Friday, November 30, 2007

My New Addiction

Dooce posted about this today and I've just fallen completely and utterly in love.

I want a Charlie...

Love,

Catwoman.

Although I Still Think Matt Lauer is Kinda Sexy

I was watching the first few minutes of the Today Show this morning, as I try to do every day and of course, as has been the case for weeks now, the Stacy Peterson case was their top story. Why this disappearance is more interesting than the other hundreds of women, men and children who have probably disappeared since then, I'm guessing is because she's white, young and attractive.

An old African-American woman disappeared in Dallas around the same time Stacy Peterson did. Yesterday, her body was found. The story that briefly mentioned the finding of the body was on our local broadcast, squeezed between traffic and a story about artificial Christmas trees versus real Christmas trees. Where is Meredith to interview this woman's family begging for her return and asking for assistance in the search? Even worse? I've now tried to find on local sites the name of the woman and I can't seem to find any news stories about it.

I'm going to step off this soap box now, to get on another one. This morning? On the Today Show, they had a guy on who was talking about how Drew Peterson, Stacy Peterson's husband might have disposed of the body in a blue container. How did this guy know this? Because apparently, he went to Junior High School 19 years ago with Drew Peterson's half brother. And he still kind of knows the guy and apparently the half brother has told people he thinks he helped him accidentally.

What draws these people to be on television and take such pleasure in a family's pain in order to tell others "hey, I was on the Today Show! Isn't that cool????"

When I was in university, I worked one year at a Second Cup, the Canadian equivalent of Starbucks, and the reason that I still harbor resentment for big, bad American Starbucks, because I was raised to believe that you support Canadian companies, damn it. Now that I'm in the US, it's obviously not as big of a concern, since there really aren't Canadian companies here to pick over the US companies, but the companies I grew up resenting, well, it's still hard for me to give them my money.

Like I still won't go to a Dunkin Donuts, because I'm a Tim Horton's girl. Nearest Tim Horton's to me? Uhm, probably about 1,600 miles. I'm what they call a brand loyalist.

Either way. I had some regulars while I worked at that Second Cup. If I actually had a long term memory, I might remember one or two of them. And for this exercise we'll pretend I do. Let's say one of my regulars that I remember disappears. And the case actually becomes interesting to media. Never would it occur to me to call one of the news stations and say "oh, I knew him back then, and I think he was kind of slutty, maybe that's why he's gone now."

Because really? If you knew someone 19 years ago, chances are, there nothing like you remember. Anyone who has gone to Junior High with me would describe me as awkward, shy, but then really talkative once I got to know them. Although I'm extremely talkative still, the rest of that phrase, not so much applies to me anymore.

I do still think of myself as awkward. Things will come out of my mouth, that I want to quickly grab and destroy before everyone has a chance to realize what I said. People around me? Consider these verbal diarrhea attacks charming and particularly witty.

Someone who knew me in junior high would also say that I was too skinny with no boobs. I think it's fair to say now that this description would apply to me as well as the spam emails offering me pills that will enlarge my member to make her scream all night.

I wonder who else might gravely look in the camera asking for my safe return. The neighbor who I've never spoken to, but wave at every time our cars pass on our street? My super in Toronto who met me once when I got the keys from him and said to never call him unless my apartment was on fire, leading me to have a broken oven for more than a year, until a new super started, because I didn't want to make him mad. Maybe the airline passenger I spilled an entire tray of orange juice on once during my flight attendant career.

What gives any of these people a right to have a public voice during someone's tragedy?

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, November 29, 2007

It's Beginning To Look a Lot Like Christmas

So I have to say, I love, love, love Christmas time. A time where people shove each other at the mall, in their race to buy crap that the recipient will promptly hide in the back of their closet and then two years later sell for 2 dollars at their garage sale, or donate it to the Salvation Army so that poor people are stuck trying to decide what to do with it.

We put up our tree last week, which is always an event that destroys the Dallas power grid, because I believe that a Christmas tree is not a real Christmas tree if it isn't adorned with at least 125,609 white bulbs.

Then, we put up our 239 mismatched ornaments, because there are two schools of tree decorating, the Martha Stewart all one-color tree decorating, which to me is a little like sorting one's closets by shirt color and season, I mean come on, let loose, fart in public, really live man! Which puts me in the second category, which is that no more than two ornaments on the tree can match, and each year you add more, so that your tree ressembles something a three-year old put together when he was really, really drunk.

Sweetie Pie? He was raised in a family from the first kind of Christmas tree, which really isn't surprising, since he's Baptist and all, and color, like dancing, is considered to be a sin.

And so our tree is up. And the decorations are on. And yet, every day since we've put it up, Little Man goes around the tree, handpicks his favorite ornaments, removes them and carries them around, like they're his personal treasures. When you ask him what the hell he's doing, he just looks at you and tells you that "It's Little Man's." Because to a two-year old, everything is his. Even my mascara and my maxi pads are his.

I'm thinking we'll need to break him of this by the time he's a teenager, so he's not stealing cars and claiming to the cops that duh, they're his.

