The timing ... oh, it's perfect!

Janice of Twist & Skewer awarded me this --



-- even as I verbally skewered my spouse all weekend, due to the latest bout of PMS. So can we blame him for snickering when I informed him that I'm "nice" and "thoughtful?"

I think not.

Even so.

It now falls upon me to pass on this designation to five others:

Shelly at This Eclectic Life -- because every time I read her posts, I feel as though I'm sitting on her front porch, sipping lemonade and waving lazily at the passers-by. Such a warm, cozy place. Go. Sit a spell. And...in making sure all my links are indeed linking, I see that Shelly has just received a Nice Matters award -- from someone else. Hmph. Well, she's getting two. Although, really, she probably deserves a dozen.

Nadine at hello world, it's me -- because she is so funny and just darn adorable, and because, like Shelly, she faithfully responds to each person who comments on her blog. And because even though I started reading only recently, I feel like I could drop in uninvited at Nadine's house -- should I ever make it to The Netherlands, that is -- and Nadine would just laugh and offer me a cup of coffee even as she regaled me with the latest hilarious mama-tale, such as how she mixed up skin cream and her toddler's toothpaste.

Colleen over at The Delaney Diaries -- because we are leading parallel lives, and I would like to think (delude myself?) that I am living mine just as graciously as she lives hers, both in Real Life and the blogosphere. This women works from home, while raising a toddler, battling The First Trimester That Doesn't Know Her Time is Up and negotiating cross-country trips to visit her stepkids. And through it all, she's just so ... nice. I marvel. I bow.

Paige at The Avery Lane Experience -- because I am seriously in love with her writing. Oops. Yes. I'm focusing on the niceness. Well, Paige is that too. I look forward to reading her comments on my posts because they're always witty and chatty ... and I'm just sure if I'd only known her in college, we would have been tossing back beers all cozy and chummylike, once the paper had been put to bed. And she offers recipes and foodie news, mainly from The South, which we know ranks supreme in all matters of food, whether you're looking for Cajun or a little soul cooking.

Jessica at Oh, the Joys -- because ... because ... stutter .... stutter ... OMG! Like one of the coolest, most popular bloggers out there strolls by my lunch table and ... oh, wait! OMG, she's stopping. HERE! She's sitting down ... and she said she likes my brand-new Esprit sweater! OMG!!! OK, let me tone down my geekiness and simply say that no matter what blog I visit, OTJ has already been there and left some wry or hilarious comment that I can't possibly top. Now that is nice, my friends, because -- how -- HOW? -- on earth does she find the time to visit everybody? And she doesn't just dash in and out. No, she hangs around and joins the conversation, no small feat when you know she's visited, like, 1,000 blogs already that day? *squashing any further girl-crush-inspired tendencies to gush*

OK, so I'm supposed to be done now, but ... there's still Nell at meanwhile... and Andi at Poot and Cubby and Julie at The Ravin Picture Maven... and ...omg, there's also Mrs. Chicken, have to add her, and ... all these many other funny and gracious women who are much nicer than me, even when it's their "time of the month."

Ohmigod, somebody stop the premenstrual woman from flinging more pink tulips and daisies out into the blogosphere. Remind her that it's time to go back to her natural state of shrewishness. Enough of this scary little Pollyanna scene! Somebody, get that basket of rose petals away from her before she skips on over to the next blog. Please?!

ahem

So now it's your turn to spread the niceness. From personal experience, I can say it would be really nice of you, in keeping with your inherent niceness, I mean, if you were to select a few more of those who are suffering from the monthly blues & bitchiness.

Because ain't nuthin' better than telling your frightened husband that OTHER PEOPLE don't think you're scary at all. No indeed, they think you are NICE!

(Turn and repeat to husband three times every hour and he might forget what you said to him at the pool. About the nose hairs, I mean.)

Can I go home yet?

I am now seeing a physical therapist to help manage these stupid headaches — which I still contend are a part of The Mono, but my doctor disagrees ("I've never heard of mono causing headaches.") even though my Googling clearly proves him incorrect. (got all that?)

So as I was laying on the table —

— We interrupt the following whiny post to declare one bright spot to my week — Mrs. Chicken ever so kindly awarded me this —



— and I must thank her for giving me such shiny bling!

We now resume today's lament:

OK, so —

As I was laying on the table, receiving a heavenly massage from a man named Scott, we started talking about my job as a reporter and then he starting reminiscing about how he used to be a city council member in a community near here.

I froze.

Have I interviewed this person? OMG, no wonder his name sounds familiar. How very awkward.

"Oh. Um ... when were you on the council?" I asked.

"It was a few years ago," he said. "I'm not on it anymore."

The chicken story. Eek. Is this the guy I interviewed when the city council wanted to ban pet chickens? How humiliating. How many bad puns did I put in that story anyway? Did I tell him my maiden name? I bet he doesn't know which reporter I am. Please, given that I'm naked, don't let him recognize me.

"So ... um ... what sorts of issues did you have to deal with during your term?"

Please, please, don't say chickens.


"Oh, well, there was some stuff involving the charter school. But that was about it. I was only on the council for two years."

"So, nothing about .... livestock?"

The therapist laughed, clearly puzzled.

"No. Just the school."

thankyouthankyouthankyou

On returning to the newsroom, I did a quick search through our archives. And no, I did not interview my therapist/former city councilman for the stupid chicken story. Still, his name is naggingly familiar.

I'm getting old. When I first started in this business, I remembered everybody — names, under what circumstances I had interviewed people, whatever happened to so-and-so... Now I'm lucky if I can remember the way home.

Oh, and also?

A city editor just asked me to babysit the police scanners. Have discovered I am deaf. Volume adjustment required. As a result, the scanners are now so loud that other (younger) reporters keep shooting me looks.

Just you wait, sonny. One day, you too will be going to physical therapy and wondering if the person rubbing your back used to be a source. And you too will pray that if anything explodes, you will feel the vibrations because God knows you will never hear the calls go out on the scanner.

On my way to AARP membership. 13 years and counting...

My ob/gyn's office just called. During the conversation, I said "pap smear" so loudly — presumably because of the deafness and, of course, because the scanners are blaring — that the two people in front of me just turned around. How long until I start sharing the intimate details of my digestive ailments with co-workers? Or complaining about my stiff joints and need for more fiber?

I am so glad it's Friday. Am ready to slink home.

Ah, romance...

So a few days ago, the transportation reporter — who sits across the aisle from me in the newsroom — leaned over with a grin.

"Hey, Cathy! Your husband's been asking me about that new four-lane highway that'll run from Small-Town Arkansas to Big-City Arkansas."

He laughed. Evilly.

"You moving?"

I believe I've addressed this before, my husband's fascination with rural living.

He wants to live among the pine trees.

I want to live within 15 minutes of a Target.

You see the problem.

As a former country girl, I know of what I speak: Green Acres ain't the place for me.

But Hubs continues to romanticize himself into some weird Pa Ingalls alternate universe. Trust me, I am NOT Ma material. (If any woman ever was entitled to a life of wine, mood-enhancers and hourly cussing rants, it was Caroline of the Freaking Prairie. Poor soul.)

But I digress. Back to Hubs and his romance with all things rural.

It's difficult to fight fantasy. I tell Hubs the country is ... well ... isolated and lonely and inconvenient, and I might as well be telling a 12-year-old boy that the girlie-mag models he's gawking at are air-brushed and artificially boobed.

