The Day AFF’s Blog Went to the Dark Side

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Hello, everyone.  For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Catwoman.  And to those of you who don’t know me, I ask “what the hell is wrong with you?  Do you not like Canadian women with beer guts pregnancy bellies who have really, really cute toddlers and an aversion to Dora the Explorer and gigantic Texas spiders?”  Oh, you don’t.  Well, then please return tomorrow when the hot woman from the most polluted city in the country (per the Today Show this morning) takes over tomorrow.  The woman who apparently shares my decorating style, as she doesn’t even have the floor space to save her potted plants from frost, because her Burgh home is littered with toys that are probably oozing lead everywhere.  But did you know her daughter, just like my son, can glow in the dark thanks to these toys with lead?  Makes it easier to find toddlers that way when they try to sneak out to buy beer at night.

But this isn’t Burg’s blog, even if it will be tomorrow.  This is AFF’s.  And as her guest writer today, I thought that I would answer questions about our dearly beloved 30-year old AFF who thanks to the greatness that is Oil of Olay, looks to be only about 17.

Only two questions came in, the first one asking me how do I know AFF in real life.  Well, simple really.  I met AFF at StrollerFit, a class for moms who look pregnant, even though they’re pushing a stroller around that has an infant in it.

I joined, and about a year after I did, this girl showed up with a boy about six months older than mine, a toddler who was walking.  And he liked to climb stairs.  This was incredible to me, as my own son could barely sit up and would regularly spit up on himself, or poop so much that it would climb up his back like Gene Simmons’ back hair.

The other thing I noticed about AFF is that everything she owned had her son’s name on it.  Her diaper and wipes holder.  Her diaper bag.  His sippy cups.  I believe that on her very small and very white hiney are tattooed the words “property of SD.”

Which if I were Pup, would totally freak me out and stop me from doing her from behind.

I’m pretty certain that this is the first time in AFF’s blog’s history that the words “doing her from behind” have been written.  From what I hear, AFF’s bro-in-law reads this blog.  To him, I say sorry I made your eyes bleed.  Also, you may not want to eat on their kitchen table anymore, bro-in-law, because I’m sure it’s seen more action than a 10-dollar ho.

(disclaimer:  This is my attempt at making AFF never leave town again because I miss her).

The second question was to share a deep dark secret about AFF.  Well, there are none I can share that wouldn’t make her bitchslap me.  Which I guess is one of her secrets, she likes to bitchslap people. The other thing I have to tell you about AFF in real life is that she wears cardigan sets and pearls and headbands.  And she looks clean all the time.  I’m serious, I’ve worked out with the woman many times, and she doesn’t sweat.  Her hair doesn’t ever get messy or sticky.   I’m pretty sure she’s one of the only people in the world whose shit don’t stink either.  When we go out anywhere, she looks like she stepped out of some ad, you know, one of those with the perfect stay-at-home mom, while I look like Frumpy McFrumpster.  And yet, I put up with it.  Only because she amuses me with her stories of excessive spending and she’s my gossip girl.  If there’s gossip, I find out about it from my AFF.

One of my favorite AFF stories is when she told me excitedly that she wanted a Humathingiejimingie.  I’m sure this wasn’t the name of it, but I’m not a brand girl, so I wouldn’t remember the name of it if you held a gun to my head.  I asked her what that was, which most people would gasp at my ignorance, but not the ever polite AFF.  She just said “oh!  You’ll want one as soon as you hear about it.”  She then proceeded to tell me (this happened a year ago, might I add, when neither of us were even thinking of becoming pregnant with baby #2) that this Humathingiejimingie was an 800-dollar stroller.  Or maybe it was 1,500 dollars.  Either way, it was the price of a small car in India.  AFF proceeded to tell me that she was going to spend her and Pup’s tax return on this extremely expensive stroller that as far as I could tell didn’t clean the kitchen, give foot massages or give bj’s so I wouldn’t have to.

I’m sure she was stunned to find out that I would not be following her path and spending our tax return on a stroller I didn’t need.  However, she did remain my friend, to my great relief.

I’ve learned very much from AFF over the  years.  Like, during my first pregnancy?  I didn’t even know there was such a thing as designer maternity clothes.  I swear to you, this is how ignorant I was.  The majority of my maternity clothes with Little Man were either on loan from my best friend, or they were bought from the clearance rack at Old Navy.  I know, you scoff at how someone can be so ignorant, but I didn’t know any better.  At the time, I also believed that socialized healthcare in Canada is a good thing.  Oh, wait, I still believe that.  Also?  Despite what AFF tells you, basketball?  Is a Canadian sport, because it was invented by a Canadian.  I don’t care how much she argues that it was invented on US soil, that does not make it American.

Anyway, back to my story.  AFF and I went maternity clothes shopping last fall at a consignment sale.  Neither one of us were pregnant at the time, so it might seem like an odd thing for two friends to do together to someone on the outside, but it made perfect sense to us.  As I followed AFF down the maternity racks, she told me “we have to look for Japanese Weekend stuff.”

I thought this meant that her and I would fly off to Japan for the weekend once we became pregnant and have non-alcoholic sake and non-raw fish sushi.  I thought it was oh-so-glamorous and thought to myself, wow, that AFF, she sure knows how to live.

Ends up?  Japanese Weekend is a designer brand of maternity clothes.  And once AFF got me hooked on it, I became obsessed with the brand.  In my non-pregnant state, I bid on hundreds of dollars of clothes on eBay and found much more at other consignment sales.

Now, the Old Navy clearance rack maternity clothes sit at the bottom of my closet.  A sad reminder that once upon a time, I was an unhip Mama with no AFF in my life.

I may not have a $1,500 stroller (which by the way, AFF doesn’t either), but I am richer and better for having a crazy twin sweater-set wearing Houstonian who tells me daily that she wants to move home. Also?  I have a better maternity wardrobe, so everyone wins.

Another fact about AFF and I?  AFF’s house?  I visited two months before she bought it and wanted to make an offer on it.  Sweetie PIe didn’t want it, because the road is too narrow and he couldn’t have parked his big ass truck with a trailer behind it in the driveway without driving through the neighbor’s house (note:  I know that might sound really white trash, but I swear to you, we’re not).  If that doesn’t mean we were meant to be friends, then I don’t know what does.

Love,

Catwoman.

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