive about him. The two men argue and decide to divide the island in two. Which one do you go with and why?

Honestly, I think I'd tell them both to get lost and decide to get my own piece of island and visit whichever one irritates me less whenever I need to talk to someone. But more than likely, I'd just tame me a dolphin or a monkey or something and just chat with them instead. And if I'm not married in this scenario, I might hook up ever so often with hot guy. Because even on a deserted islands, there might be that time once or twice a year where I'm feeling frisky.

2. The Grim Reeper comes to your house, and tells you that you have one day left on this Earth. What do you decide to do with your day?

That is so hard! Stupid Grim Reaper! I hate that bastard. I totally need at least two weeks' notice or something. Otherwise, don't bother giving me any notice. I know this is going to sound really stupid, but I just want to watch Play With Me Sesame with Little Man with him sitting on my lap. And then I want to read him every book in his library twice. So that I can spend the entire time with my face buried in his hair, inhaling his sweet toddler boy smell. And then I'd just eat a whole ton of really, really high quality milk chocolate. Because I so don't care if my clothes are too tight in the casket. And also? I don't want to be dressed up in there. Because surely there's no dress code in heaven.

3. You are a contestant on Fear Factor. They give you the choice between eating deer testes covered in bile, or the intestines of a crocodile(including the contents within). Which plate do you choose and why?

First thing I'd do is cry and try to explain to the Joe what's his name that I've made a mistake and stepped onto the wrong set, because I'm supposed to be on Deal or No Deal, not Fear Factor.

But I guess between the two, I'd eat the deer testes, because intestines have poop in them. And that's just way more wrong than some balls.

4. If you could be a well renowned star, what would you be famous for?

I would totally be famous for saying something really, really stupid. Something that would be mocked for years and become part of VH1's "I love the 2000's" series.

Or else, I'd be famous for my general awesomness. Or for being Canadian.

5. If you could go back into time, and relive one moment over again... what would it be?

Man, that's a hard one... Elle, you ask really, really hard questions...

If it's to relive something to have the chance to change it, there's no doubt about it, the one thing I'd change is I'd get myself to the hospital on day one of suffering really bad pain the last week of my pregnancy. Because I didn't know I was dying and my stupid pain threshold totally let me down. And the one thing I wish I could change is waiting four days before going to the hospital.

If it's just to get to experience something all over again, I'd definitely would love to relive the first night Little Man was born. I know that's cliched. But I've never felt such a sense of awe than when I was laying in bed late at night, nurses checking on me every half hour and he was laying in his bassinette next to me. And then I asked a nurse if I could hold him. And she laughed and told me "he's your baby! of course you can hold him!" And then I timidly asked "what if I want to hold him all night?" And she grinned at me and said "girl, you can hold him for the rest of your life."

And I remember how amazing it felt to have him sleep on my chest the rest of the night, him so tiny and fragile, his little breaths the only sound I could hear. And just the adrenaline flowing through my body and the sense of excitement that holy crap! I'd created another human being!

I don't see any other memory in my entire life comparing to that night, my body filled with tubes, his little body, perfect in every single way.

Love,

Catwoman.

Sadness, All Around

Things are not good. In fact, things are really, really bad right now.

For over two years now, I've been extremely attached to a group of sassy interns at a wacky hospital in Seattle.

I've laughed with them, cried with them and even developed some very big crushes on some of them.

I've even stuck with them through crazy things like ferry crashes.

But yesterday, when I sat down, expecting two hours of Seattle Grace greatness, instead, I got something horrible instead. This was a lot like that time I ordered a hamburger from McDonald's when I was pregnant and got home to eat it and on my hamburger was that nasty disgusting orange goo that McDonald's and Kraft call cheese. (shudder)

I take my TV seriously people. And if there's one thing I usually don't like, it's spinoffs. But I like Addison and I was willing to give a Grey's Anatomy spin off a shot. Just not in the middle of a Grey's Anatomy episode.

And not when the characters are so lame that I couldn't care less about any of them.

And why is it that Addison is annoying when she's out of the confines of Seattle Grace?

I am very, very upset. I've literally watched my favorite show in the world jump the shark.

I'm so distraught right now, I don't even want to talk about it anymore.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, May 03, 2007

Ah, Genetics...