Of course, given that I spent many years — oh hell, OK, maybe a good decade — romanticizing men, I do feel a tad hypocritical.

I give you the One-Eyed Cowboy as my most perfect example.

The year was ... geez ... maybe 1996? Or 1995? Whenever. I spent most Saturday nights at a place called Cactus Moon. (Everything you're picturing? Yeah, that. You don't, however, have to visualize the tacky sheer black bodysuit I wore with jeans. Sorry.)

Anyway, I soon became obsessed with this one particular man. He wore a black hat. Wranglers. And a black rakish eye patch.

Oh, how I swooned each time he walked in.

And then, one night, my dear friend Mel (hi, Mel!), drunkenly ordered Pirate Man to dance with me.

Now, don't ask me how I had previously imagined that Pirate Man lost his eye (duel, maybe, over a woman?), but my daydreams certainly never included — a welding accident.

Yes, indeed. As it turned out, my pirate had owned a welding company that went bust (possibly due to an inability to wield the blowtorch?). He couldn't dance. Hell, he couldn't even stand up straight because he couldn't hold his booze either. And he got offended when I didn't recognize his family's name.

(Apparently they were Odessa, Texas, high society or some such thing, so while he didn't lose an eye in a sword fight, he did, at least, lose an inheritance. Heh.)

Harlequin, I owe all my most ridiculous teenage and early-20s fantasies to you.

So there you have it. My Hubs and I are the perfect couple.

He subsists on daydreams involving unpaved roads and roaming deer herds and I ... well ... I must confess to forcing him to don a pair of Wranglers every now and then...

My life on candid camera

Long before I met and married Hubs, long before I became the constant subject of Our Domestic Documentary, I was frequently caught in embarrassing, accidental "poses" by the newspaper photographers with whom I went on assignment.

Cathy sliding down the sandhills in Monahans, holding on for dear life to her Frisbee-shaped sled?

Check.


Cathy mired up to her knees in mud during flooding in Beaumont, Texas?

Check.

Cathy falling into said mud and rolling down a hill?

Check.

And then there was my encounter with Jesse Jackson. Yes, that Jesse Jackson.

In the weeks after James Byrd Jr.'s dragging death in Jasper, Texas, the reverend came to town one day to speak to Mr. Byrd's family and city officials. A press conference was scheduled for later that day.

Minutes before the press conference was to start, TV and print reporters gathered at the appointed place. Usually, my fellow print reporters and I would sit on the ground to avoid being jostled and generally annoyed by overly aggressive television cameramen -- who are often prone to shouting "Get out of the way!" if one blocks their shot.

As per this custom, I dropped to my knees, scribbling furiously in my notebook, as Jesse Jackson stepped outside and headed our way. As I hit the asphalt, two women bystanders behind me gasped. They were there in hopes of meeting Jackson. Unaware of reporting practices, the duo apparently thought that I, too, was a spectator -- a spectator who had just been stricken by a sudden spiritual epiphany. To them, I appeared to be praying.

The media-savvy Jackson saw me drop to the ground, witnessed the women's surprise and headed over. Still writing, I didn't see his approach. So when I felt two hands on my head, I assumed it was an annoying TV cameraman and prepared to respond accordingly. ("Do you mind? Get the hell out of my way!")

You can imagine my surprise when the person touching me started praying. I looked up, and there was Jesse Jackson, who was offering up a mock blessing before the two startled women. He laughed. I stammered.

We shook hands.

All of this was recorded by the print photographers and TV cameramen, all of whom had surged forward, clicking wildly, when they saw Jesse Jackson laying hands on someone in the crowd.

My photographer, after having snapped his own series of shots, including one that showed my shock at seeing Jesse Jackson standing over me, finally informed the other media people that I was one of them, a mere reporter.

Given my experience with photographers, you'd have thought I would be prepared for marriage to one.

I wasn't. Especially when it came to childbirth.

Imagine -- you are wed to a man who lives for action shots, a man accustomed to chronicling every second of a given event.

With my first baby, I had to have an emergency C-section. Apparently, the umbilical cord we shared was freakishly long and had my baby trussed up more tightly than a calf at a Texas rodeo. (If you are pregnant and reading this and fretting, don't. This isn't a common occurrence.)

Throughout the hasty procedure, I could hear Hubs clicking away. Within hours, he had emailed a series of photos to everyone we knew.

My childhood friend, J., called a few days later.

"The pictures were great," she said. "But my parents were a little freaked out when they saw all those shots of your uterus."

Wha...???


I hadn't yet looked through the photos. Clearly, I should have done so immediately.

Um ... honey? You sent out pictures of my uterus? My womb? My sacred vessel?

Then came E-man. With him, I had a successful VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean).

And with him, I discovered that Hubs wasn't nearly finished in his efforts to humiliate. I give you this --





-- as evidence. Yes, I am in labor, as I'm sure you can tell by my grimace.

But why, you might reasonably ask, am I clutching my then-toddler daughter's plastic Halloween trick-or-treating jack'o'lantern?

Because when Hubs called our doula to tell her that we were on our way to the hospital, she advised him to line the seat with towels (in case my water broke) and to take along a container (in case I threw up.)

I stood, doubled over in our driveway, while Hubs meticulously laid down several towels. After I got into the car, he handed me the pumpkin.

"What the hell is this for?" I snapped.

"Suzanne said you might get sick on the way."

Until that moment, I had felt not a single wave of nausea. But behold, the power of suggestion. Within seconds, I was retching. And Hubs was click-click-clicking.

Don't get me wrong. It's wonderful to have all of these moments recorded. But because I am vain, and don't want your lingering image of me to be that of my pregnancy-inflated grimacing face, I offer this --




Me, when I'm not in agony. And, of course, the man rarely seen in any of our family photographs.

A few days after the E-man's birth, Tootie asked indignantly why her jack'o'lantern was in the car. Since she already resented her new little brother, we decided not to tell her Mommy had been dry-heaving into it on the way to have little E-man. And yes, we still have the pumpkin.

Queen of the munchkin babies

This subject has been bandied about in the blogosphere as of late, and, because I have some experience in birthin' itsy-bitsy youngins, I thought I'd weigh in. Heh. (sorry, sorry ... I know.)

The Toot arrived 3 1/2 weeks early. She was 5 pounds 9 ounces.

Eek.

"Oh, I just love dainty babies," the doctor said as he handed her to us.

Even in the midst of the post-birth pain/euphoria, I fixated.

Five pounds? Nine ounces?

'Scuse me, but where's my eight-pounder? Quick, put her back in -- she's not done yet!

Thankfully, I had fabulous girlfriends who, on seeing how the Toot wallowed in her newborn-sized clothes, scurried out to find premie outfits.

Other people weren't so tactful.

"Wow. I was freaked out by how small a regular newborn was," said one visitor. "I don't know what I'd done if ours had been that tiny."

Ouch.

The doctor told us we wouldn't be allowed to leave the hospital if Tootie's weight dropped below 5 pounds. The day we were discharged, she weighed in at 5 pounds, 2 ounces.

And an obsession, along with a baby, was born.

Four times a week, I hauled the Toot into a breastfeeding shop where scales were available. I charted her weight. I made sure she didn't miss a feeding, even if it meant waking her up to shove a boob into her mouth.

So I was a little ... focused. I was the kid's mother. I had every right.

Other people, however -- well, they did not. Still, they commented, often, on Tootie's size.

"She's so small," my MIL said skeptically, holding the Toot up for inspection. "And yellow."