My shopping is almost done, which of course means that my eyes are twitching, because shopping? How can it ever be done? As long as there are paychecks earned, money has to be spent, right?

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

When Genetics Go Terribly Wrong

This morning, Little Man leads me to the pantry, as he always does, to choose his breakfast.

When we get there, he looks up at the shelves above him, the ones where I hide all the food he shouldn't have and he says "I want this one?"

I follow his hand with my eyes and realize that he's pointing at a bag of spaghetti. My child? Loves to eat raw pasta for some reason. He could literally eat an entire box of macaroni raw, if I would let him, but unfortunately, my fear of him having no teeth won't allow him to get on the raw diet that has made Demi Moore so hot.

So I tell him that no, he cannot have spaghetti.

And since every book on raising toddler tells you to distract them with something they can have in order to avoid a tantrum, I tell him "would you like these powdered donuts instead?"

Because what could be a more nutritious breakfast than processed dough that has been fried and coated in pure crack?

My son acquiesces that yes, this is a mighty good plan for breakfast, so I get him his cup of soy milk (we were out of Coke, obviously), and place him on the bed in front of the television while I finish getting ready for work.

I can hear all of you running to call CPS from here. Does it help if I tell you I give him a Flinstone vitamin?

So as I'm eating my healthy breakfast which consists of a little coffee drowned by 3 cups of flavored creamer with a toasted English muffin smothered by a stick of unsalted butter (oh God, how my taste buds are salivating again just at the description...), Little Man calls to me. Thinking he must have already inhaled the four mini donuts and that he's asking for more, I brace myself for having to tell him that I will not be giving him another package of donuts.

As I walk in, he has a look of disgust on his face and says "no more donuts momma" and he proceeds to shove the remaining 3.5 donuts towards me. My legs buckle at this point, because I'm concerned that he will never fit in here in Texas, the land of lard biscuits covered in lard gravy and that he'll be deported to California, where he'll open a restaurant that serves nothing but rice cakes coated in wheat germ and grass.

He then proceeded to break my heart by asking for a banana.

It is very clear to me now that the hospital? They gave me the wrong child.

To get over the sadness that fills my heart, I ate those 3.5 donuts. It was a hollow feeling.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, November 26, 2007

Preparing For My Future Role as the Inappropriate Mother-In-Law

Little Man rushes into the living room clutching two bouncy balls.

"I have two balls! I have two balls!

- Yes you do, Sweetie, and I'm sure your future wife would be very pleased to hear it."

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Being Thankful

Since it's the day before Thanksgiving, I thought I'd just blog about the things I'm thankful for:

- I'm thankful for my wonderful Little Man, who's smart, funny, healthy and loves me so much that I'm reduced to tears just thinking about it.

- I'm thankful for being healthy, albeit overweight if you look at my body mass index (BMI).

- I'm thankful for maternity pants, despite not being pregnant, since I can't fit into any of my normal pants without showing off one mean camel toe.

- I'm thankful for my awesome husband and I'm especially thankful that he's very well hung. I'd love him even if he wasn't, but it's a nice bonus.

- I'm thankful for the Food Network's Web site and the fact that 90 percent of what I'm cooking tomorrow for our big feast comes from their Web site.

- I'm thankful for People Magazine realizing the hotness that is Matt Damon. I'd stuff his cavity with lemon wedges and herbs and roast him for Thanksgiving if I could.

- I'm thankful for Old Dog and Satan's Dog and my really, really ancient cat and am thankful that I have made it through the year without losing another pet to illness.

- I'm thankful for my friends, the ones who are close, the ones who are far, the ones I talk to every day and the ones I speak to once a year. Life is better because of them.

- I'm thankful for my blog. It's been a free therapist for me. I get to talk about anything I want and never feel judged for it. Every one should be this lucky to have an outlet like a blog.

- I'm thankful for our troops and their willingness to do the best they can in a really, really crappy war that most people in the US and around the world don't support. But I want you home, because my heart aches every day for you, your moms, your sons and daughters and your sisters and brothers. Please be safe and come home.

- I'm thankful for Passport Canada employees who have a sense of humor and can laugh when I call them back and tell them my mother is crazy and that's the only reason I have two middle names, but that I'm fine with them not including the second one because they can't do so.

- I'm thankful that my inlaws are extremely generous and have decided to take the whole family to Hawaii next April, because I don't think we'd ever in a million years have enough money to go if we had to pay for it.

- I'm thankful that even though I'm hosting the big event tomorrow, I'm actually very well organized and should get through the day without any tears.

- I'm thankful I'm a woman and have one killer set of boobs.

- All in all, I'm just thankful to be lucky enough to have the life I have. I'm healthy, can feed my family and am very, very loved. I'm thankful to have been so very blessed.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Dear Dora the Explorer:

First, let me begin by saying that I'm glad that my son gets to see a strong, feisty girl look for pirate treasures and get through icky sticky mud, rather than some weepy whiny chick who sits around wishing for a prince. I'm like you where I don't give a shit that it makes me weird to hang out with a monkey and to like climbing volcanoes. And I think it's nice for my son to see that I'm not the only girl like that. I think that because of you, he'll grow up to be a modern man, who does his share of the household chores and doesn't call flight attendants "babe" while slapping them on the ass.