So we're back from the doctor, which is always such a fun time. Especially when your appointment is at 11:15 a.m., you get into an exam room at 11:25 and then after the nurse leaves, no one come back for another 35 minutes. I had a conference call scheduled at noon. So enough to say, I had to call one of my execs, who's a dad and cool as crap, tell him about babies, fevers, and tummies aching and get him to cover for me. This is a guy who calls me "sister" every time I call him and makes me feel like I'm the coolest chick alive. So enough to say, no biggie.

Except for the fact that I sat in an examination room for 35 minutes with a toddler with only a few crappy toys in a drawer to entertain him. But amazing what monster noises from Mama and 52 renditions of 'Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star' can entertain a toddler long enough to make me get really, really nasty. Because if one of us was going to be the issue in this situation, you know it wouldn't be the great one, Little Man. Oh no, he'd be the one rolling his eyes at the nurses apologizing for my wailing and asking me to please behave like an adult.

I did get an apology when someone finally did discover us in the bowels of the doctor's office. Because I think we were simply forgotten about. Little Man's file was probably found under a left-over piece of pizza in the staff fridge and somebody went "crap, are they still here?"

Either way, Little Man was prodded and poked. And the diagnosis is that the fever is caused by a minor ear infection in his right ear. One that we probably won't need antibiotics for and so I'm sticking to the Advil/Tylenol combo for now, unless his fever is still there in three days.

And the tummy ache? Well, those of you who also read Random Mommy will have read her great post about Buddha yesterday and his inheritance of some fine neurotic genes. And to those of you who haven't, I say what the hell? Do you only like boring blogs? Because really, she's about 50,000 times funnier than I am.

Anyway, Little Man apparently read that post as well, and he was not going to be undermined by his BFF. And so the diagnosis? Little Man is also full of crap. Just like his Mama.

This is where the working mom guilt sets in because I noticed that the last couple of nights when he had a poop, it was a tiny little one, but since I don't see his poops during the day, I couldn't tell that not enough stuff was coming out.

So now we're on prune juice (yum!) and I got to give my son a laxative. Up his butt. I gave my son a suppository, oh the joy! And he seemed to like it. One more reason for me to continue to push for the legalization of gay marriage, I guess.

Love,

Catwoman.

Icky Tummies

My work line rings at 2:47 p.m. yesterday. It's Sweetie Pie. As soon as I pick up he says "Little Man is sick."

"What???" I'm surprised by this. He was perfectly fine this morning.

But apparently the daycare has called my husband to tell them that to celebrate his 20-month birthday, our son has decided to develop a 102-degree fever.

But a fever is one thing. The fact that my son ever so often grabs his tummy on the right side while whining is what concerns me most.

So off to the pediatrician we go later this morning to be checked out. Nothing funny to say today, except that the work I brought home has been scattered by my toddler all over the house and run over with his truck. Remember that post about my son putting things in my life in perspective? This is once again where I've figured out that papers don't have to just be sources of work. They can also make for a really, really kick ass obstacle course.

And also? My laptop case with the wheels on it? It's a really, really great way to wheel around a stuffed frog.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, May 02, 2007

Twenty Months: My Letter to Little Man

First, I have to say that I am way too young to be the mother of a dude in his early 20's. Second, if you've hit the 20-month mark, how much longer until you learn to make your Mama a mojito from scratch?

I'm just saying that you've mastered singing "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" to the point that people other than your parents know what you're singing. Although this is quite the accomplishment, and I don't mean to undermine it in any way, it's really not that useful of a skill to me. And you should know that no matter what you've been told by your buddies, it should always be about your Mama.



Speaking of which, you and I have a new song that we love to sing together and march to around the house together, clapping our hands as loudly as we can. It's called "Girlfriend" by Avril Lavigne, who, you should know, is just about Canadian royalty, except that she's not, because in Canada, we have an actual royal family. We also have the best maple syrup, but don't ever tell a drunk Vermont person that, because they get really, really pissy when we try to tell them the truth. Just trust me on that one.

But back to Avril. In her song, she says "Hey, hey, you, you, I don't like your girlfriend. No way, no way, I think you need a new one." This is a great song for you, because it's really easier to sing along to than "Baa Baa Black Sheep," which honestly doesn't make any sense to me. Because how would the sheep know that he's got three bags worth of wool? There's no way he could physically measure all of it. But a song like Avril's, I expect that once you turn 14 or so, I'll probably need to dust off the MP3 file and re-teach you the words. Because surely, you won't only date women I love. And I expect that with those blue eyes of yours, tousled blonde hair and infectious laugh, that women will fall for you pretty regularly, and not all of them will be great enough for my Little Man.