It's called jaundice, lady. Give us a break, will ya? And she's not small. She's dainty. As in pretty.


I justified my weight obsession by telling myself that I was worried about Tootie's health.

Riiiiiight.

In actuality, I had bought into the Big is Better philosophy that makes us think any baby less than the "average" 7 1/2 pounds is inferior. Or frail. Or weak.

And yet.

The Toot shot up the growth charts. She also shot past the other babies with more impressive birth weights.

Ha.

Two years later, the E-man arrived. Nearly two weeks early.

He was only 6 pounds 12 ounces, but, compared to Tootie, I thought he was ginormous.

Until we kept bumping into elderly women who insisted on comparing my cute Lilliputian to their Gulliver-sized grandchildren.

Bragging grandmas? Shut up. I don't want to hear how your 3-month-old grandchild is bigger than my 6-month-old. And get your raggedy-cuticled finger out of my baby's mouth. Trust me, no kid is that hungry, not even my clearly malnourished tot.


Deep breath. Push aside thoughts of old women who engage in size discrimination.

The E-man remains small for his age. But I don't worry. And I'm not force-feeding him icky milkshake drinks. Small babies, big babies ... who gives a shit as long as they're healthy and growing?

Still -- If you happen see a mom with an extra-small baby, for God's sake don't natter on about how much tinier her baby is than yours. Because if she's a first-time mother, chances are she's already freaking out over her child's unexpectedly low birth weight. Spare her your smugness. Don't add to her anxiety.

Besides, judging by my Tootie's progress, birth weight isn't indicative of anything.

It took me several years to get to this point, but I'm there.

Which means if I have a third child, he/she will probably be an exceptionally big-headed baby, weighing in at 10-plus pounds, leaving me with the Grand Canyon of Hooha's.

I'll take mine on the rocks, please...

What would you do ...

... if ---

every time you visited the in-laws, your MIL spent entire days in the kitchen?

Like all day Saturday, preparing dinner for the whole clan.

And then again on Sunday, preparing a second dinner for the whole clan.

Because I'm the only family member (read: female) who's present during these elaborate preparations, I either spend my whole day in the kitchen -- "helping" -- or feeling like a lazy slob if I stay out of her way.

I don't mind cooking. Sometimes, I rather like mucking about in the kitchen, experimenting with new recipes. Most days, however, I would liken my efficiency in the kitchen to that practiced by women -- compared to men -- in the bathroom.

We go in when we have to go. If we don't need to go, we get off the toilet and exit.

Hubs, on the other hand, has read entire novels in the bathroom. He completes crossword puzzles. Contemplates world peace.

Which is we have the same argument every morning.

"Are you done in there yet?"

"Noooooo..."

"OK, either you have to go or you don't. So finish already!"

Which is wanted I wanted to yell on Sunday afternoon as MIL continued to labor in the kitchen. I wanted to wave the --- hey, what sort of kitchen tool am I allegedly using here? -- and yell, "Please, for the love of God, just finish already!!"

She starts puttering right after breakfast. We don't have lunch, because MIL is cooking and we are having a BIG dinner.

By 3 p.m., she's still going, muttering that if BIL and his wife, Perfect Linda, are late again, everything will be cold.

4 p.m. Still cooking. Still no BIL and clan.

By this time, chances are good she will have given me some task that involves sharp implements. She has clearly forgotten my amusing story about how I sliced off the tip of my finger while using a cheese grater just before a friend's baby shower. (I bled all over the hor'dourves.)

5 p.m. Still cooking. Still no BIL and clan. (But no blood.)

6 p.m. BIL and Perfect Linda arrive, along with two or three of her kids, BIL's four kids and two of his grandbabies.

Perfect Linda has it made She shows up with with macaroni and dessert -- and two babies -- and MIL fawns all over her.

They're three hours late? No problem.

By this time, I've spent the whole day drifting in and out of the kitchen, trying to decide if I'm of any use whatsoever or just a nuisance.

But back to Perfect Linda.

She's good. Real good. I remain in awe of her ability to deal with the in-laws. (I mean this in a complimentary way.)

For months after Perfect Linda and BIL married, I marveled at her serene demeanor each time they came over to the in-laws.

I mean -- hello?! Six kids and two grandchildren in tow! Is she popping Valium? Did BIL bring her back from Stepford? WTF?

Then I caught her adding bourbon to a fast-food Styrofoam cup she'd brought with her and all became clear.

Why do I admire this tactic?

Well, because MIL doesn't drink. And she doesn't really approve of other people drinking. Especially women.

Still, each night, around 8 p.m., the men -- Hubs, the two BILs and their dad -- mix up bourbon & cokes. Usually, Hubs smuggles me a glass and I sip on it discreetly, hoping MIL will think it's just plain coke.

Once, however, I made the mistake of asking younger BIL to make me a drink.

"You like bourbon?" he asked incredulously. "I don't know any women who drink bourbon."

I found BIL's amazement to be both sexist and expressed too loudly.

I refrained from telling him to use his Inside Voice.

I refrained from mentioning that time I caught Perfect Linda pouring a splash of bourbon -- OK, more like a freaking waterfall -- into the Styrofoam cup.

I refrained from mentioning that Perfect Linda waits til no one's looking and then sneaks sips, looooonng, deeeeeep sips, from older BIL's drink.

Instead, feeling the curious stares of the clan members, I simply nodded.

That's when Hubs chimed in. "Oh, yeah, she makes drinks stronger than I do."

That Hubs lived to make another visit to his mother's house is truly a testament to my self-restraint.

This weekend, after the men made their drinks, I just went and fixed my own. I figured since I'd already spent the whole damn day wandering in and out of the kitchen, no one would notice.

Unless I managed to wound myself with the ice pick.

Earlier in-law post deleted...

... for obvious reasons. But I do have stories from this weekend. Later. After I've recovered from the drive home.

********************

In other news, I spent last night baby-hogging an adorable 4-week-old boy.

I wanted to take him home... or maybe make another one of my own.

... until my daughter and son -- functioning on too little sleep and entirely too much sugar -- threw the Mother of all Temper Tantrums, jointly, no less, when I put them to bed. The shrieking!!!! The screaming!!!!!

And any thoughts of tossing out my birth control pills evaporated -- pooooof!

I love my two little stinkers dearly. I do.

But last night I could have labeled and marketed them as 100-percent-effective contraceptives.

24 more hours to go ... I am such a wuss

Well, the cat is no longer around. Not sure what happened and am somewhat afraid to ask as the last time I inquired about a missing pet, I learned that my favorite dog (one that belonged to BIL) had been shot. Something about how it interfered with deer hunting.

I'm a devoted dog person. Not so fond of cats (I don't think they were ever meant to be domesticated and kept as pets) but still... despite the cat's anti-social behavior toward any other living breathing creature, I don't want to know if it, too, met an untimely fate.

I'm now feeling a touch guilty about my previous ranting post.

It's true I dread these visits -- I feel very out of place -- but still... I should probably be more patient.

Or, if all else fails, constantly drunk.

I'm on dial-up ... let's bet on how long it takes for this to post.

My new BFFs ... and no, they're not from BlogHer

We bonded, John and I, over a short-term disability plan.

Then we moved on to accident policies and cancer family coverage.

By the time Hubs discovered us, John and I were engrossed in a comparison of all our various relatives who learned too late the importance of abundant insurance.

"Um ... what exactly are we signing up for here?" Hubs inquired.

Translation: What bizarre disease or worst-case scenario have you fixated on now, you hopeless, neurotic hypochondriac?"

