Friday, September 28, 2007

A Real Love Story

I've always been a sucker for romantic comedies. Anything that had Meg Ryan in it, well, that was a movie for me. I love movies that make me laugh and then make me all tingly as the lead characters go in for that first kiss. And then the screen fades to black, the words 'the end' appears on the screen and you know they'll spend the rest of eternity making snide comments at each other, making jokes about their in laws to their friends and he'll complain about how little they're doing it now that they're together while she'll pretend to be asleep.

But for two hours, life is perfect. And love is this wondrous thing that overcomes your every cell.

Then you leave the theater and as you try to squint the bright sun away, you're reminded that the real world? It's populated with real men. Men who have hair growing in strange places and forget to tell you that your ass looks good in your new pants.

The other day, in my 100 list, I mentioned how Sweetie Pie and I met. And really, I gave you the best parts of the story.

Then I dropped the bomb shell that I moved here without him ever uttering the three words that any woman who decides to pack up her life and move for a man should have heard: I love you.

How is it that I, a woman raised by a feminist, someone who doesn't believe in changing her life for a man would then turn around and leave a life that she loved, by the way, with a kick-ass apartment and a rocking social life and a city filled with tons of little independent restaurants and rocking pubs and clubs, for a man?

I'm not sure. I still don't know the question to that one.

All I know, is that things with Sweetie Pie moved pretty quick. I met him in January 99. We went on our first date, skiing in Colorado (doesn't that sound so Paris Hilton of me?), in March.

In May of 2000, I applied for a bunch of jobs in Dallas. I don't even remember us having a conversation about it, exactly, but we must have at least alluded to it, because I'm not the psycho girl type who'd do something like that out of the blue.

At the time, I anticipated that it would take a year for me to find a job. That was the timeline I figured I was working with.

Except that the job market in Dallas was on fire thanks to that frat party known as the dot com age. And apparently, vacancies in PR jobs were getting hard to fill, to the point that anyone with a pulse and an idea of what the letters "P" and "R" looked like could get a job.

So I come along with my little resume written in Canadian, with words like "neighbour" and the correct pronounciation of "organization" (organ-AI (like the letter "I")-zation) and next thing I know, I'm being flown to Dallas in early August and I'm offered a job.

Three weeks later, I'm on a plane to Dallas with my two cats and I'm thinking "what the hell happened?"

But let me back up here for a second. Back to the interview. When I came down for it, and they told me "we want to hire you, when can you start?", one of my first thoughts? Was "did Sweetie Pie and actually really discuss this?"

And so after the interview, when he came to pick me up, I had the courage to say "hey, you, hot guy I like to sleep with!" (oh, wait, we weren't married at the time... I meant to say hot guy I like to play chess with and have thumb wars with, of course). Where was I... Oh yeah, I said to him "do you even want me moving here? Because I'm about to leave my life here."

Although, I wasn't that gutsy then, so I probably just mumbled something about if he wasn't sure, I totally understood.

And he told me he wanted me here, so I went home and packed.

But while I packed, I told myself the entire time, that I was going to confront him about the fact that I didn't even know how he felt about me.

Each phone call, the thought would cross my mind. But then I'd chicken out. I'd hang up and think to myself "I need to tell him I won't move unless I know how he feels about me."

And then I'd wimp out again.

And so September 10, 2000, I moved to Dallas for a guy who I wasn't even sure was in love with me.

At my job in Dallas, as Christmas neared, all of the girls in my office got excited. Because they just knew in their gut that Sweetie Pie was going to propose. After all, I'd moved all the way to Dallas for him.

I didn't say much, but I knew that he wouldn't. After all, this was a man who hadn't even said 'I love you', so he sure as hell wasn't going to propose! And I was right. He wouldn't propose for another two years.

Interestingly enough, I don't remember now the first time he did say 'I love you.' You'd think that with the amount of obsessing I did, that the date, time, what he was wearing, what I was wearing, the headline of the Dallas Morning News, the cover of People Magazine that week, that all of it would be imprinted in my brain, a memory to forever be treasured.

But I'm not that good with detail.

What I do remember though, is being on our honeymoon five years after I moved down and telling Sweetie Pie jokingly how I still couldn't believe that I moved down for a guy who wouldn't even say "I love you."

And then the world screeched to a halt. And he said words that I will never forget until the day I die. He said to me "I wasn't in love with you then."

My whole world went dark. I lost it. I'd moved here for someone who wasn't even in love with me????

His explanation was that since we only saw each other once a month, how could he really know how he felt about me?

I flipped out! I kept saying "but I left my whole life for you!"

His reasoning? That if it didn't work out, he'd just ship me back. He knew he really, really liked me. And that he wanted to see me all the time.

That was it.

And sometime during the year after I moved down, he realized he was in love with me. And then he realized that he never wanted to be without me. And that was it.

Here we were, on our honeymoon in the South of France, and I was devastated. And angry. And hurt. Most of all? I was really, really pissed at myself. How could I be so stupid? And move 1,800 miles for someone without knowing how they felt?

But now? I just realize that I'm really, really lucky. Because 31-year old Catwoman wouldn't have been as naive and stupid as 23-year old Catwoman was.

And if all of this happened now? I probably would say to Sweetie Pie "wait a minute here, I'm not moving without a damn commitment or at least knowing where we stand."

And the truth would come out. And we'd break up. And we'd spend the rest of our lives looking for our soulmates, when in fact, we'd already found him or her.

We wouldn't have Little Man. I'd never have learned that my boobs don't know how to produce milk. Sweetie Pie wouldn't know what a sippy cup is.

I wouldn't know how to have any restraint on my spending (no seriously, I'd probably be worse than I am now, because I really have improved since my early 20's). Sweetie Pie wouldn't know that a homemade meal is not Wendy's eaten at home.

Sweetie Pie would probably be a recluse who'd sit in the dark alone at night and his anti-social side would come out when kids accidentally kicked their ball in his front yard and he'd come out with a shot gun and tell them to get the hell off his property.

I'd still be living on beer and fried stuffed jalapenos, wearing tops that are too low cut.

We were made for each other. And the fact that I just didn't have it in me to confront him is what cemented our relationship and ensured that we had a great shot at spending the rest of our lives together.

The funny thing is? We never go a day without saying "I love you" to each other. And those make up for all the ones that weren't said and would probably have been hollow when we dated long distance.

It's not the stuff of romance novels. Meg Ryan will never star as me in the movie (which is good, because her lips these days? Totally freaking me out.) But it's our love story. And it's the happiest one I could possibly want.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, September 27, 2007

We're Anything But Not Dedicated

Yesterday? I stayed home from work. You see, I spent all of Tuesday afternoon vomiting in a bathroom at the office. For any of you who've thrown up at work before, you know what it's like to go to a bathroom, wait for people to clear out, before you pray to the porcelain gods, so that the rumor mill doesn't begin to wonder if you're pregnant or bulimic. When I wasn't throwing up, my ass was busy fumigating the bathroom. I'm pretty sure George W. got a call that someone had dropped a dirty bomb just North of Dallas and a bunch of jets were sent to ensure we weren't under attack.

The only thing I seemed to manage to keep down Tuesday night was a ginger ale.

Yesterday, I went adventurous and had some dry toast on top of the ginger ale.

I know, I'm totally crazy.

I managed to keep the toast down, and I'm thinking worse case scenario, I'll lose a little bit of weight. As one of my favorite quotes of all times, from Romy & Michelle's High School Reunion, says: "Mono was, like, the best diet ever."

But Sweetie Pie and I decided last week that we needed to quit messing around and that we needed to have sex every other day during the two weeks I could possibly be ovulating. Because with Little Man, Sweetie Pie just winked at me and I was pregnant. This time though, considering I've been off birth control for a year now, it seems that we need to actually focus a little bit.

And so last night, despite the fact that Sweetie Pie was having intestinal issues. Despite the fact that I was the color of Wonderbread. Despite the fact that I hadn't showered all day. Despite the fact that the entire time we were doing it, my stomach said "glub! glub!" from being full of ginger ale. Despite all of that? We possibly made a baby.