The pre-baby me convinced herself that if I had kids, they wouldn't be one of those brats at Walmart who yells at their parents because the parent said no to some asinine request. An old joke says that this is the lie that every person must tell themselves in order to make the jump into parenthood. But this month was once again a chance for me to think that I continue to prove that joke wrong, because you really aren't one of those kids.

For the most part, you are extremely delightful, charming, funny, albeit very cautious with both risk-taking and strangers. The other day, at the grocery store, I let you follow me around the store pushing one of those little kid carts. You followed me dutifully, like a baby duck behind his Mama, and you pushed that cart with the serious look of a rookie soldier driving a tank for the first time who really wants to make his country proud. Not once did I have to worry about you running the other way with your cart. And when we stopped and I gave you something to throw in your cart, you'd throw it as hard as you could, not once missing the basket, and then clap loudly and cheer for yourself. I could have spent the rest of my life grocery shopping with you.

Even better, we couldn't go two feet without someone complimenting you on how cute you were, which is the kind of stuff we Mama's could eat by the gallon-full. But unlike any other child who'd smile broadly at the kind strangers stroking your ego, you'd eye them suspiciously, concerned that they'd try to take your food or your cart away.



We also have to be so careful with what we say around you now, because you'll repeat anything we say, like a parrot. I tend to say "uhm..." when I'm thinking about what I'm going to say next, and just about every time, you'll pipe up with your own "uhm..." And of course, there's your positive response of "yeah?" to everything we ask. Not "yes," not "oui" just "yeah." And I've figured out that it's because your dad answers all of my questions with "yeah." Then there's the fact that in order to get you out of your "no" phase from a couple of months ago, I tend to ask questions like this "you want to put your shoes on, yeah?" I predict that you'll be in school and someone will respond to one of your questions with the word "yes" and you'll be really confused and have no clue what they've said.



One cool thing we've watched happen over the past couple of months is as our lab puppy's matured and you've been more capable of fending off his slobbery attacks of love, the two of you have developed a relationship worthy of a Disney movie. You spend a lot of energy all day trying to get the dog to chase you around the house. And when he slowly meanders your way to see what all your squealing is about, you giggle so hard and run away from him, that you get the hiccups and he gets really confused. But for the most part, you continue to send the poor dog some serious mixed signals, laughing your little butt off when he licks your hands clean, then yellling "no! no!" at him when you want him to stop, only to laugh again when he doesn't. We've asked you to stop, since we don't want to have to choose between getting a dog therapist and sending you to college, just like I've tried to explain to you that you really shouldn't dangle a waffle in front of the dog's snout and expect him to not steal it away from you.

My favorite new trick of yours is the kissing. You've always had the most kissable lips, and now, you're actually using them for real kisses instead of the blown king. Every night, you actually pucker up and plant one on my lips and your daddy's before you go to bed. If anyone had told me in my teens when I pined after stupid boys that the best kisses I would ever get would be from a short little man who speaks in an alien language, has wild hair and often drools on me when he kisses me, I probably would have said they were crazy. But I'm older, wiser and loved to the point that I'm very likely to burst at any moment into a mushy pile of marshmallow puff cream.



On certain nights, you'll kiss me goodnight and when I go to put you in your crib, I'll claim to not have received my kiss and demand another goodnight kiss. I should feel guilty for conning you in this way, just like I should feel guilty for eating most of your Lucky Charms marshmallows, but I consider those stolen kisses to be my stockpile for all the times as a teenager you'll refuse to be seen with me in public and ask me to stop embarrassing you with all the inhaling and exhaling that I do.

Love,

Maman.

Tuesday, May 01, 2007

Creating New Stereotypes

Sweetie Pie and I are laying in bed last night, about to fall asleep, when I say:

"I have something to tell you. It's a big secret of mine.

- OK.

- I just don't know if I can tell you though, because I think you'll make fun of me. But you're supposed to be my best friend, and I should be able to tell you anything, so don't you think it's bad that I can't tell you this?

- I don't know. What's the secret?

- You promise you won't make fun of me?

- (sigh) I won't make fun of you, just say it.

- OK. (long pause) Ever since the pregnancy, I have two chin hairs that I have to tweeze regularly.

- Uh huh.

- That's it? That's all you have to say about my secret? Two hairs! That's practically a goatee!

- I think it's normal that you have chin hairs.

- You do?

- Yeah, you're French. You people are hairy.

Love,

Catwoman.