I lovingly slid the glossy brochures across the table. "See? If we get this and this and this and this, I promise to quit nagging you about additional life insurance."

Hubs grimaced.

"What are the rates?" he asked my new bestest friend.

As John began to explain our many options, my dear spouse shot me a look.

Translation: I knew I never should have let you attend an insurance sales pitch unsupervised.

The proposed changes to our plan remain a matter of negotiation. No problem. I have BFF John's phone number and email address. We can resume our morbid imaginings at any time, with or without Hubs' approval. John nods sagely when I describe all my what-ifs. He doesn't mock me. No indeed. He loves my adorable paranoid tendencies.

And of course, the glowing red letters stamped across my forehead: Sell me a policy, baby.

John isn't my only new friend this week.

Yesterday, I met Cindy, a no-nonsense grandmotherly-looking type who strode into a small private room at the gym and asked, "So, what seems to be the problem?"

I told her all about my horrible headaches -- possibly tension (or a brain tumor ... or meningitis ... or encephalitis) -- that have accompanied The Mono.

She nodded sympathetically and asked me for more details. Naturally, since I'm married to a man who snorts when I describe my various ailments, I was ever so happy to oblige.

And then Cindy went to work. She did things to my head, shoulders and back that...

... well, let's just say I want to take Cindy home and install her in my bedroom so that she can pummel me to sleep each night.

I think I love her.

Maybe even more than John.

On doting moms and their coddled sons

Shelly over at This Eclectic Life is discussing a topic that I just can't resist:

What tasks should all people, regardless of gender, be able to do?

Can I, the woman who is marred to a man who cooks, irons, cleans toilets and builds beautiful things out of scraps of wood complain?

Nope.

Not about him. But ... *snicker* I can go back into Ex Territory and pull forth the most perfect example evah of What Happens to Those Who Can't Do.

To save him embarrassment -- and to keep from rendering him Forever Single and Totally Unmarketable -- I will call him Al.

And now let's zip back to 1997, when I hooked up with a co-worker after a night of dancing at the the Copa.

That would be Al.

For several weeks, we went out to dinner, movies, drinks after work ... and then back to my place.

The first red flag to pop up and wave merrily was his refusal to invite me over to his apartment. It was too messy, he told me.

My girlfriends entertained themselves by speculating over the reasons why he wouldn't let me come over.

"He lives with someone," one theorized. "Married," said another.

I would soon learn, however, that NO woman, except me, of course, would have ever moved in with this man.

Months passed.

One weekend, I went out of town, so Al stayed at my place to take care of my dog. He never went home.

Eventually, we decided to rent a house together. And only then did I finally see his apartment. Flag No. 2? That would have been the little note taped to his door threatening eviction if he didn't clean the place up.

So of course I still moved in with him.

Oh, 27-year-old Cathy, what an idiot you were.

Once we settled into the house, I learned the true extent of Al's helplessness. He couldn't hook up the washer and dryer. (I did it.) He'd never vacuumed. (I did it, while he laid on the couch, cracked jokes and lifted his feet as I roared by.) Nor did he know how to iron. (In this case, I let him walk around looking like he'd foraged through the clothes hamper.)

Which is why, when we broke up -- twice -- he looked far more pitiable than me, what with the rumpled clothes and the annoying way in which he lost weight while I packed it on.

When I kicked him out the first time, we had lived together for a year.

And when we reunited, I swore to him that we would maintain separate households and that I would never spend the night with him until he purchased bathmats and hand towels. He owned neither. Oh, and he had to learn to vacuum.

When I asked Al how he could stand to live that way, he always said, with a touch of pride, "My mother always did everything for me."

Red flag No. 3, anyone? Quick, hand your little boy-child a dust cloth!

Shortly before the second breakup, Al's very proper English mother came to town for a visit.

Al's mother lived in Houston. In her free time, she traveled around Europe, attending various operas. When she came to visit Al in Arkansas, she always stayed at the finest hotels and ate at only the best restaurants. She never felt compelled to check out her son's abode.

Then, during one visit, Al's mother unexpectedly decided she would like to see where her son lived.

We had just finished lunch at a restaurant when she announced her intentions.

Al's face paled. I choked back giggles.

Oh. My. God. This ought to be good.

Gleeful, I practically skipped from the restaurant to my car. Then I followed Al & Mom as they headed to Al's house. I laughed all the way there.

I knew, you see, what awaited her: hardwood floors with a layer of leaves and dirt tracked in by Al's two dogs. Big puffballs of fur and even a few twigs. Yes, TWIGS.

And mind you, the scene I was envisioning didn't even include the revolting kitchen, the scary bathrooms or the hairy couches.

I hurried, wanting to be there when she walked into that house for the first time.

HA! See what you raised? See what I had to live with for a freaking year? See why I will never share space with this man again?

It was the most priceless moment of the entire relationship -- watching Al's prim and proper mother as she walked gingerly across the living room floor, mouth pinched and nostrils flaring.

I cackled to myself and then headed home. A few hours later, Al called. His mother had bought him a vacuum cleaner, he told me sheepishly.

And in the background, I could hear a dull roar.

Toddlers -- a study in extremes

From bliss ...



To outrage ...



And the reason?



(Back when Tootie still had hair. *sigh*)

Loving conversation between husband and premenstrual wife:

Scene: Husband walks into bedroom as grumpy wife is getting ready for bed.

Wife: Are you smiling? Why are you smiling?

Husband: I'm breathing. (dramatic pause) Is that OK?

Does your spouse read your blog? Mine refuses.

Hubs has never yet pulled up my blog. On occasion, I've read my posts aloud to him, or passed the computer over and ordered him to look at something.

That's not to say he discourages my blogging. In fact, he frequently asks whether I'm posting often enough and inquires daily about my stats. Of course, that could be because I filled his head with ridiculous notions of fame and riches. Meaning I may have dropped a few names, like this one, and engaged him in fantasy scenarios in which I made a fortune selling refrigerator magnets featuring our dog.



(OK, so she can't balance anything on that cute little snout. But she is a champion pillow humper.)

So Hubs is all for the blog. As long as he doesn't have to read it.

"I'm scared," he explains, while whipping up some migas. "I always assume I'm going to find something and go --"

He pauses, spatula in mid-air. Then gives an exaggerated shudder, complete with google eyes.

OK, so there was this essay, which basically revealed that he wasn't getting any. And he did hear from several amused co-workers.

I explained that women are very blunt, that we've been known to sketch carnal acts on cocktail napkins during happy hour with our girlfriends. You know, to explain how you got the rug burns?

Anyway...

Hubs has decided ignorance is blissful. Although I think he'd exploit the dog in a heartbeat (maybe doggie porn, given the predilection for humping?) if he thought doing so would bring in the riches.

So -- do your significant others read what you write? Just want to know if I'm the only one with a nervous husband.

C'mon baby, light my fire

Each morning, when Hubs drives the E-man to daycare, he goes past a fire station. And each morning, the E-man dons a plastic fire hat and rolls down the window so he can better gawk at those big shiny trucks.

Of course, I, too, have been known to roll down my window while passing the station, but only when the firefighters are out washing said trucks.

Shirtless.

ahem

A few months ago, when the kids and I arrived at the grocery store, the E-man was delighted by the presence of two fire trucks parked near the store's entrance. His mommy also was delighted.

By the presence of several attractive firemen.

Since I have no problem parlaying my children's obsessions into useful tactics for my own ... well ... obsessions ... we stopped by the trucks on the way out.

