Last week my ordered bras from Fig Leaves arrived. John sent me an IM notification of BRAS ARE HERE. Obviously due to his bolding and use of all caps, I don’t need to describe to you the joy in my heart that leapt as I read those words. So after skipping home in absolute glee, I opened the box, ripped off my shirt and unsnapped my too small bra calling it incompetent as I flung it across the room and tried on my new purchases. Happiness quickly ebbed, as my bras were ill fitting and not able to adequately hold the monstrosities my pregnancy has created. I think it is possible at this moment I had a minor conniption fit. Just a slight one. Sometimes I truly believe that my guardian angel is a drunken fat man named Sully with a mean streak. I can see him up there with his barroom mates, telling them all about me.

Bar Pal: So Sully, who you got to watch over?
Sully (wiping drool off his lower lip): Me? I gots this girl. Cassandra. She is nice and all but I like to toy with her for my own amusement. Like, poor kid is pregnant and her boobs are just enormous. And well, she order bras last week and well, just to fuck with her I made sure these bras won’t fit. She is getting them today, come over and we can watch together. Should be fun. Oh god, see her face. Hah. Poor kid, I don’t know why I like doing it but I do. Bartender, whiskey shots for all. The girl's gonna cry.

Anyway, I knew drastic action had to be taken. So on Friday evening after work I walked to Nordstroms to the lingerie department. Where I summoned a clerk and stated that I was pregnant, and I needed to be fitted for a new bra. Into the room we went wherein she stood with tape measurer, and I took off my jacket. She looked at me for a moment before saying, “You must take off your sweater and shirt as well.” Okay then. So, I stood in bra and pregnant belly being measured wherein she said - you are a 36. So I was right on that front. As for the boobs, she said you could be a DD or a DDD, let us check. I waited in the room when she came back with about 7 bras. She then asked the question, “May I assist you?” I have always had issue with being naked in front of other women. I hate it, and if necessary I can in fact get changed in about 3.2 seconds. But I was in a situation that required immediacy. MY NEW BRA MUST BE BOUGHT. So I said yes, and stripped off my bra and tried on bra, after bra, after bra, after bra. And when the Nordstrom’s lingerie sales clerk says assist. Well, they actually mean molest. Just an FYI. But I suffered through, and found a bra. The sales person saying to me - "This bra is perfect. As you are bit top heavy." Really? I am bit top heavy? Do you think? Considering my boobs are Triple DDDs at the moment and I could provide a shelter for a midget family and their dog in a hurricane? Thanks lady, I would have never guessed. But I have to say, she did a fantastic job and I am quite perky in my new purchases. Which is pretty great, since perky and I departed ways in 1999.

Well the answer to the phrase "What the fuck comes after Double Ds anyway" on Google seems to render no answer. However, I did find out by measuring myself that I am currently a 36F. Now this does not mean much really - just that I grew a cup size because I guess in the bra world 36F, 36DDD and 36E are pretty much the same thing. So basically my boobs have expanded an inch. No, an inch does not seem like much. But remember, I started out as a 36D. I have grown two cup sizes in 22 weeks of pregnancy bliss. And I can expect another cup size growth after the birth of Owen. I believe the next size up is G. As in God Damn. Actually I am thinking that the entire A, B, C, D naming of bras is long overdue for change, to which I submit the following:

A - Almost.
B - Boobs.
C - Ca-ching.
D - Damn.
DD - Dynamic Duo.
DDD - The Ds are for Delightful.
F - Freakshow.
G - God Damn.
H - Holy Hell.
I - I'd Consider Surgery.
J - Jerry Springer?
K - Kill Me.
L - Life Sucks.

I can't even imagine the prospect of M through Z. But if there is a poor soul out there, please let me know if you get a discount on wheelbarrows in order to cart those suckers around.