If this is the moment of conception, that kid should know that damn it, it was wanted.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

My 100 Things

1. I was born in France.
2. But if you ask me where I'm from, I'll tell you I'm Canadian.
3. That's because we moved to Canada when I was three. So I've lived most of my life there.
4. I officially became a Canadian citizen when I was 14.
5. But I have dual citizenship, Canadian and French.
6. Sometimes people ask me if I'll ever get my American citizenship.
7. I might, but only if I'm not forced to give up my other two citizenships.
8. If I have three citizenships, it'll look like I'm just out to collect them.
9. I like collecting things.
10. My collections have included stickers, erasers, matchbooks and PEZ dispensers.
11. At one point, I have more than 100 PEZ collections.
12. Sweetie Pie thought my collection of PEZ was ridiculous. Until I sold 30 or so on eBay and made more than $600 which served as my nest egg when I moved to Dallas.
13. I speak French fluently.
14. It was my first language.
15. I didn't speak English until I was 12.
16. Yet I have no French accent.
17. But I now have a Texas drawl from living here 7 years.
18. My grammar was so good in French that I represented my school in grade 12 in the provincial French grammar competition.
19. I didn't know there was such a thing either, until I was asked to go.
20. I don't think I even placed in the top half.
21. I do really, really badly in competitions.
22. I once tried out for The Weakest Link and froze so bad, I didn't make it past the first round.
23. I really, really want to be on Wheel of Fortune though.
24. I'm like some weirdo who can solve the puzzles with only two letters up there.
25. When people don't get the final puzzle and I've figured it out, I get really, really upset that they're on the show and I'm not.
26. But I've never gone out to try for the show, so I have no one to blame but myself.
27. I'm the oldest of three girls.
28. My sisters are twins.
29. They're three years younger than me.
30. I hated them when I was little.
31. A couple of years ago, I told them that I used to hate them, thinking they'd be happy to know that I don't anymore.
32. Instead, the younger twin is still pissed at me for hating her.
33. We fight a lot.
34. When I was growing up, I wanted to be a vet more than anything else in the world.
35. But I sucked at math and most sciences, and an English teacher told me I was a good writer and should become a reporter.
36. I studied political science in university and was going to do a master's in journalism.
37. For some reason, after finishing my undergrad, I did a post-grad degree in advertising.
38. I have no clue what led me to that decision.
39. But I'm really glad I did.
40. Although, when I did my advertising internship, it was such a miserable experience that I vowed never to work in advertising.
41. I was a flight attendant for more than three years, my last two years of university and my year of post-grad.
42. I loved flying, because I made more money than any of my friends.
43. Plus, I got to go all over Europe and party with some really awesome people.
44. Only downside was the actual flights.
45. I hated dealing with passengers, the most horrible, mean, disgusting people ever.
46. I was called the "C" word a few times for absolutely no reason, things like telling people that they couldn't in fact open the window or that I did not have their Kosher meal.
47. I also regularly had my butt grabbed while walking down the aisle.
48. I was on two planes that caught on fire.
49. I wasn't really scared either time.
50. I'm still not a nervous flyer, although I tend to worry more on the plane, because I no longer have control over the evacuation of the plane should something happen.
51. I lost my virginity when I was 15 years and 10 months old.
52. Although that might sound young, I had skipped two years of school and was in a class with 17 year-olds, so I was more mature I guess.
53. I was a wild child in my late teens and early 20's.
54. I refuse to calculate how many guys I've slept with.
55. I believe that if you don't know your number, you can't be labeled.
56. I've been in love four times.
57. The first time was when I was 14.
58. His name was Sean and I was convinced I was going to marry him.
59. He's the only boyfriend I haven't been able to find on Google or Facebook who I've looked for.
59. My second love was Kevin.
60. I met him in Spain when I was 18 and in Barcelona for the summer.
61. When we met, he only had two weeks left in Spain.
62. When he left, all I wanted was for him to ask me to go backpacking through Europe with him.
63. He didn't. I was heartbroken.
64. He's now a lawyer in LA.
65. I just found him on Google this week.
66. There was a picture and he's not as good looking as I remember him to be.
67. My third love was Dale.
68. I was with him for a year and it nearly emotionally crippled me.
69. He would never call me and I spent the entire year chasing him and trying to make him love me.
70. He broke up with me and told me the reason was that I wasn't marriage material.
71. It completely devastated me. I didn't eat for three days and didn't sleep for more than a week.
72. I swore off men right then and there and focused on me.
73. Three months later, I met Sweetie Pie.
74. I was doing PR for a company that he was a dealer for.
75. We met at a trade show.
76. One of my jobs was to show our dealers a good time.
77. I showed him an especially good time.
78. He got really drunk one night of the trade show and couldn't drive himself home. I let him crash in my suite.
79. He was supposed to sleep on the couch, but when I got out of the bathroom, he was passed out in my bed.
80. I'd forgotten to pack pajamas, so I ended up sleeping in my jeans and t-shirt so that he wouldn't get the wrong idea.
81. The next day, he asked me for my phone number.
82. I told him that he knew where I worked.
83. He called three days later.
84. We went out long distance for almost two years.
85. Then I got myself a job in Dallas and moved here.
86. Sweetie Pie hadn't even said "I love you" yet.
87. I still kick myself on a daily basis for being so stupid.
88. Sweetie Pie doesn't understand what the big deal is, since he says it's obviously all worked out for me.
89. We've been married twice.
90. The first time in Las Vegas in 2002. We had to get married in the US because I'm not a citizen.
91. We got married the following year in France with our family and friends present.
92. I'm very lactose intolerant.
92. Once, I ate almost a whole pint of ice cream and thought I was going to die because I got so sick.
93. When I was pregnant with Little Man, my lactose intolerance went away. I was able to eat an entire box of Kraft macaroni & cheese without any issues.
94. Because of this, I often ate an entire box of macaroni & cheese for lunch.
95. Somehow, I only gained 22 pounds my first pregnancy.
96. I'm really not sure how I did that.
97. I think I'll eat a lot healthier my next pregnancy.
98. Just in case my eating habits the first time caused the HELLP syndrome.
99. I'm really, really wanting to have a second baby right now.
100. I feel like I could easily write a whole other list.

Love,

Catwoman.

It's Not Easy To Be Green

Confession #984: I have a lot of hair.

Also? I seem to lose a lot of hair. You'll find my hair in all sorts of places. On furniture, on the floor, in Little Man's mouth, but the favorite place for my hair to hang out after it's escaped the clutches of my scalp is the drain of my sink.

I can't really explain to you how it happens. I don't exactly brush my hair and then shove the hair ball down the sink. I'm guessing that when I go to rinse my mouth, clumps of hair jump off and scurry into the drain to escape. My sink is one big hairy Prison Break episode.

When we moved into our new house two years ago, it took me exactly three months to clog my sink. Some would argue that since I'd had a baby during that time, I was losing hair at a faster rate, so that kind of excuses things.

During the past few weeks, my drain has gotten to be so slow, that when I go to clean my sink, the backed up water immediately dirties it again, because the gunked up make up and toothpaste have no where to go but back on the porcelain they just were.

I was reading American Baby magazine this past weekend and in it they had this brilliant solution. Apparently, if you pour down your slow drain a 1/2 cup of baking soda and then a 1/2 cup of white vinegar, wait half an hour and then pour two quarts of boiling water on top, your drain will be unclogged, and mother nature will love you a little more than if you used evil Drano.

And since I'm from Canada where we care about the environment, I wanted to give this a try.

I put the baking soda in the drain, but since the thing is pretty much clogged, the powder wouldn't really go anywhere, so I tried to push as much of it down the crack under the sink plugger thingie, which might have compressed the baking soda into the consistency of a brick, just maybe.

