I'm putting this pussy to bed

It's Saturday night. We have friends coming over, I swear. But before they get here I have to show you this:



It's disgusting. It looks like a terrible, hairy marshmallow creature but it's no longer on my cat thanks to the Furminator. I'm a little surprised by how habit forming the brushing was. Once I got started, I couldn't stop. Thankfully the cat attacked my hand so I had to.

Do you like the leftover Halloween candy I used for reference? (I ate it after the photo shoot.)

This is my last feline/fur post for a loooooooong time. I'm starting to creep myself out (and looking at all that hair is actually making me gag).

I'm goin' places—FUR real!

I was being facetious about the blogger fame to which I have ascended. I really was. Didjya think I was being all boasty and shit? Huh?

I won't lie. Some days I like to pretend I'm Rocks in My Dryer or Immoral Matriarch but then I think, why be a Saks when you can be a Harry's Drive-in? Sure, when you've reached cult blogmama status you get to sample fabulous purses, armchairs and gemstones and your life is all devour-my-brilliantness-my-lowly-peon-readers but come on, if I wasn't the wee little Mrs. Mullet I wouldn't have come home yesterday to find this:



Yes! The lovely people at Furminator saw my whiny post about my fat furballs and sent me a Furminator, some shampoo, and a spray bottle. Wasn't that nice of them?

Design Mom? She ain't got shit on me.

(Do I have my doubts that a five inch metal brush can tackle that beast to the right? Hell yes.)

It's like Oprah's favorite things—sort of

You know you've reached the highest peaks of blogging (BMW) success when you mention (BMW) a product on your blog and (BMW) their PR firm promptly sends you a sample. I (BMW) can't go into more detail (BMW) just yet—Junior is shaking his cage (BMW) and I'm still in my bathrobe—but let's just say (BMW) this product is fun for the whole dang family.

You are going to be so jealous.

(Yah, I know the BMW thing is a long shot but why stop while I'm ahead?)

A headless mother at story time? Say it isn't so!

I played hookie today so I could take Junior to story time at the library. My mom has been hinting that she’d like to take him one of the days she baby sits, so I had to beat her to the punch.

I had to.

Call it sad. Call it queer. I really don’t care. When you get home from work one day and see that your mother has changed your son from the “Mom” shirt he was wearing into a plain, navy tee for no apparent reason other than she wants your baby to be her baby, you must be the first to bring him to story time.

The impetus for all this neck-and-neck (besides the wardrobe switch)? Last night. Junior and I were watching the election countdown and he was standing by the couch, letting go with his hands and beaming as he balanced. I said, “Come here!” and, like something out of a Hallmark made-for-TV movie, he did. My little gremlin took four steps—four very even steps—and fell into my arms.

Do I even need to tell you that I scooped him up and covered him with mom slobber? I was in Working Mother’s Heaven. I have been begging him and pleading with him not to take his first steps while I’m at work and there he went—stepping right into my open arms.

Chuck was at a late meeting; I had to call someone and share the news.

“Mom? Junior walked to me. He took his first steps.”

(There was a time when I used to call my mom and she’d have to call me back because she was vacuuming the dog; how I wish that had happened here.)

“He walked?” my mother asked. “Did he do that for you?”

“What do you mean, ‘for me’ ?”

“Nothing. He’s only been standing for me. Just standing. Yesterday when I was there with him—and Chuck—he let go and stood there—three small steps—stood there—didn’t come to me—just small steps—and standing—there—and—barely saw it—small—standing—”

“Oh.”

“You must be so happy you saw it. Since you’re out of the house.”

Screech. Out of the house? What the fuck kind of esoteric comment is that? What does she think I have been doing out.of.the.house? Peddling pixie dust? Inviting people to the circus? Writing love letters to Richard Simmons? I have been working to help my family keep our house and eat and enjoy amenities like clothing and shampoo.

When I got off the phone my head exploded. It was really gross. Poor Chuck had to order me a new one. Luckily it came just in time for story time. And luckily the library let me borrow the new and improved “Grammying for Dummies: How not to stomp on your daughter's heart.”

When I recorded the cheery and exclamation-riddled “first step” entry in Junior’s baby book I had a good laugh (I’d had some wine at that point). And I thought, Oh, Junior. Your baby book is so emotionally gilded it makes my fillings hurt.

As far as I know, Mrs. Robinson didn't climb any mountains

So it’s November. Big month, yesiree. For instance, tomorrow. And November 5th, which is Art Garfunkel’s 66th birthday. Then there’s November 15th, which is America Recycles Day, and the obvious ones, Veteran’s Day and Thanksgiving. November is also Aviation History Month, Epilepsy Awareness Month, and Peanut Butter Lovers Month (come on—we need a month for that?)