I don't know what is more disturbing, the fact my belly is finally growing, or the fact that each of my boobs suddenly has a jealous streak and want to compete for the prize of biggest round object on my person. My head easily has been beating out the competition for years now; however, Irish head your throne is in jeopardy. Honestly, delving into circus freakdom does not bother me. It happens. However, Victoria Secret stops making bras at Double D, and this for me is a huge problem. By nature, I am a creature of habit. I find something that works and I stick to it. My bra purchases over the years can be summed in 4 parts:

Stage One - Looky Me, I have Boobs. When I finally developed, I was given my mother's B cups. Basically I went flat to B cup in a span of 48 hours. Obviously, making up for the apparent development girls do gradually from 7th grade to sophomore year in high school. I did not mind the hand-me down bras, I really don't know why - probably the fact that I was painfully shy and going with my mother to purchase bras was a torture in which I'd rather not participate. But to my dismay and much gawking by men later, the b-cup and I were not meant to be, thus leading to . . .

Stage Two - It is 1950 All Over Again. One day while shopping with my mother at Caldor I ventured into the woman's underwear section to audition alternatives to the now strangling hand-me downs. My girls, they needed a new home. I looked, and found nothing that offered the obvious support and comfort I desired until I found the Playtex underwire bra in size 36C. This bra was not for the dainty. It was huge. The back strap was 2 inches in width, the hooks and closures sinister, and the cups almost pointy. And the only color it was available in was stark white. Basically, it was a 1950-styled bra, purposeful and not pretty. But I loved it. It supported me, made me perky, the shoulder straps bearable and not digging grooves. And for four years or so, the Playtex "This is perfect for Nuns" Bra and I were happy. Until I started dating, which leads me to . . .

Stage Three - So Sassy, So Sexy. Every girl at some point in their lives has spent way too much on underwear that they consider sexy, and I was not immune. I figured no boy was going to be impressed with my Playtex Boob Prison in white, so I bought things that were pretty, lacy and 36 C. It should be noted however, that pretty 36C and 1950 36C are quite different, and none of these pretty bras ever fit me correctly. I had a lot of boob pop out - which I guess in hindsight was a great date conversation breaker. "Ooops, there goes my boob again, silly me. Let me just put that back in, did you want another drink?" Also it should be noted that no man cares about what the hell is covering your fat sacks of pleasure. And if they do, get out of bed immediately, because you are obviously not the right sex for him. So after a few years of this, I was fed-up and sensible, journeying into . . .

Stage Four - Victoria's Secret, Happiness Found. Eager to find a balance between ugly and too much money/ill-fitting, I bravely walked into Victoria's Secret. I explained my issues to the salesperson, was fitted and discovered the Body by Victoria Secret bra. A match made, and for the last 7 years, my sole destination for bras and underwear. Success, finally.

But, as we all know, my boobs victimized by pregnancy and hormones have grown to epic proportions, laying waste to the Victoria's Secret boob holders, and I am left with a frightening prospect - the hunt for new bras. With the pain in my shoulders massing, and the strain on my rib cage almost unbearable, again, my girls, need a new home. So, today, the hunt begins. I wonder if typing into Google "What the fuck comes after Double D Anyway?" will work. We shall see.

The other day on Muni a family of three comes on board. A teenager, a mom and a dad. The mother was dressed in a filmy tank top, and what looked like pajama bottoms. The dad has a huge pink fanny pack, and the teenager was well listening to her Ipod and looking otherwise depressed (typical teen). San Francisco is not warm in the summer and the Mom's outfit was probably too cool for Mexico. And I did not get it at all. Until of course I was getting off at the same stop, and heard that they had English accents. Oh, they are English, they don't know better. Amazing how a cockney accent cures all.

As for my boobs, you will have to wait until tomorrow. Sorry, I am such a bitch, I know.

Pregnancy is evil. No doubt about it. I mean, sure it is really good in the sense you get to mold a person (evil laugh), but in some ways it has to be one of the most devilish beings ever. I am beginning to think the old wives tale of how bad you treated your parents is what you can expect from your kid is a bunch of hooey. Instead, I believe how bad you treated your parents is directly proportional to the amount of hell that you will have to endure while knocked up. Luckily for me, I was good to my parents and my pregnancy has proven relatively easy. However, there are a few things that are darn right manipulative of the pregnant mind. Today after eating a rather healthful lunch of low fat spicy black bean chicken chili, I craved ice cream.