You do, however, creep me out. Let's begin with your ginormous head. I mean, I'm all about liking people who are different. I realize that not everyone can have a proportionate head, like Victoria Beckham for example. She's married to one of the hottest men, and yet she looks like one of those giant lollipops from the fair. But I am curious to know how in the world that little neck of yours can hold up that giant head. And does your mom have to buy t-shirts from the big and tall store and then cut off the excess fabric?

Also? Sometimes I feel like despite the uncomfortable staring at me thing that you do, where you just look at me blankly and blink me some weird secret morse code message, you actually don't listen to anything I say. Like sometimes, you'll ask me a question, and just because I'm a smart ass, I'll answer incorrectly, just to piss you off. But this doesn't seem to phase you at all and you just answer "that's right!" No, Dora, it's actually not right. And I say incorrect things as a cry for attention and you choose to ignore it, you heartless bitch. And just to make it worse, at the end of the show? When you ask me what my favorite part of the day was? Sometimes, I'll tell you what I liked and you say to me "oh yeah, I liked that part too," but I can feel that you didn't listen to a word I said. Then? You launch into your favorite part and sometimes, your favorite part, is exactly what I just said word for word.

This is usually when I scream at you that I hate you and that I want to kill that stupid monkey friend of yours and feed him to you in my home made tortillas. OK, they're store bought and warmed up, but they taste homemade.

You know what? I take it back. I do think it's weird that you hang out with a monkey. Especially one that wears rubber boots and no pants.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, November 19, 2007

BREAKING NEWS: I'm Officially Old

It's happened people. Sometime around 5:28 p.m. yesterday, I officially became a crotchety old lady.

I'm so sorry. I tried to stop it as long as I could. I mean, I still listen to teeny bopper music. I leer inappropriately at 20-year old boys who jog topless (come on, they're just asking to be treated like meat when they let their nipples get chafed by the warm air. And you know what would make that chafing better? Me rubbing warm oil all over their chest... ... Uhm. Where was I?).

Sorry. I'm back. I've done everything in my power to make sure that I became one of those ladies on Maury Povich whose teenagers take them on the show because they're like so embarrassing with like their wearing of mid-riff baring Hannah Montana baby tees.

Except I have a gut on me now. So no mid-riff for me. Plus, I couldn't name you one Hannah Montana song, due to the lack of 6-year old girls in my house. Well, that's not true. I keep hearing them talking about Hannah Montana on the radio. So I know that she has this one song named Best of Both Worlds.

Is losing track of your point another sign of old age?

If it is, case closed. Throw me in the old folks home.

But there are two realizations that occurred yesterday that made me realize that those are two age spots on my face, and not random freckles, what with me never having freckled in my whole life.

I was at the nice grocery store by our house getting a few things for Thanksgiving yesterday afternoon, just getting the things that Walmart in all of its trashiness doesn't carry.

I spotted two teenage girls about 15 or 16 years old, who were gossiping. These are the type of girls who made my life a living hell in high school, so I tend to have disdain with them. They're the pretty girls and the ones whose moms agree with them that school is a fashion show, so they have the cool clothes instead of the ones grandma sent them like I did. Not that I'm bitter, or anything. As I was passing them, I realized that the prettiest one wasn't wearing shoes. In the freaking grocery store. Now I have to say that I'm foot-phobic. So this isn't going to help with my having a huge problem with this. I mean is there not a freaking sign in front of every store, particularly stores with food that say you must wear shoes?

I glowered at them, which of course they didn't notice, since I'm in my 30's, which to a 15 year-old is about 10 gazillion years old. As I passed them, I was so disgusted that I finally whirled around and said loudly, since I don't have an inside voice "You do realize that you have to wear shoes in the store?" She stopped her conversation and looked embarrassed and nodded slightly. But I was on a roll and shaking with anger. "That's absolutely disgusting and against the law." Because not only am I old, but I'm also a legal expert, don't you know. In my world? Also illegal? Matt Damon wearing a shirt. Him topless in the grocery store? No problems and the total antonym of disgusting. Unless he's far away from the chocolate syrup, then I might be slightly annoyed.

Then on the way home, I was stopped at a red light and day dreaming, as old people tend to do. The light turned green and I didn't notice, so the driver behind me honked. I waved to apologize and putterred through the intersection. Apparently I was going too slow, because the other car veered around me. I looked over and realized that the driver? Was a woman looking like she was in her late 70's, with a full head of white permed tight curls, a lot like my grandmothers.

Apparently I'm so old, that even senior citizens can't stand me.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, November 16, 2007

It Just Doesn't Sound Good

Here's an email I received the other day from Sweetie Pie.

"Subject: Money

Body of email:

This ends tonight.

(pasted text from online banking site) current balance: $0.00"

Good thing the man only has a yellow belt in tae kwondo, right?