"Here," I said, shoving some money into Tootie's hand. "Go put that in the fireman's boot."

E-man, meanwhile, stood in front of one of the trucks, slack-jawed. I, too, was rendered awestruck — not by the trucks, but by the masculine forearms attached to the man holding the boot.

"Would you like to see the truck?" asked the Bearer of Masculine Forearms, addressing my little boy. He reached for the E-man's hand and led him toward the truck.

All together now — awwww....

I watched, misty-eyed, as the pair walked off. And repeated silently to myself, Do not stare at the fireman's ass ... do not stare at the fireman's ass...

My friend Amy has a similar reaction to firemen. So it was with great pride and joy that, when she got stuck in the elevator here at work, I summoned the fire department.

(This was after some serious finagling with the editor on duty, who contended that we were supposed to call the elevator serviceman — a sweet, stooped man of about 90 years — in times of emergency.)

But I persevered and I won. After calling 911, I dialed Amy's cell phone.

"Guess what?!" I shrieked. "I ordered some firefighters for you! You can thank me later."

And indeed, it was a dreamlike moment when the firemen pried open the doors and extended a hand to help Amy emerge. The moment was, unfortunately, somewhat ruined by the presence of an overly zealous newsroom photographer who decided to document the rescue and insisted on blocking everyone's (my) view. Still...

In a few weeks, the E-man will be moving to a new daycare. The fire station will no longer be part of his morning route. He will, I'm sure, mourn the daily sightings, as will I, particularly on truck-washing day.

The E-man will hopefully, however, be consoled by his new toy fire truck, provided by his granddaddy. And I will be consoled by the thought that no fireman, here or elsewhere, clothed or shirtless, could possibly be any cuter than this guy.

Oh, the pampering!

I'm home again, after a week away from the wee people.

I missed them like crazy, of course, but was reminded, at the same time, of how Birth 2 differed from Birth 1 -- in that the second time, I knew better than to look forward to my release from the hospital. With Child No. 2, in fact, I asked to stay an extra day. Mama did NOT raise no fool.

To any new moms considering or expecting a second child: Beg for that extra day at the hospital. Grovel, if you must. Because we're talking about 24-hour room service and your last opportunity to sleep. And yeah, yeah, yeah, you kept that first baby in the room with you constantly, insisting that the nurses bring him/her back each time they left with the rolling bassinet for exams, tests and blah-de-blah. Trust me -- when Kid No. 2 arrives, you will plead with them to keep the baby in the nursery.

"Oh, just give him a little sugar water or a paci if necessary. Just please DO NOT DISTURB me until 7 a.m." And then you'll take your Percocet, roll over and pass out with nary a twinge of guilt.

Because at home, a busy toddler awaits. And a husband. And a dog. And you will never, ever feel as pampered as you do when a nurse visits your bedside every four hours and inquires, "Painkillers, honey?"

In the past week, I've vegged in bed. I've vegged on the couch. I left the house only two times in seven days and I am telling you -- it was fucking glorious. My mom and dad brought me breakfast each morning. They asked throughout the day if I needed anything. Me? Can you imagine?!

Now I did think about those sweet little things back at home, constantly. (Many of those thoughts, I'll confess, revolved around my daughter's newly shorn head. Did I mention that she cut it all the way to the freaking scalp in the back? My kid has a buzz going up the back of her neck. I'm still cringing.)

So. I'm back home. I have many blogs to catch up on, many clothes to wash. But I can say with assurance that if there is a Baby No. 3, you will be able to look down at the asphalt and see the fingernail marks all the way from the hospital entrance to our house.

Because this past week I've had a fleeting taste of being waited on, the first since those hospital stays. And really, I would like to cultivate it.

Am trying not to hyperventilate

Tootie as she looked when I left home:



Here's what she did to herself:



And here she is after an emergency trip to a salon, where two stylists worked on what was left, all the while assuring Hubs that they see this sort of thing all the time. They were surprised, however, by how much she managed to cut off the back -- all the way to her scalp.

The phone call

First, I'm at my parents' house, so I'm way behind on my blog reading/commenting. At some point, I will catch up...

I came here for a little R&R,(in this case, that means rest & recovery), sans Hubs and the kids. As I prepared to leave on my trip, I started to give Hubs a list of instructions and warnings -- things like, "Remember, E-man will try to stand on the edge of the bathtub, so keep a close on him during bathtime." -- and he said:

"No instructions this time. I can handle it."

I've been here 24 hours. About 30 minutes ago, the phone rang. It was Hubs.

"Your daughter..." he began. Then stopped.

"What? What happened?"

Pause.

"Your daughter..."

More silence.

"WHAT?!"

"Oh, I can't believe (inaudible). It's (inaudible)awful. She cut off her hair."

"She did what? How much?"

"Oh, God. It's bad. It's really, really bad. I can't take her to daycare looking like this."

"Where was she? How did it happen?"

"I had put her to bed. And I guess her scissors were in there. I walked in, and she was standing in front of her mirror. There was hair all over the floor."

"Oh no. How much? Can you take her somewhere tomorrow so someone can fix it?"

"Well... even if they can, she's going to look like Mia Farrow. She has no bangs. She cut them all the way up to her hairline."

Silence. Then Hubs adds:

"She said she was trying to make it pretty."

NOTE: On Saturday, I took her in for a haircut. And when I left town, she was still in possession of a cute, swingy little bob. With bangs.

"Are you sure it's that bad? I'm sure they can do something."

"You don't understand. She has less hair than E-man. I mean, they would have to buzz it to fix it."

So -- I've been gone one day, and my daughter has cut off quite a bit of her hair.

And the clincher? When I asked Hubs if he had removed the scissors from her bedroom, he said:

"No. She still has them. I freaked out and ran in here to call you."

WTF?!!!!!!!!!!

Hell, why not give her a razor and see what other styles she might deem fashionable?

I can only hope she doesn't decide to give her brother a trim as well, especially since the mullet is finally growing back.

Parents are soooooo, like, stupid

E-Man: OK, so about a half-hour after the Dull-Witted Parental Units put us to bed, I'm going to start shrieking, kind of like the night that neighbor roared by our house on his motorcycle. You know, the guy Mom calls Stupid Showoff Asshole.

Tootie: OK. Then what?

E-man: That's when you rush in right behind them, all sympathetic-like, and ask what's wrong with me.

Tootie: (encouragingly) Yeah ... ?

E-man: So that's when you tell them that if I'm afraid to stay in here, I can sleep with you in your room.

Tootie: Why would I want you in here with me? You're a bedhog. Everyone knows it. That's why you didn't get to co-sleep with the Dull-Witted Parental Units as long as I did. OK, well that, and the fact that you kept trying to crawl off the bed in the middle of the night.

E-man: Dude. Think about it. They haven't eaten dinner yet. That means they'll do anything to shut me up. You know how Mom is about food. They'll go about their biz and we can hang out until, like, midnight. At least. We can just pull some toys into the bed and they'll never notice, especially not with that giant pile of stuffed animals you sleep with. The bear will have to go, by the way. There's not room for both of us.

Tootie: I don't know...

E-man: What if I told you I have contraband Lucky Charms under my crib? Mom bought some the other night because she had a "hankering." At least, that's what she told Daddy, who was kind of freaked out because she always eats that stuff when she's pregnant. Whoa... You don't think there's competition on the way, do you?