Then, I poured the half cup of white vinegar, which Albertsons claimed expired in September 2006, which leads me to ask, it's vinegar, how the hell does it expire, when all it is, really, is bad wine. When I poured the vinegar in, a bubbling action happened. This made me really, really excited, because obviously, it was working, and the world would be a better place. The Chilean Sea Bass population would be overjoyed and sharks would quit eating people for entertainment.

Only thing is, that I tend to forget things if I don't put timers. Like when I put Little Man in time out, if I don't put a timer reminding me to get him two minutes later, there's a good chance that he will stay on that step until next January. And that night, I forgot to set a timer on 30 minutes to let me know when it was time to boil the water.

So four hours later, I go to brush my teeth and in my sink is what looks to be plaster. And I'm confused by this at first. And then I remember. So I go to boil water, but it's late, and I'm tired and after brushing my teeth, the kettle still hasn't whistled, but I figure that it's good enough. So I pour water that's a higher temperature than lukewarm in my sink.

And instead of slowly pouring down the drain, the water sits there.

The next morning, when I get up, the now cold water is still sitting in the sink.

Apparently? The green remedy, didn't quite work, since I didn't follow the instructions to the letter. Instead of clearing my sink, it kind of clogged it completely.

So last night, when Sweetie Pie got home before me, he rented a jack hammer from The Home Depot, broke out the cement, unscrewed the pipes under the sink, emptied everything in it.

Even better? He even cleaned my sink.

And when he asked me what I'd done and I tried to explain it to him, he somehow wasn't impressed. He also didn't think it was funny as I giggled the entire time, telling him about how I'd forgotten about it and that baking soda and vinegar combined turns into concrete when it dries.

My favorite part of last night though? Is Sweetie Pie rolling off of me and saying "consider yourself inseminated."

You got to love a man who understands the sole purpose of doing it these days.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, September 24, 2007

Go Football!

When I was pregnant with Little Man, Sweetie Pie would tell me how he couldn't wait until our baby was born, because during football season, he could sit in his recliner holding the baby and watch the game. When Little Man was born, there was not much sitting around, as he liked to be moved around, so Sweetie Pie spent many Sunday afternoons pushing the umbrella stroller around our first floor, throwing longing gazes towards the game as he kept missing great play after great play.

Now that Little Man is two years old, Sweetie Pie has decided that it is time he become a Texas man. And that means developing a love of football. When Little Man woke up from his nap yesterday, Sweetie Pie was laying on our bed watching the New York Giants game and I brought Little Man into the room so that they could hang out together while I did important things like clean my blinds and check Facebook.

Little Man was very confused by football, mainly because he couldn't understand why grown men fall down more often than toddlers. And so after every play, Little Man would yell "oh goodness! What happened? Fall down!!!"

As Sweetie Pie tried to explain to him the concept of tackling, Little Man would get bored and entertain himself by yelling "go football!" I believe this is his way of remaining neutral so that he can align himself with a winning team. You never want to pledge your allegiance too early and become something terrible like a Washington Red Skins fan (per Sweetie Pie, I'm Canadian, I don't watch football).

About ten minutes later, Little Man said to Sweetie Pie "No more football. Mickey Mouse Club House, ok? Please and thank you."

And wouldn't you know it, that kid managed to do something I've never been able to accomplish in 9.5 years together. He got Sweetie Pie to turn it off the football game.

Now if only I could convince Little Man to start watching Lifetime movies, I think we'd be an unbeatable team.

Love,

Catwoman.

Saturday, September 22, 2007

When One Word Just Doesn't Suffice

At Little Man's daycare on Monday, Wednesdays and Fridays, they have a tray of snacks for the kids to take home. Yesterday, it was a little bag of Scooby Doo graham cracker bone-shaped cookies. I say to him "would you like me to open it for you?" And he responds "Yeah, omna it." Because that's how he pronounces open it.

Halfway home, Little Man beckons me. And when I turn around, he says "Mama, no more cookies. No more omna it."

I say to him "do you want me to close the bag?"

And in his best imitation of the that's what I said eye roll, he says "Yeah Mama, no more omna. NO OMNA IT!!!"

I stand corrected.

Love,

Catwoman.

P.S.: I'm going to win this pink dysonat 5 minutes for mom. So please don't enter or if you do, you have to give me the dyson if you win, ok?

Friday, September 21, 2007

And Thank You God For Trashy People on MTV

One thing that's really different between Texas and Canada is that in Canada, people don't tend to be very religious. Maybe certain parts are more than others, but Toronto being a big city, I literally grew up and didn't know that people went to Church on Sundays. Not one person I knew did.

Which to some of you might make it seem like Canada is the land of sinners and Satanists, right behind Las Vegas. But we're really, really nice people. Plus, God already has punished us by making two-thirds of our land an unlivable icescape, so I think we've been punished enough, don't you?

In Canada, whenever I went to charity fundraiser dinners or those big annual luncheons you see on TV and wonder why the hell those people are there, there was never someone there to say grace. Also, no preacher comes before a hockey game to bless the toothless men and their steroids, the way that they do for NASCAR drivers. Maybe we just think that God would frown upon grown men skating with a big stick, fighting over a small puck and fighting because the rest of us demand it. I'm not sure. You'd probably have to ask Him. Although I doubt He thinks that driving in circles in a car covered in logos isn't exactly the best use of our time either, what with a war raging and children being orphaned by AIDS in Africa in record numbers.

But here, people do pray and it's not something I have a problem with at all. I want to make that clear. I don't think it's ever made me uncomfortable, and after seven years in Texas, it's become the norm for me.

Yet, ever so often, the blessing will make me work hard to stifle my giggles. Because seriously? The things that people thank God for make me think that the Big Man must be rolling His eyes up there.

Like yesterday. I was at this luncheon for this commission that's responsible for the growth of the region. Don't ask me what all these people do. All I know is my company throws money at it and therefore we had a table at the luncheon and I was asked to go. And where there's free food, I can always be found. And by the way, this food totally rocked. I'm talking about a salad with berries on it with goat cheese rolled in chopped walnuts, followed by steak with a yummy wine sauce and not-overcooked green beans and mashed potatoes and then lemon meringue pie. Way better than the sandwich I left in the fridge.

The point of this luncheon was to hear about the economic impact on North Texas that the 2011 Superbowl will have on our region. Because apparently this commission had something to do with it. Don't ask me too much, I was very busy inhaling my free meal to hear everything.

Anyhow... A preacher gets up before the main speaker and he begins to bless things. And this is where it got a little difficult for me, because he thanked God for the commission working on the air quality. And then he thanked Him for the new Cowboys stadium that would make so many fans happy. And then he thanked Him for allowing the North Texas Commission to help reduce road congestion by 3 percent.

Seriously? Is this what God is working on these days? Because I thought road congestion would probably be a little lower on the totem pole. Although, maybe a little higher on the priority list than a new Cowboys stadium.

I guess this is why I'm just a mere mortal.

And since I've blasphemed a lot today, might as well add that this whole summer, while Big Brother was on, I laughed hysterically at anti-semitic moron Amber praying all the time and telling God "God bless you." Because I'm pretty sure He can't bless himself.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, September 20, 2007

Because You Asked For It

So yesterday? I volunteered at the consignment sale and the shift I'd picked ended right when the volunteer half-price sale started.

And I must say, I went a teeny tiny nuts. Because I bought me an entire pregnancy wardrobe. I'd say that I got about $1,500 to $2,000 worth of clothes. Because a lot of them? Well, they were designer stuff. And that makes me so giddy, because me? I only spent $90 yesterday. And I got me some kick ass stuff.

Here are just a few pictures of my half-price stuff yesterday, complete with the prices that I must simply brag about.



On the left, is a white dress shirt with light blue lines from Mimi Maternity. A store that I never bought anything from during my first pregnancy, because shirts there are like 30 to 50 bucks. And well, I wasn't working at the time. And even now that I'm working, it's like seriously? That much for a shirt I'll only wear a few months? But this shirt that I got? Only $2.50.

Yeah, I know. It gets worse.