So I came home and we fought for two hours after Little Man went to bed. And Sweetie Pie? Thinks I need to see a therapist because in his words, I have issues when it comes to money. Which I admit, I'm terrible with money. I've never claimed that I wasn't.

But here's why he thinks I need therapy. I spent 120 dollars at Target. I told him that I didn't mean to spend that much, and that I'd just gone in to buy hummus. Because the Target brand hummus is the best one ever.

And Sweetie Pie said "how the hell does hummus cost 120 bucks?"

To which I replied that it doesn't. But after getting the hummus, Little Man spotted the green apples, so I bought a bag of organic green apples for him. And then I thought I'd check to see if Target carried my Indian sauce that I use to make my chicken curry. And they did. And since it's hard to find, I bought two of those. Then, I remembered that Little Man is out of vitamins. Then I remembered I was running low on prenatal vitamins. Then I saw some organic baby shampoo, body wash and stretch mark cream on clearance for 90 percent off. Then I saw the perfect Christmas present for my sister. Then Little Man fell in love with a Elmo goes potty sound book. Then I saw some tulip bulbs on clearance.

And so on, and so on.

I get to the cash register and I have $120 hummus.

And the man thinks that I'm crazy because of that.

Little does he know that I'm actually crazy because of the voices in my head who tell me that Brad Pitt is the father of my future children and I will not rest until I obtain his sperm.

I'm kidding about that.

Well, only half of it.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, November 15, 2007

Becoming a Mom

Proof that sometime during the past 2 years, 2 months and 11 days, I've become a mother.

- When Little Man says "ewww!" and shoves a piece of half chewed apple in my mouth, I'm barely disgusted.

- When Little Man begins to throw up on the couch and I scoop him up to bring him to the sink, I don't even think twice about cupping my hand around his mouth to catch the vomit.

- I also don't throw up myself, when I can't even stand to see someone throw up on TV without gagging.

- I can quote entire scenes from Finding Nemo and don't find it sad that it probably has topped When Harry Met Sally as the movie I've seen the most in my lifetime.

- I also don't find it odd that until two months ago, I'd seen Finding Nemo exactly once. And that the number of Finding Nemo viewings probably currently hovers around 10,982 times.

- When Little Man does something cute in public and someone smiles because of it, my heart practically bursts with pride.

- Like last night, when we were in Walmart and I said "oh, we need bacon!" and I reached into the case to grab it and Little Man said to me "good job, Mama!" The woman next to us couldn't help but look at him, smile and consider stealing him for herself.

- 24 months ago, I couldn't have recalled something amusing from the day before. And it sure as hell wouldn't have made me grin ear to ear all over again the way memories of my son do.

- Anytime I'm in public by myself with my Little Man, everyone I encounter looks like a potential kidnapper.

- If halfway through the work day I can't remember what Little Man was wearing that morning, I panic, because what if he went missing and we couldn't find him because of my forgetfulness?

- I don't find it upsetting when my mini back seat driver says "CRASH!" whenever I have to brake suddenly.

- I wonder how two years ago I couldn't even have an inkling of how great it is to walk into a room and be only referred to as "Little Man's Mama."

- I often feel like getting on every roof top in town and shouting the greatness that is my child.

- I've figured out that all those years that I kept thinking that fart and poop jokes are funny prepared me for having a son.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

One Year

Today is my one-year anniversary at work. Last week, I wasn't sure I would get to celebrate this day, because I f-ed up really, really bad. To the point of cold sweats and face buried in my hands moaning and just praying that my badge worked when I returned the next day.

In fact, last week might go down as the worst week ever. Between my world coming to a halt at work, my son projectile vomitting everywhere on my way into work on Thursday, so that I had to choice but to enter the building with a vomit-covered child in order to grab my laptop and return home and then of course, Friday, bringing the week to a screeching halt, where vomit and screw ups seemed so minor quite suddenly.

And somehow, I made it, today, one year ago, I dropped off my son at daycare for the first time and joined the ranks of millions of working moms. I went to play for the other team, the one that feels a different kind of guilt and that obsesses over every decision, wondering if she is forever damaging her child. In other words, nothing really changed. If there's something I've never done, it's judge other moms. I admit I may have done it before I had kids, because, well, don't we all?

But once I became a mom, and worked part-time from home, I felt like I was in a weird twilight zone, not fully a stay-at-home mom, not fully a working mom. This meant I couldn't always go have fun with my stay-at-home mommy friends and I felt like I neglected my son at times because I sometimes had deadlines.

Not once did I ever think that one group had it better than the other, though. Because both sides have their own guilt. That's what motherhood brings you. Some say that no one can teach you guilt better than a Catholic or a Jewish mother. What they don't tell you is that when you become a mother yourself, you reach a whole new level of guilt, one that can eat you alive, limb by limb, even worse than a staph infection.

I remember sitting in my cubicle that dreary November week, and watching my heart-broken son on the daycare's Web cam system. He'd sit in the corner after I dropped him off, and wouldn't move or interact with anyone, like he couldn't believe that I wouldn't come right back to save him. And as I watched him bury his face in his frog, tears would drench my keyboard, and I would silently sob and curse myself for ruining his life.