Tootie: Don't be stupid. They finally have both of us sleeping through the night. No way would they do that to themselves right now. Mom just likes sugary cereals. You know she sometimes smuggles in Fruity Pebbles too, right?

E-man: What a hypocrite. She won't buy them for us, but I've seen her snarfing bowls of that stuff when she thought we were busy with Legos. Anyway, I've been sneaking Lucky Charms a handful at a time. You work with me on this, and I'll share.

Tootie: (eagerly) OK!

A half-hour later:

E-man: Wah! Wah! Mamaaaaaaaaa! Wah!

Cathy: It's all right sweetie. Just a bad dream. Let's go back to sleep.

She rocks E-man.

E-man:nonononononononononononononononononononononononon

Tootie wanders in.

Tootie: What's wrong with E-man? Ohhhh... (she pats his back) Is he scared?

Cathy tries to place toddler back in the crib, but he clings like a burr.

E-man: No! No bed! No sleepytime!

Hubs: Hey! Dinner's about done! And it's not steak!

Tootie: Mama, E-man can sleep in my bed. Then he won't be scared!

Cathy: I really don't think it's a good idea...

Hubs: Dinner! I made mashed pototates. With gravy. (to himself, but audibly, Oh man, these are incredible)

Cathy: (envisioning potatoes and anticipating the first poultry she's had in ages. And gravy...) OK, E-man can sleep with you.

The children are tucked into Tootie's bed. After Cathy has gorged herself on mashed potatoes swimming in gravy, she finally repsonds to the giggles she keeps hearing.

Cathy: What's going on in there?!

E-man: Here, quick! Take this book. She's a sucker for reading. If she sees us with books, we'll get to stay up even later. It'll make her night. She's weird that way.

Tootie: I want Apples Up on Top.

E-man: Here, take this one.



Hubs and Cathy: Awwww...

Cathy: Oh, that's so sweet. They're reading. Together. Let's leave them alone.

E-man: Heh. Told you.

Tootie: This is great! Geez, they are so gullible. Hey, pass those Lucky Charms, will ya? You know, I'm getting kind of slee...

Steak ... again ...? sigh...

So, after Hubs finally realized that hmmm... it's been a good two weeks or so since my wife has ventured near a stove ... he took it upon himself to stock the fridge and pantry.

And he's been cooking every night. Which, on the one hand is glorious, as I can recline on the couch, sipping my water (oh, red wine, I miss you...) and watching illustrative shows such as Wife Swap.

On the other, I am probably going to be the only person who gains weight during a bout with The Mono. And my cholesterol? I don't even want to think about it.

Hubs is a meat & potatoes sort of guy, emphasis on the meat. The last time I actually used the kitchen, I made a light, summery pasta — very pretty, with all those red and yellow peppers. Hubs poked around his plate for a few minutes, then asked, "Shouldn't there be chicken or something in here?"

In the past week, Hubs has happily lugged home two bags of charcoal. I hear the back door open and shut, open and shut, as well as the cheerful clink of tongs.

Our menu these past few evenings?

New York strips.
Flank steak.
Venison.

And last night, this:



Now, I do love myself some steak. And, of course, the brats. But there's been nary a piece of chicken or fish in ... weeks? I am, of course, rendered too weak and delicate by The Mono to protest. And even if I did, Hubs would simply argue that I need my protein ... before he trotted back out to the deck with all his grilling paraphernalia.

And the dog? That furry little traitor has totally aligned herself with He-Who-Cooks-Meat. A scrap here, a scrap there and her allegiance has now been pledged to Hubs — the very man who ousted her from the bed and forbade any future pillow-humping.

Hubs walked by just now, and when I asked what was on the menu tonight, he laughed a triumphant laugh.

That means he's grilling. Again.

I do appreciate his efforts. But my weight... oh, my weight. Or maybe I'm just bitter because nothing I've made — not even homemade mac & cheese — has ever prompted the children to cheer as they do over Daddy's Deer Spaghetti.

Hmph.

On ERs and hamsters...

... or rather, here is my brain on painkillers:

I was going to tell you all about my trip to the ER Sunday night, but quite frankly, I'm so bored to death and utterly sick of The Mono, I just can't bring myself to rehash it.

OK, briefly -- After suffering with the MOTHER OF ALL HEADACHES all weekend, I went to the ER, where I wailed, gnashed my teeth and finally offered to pimp myself out to the cute flight medic in exchange for anything that would put me out of my misery. He kindly agreed to inquire about drugs without demanding sexual favors, but that might be because I was wearing a tomato-stained, holey T-shirt, an ancient pair of gym shorts and a ratty pair of flip-flops that exposed my chipped toenails.

So it's now TUESDAY and the headache is still here. Hence my disgust with this whole mono business.

Anyway...

During all this free time at home, when I'm not watching reruns of 90210, I've been pondering the difficulties of blended families, the primary one being how even the teensiest things that wouldn't even register in "nuclear" families suddenly become HUGE, GINORMOUS issues when you're talking about steps.

OK, so really, I'm still brooding over Father's Day, when my stepkids neglected to buy even a card for their dad. In past years, I've always taken them shopping. This time, however, they canceled on the day we were supposed to meet.

So by the time Father's Day drew to a close, my manly, rugged, camo-wearing Hubs was teary-eyed. I've seen him cry one other time, when we were covering the anniversary of 9/11 in New York, and this little girl walked by wearing her deceased father's firefighting dress hat. Hubs kept shooting photos even as the tears ran down his cheeks. (See why I love this man?)

I told myself I wouldn't meddle. But by Monday night, I was on the phone with Stepdaughter, asking if maybe she and her brother could give their dad a call, or, you know, send him a belated card?

Of course, nothing happened and I spent the next week kicking myself because if Hubs ever found out I did that, he would NOT be happy. Why, I wondered, did I even bother?

Here's the thing. My stepkids are good kids. They're kind and respectful most of the time. But they're also teenagers, ages 15 and 16, and like many at that age, they are a tad self-centered right now.

In a nuclear family, this wouldn't be a big deal because parents expect their teens to be thoughtless little shits. In a stepfamily, however, non-custodial parents (and perhaps their interfering spouses) tend to ... overanalyze?

Those conversations back in college, when you tried to figure out why that guy didn't call? Those can't compare to the in-depth, hours-long discussions Hubs and I have had in trying to figure out what I'm sure is perfectly normal teenage behavior.

But we don't live with the kids, you see. We play catchup on the weekends. We have no idea what is or isn't normal.

Here's what visitation is like: You know those cousins you saw once a year when you were kids? Remember how awkward things were at the start of each visit -- because you hadn't seen each other in ages -- but then by the end of you were giggling over farting contests and whispering about first kisses with the boys down the street.

That's non-custodial steplife. Just as you all start to feel comfortable and are falling into old, familiar patterns, the kids go home. And then, two weeks later, you have to start all over again.

So yeah, it's pretty easy to overreact to things.

Like the summer of Jack the Hamster.

Back in the early days of our marriage, the kids would stay with us for six weeks during summer break. And oh, the stress, oh, the overanalyzing and fretting, particularly the year Stepdaughter showed up with Jack, the elderly, three-legged hamster with a raging eye infection.

I took one look at Jack, who was sitting listlessly in his cage, and pulled Hubs aside.

"That hamster is near death. What the hell are we going to do?"

Hubs examined Jack.

"I'll be damned if that hamster dies on our watch," he declared.