The Motherhood shirt in the middle, blue with Khaki in it (which looks way cuter in person by the way) was $2.

Seriously, can you quit that loud gasping? It's a little jarring.

The pink shirt on the right? Was a total splurge. It's Japanese Weekend. A designer brand I'd never even heard of until Anglo told me that this was a brand she was looking for specifically at the opening day of the sale. So anyway, my cute pink shirt? My splurge? Was $4.50. I know, right? Big spender me, haha.



This outfit? Looks hideous in the picture. Because I was too lazy to put it on two hangers, so the top looks bizarre. But it's just a simple cross-over black shirt. The skirt, is also way cuter in person. They're both Mimi Maternity, and the skirt is a creme color with black floral pattern. The outfit? $5.

Can you hear me giggling from where you are?



This shirt, might be my favorite once I'm actually pregnant and have a reason to wear it. It's a crushed raspberry color. I paid $2.50 for it. The pants are gray rayon, really cute dress pants. I paid $3 for them.



This is another of my favorites. Seriously? Me? In a pink tweed skirt? I'm so freaking hip looking, I'm going to freaking die!!!! The sweater has angora in it, so it's really soft, and light pink sequins at the collar which will accentuate my fabulous bossom, hurray! And it's from Gap Maternity, another place I didn't shop at my first pregnancy, because really, Old Navy? So much cheaper! And they have a clearance rack that basically ensured I had clothes on my growing frame (well, my best friend ensured that even more when she lent me her entire pregnancy wardrobe, because she rocks like that). This outfit? Skirt and top? Cost me $7.50. I know, right? Two splurges in one night? Who am I? Paris freaking pregnant Hilton?



This one? Is really hard to see. But it's a Mimi Maternity black suit, which I'm guessing would have retailed anywhere from $150-200 since it's the jacket and the pants. My cost? $5. Nope. Not for a sleeve. For. the. whole. suit. I'm guessing the owner spent more than that getting it dry cleaned for the sale.



This is the cuff of a pair of black pants. Which I got for $4. See the cool beading at the bottom? Aren't I going to be the funkiest, most-fashionable future pregnant woman ever?

That's just a few of my findings. I walked out with $90 worth of stuff. Do you know how much stuff you get when everything's $2-$5 and you spend $90? Yeah, I got a lot of stuff. I also got five knit sweaters for Little Man and a pair of Osh Kosh B'gosh overalls for him. The overalls? Were $2.50. Swoon...

I heart me a really good consignment sale.

Now? I just have to go to Baby Centre and figure out when to put out and just get me a baby implanted. Because I've got cool clothes as a motivator now!

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

The Best Day Ever

If you could see me right now, you'd notice that there's a spring in my step and I'm absolutely glowing. Some might say I'm even beaming to the point that the space station people called, thinking there might be a nuclear meltdown North of Dallas.

And no, I'm not pregnant, as Aunt Flo is currently busy wrapping up her monthly visit.

I'm happy because right now is one of my favorite times of the year. It's time for the biggest consignment sale of the year in Dallas and I got me a volunteer slot and got to shop extra early.

Do you have any idea of the greatness of this sale? We're talking 55,000 kids items, all so gently used, that they might as well still have the tags on them. And so yesterday, I worked through lunch, left work 45 minutes early and went to meet Anglophile Football Fanatic to go spend my birthday money.

Now some of you might think that's a little crazy. But I have to give props to my favorite feisty bitch, who got us a spot in line so close to the front, that I'm assuming she got in line at the sale around 3 a.m. the previous day. Anglophile brings the art of shopping to a whole new level, to the point that Paris Hilton calls her for advice. After all, how many of you have actually been deported to your parents house by your husbands for spending too much money?

So I joined her in the line and we waited anxiously waiting for the doors to open, the way 20 years ago, we did to get our hands on a Cabbage Patch Doll or Def Leppard tickets. It's probably a sad sign of the times when cheap maternity and baby clothes give you the same sense of euphoria as dolls and long haired greasy rockers.

The damage? We both spent just over $120 worth of stuff and got about a U-Haul's worth of clothing between the two of us. We left a path of 32 bruised and bloodied moms, some looking about 9 months pregnant, but each of them deserved it. I mean, at least a few of them got within 50 feet of an item we were looking at. Our samurai swords and taser guns should have been warning enough that we meant business.

And today? I'm even giddier. Because after my five-hour volunteer shift, the volunteer half-price pre-sale starts. And I'll get to spend my last 65 dollars, plus the 9 dollar bills I found hidden in a pouch in my desk that I remembered at three in the morning, plus the eight dollars in quarters, dimes and nickels I stole out of Sweetie Pie's change jar. Did I say steal? I mean borrow.

Plus, I just checked on my eBay auctions, and so far it looks like I have another 25 dollars to spend, whee! Have I mentioned this is the greatest day ever? Don't you hear the birds singing their melodic sounds? Don't you see the rays of the sun swaying gently in the tree branches? Don't you smell the aroma of soon-to-be-spent money?

The world is a wonderful, wonderful place. I should take Owen Wilson with me. I'd totally give him a reason to live again, if I showed him the greatness of this consignment sale.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

Keeping Stereotypes Alive Since 1975

There's this old Canadian commercial for beer where the campaign was called "I Am Canadian." It was one of those campaigns that gave Canadians a pride in their country the way no government commercial ever could. Some of you will scoff that we found our pride in our country in a beer commercial, because in the US, it's all about the "we live in the greatest country in the world," which often seems to be said by people who've never left the country. Having only lived in three countries, I'd never claim that any of them are the greatest, because I don't know enough about the other 164. But that's just me.

I think it's great that Canada can feel pride from a beer commercial. It's fitting, what with us having some of the best beer in the world. Beer is an intricate part of our national identity, you see.

The lyrics were the following, spoken by a twenty-something guy on a stage with images flashing behind him, I'm sure it'd be on You Tube somewhere:

"Hey,
I'm not a lumber jack
Or a fur trader
And I dont live in an igloo
Or eat blubber
Or own a dog sled
And I don't know
Jimmy, Jally or Suzie from Canada
Although I'm sure they're really really nice
I have a Prime Minister not a President
I speak English and French not American
And I pronounce it about not "a-boot"
I can proudly sew my country's flag on my backpack I believe in peackeeping not policing
Diversity not assimilation
And that the beaver is a truley proud and noble animal
A toque is a hat a chesterfield is a couch
And it is pronouced "zed" not "zee," "zed"!
Canada is the 2nd largest landmass!
The 1st nation in hockey!
And the best part of North America!
My name is Joe and I am Canadian!"

Now my favorite part of this? Since having moved away? Is the "And I don't know
Jimmy, Jally or Suzie from Canada, Although I'm sure they're really really nice." Because Canadians? We do get asked that all the time. Like I'll be asked where I'm from in Canada and I'll answer "Toronto." And people will say to me "I know Bob in Vancouver. Do you know Bob?"

But then, my two worlds collided. A few months ago, Emma told her readers to read Alissa's blog. And so I started reading her and saw that she's from Toronto.

Then I added her as a Facebook friend. And yesterday, I was goofing off on facebook, writing on one of my guy friend's pages and saw that in common, we had Alissa as a friend. And I thought WTF????

Ends up? Alissa? She worked with a good friend of mine at some point in her life.

And then? Out of curiosity from looking at her other friends? I come to find out that she also knows someone I went to university with, who I thought was one of the funniest people of all time.

Alissa and I? We totally could have met at least two different points in our lives.

So if you ask me if I know Alissa in Canada, well, yes. I can say that I do.

Anyone else have "It's a Small World Afterall" stuck in their head?

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, September 17, 2007

I Swear I Didn't Say That

If you don't know what I do for a living, I can summarize it like this: I'm a putter of foot in mouth.

Most people don't know that it's a career choice, but I must tell you, it's a highly stressful one, what with the amount of blushing that's involved in it, which surely causes a rise in my blood pressure and increases my risks of croaking before my target age of 99.

