daughter G

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Cool Cat?

Trust me. Once you get a cat, your cool status is over. You’re automatically labeled a “cat person”, which I personally don’t think is fair. At all. I mean, just because my kid wants a cat – and I indulge her – how does this make me a cat lover?

Just to be fair, what if I let you read the adoption form – the one that asks the question what we’ll do if the cat tears up the furniture and my husband M responded “hide from my wife” – would that influence your opinion? And what if you were privy to the many discussions – including my dislike for cats, cat posters, cat witticisms, etc. – that were part of the adoption interview process? What would you think now?

The only thing I promised was that we’d give the damn cat a good home. (I won’t turn any living being out onto the street, even if it’s just a cat.) But I never committed to belonging to a (the?) cat society.

Now, fast forward to PEOPLE. PEOPLE, the slobs of our society who judge us daily, will categorize you as a cat lover in an instant. (Particularly “Cat People” – they want you to join so badly it just kills them.) As an example, my mother – my own sweet (heh!) mother – has recently betrayed me by gifting me with cat crap. Actually, I should clarify. Mom gave the gifts to G, as she is Cat’s rightful mistress. And, despite G being a mere 5 years of age, she is now the proud owner of 1) 2 cat coffee mugs, 2) a cat plant hanger, and 3) cat book labels – (“Ex Libris”!).

So work with me, people. I’m taking a stand to say that cat owners and cool people can exist harmoniously – or bi-polarly – or whatever. What I mean is that we, as individuals, can live in both worlds. One minute I’m entranced by the cat attacking the Oriental rug, and the next I’m grooving to Ricky Martin and watching re-runs of the “Golden Girls”. So who says I can’t be both frisky AND super-cool? Give me some credit, folks. It’s called “dimensional.” DUH.

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Hello, yes, it’s been a while. Not much, how ’bout you?

I want to tell you I’ve been volunteering for all different causes – saving rain forests, eradicating world hunger and whatnot -but the truth is that it’s a very busy time of year for the Subourbon family. Summer is the season we generally reserve for inviting ourselves (and then overstaying our welcome) to all of our friends’ second homes. ~ Oh, come on. Knock off the judgment, will ya? I mean, you may turn your nose up at us, but you can’t deny our flair. We’ve had a fabulous summer dawdling in multiple semi-chic destinations – and all with a single mortgage payment! How can you beat that?

We’ve become so astute at this art of home-mooching that we’re sometimes granted entry to the same places year after year, and even add new destinations from time to time. I think the key to it (along with our undeniable charisma) is having an entertaining, polite child. If it were strictly up to M & me, I don’t know that we could pull it off. But if you add a kid to the mix and teach her a couple of songs and dances, we’re pretty good company.

The problem is that G keeps aging. I mean, she’ll be 5 before long! How can she do this to me? (Oh sorry, I know that probably sounded self-centered. What I meant was, “How can she do this to us?”) The invitations could be drying up before long, but you know as we say down here, “Tomorrow is another day.”

So, yes, the point of this post is to let you know we’re having a great summer, and you shouldn’t be worried. Oh, and also to ask if you own a place anywhere I want to visit.

And, I almost forgot, if you’re not following Jenny Milchman (soon-to-be-known author and Friend to Subourbon Wife {FSW}, and you have kids – and like books -you’re missing out. Poor you.

Status Check: Are we all healthy and happy and relatively sober? Well, good then. If not, phone a friend, or make a decision, or email/call anonymously and ask for help. There are people who love you that you haven’t even met yet – and they probably know you much better than you know yourself. Seriously; no lie; for real. I mean it.

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So Doomsday didn’t actually happen. But it may as well have, what with Oprah going off the air and G graduating from pre-K. I mean, can you believe it? It seems like yesterday when she (Oprah) became a member of our family. And then we added Little G, and she insists on growing up. (What is up with these people moving on with their lives without considering the emotional burden on those surrounding them? Completely selfish, if you ask me.)

G insisted I dress up for graduation, so I brought my best. I even wore what my friend calls “valet shoes”, meaning you can only walk short distances in them. I was practically crippled halfway through the ceremony and resorted to sitting in one of those itty bitty Little Tykes chairs. Yes, this required my knees to rise higher than my ass. And yes, theoretically, my panties were most likely showing. Again.

Don’t you – no, don’t you dare! I feel you starting to judge me, and that’s not going to happen. Rather, I’m not going to feel your judgment. If you’d been wearing these evil 5-inch monstrosities, you would have sat (sitten?) your ass down, too. So you can go on and pass your judgment to Mr. Tommy Hilfiger, creator of H valet shoes. What an S.O.B! (except for the fact that he’s friends with Oprah, which surely makes us family. Auto-forgiveness. HOLLA!!)

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“Mama, you suck.” This from the 4-year-old in the backseat.

“WHAAAAT did you say?” I asked as calmly as possible, in case she was getting her words mixed up again.

“I said ‘you suck’.”

“G, that is a very ugly thing to say to someone. Those are bad words and I don’t want you to say that to anyone again. Do you understand me?”

“Whatever, Mom. It doesn’t matter.” (Where did she learn ‘whatever’? And when did ‘Mom’ come in?”

“Yes, it DOES matter. It’s not a nice thing to say.”

“Just…whatever. Stop talking and drive. DUH!”

I guess I should be grateful I’m small. Because at that moment, if my arms were a few inches longer, I fear I would have reached into the backseat and strangled the girl. Minimally, I’d have knocked her upside her little head. Fortunately, we were near our house. That may very well have saved her life. Upon arrival, she rushed through the door and into Daddy’s arms, all precious and sweet and acting 4 again, with no trace of the bully from the backseat.

Where did I go wrong? This is a rhetorical question of course, since we all remember when she set her little diva expectations. Wow. She’s a crafty one all right, and I’m the only one who’s onto her scheme. What she doesn’t know is her mother practically invented crafty*…

*Please note hollow self-confidence. Yikes.

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There is a rumor going around at Daughter G’s school that I’m pregnant, mainly because G told everyone I have a baby in my tummy and she’s going to be a big sister. Now, we all know this can’t possibly be true, as my womb is covered in cobwebs – the most exciting activity in there is an occasional tumbleweed blowing by – but poor little G is dying for a sibling.

Although there is no little one on the way, I can very much imagine what it’s like to have another child around. I know this because I take G and her friend to ballet each week, and this is what I hear from the backseat.

You’re not the boss of me.

You’re not the boss of ME!

No, YOU”RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!

NO, YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!!!

Four-year-old girls are obsessed with who the boss is and isn’t.

Then there is the inevitable post-ballet Happy Meal fight.

I want that toy.

No, I want that one.

It’s mine!

NO, MINE!!

I have actually parked and walked back to the drive-thru window to beg the teenage cashier for 2 identical toys. Please, you must have another purple My Little Pony in there somewhere! No, that one is purple with yellow hair; we need a purple one with PINK hair!

Lots of people think it’s selfish for you to not have more children if you’re able to. I know this, because people will tell you right to your face. I love it when strangers give me advice. It usually shuts them down when I say my rehab counselors don’t recommend it. (That’s not true, by the way, but it works to get people off your back. You should try it.)

As a consolation prize, we got little G a cat. (Also a fish tank, but I don’t like to talk about that since our aquarium seems to be a place where fish come to commit suicide.) It’s sort of like having a baby, as we are constantly protecting the cat from the terror of an overly enthusiastic 4-year-old – but without the post-partem depression and stomach staples, which I consider a real plus.

P.S. Today marks Day 4 on Universe Watch. No word from the universe so far.

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