I still don't know if going back to work is the best decision. At the time, it was the only decision I could make. We were completely broke and if I hadn't gone back to work, a second child would not have been feasible, since you can't buy maternity health insurance in Texas if you're self-employed. Also, I was running myself ragged with guilt, because I felt like I was doing everything badly. I felt like I was neglecting my son when I was working, but when I played with my son, I felt like I was letting my clients down.

The house was never clean, I just felt like I was on a treadmill that was speeding up constantly and I just couldn't keep up with any of it.

Being a working mom works for me. My life is categorized for me. There's Little Man time. Then work time. Then Little Man time. Then Sweetie Pie time. I don't feel like I'm having to divide my attention at any point.

A year ago today, I changed my life. For the better? I don't know. But we've made it work. And I hope to be here many more years, if I don't mess it up completely.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, November 12, 2007

Healing

First, I'd like to thank all of you for your sweet thoughts, well wishes and prayers. Although I didn't get to read them until a few minutes ago, let me tell you that they did help. It's nice to know that my little blog has made so many of you root for me, cheer for me and comfort me when I'm down. Never did I imagine when I first started this online diary that anyone would read it, let alone care.

So the doctor say's I've had a chemical pregnancy. It's not uncommon, it doesn't mean anything's wrong, and I know that I just have to get back on the horse, uh Sweetie Pie, and try again.

I can't believe I have to put out again. There really is no fairness to this world.

This weekend was supposed to be our romantic weekend get away, remember? The one with the bed and breakfast with the television?

When I originally booked it, I figured that one of two things would happen. Either, I wouldn't be pregnant and we could try really really hard in someone else's bed. Or I'd be pregnant, and we could just enjoy each other's company.

Instead, the trip became one that was necessary to heal and regroup. I have to say, nothing gets you over a broken heart faster than wine tastings at vineyards. In fact? I've sampled so many wines this weekend that I actually had a hang over at 10 p.m. I didn't even know you could get a hang over before morning. The good thing about an evening hang over? Is you get to sleep it off.

The thing that makes me sad is that the next time I get pregnant? It will be tainted. When I tell people, they'll worry that it'll end in heartbreak, their joy will be tampered. I know, because my sister's had a miscarriage and we couldn't help but worry when she announced she was pregnant with my niece. I've always believed in loving like you've never been hurt before.

Should I be pregnant at the end of the month, I won't worry, instead, I'll choose to be excited all over again.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, November 09, 2007

Part of the Minority

There's a statistic that states that 33 percent of all pregnancies end in miscarriage. And today, I'm a statistic.

Last pregnancy, I got to be the 1 in 150,000 pregnancies that develops HELLP Syndrome.

This time, I get to be part of a much larger portion of the population, one that loses a baby.

For a week now, I got to be over the moon with the happiness of knowing I'd have another baby. For a week now, I've worried, fretted, anticipated, smiled too much and lovingly rubbed my belly, with its layer of fat now serving as a protection barrier.

But in the back of my mind, there was this growing concern. When I took my expensive digital pregnancy test last Friday, it lit up like a Christmas tree.

I took another one Saturday, just because I'm like that, I like to know things and have them stated to me multiple times. I got another positive.

On Sunday, I was out of expensive tests, so I started testing with my friend's left over eBay cheap pregnancy tests. It came back negative.

I wasn't worried. I figured, it's a cheap test! My period's not technically due yet if I were to have a normal 28 day cycle, and my cycle's been all over the map.

I tested again on Tuesday, and the cheap test came back negative.

Same thing on Thursday. Same thing this morning.

I mentioned to Sweetie Pie yesterday that I was concerned. Why could I not get these cheap tests to show positive? I could last time with Little Man.

This morning, I stopped by the pharmacy for an expensive test. I snuck the test into work and peed on the stick in a stall.

As I was wiping myself after peeing, there it was. A red blotch.

The world went dark. I knew what it was, but I kept reasoning with myself that it must be the fetus implanting itself or the placenta or something else.

I sat through a meeting, my brain refusing to completely believe, toilet paper stuffed in my underwear, just to keep track.

When I came out of my meeting, I rushed to the bathroom, and this time, it wasn't just spotting.

I've lost my baby.

I know that right at this moment, thousands of women around the world are probably losing a baby to miscarriage too. I know that their heartbreak combined with mine is enough to make the weight of the world a little heavier.

I wanted this baby so much.

I loved him or her already.

I have a doctor's appointment at 1:15. I've never dreaded anything more.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

It Has Begun

So yesterday? I had my first doctor's appointment. And I was really, really excited about it.

I thought about just sneaking off, since most people don't know about HJB, but then I figured that just because I was going to a doctor's appointment did not make it sound like I was pregnant.

I got to the doctor's office, ready to be prodded, poked and weighed. I'd even shaved my legs and my bikini line for it, which is a big deal, because I only do that for anniversaries and Sweetie Pie's birthday.

A few minutes after I sat down, the receptionist calls me over.

"Catwoman, who told you to come in today?

- Uhm... I have an appointment.