This past week? My office was going to greet the returning troops at the airport. And although I'm against war of any kind, especially this one, I am in full support of our troops. Because they're someone's sons and daughters. And it's because I'm 100 percent for our troops that I want them home now. Where they can be safe. And be with their wives, husbands, kids, moms, dads, brothers, sisters and friends. That's what our troops deserve.

Sorry. I'm off the soap box now. So when my company got a bus together to go cheer on the returning soldiers, I cleared my calendar and planned on being there without a moment hesitation. And I made one of my coworkers who's single sign up too, so that I could find her a husband in the process.

Now, anyone who's read two words of my blog knows that I'm Canadian. So sometimes? I don't know US terminology for stuff.

And so when I told my boss I'd be out for a few hours, I told him that I'd be going to help the U.F.O.'s.

My boss? Was a little confused. And also thought I might be a little bit of a kook who thinks that aliens could land at any time.

For the record, to save any of you the embarrassement, the organization that greets the troops and does good deeds for them? It's called the USO. No need to thank me, that's why I'm here.

And then two days later, my boss was asking me about Little Man's doctor's appointment for his limp. I told him that they drew blood and everything came back normal and that the doctor said to give him Midol for a few days.

My boss? He has three daughters and a wife. So he's very aware of what Midol is for.

My coworker, over hearing this burst out laughing and said "I think she means Motrin."

Right. Which I did.

So all I could do was tell my boss "I'm pretty sure I have not given Little Man midol. But now that I think about it, he has thrown way fewer temper tantrums. And he seems a lot less bloated."

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, September 14, 2007

My Funny Man

Things that Little Man has done this week that have made me laughed:

1. When he looks out the window while we drive, he'll point things out to me like planes, cows and name every single car around us by its color. But he'll also regularly yell "boat!!!!" And whenever I'd look to see what he's pointing at, I wouldn't see a boat. Finally, I put together that he's pointing out really round minivans like the Nissan Quest. Which apparently, looks like a boat.

2. Whenever we pass a white pick up truck, like Sweetie Pie's, he'll shriek "Daddy's Truck!" And when we drive away from any pick up truck, he'll yell "Bye bye Daddy!", waving furiously.

3. He can say his full name now and practices saying it like his life depends on it. But if you ask him in English "What's your name?", he'll just point to his nose. Because "name" and the French word for nose sound almost identical.

4. When I'm driving, he'll suddenly say "MAMA!!!!" and when I turned around, he squished his whole face and squints, making himself look like a freak. And when I crack up, he laughs so hard that he farts.

5. He can now count to 19. And so instead of saying "1... 2... 3... GO!", he'll now count to a random number, so that you never know when the "go!" will come. Sometimes it's up to nine, then go. Sometimes the go comes after 12, or after 17. He just likes for people to be prepared.

6. He got a chicken race game for his birthday. Last night, he'd put the chickens on the coffee table, where I left them, since putting things away is against my belief system. This morning, he went to play with the race toy and he noticed the chickens were missing. He turned the game upside down and asked "where my chickens go?" I believe that if he were to be a farmer, with his disorganization level, this would be a question that would be asked daily.

7. When he sings Old Macdonald, he'll pause and ask you what animal you want Old Macdonald to have. And when you say "a cow?" or "a pig?" He sighs, rolls his eyes and says "a rooster!" Because duh! Obviously Old Macdonald doesn't have any other animal than a rooster, dumb ass.

8. When I take off Little Man's pull up, whether it's just pee or a turd that resembles something that would come out of Godzilla's behind, Little Man scrunches his face, waves his hand in front of his head and says "PEWY!!!" He also does this when he takes off his socks and brings them to me.

9. The other day, I came out of the shower and my towel fell down. When Little Man saw this he laughed and said "Mama's bebo (belly, which he calls because of a Sandra Boynton book) funny!" Which I guess my belly and ass are a little larger these days, what with me boycotting the Slim Fast shakes and getting to the point where I split my pants yesterday.

10. Yesterday, Little Man saw a peeled onion sitting on the counter and exclaimed "APPLE!!!" I told him that it was not an apple, but in fact, it was an onion. He got mad and said "I wann apple!" So who am I to deny my child the opportunity to learn that I know best? So I did it. I gave him the onion. And he put his mouth against it to take a bite, grimaced and exclaimed "oh, no!" So, because I'm the Mama, I don't get to say "I told you so", right?

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, September 13, 2007

That's What Bloggy Friends Are For

So let's get the stressful part of the way. Little Man? Does not have cancer. And he doesn't have a joint infection either, which the pediatrician thought was more likely than cancer. Blood work was done to rule them both out so that everyone's mind could be put at ease (I told the pediatrician how much you guys worry).

More than likely, it's a very mild sprain caused from all the running and jumping he did at a birthday party at a gymnastics place on Sunday afternoon. So he's on ibuprofen for a couple of days to help with the inflammation and if his limp isn't better by tomorrow, we'll need to bring him in again to do more in-depth exams, including X-rays.

I have to tell you guys though, that all of you, my bloggy friends were my rock yesterday. As I sat here, just wanting to run to the daycare and hold my son and sob hysterically, your comments are what kept me sane and talked me off the ledge of panic. And made me think that I was probably over-reacting. Also? I'd never heard of growth pains causing limping before. And that made me think that you, my bloggy friends M.D. were the smartest, coolest people ever, and I am so thankful to have found or been found by each and every one of you.

It's strange, really. I probably only know about three of you outside of the computer screen. And yet? I consider many, many of you some of my closest friends. How is that possible exactly? I think anyone who's not part of the blogosphere wouldn't understand.

But I don't think any of you will think that's weird. Because I know so much more about all of you than I do many of the people I spend a lot of time with.

I know your deepest inner thoughts. I know your struggles with your kids, your husbands, your jobs, your lives. I know that you don't think life is all sunshine and flowers. That you're sad, upset, worried, more than you are blissfully happy. I know that you sometimes do things that make you feel like you're a horrible mother, things that most people you hang out with probably don't even know about, because you worry they'll give you that look, the one that's full of judgement and makes you feel like shit. I know that you love your kids more than anything in the world, and I understand that love in a way that most people who see you every day, because I too feel that love and will gladly write about it for 800 pages without thinking I'm over the top.

And you know me better than most people do. Hell, you guys? You know things about me that even Sweetie Pie doesn't know about. And we have the kind of marriage where we can tell each other just about everything. You guys laugh at my poop stories, the ones I can't tell him because he just tells me I'm gross. You guys cheer me on when I tell you that I've pooped a perfect turd, shaped like a penis and testicles. You guys throw rotten tomatoes and dirty thongs at Aunt Flo when she keeps insisting on coming to visit.

Then you even come to my real life, sending me coupons for Nutripal bars, like M did a few weeks ago, after I complain about losing mine.

When I started my blog, more than three years ago now, I was just imitating my friend. Never would I have thought that by doing so, I'd just taken a step to finding the coolest people ever.

Thanks for being in my life. Thanks for caring about me and my son. Thanks for rocking the kasbah.

You people? Are what would totally convince the aliens that this planet is an awesome place to be.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

How to Make PMS About 10,000 Times Worse

So I pick up Little Man yesterday. He's content, as always and gives me a hug. As we're walking out of his school, I put him down to let him walk on the sidewalk, and that's when I notice that he's limping. Not a huge limp, a very mild one that makes me unsure as to which leg it is and whether I'm seeing it at all.

"Are you shoes bothering you, baby?" I ask.

"Green grass!" he responds, pointing at the lawn.

When we get home, I take off his shoes and observe him walking in the house barefoot. Once again, he's limping. A mild one, but it's there.

When Sweetie Pie comes home a couple of minutes later, he notices the limp right away and asks me what's wrong with his leg.

I tell him that I'm not sure, but that I'm upset that his school didn't let me know that he fell or twisted his ankle, or whatever it is that happened.