Ice cream and I have a long historic relationship which I think stems from my father's outright addiction. At any given time in my parents' house, if one looks in the freezer, there will be no less than two gallons of ice cream, and probably a few Ben and Jerry's pints for good measure sandwiched between pretty much an entire supermarket candy isle. Guess whose parents have a sweet tooth? Not that I am complaining, one of my favorites memories of my father are the ice cream sundaes that he made for my brother and me during episodes of Buck Rogers. Twiggy, Dr. Theopolis and ice cream sundaes basically equaled childhood bliss. And since being pregnant, my one craving other than jellybeans has been ice cream. So after my lunch, and being harassed by do-gooder teenagers about immigration rights - sorry guys, i don't need volunteer work for my college application - I decided to walk to Tully's and indulge in a vanilla and Oreo cookie frappe (milkshake for those reading not from Massachusetts). And when I was offered whip cream, I greedily accepted. Afterall, how could I have refused?

The first sip was incredible, as was the second to last. I cannot describe the joy received from a satisfied craving, but it is utter mouthwatering heaven. Mmmm, mmmmm, so freaking good. However, 90 minutes later, I am in hell - probably the 10th level of Pregnancy Backlash. My stomach is sick. It is pretty much the same nausea that I have had with eating pineapple. A lingering I am going to throw up, someone please kill me feeling. It pains me. But even more disturbing is the fact that I now believe that ice cream and its creamery goodness is banished as consumable food. So together with pineapple, I am forgoing ice cream for the remainder of this pregnancy. Of course, we all know this is a lie, for I will try it again, and probably be sick again and repledging my abstinence of it. But this, my friends, is the first plight of pregnancy that I am truly, and deeply sad about. Tonight I will bury a pint of vanilla and play Taps, and hopefully I can move past this horrid event.

Tomorrow, be prepared for "Boob Overhang in My Double Ds. What is next for the Breastzillas?"

Bitches is Crazy. First things first, John and I got married this weekend in what we like to refer to as The Debastardization of Owen Patrick McCall. That is right, we are having a boy of which we are very excited. I am a guy's girl, a true tomboy. I like getting dirty, I like sports, I even have a bug collection that I still like to show on occasion, so yes, and a boy for me is exciting. I can't wait to teach it order names for insects as well as why the Red Sox are the greatest baseball team ever and the New England Patriots the greatest football team. And yes, there will be a battle with John in this regard. Attached is a photo from the wedding (courtesy of my friend Amanda Clifford - whose website is linked to the right as madbproductions). Pregnancy hormones I thank you for the glowing skin.

Getting back to the title of this blog entry, evidenced by my tomboy aspects, girls and especially friendships with women have always been a bit of a mystery to me. In the sense, that I seem to apologize for things a lot, not understanding the delicate eccentricities of the female mind - which is quite shameful given my XX chromosomal status. But a fight yesterday with a friend, that has thankfully become resolved, brought up memories of another friend whose behavior was always a bit off kilter odd, but in an endearing and very appealing way.

The story: One day this girl and I were at our favorite bar, catching up as we saw each other about once every two months. It was just after the holidays. A few weeks back she had begun dating a friend of hers and professed her undying love and devotion so I was surprised to hear that things had quickly soured between the two - the reason being, his Christmas gift to her. Which was artistic and simple, but to her qualified a slap to the face as she had given him a few things, many of them expensive and thought filled. She went on and on about how awful his present was, and how amazing her gifts were. I never really could understand this, so I just sipped my drink and listened - which was becoming more and more our standard. So, they broke up. A few months later I was sitting across the table from this guy drinking Jack and Cokes, when he brought up the very situation. Basically stating he knew she broke up with him over the gift, even though she denied it. And how one day he came home to everything he ever gave her on his front porch. We both saw this as dramatic, but entirely in the nature of this girl. Now it was quite easy to see that he wanted me to fill in the blanks for him, which out of loyalty to her, I did not. But it was sorta heartbreaking to see in his eyes his love for her and his wanting a complete do-over. I have come to find out that the two are now together and married with a kid. Which is great. But I can't help to think about them when birthdays, anniversaries or holidays approach, and whether there is a pressure that he has to fulfill. A nervous sweaty brow as she opens his gifts, wondering if this will be okay and a fight will not be had. Just sorta makes me laugh in a way as it seems so polluted and tainted, but definitely confirms that bitches are indeed crazy.