- About that, uhm, we don't have you down and the doctor can't squeeze you in.

- What? But I made the appointment on Friday!

(receptionist punches furiously into the computer to avoid pregnant woman tears)

- Uhm, it seems you have an appointment but on Tuesday, November 20th.

- The 20th? Are you sure?

(looks at screen again)

- Yes, I'm sure. And I see there that I made the appointment and now I clearly remembering speaking to you and saying Tuesday, November 20th.

- Oh, I heard you say Tuesday and then I think I stopped listening because I was so excited."

So, folks, there you have it. The length of my attention span? Has officially been reduced to one word. If you try to say anything longer than one word to me, I will forget immediately what you've said.

Since they felt sorry for me, they gave me a pregnancy-safe flu shot and weighed me, even though I argued with them that since I didn't have an appointment, there was really no need for this, plus, I had put on lipstick by that point, which I'm sure added a few pounds.

I'm officially five pounds lighter than Sweetie Pie. This means that after Thanksgiving and until next summer? I will weigh more than him. I'm pretty sure that could be grounds for murder.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

Because He Enjoys Torturing Me

I'll admit it right now.

I can't stand the Wiggles.

I don't care if this makes me a bad person.

I don't care if you call me a heartless bitch who doesn't have a soul.

I don't care that they are millionaires, so obviously they must be likable.

I? Cannot stand them.

I think the Wiggle's show might be the worse thing on television. If I were given a choice between watching Ultimate Fighting Championship or The Wiggles, well, I'd probably just get on Facebook and turn off the TV, really.

Little Man has not been exposed to the Wiggles. Because why would I subject my son to something that makes my eyeballs and ear drums throb and filled with grown men wearing red, purple, blue and yellow shirts, grinning maniacally like they're about to eat my spleen for dinner.

Little Man, somehow has uncovered the Wiggles. I'd blame school, since it would be the only place he might have been tortured with this, but apparently, on movie day, which is Wednesday, the kids each and every time clamor for Satan's illegitimate daughter, Dora. Which Little Man now requests episodes of her highness with the shrieking voice and purple monkey by asking for "Dora? D-d-d-d-d-Dora?", because if he didn't say it like in the theme song, I might think he was asking for that other Dora.

I finally put two and two together when Little Man kept asking for The Wiggles that he was seeing promos for it on The Disney Channel, while watching his Mickey Mouse Club House tivoed episodes.

Disney's promotions department is probably filled with people who challenge themselves by creating promos for ice cubes and then running them only in homes in the Arctic Circle, just to see if their powers of persuasion actually do have a limit.

Now, those promotions bastards have convinced my son that his life will never be whole if he doesn't watch the Wiggles.

I tivoed an episode for him, because I'm very weak when it comes to 3 foot tall blond blue eyed men, and I sat down to watch a little bit with him.

I couldn't believe it. The level of cheesiness. The horrible cheap looking costumes. The lameness of the acting. It was all worse then I expected. I looked at Little Man, and his face was blank.

"This show really sucks, eh?" I said.

His head whipped around 360 degrees, and he gave me the look of death to tell me that the cult of the Wiggles? They'd just ordered him to have me killed for stating such a blasphemous thought.

Somehow, he let me live.

And now I have that ridiculous "Hot Potato" song stuck in my head.

Four men in a little red car singing together? It's just not right, that's all, oil crisis or no oil crisis.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, November 05, 2007

Because I'm Pretty Much Insane

So yesterday? I hosted a playdate for our daycare class. All 18 kids and 36 parents.

Luckily? Not all of them could come. Which is good, what with me not living at Buckingham Palace and Little Man's swing set only having two swings.

However, 12 kids, 3 siblings and about 16 parents did come, and Little Man? Thought it was the best thing ever, because he was having a sociable day.

It was one of those perfect days, where the temperature was just warm enough that you could keep the door open, toys were sprawled everywhere, kids were running and laughing, parents were gossiping. Also? No juice boxes were spilled on my carpet, no kids were injured and the dogs didn't chew up anything while they were locked in our bedroom. In other words, I declare it a great success. I've always loved hosting things, it's that Martha Stewart in me, the one who wishes she was crafty enough to make the kids homemade November-themed favors and declares to everyone when they fawn over it "those? They're nothing! I just had 18.3 minutes to kill, that's all."

Me? I'm not crafty. Plus, I kill time on Facebooks' Scrabulous, which, because ever since finding out I'm pregnant I've been waking up at 3 a.m. like I've got all this excess energy to burn, I've been playing a lot of Scrabulous with people around the world or fellow insomniacs. I figure using time wisely in the middle of the night totally defeats the purpose of being up.

I've always known Little Man was a good sharer, but this weekend proved it all the more. He showed his friends all of his toys, played with everyone and never got upset that all of his buddies were using his stuff. All of the parents were impressed at what a gracious host he was. Only towards the end of the party, when only one of his girlfriends was left and he sat, exhausted, in his Pottery Barn chair with his name on it, and she walked up to him and smooshed herself into the chair and snuggled up to him, only then did he glare at her and snapped "my chair!" Like "I don't care that you're in love with me, get the hell out of my chair if you know what's good for you, woman."