This morning, when Little Man is up, I let him walk again to see if yesterday was just this weird issue that's now gone. Not only is the limp still there, but now it's definitely more prounounced, since I guess whatever's wrong had a chance to get stiffer while Little Man was sleeping.

When I get to his school, I ask his teachers about it. They tell me that after story time in the morning, before they went to play outside, they called Little Man to get his pull up changed. When he walked over, they noticed he was limping. Thinking his shoes were bothering him, they took them off, fixed his socks and put everything back on.

I got to work and mentioned it to my coworkers, but just figured that I'd rub some icy hot on his leg tonight and see if that helped any. Because I poked and prodded Little Man's leg this morning and nothing seemed to hurt. All he kept doing while I poked and asked "does this hurt?" was asking me "Mickey Mouse? Donald Duck?"

Then all hell broke loose. Sweetie Pie? The rock in the relationship? The one who always stops me from panicking? Calls me at 9 this morning to tell me that he's really worried and wants us to take Little Man to the doctor's asap, because if it was just a sprain, Little Man would cry or whine when we push on it. And that his cousin had a cancerous tumor in her leg as a kid, and this is how it started.

Our appointment's at 4. All I can think about is what if my little boy has cancer? Someone get me a few boxes of Midol and a case of tequila stat.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

Because I Like To Be A Heartbreaker

So I had not spoken to my mom since Little Man's birthday. In fact, Sweetie Pie, who has his birthday three days after Little Man's, didn't even get an email, a card, nothing for his birthday. Which kind of shocked me.

My father called the next day, sheepishly saying they totally forgot. I find this amusing, because my father never calls. My mom's always the one who calls. I told my dad it was no big deal, gave the phone to Sweetie Pie, and when he hung up, I asked him if he spoke to my mom. He said that she had come on the phone once it was made clear to her I was no longer on and, of course, didn't ask to speak to me.

I'd sent Little Man's birthday pictures to my family on Monday or Tuesday night and had heard nothing back from my mom, once again.

On Friday, I got an email from my mother that said something along the lines of how frustrated they are, that they can't see Little Man on the Webcam with my computer being down and blah, blah, blah. How I don't respond to their emails anymore (well, sorry I'm busy, what with a job, a blog and Facebook and no computer at home). And how they feel like I don't even want to come up for Canadian Thanksgiving anymore.

The worse part? Right before I got that email? I realized that my passport is about to expire, as in on September 19th, and when I went to the Canadian passport Web site, it says that if you live outside of Canada, the current processing time is nine weeks. Whis is, oh roughly five weeks after Canadian Thanksgiving.

Which means that now, I had to tell my parents that we were in fact not coming for Canadian Thanksgiving.

I'm a wimp, so I totally avoided the issue all weekend, in the same manner that I managed to avoid copulating. It's a technique that I've become an expert on, one that has millions of women's groups beg me to come be a guest speaker and teach them my ways. Of course, in roughly two weeks, I'll be attacking Sweetie Pie approximately every 8 hours and hanging myself upside down from the fan in order to keep Aunt Flo away for nine months.

But where was I...

So yesterday, I sent my parents an email letting them know about the passport situation.

My dad replied that he was disappointed that our Thanksgiving tradition wouldn't be carried on this year of Little Man and I coming up.

Apparently? For something to count as a tradition? It only has to happen once, because Little Man and I traveled up to Canada for Canadian Thanksgiving for the first time last year.

My mother last night was actually ok, since I had plenty of vodka to drink while she lectured me about how I need to be more organized because I have a child, blah blah blah. The vodka and the fact that I can roll my eyes a full 360 degrees are the reason the lecture wasn't that bad.

But if you ask me? The best reason to be disorganized is that you have a child. Because they throw yogurt at dogs, like to set stuff on fire and bang on your furniture.

I consider the pile of parenting and entertainment magazines that cover our coffee table protection for the wood from Little Man's obsession with treating everything like his personal drum set.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, September 10, 2007

Weekend Highlights

1. Still not pregnant. Aunt Flo supposed to be here tomorrow, but she may decide to push back her arrival just to spite me. Looks like we'll be trying for a June baby.

2. My mother-in-law? Apparently has never seen a pull-up. We were at their place last night, and Little Man had a blow up. As Sweetie Pie and I were about to rock-paper-scissor for it, my mother-in-law offered to change it. Since we're not stupid, we told her to knock herself out. She came out two minutes later looking a little traumatized and said that she doesn't understand why we'd use diapers that don't open on the sides. When we told her that pull-ups tear easily on the sides in case of poop, she sighed. Apparently? Little Man got to have poop smeared all down his legs (back AND front, since he'd filled the entire Pull Up) when she removed it. Although I should probably be horrified by this, I thought it was hilarious, since the child that came out of her bedroom was 100 percent poop free.

3. Little Man's vocabulary has just exploded again during the past week. I'm guessing it's because he has moved up to the bigger kids' class. His favorite new things to say include "One more time!" (which really means "I'm going to do this another 50,000 times because I'm a toddler, the age group that invented OCD) and "Are you ok?" when we cough, which to me is especially cool, beause this means I can take future serial killer off my list of concerns, since he has now begun showing compassion. Although his compassion is only limited to humans, as the other day, I found him sitting on top of the poor sleeping dog, boucing up and down on him while saying "Weee! Horsey!!!!" The dog, was not amused, and shared his disgust with some serious sighing. By the time I'd run to get my new camera, Little Man had unfortunately been bucked off, seriously undermining our chances of winning America's Funniest Home Videos.

Love,

Catwoman.

Sunday, September 09, 2007

One More Test to Go

I took another pregnancy test this morning at 3:30 in the morning, after Little Man woke up screaming again and I figured since I had to pee really bad, this was as good of a time as any to find out if another being would expect me to be up at this time too.

Two days before Aunt Flo's supposed arrival and still no positive news.

I have one more expensive early detection test to use tomorrow, and then my three-pack will have run out and I'll turn to my friend S's ebay cheap tests that she sold me, just in case Aunt Flo decides to run late again like last month.

Reminds me, I need to buy that bitch a new watch.

Love,

Catwoman.

Saturday, September 08, 2007

The Results Are In...

I'm sure not many of you will be reading this, since it's the weekend, but I happened to bring my laptop home and thought for those of you with feeds that you'd want to know.

Clearblue just told me I'm not pregnant. I'll try again tomorrow, just in case it decides to change its mind. Of course, since the only time the chance of ovulation could have happened is the nooner, I think I just need to try a little harder next month, don't you?

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, September 07, 2007

Even Clearblue Hates Me

So those of you who read both my blog and Ohio Blue Eyes know that we were copulation partners this month. This is the century old tradition of trying to get pregnant at exactly the same moment with someone 100 miles away. We also made sure to think of each other during the act, so that we could make this as weird as possible to anyone not part of our conception pact.

My Aunt Flo is due exactly one day after Ohio's, simply because that's my birthday and Aunt Flo wants to make sure she ruins it by showing up on my doorstep with a case of Zima and an attitude problem on the exact day I will consider myself too old to keep trying to get on The Real World.

Yesterday (or the day before, it's hard for me to keep track), Ohio posted that she found out she's expecting her second baby. They're fertile in Ohio, it's probably because they fantasize about their home boy, Drew Carey, and they eat lots of corn.

So this morning, I woke up at 5 a.m. and after tossing and turning for 15 minutes, I realized I had to pee really, really bad.

And I realized that being four days out before my Aunt Flo, that it was time for me to start pushing my gut out of the way so that I can pee on a stick roughly the size of a Q-tip, all while trying not to urinate on my hands, and find out if I too am with child and can time my c-section to occur all while Ohio is screaming for an epidural in the next room.

Because I'm thinking we'll meeting in Kansas and deliver together. It's a must, at this point.

I had one expensive digital pregnancy test left and so I ripped it out of its packaging peed on it and stared at the little flashing digital hour glass for an eternity, all while holding my breath, and when the test was right about to flash either the words "pregnant" or "not pregnant", the screen went blank.