And thus began six weeks of detailed rodent care -- because, OMG, if Jack died at OUR house, well, then what did that say about us? (OK, and selfishly, I did NOT want to be the one dealing with a mangy hamster carcass.) Each day, Hubs and I diligently put in Jack's eye drops and monitored his every labored move. ("Is he still breathing?" "Yeah, look, his ribs are moving.")

When the kids left, Jack still had a pulse. Hubs and I were jubilant.

Visitation had not been marred by hamster tragedy. That was one black mark that wouldn't be applied to our house.

And a week later, we did a little dance when we heard Jack had died at the Ex's house, because we just KNEW the whole reason she had sent him along for the kids' visitation was so that we would be the ones held accountable for Jack's demise. You can't fool us. We know what's going on.

See, there's that overanalyzing again. We apply a sinister motive to everything.

Hubs appears to have gotten over his Father's Day disappointment. At least, he hasn't mentioned it lately. I guess I need to do the same.

If only I didn't have all this free time at the moment ...

-----------------------

OK, just re-read this post and realize I have totally rambled. If you'd like to read something more coherent, wander over to Musing Mama, where this week's essays address the temptation to be a Controlling Parent.

Oh, the drama!

... the late-night phone calls. Accusations of betrayal. The frequent talks of splitting up.

Don't you just love fantasy baseball?

Hubs has been a devout participant for years, as have many other of our newsroom friends. Take J., for example, a sweet and mild-mannered man who once served as the league's commissioner --

-- until the year that Fluffy Bunnies (that would be the nickname of one fantasy team "owner") accused The White Squirrel of making some sort of illegal trade.

Angry emails swept through cyberspace. Phones rang up until 2 a.m. Unfortunately for one league participant, J.'s wife answered one of those calls. And she wasn't happy to be hearing from a 40-something-year-old man known as Fluffy Bunnies in the wee hours of the morning.

That was the last year J. served as commissioner. Hubs took over, but after I started getting late-night calls from distraught men with ridiculous nicknames, he too, was forced to resign.

And if all this weren't disturbing enough, a totally random Google search this evening turned up this and this ...

... which, given Fluffy Bunny's devotion to both the sport and fantasy league, did make me wonder what sort of lingerie his wife might receive at Christmas. Eeeww.

(I was tempted to use Absolutely Bananas' Photoshop tutorial to show you what I might look like in cleat stilettos, but was fearful Hubs might read my blog for the first time ever and get his own icky Christmas ideas. Because, you know, my pale, dimpled thighs were specially made for an umpire outfit that barely covers my ass.)

--------------------------------------

Since I am now a button wh**re (sorry for the asterisks, Queen Heather, but I fear if I spelled it out, those who are seeking baseball nighties for their most unfortunate girlfriends might find me via Google.) I must excitedly tell you about this award --



-- bestowed ever so kindly by This Eclectic Life's Shelly, who has deemed me a gracious blog hostess and friendly visitor to other blogs. I assume she's referring to my natural charm and charisma, as opposed to any comments I may have left on your blogs after sipping a glass or two of wine, which makes me very ... chatty.

I also thank Shelly for this --



-- which I received for explaining why other people might find my work environment kind of scary. Or fascinating, depending on whether you, too, are prone to using bizarre s**ual aides or musing over sheep s*x (damn those necessary asterisks and my paranoia, and, of course, the Google Freaks).

Tomorrow: My Sunday-night, mono-related trip to the ER, during which I meet a whole new group of Med School's Top Models.

Mono, I hate thee ...

But first, the happy news (and my belated thanks):

Julie of The Raven' Picture Maven was ever so kind enough to bestow this --



-- for my post on tick fever/irritating spouses.

Thanks, Julie! (If you're feeling even a twinge of Saturday-night nostalgia for those teen years marked by Sixteen Candles or frightening spiral-perms, head over to her place for a hilarious recap of high school in the late '80s. There are two parts. Start here.)

And ... if you'd like to read the other ROFL posts -- and they are truly hysterical, you can find a list at Chicky Chicky Baby or metro mama.

-----------------------

Not-so-good news ...

Apparently, it's not a good idea to thumb one's nose at mono. I've suffered a relapse this weekend, and really, this stupid virus is kicking my ass. Again.

(For those who've read only the ROFLpost about Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever -- well, as it turned out, the culprit behind my woes was adult mono. Ridiculous, no?)

My sense of humor is suffering at this point, hence the delay in posting, but I'm hanging in there.

-----------------------

Back to happier -- no, make that fantastic! -- news ...

Whymommy of Toddler Planet received some wonderfully encouraging test results regarding her breast cancer. So why not head over there and give her a little mama support before she starts chemo next week?

----------------------

Now I'm heading back to bed, cursing the blasted mono on my way.

Chunky matron seeks...

...older, wrinkled, grandfatherly sort of doctor — must be at least 65 or look it — to serve the many health needs of a nearsighted, allergy-prone, mole-checking, still-of-reproductive-age hypochondriac.

Hot or even mildly cute young doctors should not bother to apply.

I'm on a hot-doctor roll these days, and I say now: "ENOUGH ALREADY! My ego is fragile. My body isn't what it used to be. I'm not in any condition, mentally or physically, to disrobe in front of men MY AGE. Or ... *sob* ... younger."

In the past year, I have —

— been to an ER inhabited by the most beautiful medical staff ever.

— gone to a dermatologist to report all suspicious moles, only to be passed off to Hot Doctor No. 1. One of the moles in question was ON MY ASS.

— gone to the family clinic only to be assigned a doctor who is at least two years younger than me. (Yes, I Googled him. I had to know.)

— been referred to an orthapedic surgeon — yes, another hottie — with whom the following dialogue took place:

Cathy: Yeah, the shoulder is improving, but I still can't ... you know ... reach my arm all the way behind my back.

Hot Doctor: (Looks puzzled.)

Cathy: You know — (*reaches behind back and mimes fastening a bra*)
(oh for god's sake, Cathyyoufuckingidiot, entire crowds have gathered around your crotch in recent years. Just say it. Bra. B-R-A. arrghhh...)

Doctor: Yes, well, just — (*doctor mimes fastening a bra in the front and then sliding it around the chest*)

Cathy: That's a pain in the ass. (did i just say that?)

Doctor: OK, well, just buy one that fastens in the front.

Cathy: Um ... yeah.

(Oh, great. I haven't even hit 40, but I'm reduced to buying the Arthritis Bra? I mean, look at it:



I am SO not ready for that. Still, I wasn't about to argue this point with Hot Doctor when I couldn't even say "bra." Because then what if I actually had to say "breasts?" Ack!)

I was still blushing when I reached the car.

WTF?!!!!

Have age and childbearing really turned me into such a prudish, stammering moron?

Nah.

I mean, clearly I have no problem talking about any number of very personal issues right here in cyber-public.

And countless male co-workers who've had the misfortune to sit next to me during my pregnancies probably know waaaay more about my girly bits than Hubs ever will.

(Wanna see a male reporter haul ass across the newsroom? Just say, "Bloody mucous plug." Works every time.)

And I have no problem discussing any number of health issues with older, ordinary-looking doctors — ingrown pubic hairs, for example. Or whether certain acts of marital bliss ... ahem ... during pregnancy really do shoot air into the va jay jay, which, as we all know from the Devil Pregnancy Book, is a bad thing because it can lead to one getting an air embolism. Down there. *shudder* And you could like, die. While Hubs is still giving it his all. (how long before he would notice? hmmm...)

It's just that the young doctors make me feel so self-conscious. A lot of them don't yet have kids, so you just know they're totally unfamiliar with a woman's postpartum pooch or nipples that no pasty could cover.