What you don’t know is that November is the month of my first-ever high school reunion—a mere 15 years after the fact. Our class president actually hated our class. She was chunky alterna chick meets fleet of JCrew v-necks (I’m not sure how she got elected, my class was way too homogenous to vote for someone who didn’t wear cable knits). Anyway, give someone 15 years to grow hazy on past grievances and of course she’s going to get nostalgic and plan a reunion…at a shanty lobster shack.

I’m going. Screw it. I got the damn invitation the very same day I found my first gray hair. That’s obviously a sign: You’re aging jerk off, so go see who turned out to be really hot. (That’s the truth, you can’t deny it, we all want to know if Eric Rothbaum kept his sexy blonde curls).

Out of 252 people, 50 have RSVPed yes. Counting me and my two carpooling friends, that’s 47 unique visitors (oh, you insidious blog lingo, you). That’s pathetic!

Moving on…November is also the wedding month of the boy—Pete—who formerly had a crush on me. Now, lots of boys have had crushes on me (it’s true, like 589 have), but as we all know, crushes are often one way streets. I could never love Pete. His fingers resembled mini Jimmy Dean sausage links and he ate steak in a way that…let’s just say I could envision him at a steak house in 25 years with a gut that rivaled Mount Everest.

Nonetheless, Pete is the boy I was with the night I met Chuck. And he knew Chuck liked me so he kept his stumpy hand across my chair all night so Chuck couldn’t move any closer to talk to me. Even more, when Chuck asked him for my number, he said no. So Chuck found out where he lived, went to his apartment under the guise of renting the spare bedroom and while Pete was in the bathroom, Chuck stole my number from his Rolodex (this was 1997, when the Rolodex was en vogue).

Chuck liked me that much. And he loves me so much he doesn’t mind that I go to my high school reunion solo.

Sucka! (Just kidding, honey.)

That’s all I’ve got for tonight. Now get off the computer and go send Art Garfunkel a birthday card!

(And yes, I chose the prime rib plate for Pete’s wedding, just for old time’s sake.)

Foreplay never looked so breezy

My dear dad gets me subscriptions to Smithsonian and National Geographic every Christmas. Last year, he accidentally got me one for my married name and for my unmarried name. I wonder which subscription he sent in first?

Anyway, I had the rare opportunity to sit down and thumb through this month’s Smithsonian (seriously, I'm backlogged to July 2003) when I stumbled upon what is possibly the most comical description of mating I have ever encountered:

“If a female is fertile, the male will try to mount her. The female may keep walking, causing the male’s forelegs to fall awkwardly back to the ground. In the only successful coupling [ever] witnessed, a male pursued a female—walking alongside her, rubbing her neck—for more than three hours before she finally accepted him. The act itself was over in less than 10 seconds.”

Buying a woman roses and assuring her 10,000,000 times that she’s not fat so you can get some nookie doesn’t sound like such hard work anymore, now does it? Didn't think so.

Can you guess what animal this is (hint, it’s not your husband—I hope). No cheating! Smithsonian promised to alert me if any of the above words were Googled en masse. First correct guesser gets my extra subscription to Smithsonian.*

*One whole issue!

The real trick of Halloween is actually on November 1

There are a lot of chapters missing in parenting books, most notably “Daylight Savings Time: Your new arch nemesis.”

Until Junior, I had no idea I could be so passionately opposed to something as seemingly innocuous as changing the clock. Now I know: It’s the manmade evil that guarantees your child will wake an hour earlier.

I know everyone says your child will readjust to the time change and eventually get back on his or her previous schedule. But I’m not a gullible newbie anymore. I’ve got a year of practical experience under my belt. Junior didn’t readjust last year. I distinctly remember not only catching Krista Tippet’s broadcast every Sunday morning at 7 a.m., but having time to tailgate beforehand with coffee and Eggos (NPR, I swear our donation is coming).

Of course back then, I was happy with six thirty. I was so sleep deprived I was appeased by the promise of consecutive sleep, never mind reaching for the heights of a late morning.

But now? Now I am greedy for sleep. And this morning, in what can only be described as a major big bitch slap from the Universe, Junior slept until eight. Glorious eight! He’s been sleeping later and later and I know—I know!—that that was just a taste of what’s to come.

If only...

What I wouldn’t give for a one-way trip to the Grand Canyon right now. The clocks there aren't fickle.