I stared at it for an eternity and then started cursing it out, because really? How rude for it to fail!

I grabbed the pamphlet and in it, it clearly states that if you get a blank screen, you should call Clear Blue.

Which I did. And guess what? Those bastards aren't there at 5:22 a.m. CST. So they weren't able to tell me if I was in fact pregnant.

I'm about to call them now, but even if they offer to send me a new test, that'll be pretty useless to me.

I'll take another one tomorrow morning.

So there's your weekend suspense...

I'll let you know what the Clear Blue gods said...

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, September 06, 2007

Let the Ear Hair Growing Begin

Yesterday, Sweetie Pie turned 34 years old. I've known him since he was 25, which might not be that jaw dropping to some of my readers who've apparently known their husband since in utero.

But I had some slutting around to do first, so I only met him when I was 23 and starting to think that men sucked ass and that I would be better off being 65 and living with 42 cats. And one poodle, whose nails I would carefully paint every day to match my Christmas sweater, because you know I'd have to wear those year round.

Anyway, back to Sweetie Pie. So he turned 34 years old yesterday. To anyone under 25, 34 sounds really, really old. Hell, I'm 31 and 11/12th and that sounds old to me. But the thing with Sweetie Pie, is he was born an old man. He calls my music "noise" and listens to talk radio.

But yesterday night, I got the ultimate proof that my husband? Doesn't stand a chance in this world if I die.

I'm not sure how it came up, but I asked him if he knew what LOL stands for. I believe his guess was something amongst the lines of "Loser, Oh, Loser."

I was stunned. "Has no one ever written that in an email to you?" I asked.

Apparently no. His friends? They're men, and apparently men don't laugh. And when they do it, it's not out loud.

He has to die first, it's the only way. Or else, he might get eaten by our 42 cats and poodle if something happened to me.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, September 05, 2007

I Don't Know This Murphy Guy And I Don't Know Why He Hates Me

So I like to think that I follow the law as much as I can. I try not to rob stores at gun point, or drive with a bottle of Miller Chill between my knees. I also avoid starting brawls in clubs and selling crack to elementary school children. I do none of these things for two reasons: one, desite what people might think, I do like to do the right thing. And two, I'm not from here, and I'm not yet a citizen, and I can be deported for commiting a crime. Which would suck, what with me having a toddler, cat and husband here and all.

And because I'm such a law-abiding citizen, I believe in following all laws and that includes Murphy's Laws. Which there are many, many for me to follow, including if there's a one single one millimeter crack on a sidewalk one mile long, I will trip over it and fall into a dumpster 30 feet away.

I think I might have mentioned on this blog at some point that my Jeep Liberty's lease was coming to an end and that I was stressing over what I was going to get next and how we'd be able to afford it. And if I didn't? Well, you didn't miss much, because instead of me writing a long rambly post about it, you just got to read two and-a-half lines about it. You're welcome.

Two weeks ago, I had Sweetie Pie call the bank that we lease the Jeep from to find out what they were willing to sell it to us for. Because even though it's a five-year old vehicle, I know it's complete history, that it got oil changes roughly every 4,200 miles, because 3,000 miles is just too damn hard to do, and also that it's hit roughly 3,294 curbs and eight senior citizens.

Who knows that much about any used car they buy?

And the car has never had any mechanical problems, so really, I figured let's keep it for another year or two, have a 50 dollar less monthly payment on it, and hopefully we'll have more money in a year or two and can afford the Rolls-Royce or Lamborghini I want. Because really, I don't need something fancy. Just something that will look really good on my Facebook profile.

So last week, Sweetie Pie filled out all of the paperwork, we took his bonus check and signed it over to the bank and financed the rest. This weekend, I checked and the deposit check hadn't cleared yet, so I knew it would clear yesterday.

Yesterday morning, I load up a very cranky and overtired two year-old who's suddenly taken to screaming "DAAAAA-DYYYYY!!!! MOOOOOMMMMMYYYY!" at three in the morning and then sings to himself in our bed while we tell him to shut the fuck up, very lovingly, of course, for two hours. As I start the Jeep Liberty to back out of the driveway, I notice that the engine light is on.

This has never happened in the four years I've had the vehicle. Since I didn't have my cell phone with me to call Sweetie Pie and have him reassure me that my car was not, in fact, about to blow up, I spent the whole 25 minute drive being paranoid and convinced that I was smelling smoke, and then melted plastic, and then burning flesh. Also, I'm pretty sure that I smelled dog farts, but surely that can't be related to the engine light.

I brought the vehicle to have a diagnostics test run on it, and ends up? That they need to build me a brand new car. Apparently, things that are wrong with the jeep include a faulty leak detection pump (like I need to know about my truck's leakage, pfff!), the evaporative hose is done, and it needs four new ball joints (which really, my Liberty's single right now, so that can probably wait). It also suffers from body image issues and the inability to make friends besides curbs and concrete posts, but apparently the detection test didn't catch that.

The grand total? 895 dollars. One of Sweetie Pie's employees works on cars in his spare time, so hopefully we can get him to do some if not all of it, which will save us money.

After I got off the phone with the mechanic, I went online and wouldn't you know it, the check has cleared.

And that would be Murphy's Law at its finest.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, September 04, 2007

In Case You Needed More Proof That My Mother Is Insane

So Little Man's party went really well. He had an absolute blast, was actually sociable with all of his friends, swam in the pool without freaking out, and was really into opening his presents and then had a blast playing with as many of them as possible on Monday, sometimes playing with two or more at the same time, because there were so many new toys and he only has two hands and the toys? They must be played with.

And so as we were winding down from the party, it was 8:50 p.m. and Little Man was brushing his teeth, the start to the bedtime routine. All of a sudden, our home phone rings and it's my parents number on the call display. I answer it and my mom is hysterical. She starts this tearful speech of Finally! You answered the phone!

And proceeds to tell me how cruel we are, not answering the phone when she's desperately wanting to talk to her grandson on his birthday! And how they've tried us at home, and on each one of our cells and we don't answer any of them.

I tell her I don't know what she's talking about, but my call display on my cell did not show them calling.

That launches her into a "are you calling me a liar?" speech, which I interrupt by telling her that I am saying that I would never say that, but that my call display didn't show any missed calls.

Then I tell her that I don't know when she called, but that we've been home almost all day, except for 45 minutes in the morning when we took Little Man to the park, and then from 3:30 on for his party, which she knew what time it was at, since I sent her an invitation.

And that pisses her off again. She tell me that yes, she did receive an invitation but that she didn't want to call before the party, because I'd be angry at her because I'd be busy with the party.

Seriously? I would have been pissed at her for calling to wish him a happy birthday? Not if she'd called at nine in the morning. I had no freaking idea that I'm this tyrant.

During her rant about how she didn't understand how I could do this to her after everything she's done for us (no idea what this is referring to. My only guess would be that they drove down to join us on our family vacation, which I invited them to but they were far from obligated), I keep interrupting her to tell her "do you want to speak to him? He's right here," but of course, in martyr mode, she can't hear anything but the sound of her own voice.

After my repeating that Little Man is right here and would she like to speak to him or not, she finally stops long enough to say she'd like to.

After the phone call, I'm really upset. The day has pretty much been ruined for me and of course, I look at our phone's call display, and my parents had called, but twice. Not six times like my mother claimed. Once was at 6:50 p.m. Which with the party ending at 7 p.m. and it not being at home, we simply couldn't have been there for. The second time was at 7:20, when we were still packing up all the decorations, gifts, etc. to make our way home. Once again, kind of not home, so couldn't get to the home phone, you know?

She also called Sweetie Pie's cell phone once, also during the party or right after, but he didn't have it with him, since it was a pool party and all and well, he doesn't like to submerge his cell phone, he's wacky like that.

The next day, I called my sisters to find out what the H-E-double hockey stick that was all about, and they told me that they told our mother she was being psycho.

And then? My sisters? Told me how my dad and one of my sisters went golfing in the morning, and my mom decided to wait until they were back to call Little Man for his birthday.