When I have to bare all for them, I suddenly realize: If Hubs dies or we ever got divorced, this is what I would be dealing with if I ever wanted to have sex again. My dating pool would be limited to much-older-men-who-already-have-fathered-children, men whose ass sag could rival my boob sag, and who therefore wouldn't be as appalled (as I am) by my body's "used" condition.

Regardless — where is my senior citizen crowd of medical professionals? Get rid of all these McDreamy and McSteamy types who make me blush and babble. Bring the gray-hairs out of retirement. Please. Now.

Because if I ever decide I want a tummy tuck, or maybe to have the girls hoisted back up to ye old place of glory, well, I'd rather my doctor be so ancient that he sees my 37-year-old body as positively youthful. ("Oh, my dear. You certainly don't need any work done yet. These are the breasts of a 30-year-old. Truly. But if you insist...")

Hair products: My toddler's 'X'

So if you were to bump into us, say, in the grocery store, my 2-year-old son would lean toward you, beaming, arms reaching.

Oh, how sweet, you might think (if his hands were clean). That little boy wants to give me a hug.

But no. The E-man would rest his head on your shoulder and then gently clutch a handful of your hair.

And inhale.

Deeply.

My son is a hair-sniffer. Dogs and their butt-sniffing have nothing on this kid. I can't tell you how many times I've pried him off of daycare teachers, unsuspecting co-workers or perfect strangers.

And each time, I am reminded of this book --



-- Ferdinand, the little bull who wanted only to smell the flowers.

Of course, that story lends itself to adorable drawings, where in this case, we are reminded of this --


<

Remember? The guy pushing his girlfriend on the swing, how at one point he swoops in and sniffs her hair?

I bought my first stash of this stuff before a weeklong stay at summer camp. Loved it. And guess what? You can still find it online.

Tempting, yes, but I won't be ordering any. It was too much for Shaun Cassidy. (Or so he told Tiger Beat.) No tellling what effect it would have on the E-man.

Yeah, but they're so damn cute...

You wake up at 6:45 a.m. to the sound of rain and the mewlings of a cranky, feverish son.

Within minutes, you have discovered that you are out of Motrin and, apparently, the Children's Tylenol has expired.

Hubs has an early-morning assignment, so after he dashes out the door with your daughter, you throw on some shorts, decide to leave on the oversized softball shirt you slept in and -- hmm... bra, no bra? screw it -- pluck your barefoot and PJ-clad son off the couch, slide on a pair of flip-flops near the door and trundle out into the rain.

Two mud puddles later, you reach the car, buckle a fussing toddler into his seat and head to the nearest drugstore. A glance in the rear view mirror reveals that you forgot to brush your hair and that your impossible cowlick is going to be the first thing noticed by early-morning shoppers, if, that is, their gaze isn't immediately captured by your unharnessed breasts, which seem to be remarkably jouncy given their lack of ... ahem ... perkiness.

After a quick dash through the store with your squirming, barefoot son ("Down, Mama, down!") you return home and prepare to medicate said uncooperative child.

"No! No mess! No mess!" he declares, clamping his lips together and turning away.

When, you mutter to yourself, will this day end?
...............

But then, two hours later, your son's fever is gone and you're watching your pre-schooler march around with a paper-plate-streamer-thingy and you think, God, I wish this moment could last forever...



And you say to Hubs, "Hey, honey, let's go home and procreate!"

Strength in numbers

This woman did it ...



... and so did they ...





... with the support of all these women.



(2006 Race for the Cure participants crossing the Arkansas River)


Toddler Planet's Whymommy could use your support. Go here or here to join.

My shoe fetish...

... is an odd one.

Because it's not women's shoes that evoke longing in me.

It's my kids' old, ratty, outgrown ones. Like Tootie's first pair of "walking" shoes. Or the E-man's dirty little tennis shoes. Or both kids' crumbling sandals from summers past.

My dark secret — I have never yet given or thrown away a single pair of their shoes.

Instead, they're stacked on shelves in the children's closets, tucked into baby boxes or clustered in a heap on my own closet floor.

Silly, I know. It's just that each tiny pair holds so many memories:

The E-man's former double life, during which he walked at daycare, yet still crawled at home.

The Tootie's insistence on wearing her grubby, too-small sandals in 30-degree weather.

The hot pink cowboy boots, now scuffed and torn, a reward for Tootie when she finally agreed to give all her pacifiers to the Mee-Mee Fairy (who distributes old "mee-mees" to the younger babies in need of them — heh).

I remember laying in bed that winter morning, listening to her squeals when she found her fairy-delivered boots. And laughing when I heard the awkward clomp-clomp that followed.

It's been more than a year since Tootie could cram her feet into those boots. But every time I spot them on her closet floor, I smile, remembering the toddler who marched so proudly up and down the hallway in her cowgirl attire.



And then my heart hurts, just a little.

OK, so newspapers may not be around...

...by the time he's old enough to write (or shoot photos) for one, but at least the kid shows some interest in that which currently keeps his parents employed.

Or maybe he hates my reporting and thinks Daddy's pictures suck. Who knows what sort of criticisms drift through that agile mind as he peruses our day's work? (ha.)

Electrical warfare

I love light. Crave it. Need it.

Which is why, when I get up each morning, the first thing I do is pull up the blinds or throw open the curtains — on the few windows that actually have blinds or curtains, that is.

In the evening, I turn on all the lamps AND the overhead light.

The Hubs, on the other hand, can be found cooking in a darkened kitchen, using only the bulb above the stove to see what he's doing — which could account for the frequently too-rare meat. (I don't mind pink. It's the texture of red that bugs me.)

I'm sure the children remain in constant confusion — one minute they're basking in sunshine or comforting lamplight, and then, as soon as Daddy walks in, they suddenly find themselves in a freaking gloomy hobbit-hole.

Most couples fight over the thermostat. Hubs and I argue over light-bulb wattage.

In the weeks after Tootie's birth, the weather here in Arkansas went to absolute shit. Day after day, I got up to clouds, rain, sleet, ice or snow. Day after day, I drifted through the house, clutching my newborn and a roll of toilet paper. You know, for the sobbing. The endless, drenching sobbing.

"I just need the sun!" I wailed to Hubs each time I called the newsroom. "It's so dark!" ... gasp, sob, choke ...

Finally, I fled to my home state of Texas, where I spent the rest of my maternity leave soaking up light in glorious, glorious Hill Country sun.

By the time the E-man arrived, we were living (briefly) in San Antonio. So that maternity leave was basically one long, hot day. I am, however, one of those people who will happily sweat in exchange for a little serotonin.

That's why, even as we near July, this remains my favorite time of year here in Arkansas. Sun, sandals — or, better yet, bare feet. Even with mosquitoes, mono and temps in the 90s, life is good.




Oh, yeah, and God bless anti-depressants. Just a random bit of advice: Going off your meds in late November? So not a good idea.

Am overcome ...

... not by the evil mono virus, (although it's still kicking my butt) but by the linky love from This Eclectic Life and then this:



from Oh, the Joys.

Thanks so very much! Of course, because I was a leeetle behind in my blog-browsing, all the people I would have nominated have, well, already been nominated.

So I did the next best thing and finally updated my blogroll to reflect the blogs I read on a daily basis. Except, of course, when suffering from illness or hypochondria.

... and, while I sent an email to Shelly thanking her for this —



— I neglected to do so here (I know, I know, I hail from Texas and yet still no manners)...