Seriously, what's with these modern girls? Thinking they can just snuggle up to a man like that, without even having been on a date.

She later kissed him goodbye, on the mouth, leaving Little Man completely horrified. I'm guessing she's not his type, even though she screams his full name, first and last, at him whenever he's standing more than three feet away from him.

It's a technique I'd never attempted in my early days, unless I was really, really drunk. In two year-olds? Drunk flirting is done on way too much juice and sugar, apparently.

I must say that to those of us who are sober from no drinking or excessive cookie eating, it's just very cringe-worthy to watch.

Love,

Catwoman.

Sunday, November 04, 2007

Selling Really Is An Art, Not a Skill

This made me pee my pants. It's from an eBay listing for a maternity top (yes, I know, I need professional help...)

"Lining is NOT stretchy, so if you are enormous, don't buy this."

Seriously? You're trying to sell your stuff to women who get fatter by the second and you tell them, hey, fat ass, don't bust the seams of my little top, ok?

Me? Personally? I'd go with "sizes smaller than you'd expect".

But that's just me.

Love,

Catwoman.

Saturday, November 03, 2007

Twenty-Six Months: My Letter to Little Man

Dear Little Man,

Some might say that this newsletter is late because I'm posting it the day after your actual 26-month birthday, and I guess they would be right. In my defense, I started it almost two weeks ago, as I always do, because I've got too short of an attention span to remember all the amazing things you do to write this at the end of the month. Yesterday, I announced to the world that you have a sibling on the way. And as the oldest child myself, I can see how you might think that this new sibling is already displacing you, what with him/her deciding to make their presence known on your day. I bet you anything, he/she did it on purpose. Now go pull his/her three-week old fetus hair.



I want to place a bet right now, and that bet is that your future career will either include teaching or interrogation techniques. I feel it's a little early for me to choose between the two, so I'm going to settle for narrowing down your options to these two choices.

Many people who know me would say that I'm kind of oblivious, even when it comes to the obvious. However, the past month has been all about you quizzing me all. freaking. day., to the point that even I've noticed that the odds are very good that you will become an educator or a CIA interrogator.



We'll be sitting in the car, next to a multi-colored truck, one that has every color of the rainbow as part of its paint job, and you'll ask me "what color, Mama?"

Each time, my heart rate accelerates, my blood pressure rises and as I try to figure out which color you're thinking of, I'll take a shot in the dark. "uhm, it's red?"

Silence. Then a disapproving look from you followed by "no Mama, it's blue."



We'll keep doing this back and forth, and as I keep choosing the wrong color each time, your brow will suddenly furrow and I can see in your eyes that you are concerned that I won't be able to help you when you're attending Harvard and you're having trouble with a third year organic chemistry problem.

A few days ago, you were looking through an animal book, you pointed to a tiger and you said "Mama, what's that?" I responded, in French "c'est un tigre." You looked at me, shook your head and said "no, it's a tiger."



The only times I get to be right are when I know what you're pointing to, or when it's a word you don't know yet, like the time you pointed to a bulldozer, asked me what it is and when I told you, you thought about it for a second and said "yes, Mama, that's right."

I'm thinking you might be more of a science brain, than an artsy-fartsy man, as you don't like to get crazy creative, which unfortunately for you is my second-favorite thing to do after eating chocolate. You? Are more like the Baptist side of the family on the way things should be. If we do things a certain way once, you like them to be done the exact same way from that point on, because as you see it, that is the only right way. And we simply cannot do things the wrong way, we are civilized people, damn it.



I bought you a Mr. Potato Head and you enjoyed taking his various features off and putting them back in. After a few minutes of playing with it, I said to you "Look, what if we put his nose where his arm belongs!" And when I did it and laughed, you paused, looked alarmed and said "oh no, oh no!" and quickly fixed Mr. Potato Head, as if his sense of smell would be forever damaged by my callous attitude toward the plastic tater. From this point on, each time we have taken Mr. Potato Head apart and you hand me a piece so that I may help you, I know that I shouldn't mess around during such a risky surgery, instead, I should just put back the body parts where they belong. If I know what's good for me.

Then, just because I apparently like to make you upset because I obviously don't have any hobbies of my own, I decided that we'd use your Mr. Potato parts on our pumpkin. I know, I realize now that people have been hanged for such stupidity. But I'm still kind of new to this whole mother thing. When I tried to put one of Mr. Potato's arms on the pumpkin, you freaked and yelled "no mama! No pumpkin!" Because duh! That's very obviously a potato man nose and vampire teeth. Which do not under any circumstance belong on a pumpkin.



I have noticed lately how much you've impacted me, particularly with my speech. You tend to say "oh my goodness!" whenever something surprises you, pleases you, or just when you need an expletive. Lately, at work, I've found that instead of saying "oh..." followed by a four letter word that rhymes with truck or twit, I'll exclaim "oh my goodness!", just like you. I'm sure my coworkers think I'm some time traveling Baptist from the 50's, but every time I say it, it makes me smile, because it reminds me that since you came along, I'm a better person: I laugh more, I notice the little things, and I've learned that one episode of Mickey Mouse Club House a day, just isn't enough.