When she realized how late it was and we didn't answer? She assumed that I was really angry with her for not calling sooner and was refusing to answer the phones.

So really, because she felt bad for not calling sooner, she turned it around and made this all about me and how evil I am, when really, I was just at my fucking child's party.

The best part? Is I couldn't care less whether they called or not. Because my son? He's two years old. He doesn't even understand that it's his birthday or what it means. And he couldn't give a rat's ass whether anyone called him or not.

So really? Even if my mother hadn't called at all? I wouldn't have been upset.

But her calling me and making me out to be this horrible person, that, however, really did piss me off.

Catwoman.

Monday, September 03, 2007

Twenty-Four Months: My Letter to Little Man

Two years ago, yesterday, you came into this world. Unlike just about every mom on the planet, I can't finish that sentence with the words "screaming like a banshee" or "singing Backstreet Boys songs", because I slept through your birth. This might sound shocking to you, because really, what kind of mother sleeps through the most important moment of her first born's life? I figure you can get back at me by getting wasted and sleeping through my funeral when I die at the ripe old age of 99. That way we'll be even and people will think you're extra devastated and make you lots of food. So really, a win-win for both of us. No need to thank me.



It's still shocking to me that you've gone and turned two years old on me. I mean, seriously? Was this absolutely necessary? Wasn't my heart broken enough with your first birthday? But no, you had to go and continue growing, although I do use that term loosely, considering you are still wearing 6-9 months sized shorts and continue to work towards a career as a white rapper, with your diaper or pull up teasing the girls by peeking over the top of your shorts and pants. We all know nothing makes the girls crazier than a flash of a man's diaper.

So much has happened during the past year. You've discovered that throwing a tantrum can be an art that involves turning your legs to jello, screaming against the floor like a Sicilian widow and hitting. We've also found out that you have an underbite, which you've since embraced as a fantastic talent and now walk around with your bottom teeth pursed out and you bottom lip pulled down, so that you look a little like what I imagine the child of Brad Pitt and a hyena would ressemble. You've also discovered a love for television that definitely surpasses mine, a feat that seemed impossible before you were born, what with my super-human ability to watch any episode marathon of any MTV show.



This past month, you've somehow developed an obsession with The Mickey Mouse Club House. You'll ask repeatedly, any time we're at home for more than 8.2 seconds, "Mickey House? Okay!" At times, I'll tell you that Mickey is sleeping. And often, that will be enough to convince you that you should do something else, like torture the dog. Until you realize that there are other shows you can ask for and so you'll suddenly ask me "Jojo's Circus?" And I tell you that Jojo's pimp has beaten her up and she won't be coming out of the hospital for another week.

I assume that these kinds of statements are the reason you can watch Law & Order with us and exclaim "Oh goodness!" when the bad guy is convicted of a double murder. I'm not sure if that's your Canadian roots showing your discomfort with the idea of the death penalty, or your Texan heritage that believes that anyone in jail should be shot, just because the second amendment exists.



Milestones this month include developing an aversion to shoes. You own three pairs of shoes currently: your Nike sneakers, your Stride Rite sandals and your fake crocs, none of which you are willing to wear. Your teacher has nicknamed you the country bumpkin, because the second you can, you remove shoes and socks and proudly exclaim "pieds!", the French word for feet, like you have just been reunited with long lost friends. And then, suddenly, we had a breakthrough. I pulled out your next size up shoes, gorgeous chocolate brown suede shoes, and when you saw them, you deemed them good enough for your feet. These were the types of shoes you were born to wear, designer shoes that are meant to look good with jeans, but that you, my fashion-forward son have deemed to look extra fashionable with shorts and rompers. I told some of the other moms in your class that I felt like I should get you a sign that says "I dressed myself today," but I've now decided that this fashion faux-pas of yours advertises your single status to the ladies and hopefully, one of them can become your wife and teach you that the world will end if you leave the house dressed like this.

Your eating is now about as unpredictable as your grandmother's mood swings. You've now completely sworn off yogurt, your source of sustenance only a few months ago. You will, however, regularly eat two bananas for breakfast and regularly ask for apples as a snack. Otherwise, you drink milk and that's about it. One of the only exceptions is Mexican food, which I believe my obsession with Tabasco sauce when I was pregnant with you makes you think that we are from the land of the tortilla, as a couple of weeks ago we took you to a chain Mexican restaurant and you devoured your kids meal and even stole my refried beans and Mexican rice. Your belly's skin was so taut after that meal that I expected you to burst like a pinata if I poked you.



The other food you are willing to eat is ice cream. Every time I come to tell you it's dinner time, you look at me, and with hopeful eyes ask "ice cream?", like somehow we've made it a regular habit to eat a bowl of ice cream and call it dinner. When I tell you that there is no ice cream, I might as well tell you that our Tivo has deleted every episode of The Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and the Disney Channel will no longer be airing it. That or the world is ending, you know, something really important and bad.

You now love to tickle me and your dad. You'll run up to us with a large grin and make this weird noise that's your tickling noise, that spelled phonetically sounds like "Kahta, Kahta." Although your tickling skills still need work, your sounds are so funny, that our laughter has to lead you to think that you could win some kind of tickling competition. By the time you become a teenager, there's a good chance that tickling could become an Olympic sport, since really, it's no more a sport than badminton or table tennis, so this could very well become your thing.



Your vocabulary keeps growing exponentially. And as it does, more of your quirks come through. My two current favorite things you say incorrectly are the fact that you call Winnie the Pooh "Winnie the Poop" and anything green that you don't know the word for is "green grass." You'll regularly ask us for green grass and we have to guess which of the approximately 10 billion green things on this planet you want.

You also make me laugh every diaper change by proclaiming "Pew-wee!" when I remove the diaper, a sentiment I completely share, believe me. And the other day, when I blew my nose in front of you, you wrinkled your nose in disgust and proclaimed "thass yucky, Mama." And so it begins.

You have an amazing heart and are fiercely loyal. During the past week, I've been singing "Happy Birthday" to you to get you used to the song, and every time I've finished a rousing rendition with your name, you make me sing it again for each one of the dogs, for the cat, for Daddy, for myself and then for each one of your friends, until I tire so much of the game that I let you watch Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.



My suspicion is that you're also a brilliant man with an infinite number of tactics for getting your way.

And so with another year of adventures behind us, I can't help but wonder what the next year will hold for you. You're starting Spanish and computer lab at school, which is frightening to me that your daycare's curriculum is as advanced as my high school's was. I'm guessing that by the time you're four years old, we will no longer be able to talk about anything else than the weather, since your intellect will have surpassed mine and you'll wonder how anyone can be allowed to procreate without knowing quantum physics.



I expect that by your third birthday you'll have moved to your big boy room and be sleeping in your big boy bed. You'll probably be potty trained, since your school has already begun the process and you actually willingly sat on the potty for us today, which is so much huger than the time the Toronto Blue Jays won the world series and I got to walk up and down Yonge Street and be part of the once in a lifetime celebrations. By the time you're three, I'm thinking you'll also be working on your first novel and have mastered the perfect cheese souffle.

And the thing is? If in a year you haven't reached any of those milestones? It'll be fine with me. As long as you know how to make me the perfect gin and tonic. Because once you've got that down, the rest of life just figures itself out.



I'm so lucky to have gotten to be your Maman for the past two years. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined that some day, the greatest accomplishment of my life would be this wild haired boy with the smile of a Hollywood star and a laugh that warms up any rainy day. You are so much cooler than I could ever dare to be. And I'm so proud of you, no matter what the world may have in store for you, and that pride, I promise you, will never, ever waver. As constant as my love for you will be, so will my pride of all your accomplishments, no matter how small. I promise that I'll be the mom who brags to all the other teenage boy moms that my son can make armpit noises way louder than their sons'. No matter how hard life might become, just know that I'll be there, on the sidelines, cheering you on.

I love you my Little Man,

Maman.