Looking at you often feels like looking into a kaleidoscope, full of blinding colors that give me the kind of bliss I never even knew existed, and yet, every time I turn my head slightly, I see something completely different. When you cry, I see my baby, my little man, the mussy haired toddler whose head fits perfectly in the crook of my shoulder, and whose breath against my neck makes every fiber of my body feel loved. When you laugh, I see the man you'll become, a happy generous person, with a laugh so infectious, that it often causes my entire rib cage to hurt from my own laughter in response to yours. When you talk, I see a little boy, no longer a baby and yet, with so much still to learn. Sometimes I worry that I don't retain enough of this time we have together, that you won't remember it at all and that I feel I must remember enough for both of us. I wish I could just capture your every move, every emotion, every word, every laugh, every funny thing you say on camera, so that I'd have them to cherish forever and ever.



I know that life won't always be this great. I realize, at times, as you grow up, our relationship might become awkward or strained. I hope this never happens, but I understand that you will change. I hope you never doubt, no matter what happens, how much I truly love you. And that I know how lucky I am to have had you enter my life, turn my world upside down and teach me to really live, really love, really be happy. To think that once upon a time, I had a life without you, a life where I didn't know that I could feel so much joy, it just boggles my mind at this point.



You have such a good heart, my sweet boy. If you are eating something and notice that I am not eating anything, you offer me a bite of your food. In the mornings, you almost always share your breakfast with me, even if it's a biscuit with jelly or a bagel with cream cheese, proof again that you are my carboholic genetic spin-off. If I ask you to give a toy you're playing with to one of your friends, you gladly surrender it every single time, without any complaints. I have so much left to learn from you. I just hope you don't ever get bored of teaching me.

I love you, my Little Man,

Maman.

Friday, November 02, 2007

This is How Dedicated of a Blogger I Am

Notice the time I'm blogging at? Yeah, that's how dedicated I am. I'm not officially part of the National Blogging Month, because I figure that I just can't be committed to anything that serious. I mean, sure I did the whole marriage thing, but that's not as serious of a committment as blogging every day for a month, what with Britney Spears having done the marriage thing, but her blogging is extremely sporadic.

So I've had the worst sore throat all week. Really, really bad. And even though that little counter said that tomorrow I could expect a visit from Aunt Flo, I wasn't sure about testing, because really, she could decide to make her visit at 28 days again, and the bitch is really sporadic these days. Plus? I'll be honest with you guys, because I always have been, in all the years we've been together. If I were pregnant this month, it would be an absolute miracle, because I've been really, really lazy about the whole putting out thing. And the best bets of my being pregnant? Were sadly, from a handjob. I'm not kidding you. I kind of turkey basted myself afterwards, just in case it happened to be a day. And I thought to myself that if I were pregnant, it'd be really really bad to nickname my unborn child HJB, a.k.a Handjob Baby, and therefore it wasn't going to happen.



The world is cruel right? So please help me come up with a better nickname than HJB. Also, if you're reading this before 6:30 a.m. CST? You've found out before Sweetie Pie. Yeah, you're welcome.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, November 01, 2007

Wishing Every Day Was Halloween







So my son? He's loving Halloween and as we speak, is writing to George W. to ask that every day be Halloween, because seriously? Standing on strangers doorsteps? Looking cute? And getting rewarded with pure sugar? Holy crap! Best day ever! How could anyone not have told him before that if he kept a hat on his head for more than five seconds, perfect strangers would give you candy! I'm sure he's wondering what other great things we're keeping from him. Like maybe, when we put him to bed, we stay up and do nothing but lick the floors with our tongues, because we're cruel and won't let him do that during the day.

I expected my anti-social spawn to hate the idea of having to stand in front of strangers. Considering he wouldn't even look at his best friend when we bumped into his family at a Mexican restaurant last week. So the idea of taking my son door to door, was one that I'd accepted would probably not turn out so good.

I'm all about low expectations, because then? No disappointment. This is also the reason I walk around all day saying that I'd be miserable if I were rich and had to wear Manolos on my feet. I'm thinking any day now, I'll win some lottery I somehow entered accidentally.

We went to about a dozen houses and Little Man thanked each and every person who gave him candy. However, he refused to say "trick or treat," because that's so stupid, man. Who would say such a stupid thing? And when kids came to our house afterwards and yelled trick or treat, Little Man looked at them with such disdain, like he was thinking how inferior these other children were, when he didn't have to say anything, no effort whatsoever, just standing at doors, and he got the candy anyway. Yes, he definitely found a loophole in the system, free candy, with only half the effort.

After he went to bed, Sweetie Pie and I went through his stash and did our parental duty and inhaled all candy that could be considered a choking hazard.

This left Little Man with a bag of mini pretzels, two suckers and three fun size bags of M&M's.

If he asks any questions, we're totally blaming the dogs.

Love,

Catwoman.