Today is my 20th week of pregnancy, which means I have 20 more thrilling weeks left. Wish me luck. And I promise to post more, just have been a tad busy - with getting married to an incredible guy and finding out my baby is a boy and well, kicking total ass at fantasy baseball. Any guess as to my favorite? Priorities, I know.

Last night was my first attempt of my new sleeping position - Side Sleeping. My perfect sleeping position basically involves me with my head on my hands and elbows bent, the pillow just touching my forehead, my body at a nice 45 degree angle with my legs completely outstretched. Please refer to my illustration above. Obviously, the move from stomach sleeper to side sleeper is hard, super hard. I feel as if I have had little to no sleep. I slept with a pillow between my legs, and was so conscious of the position, that if I got out of it, I would wake up. The things I do for this kid. No booze, no stomach sleeping, no oysters, no brie. Seriously, if he or she does not say, "I'm sorry Mummy" upon exit via the birth canal. It's over, off to ebay. Just kidding, maybe. I guess it is not good to sleep on your back or your stomach after 16 weeks, and since today is my first foray into my 5th month of pregnancy, I have begun the impossible. I truly wish I had theme music. Ah well.

I have always been gifted in the rack department. In fact, I always felt the C cup a tad too small, while the D cup a tad too big. And upon getting measured once at Victoria's Secret, I heard the results of 37 C ½. So basically I can go 36C to 38D with nary a problem. Which is actually really surprising considering that fact that I did not "blossom" until the summer between Sophomore and Junior years in high school where I went straight into my mother's B cups. Yep, hand me down bras. In eighth grade when it seemed all the other girls went from t-shirts to training bras during gym class, in an effort to fit in I pleaded with my mother to purchase me a bra, only to hear "What for?" Of course, she was right, but changing in front of all the other bra wearing girls while still wearing a t-shirt was sort of horrible. But 8th grade, 9th grade, 10th grade passed and I was still without rack, without period, without any signs of womanhood. And being a tomboy did not help. But the summer of 89 brought with it about 5 inches in height, boobs, and my period. In fact, I got my period at Salisbury Beach in Massachusetts when there one day with my mom and grandmother. As I exited the bathroom a woman, my grandmother quickly told me that she got her last period at Salisbury Beach - and that I found what she lost. Lucky me. So my boobs continued to grow, leveling out at an ample 37 C ½. Sure, sometimes dresses don't fit quite right, but I learned to love my boobs. Not too big, not too small - exactly goldi-breast right. That was until they delved into Double D pregnancy size. And the good news, they will continue to grow. Maybe it is the coral colored sweater I am wearing, but seriously, it looks like two infant's heads are currently breastfeeding, or should I say toddlers heads, because that is a more appropriate size. I am afraid. I am afraid for my back, my already dented shoulders, my reputation as it is about to venture into pseudo porn star status. But there is nothing I can do, so I shall embrace my breastzillas, and keep midgets safe from the rain.

This Saturday evening I had the distinct pleasure of seeing Radiohead at the Greek Theater in Berkeley - as evidenced in the high quality photo above. Believe me, it is Radiohead. Miracles of all miracles, I was actually able to stay up until 12:30 a.m. Thanks to a nap mid-day and sleeping in until 11:00 on Sunday, and pretty much being tired all day - but all in all worth the sleep deprivation for Black Star was played. The Bends will always be my favorite.

In other news, my pants, they are tight. Not camel toe creating or my god, that woman looks like real life sausage link, but truly uncomfortable. Especially given it is towards the end of working day. I just love going home, undoing my pants and seeing all the lines and wrinkles in my belly created by the tight fabric around my waist. Talk about fun. Today is the day I see a Las Vegas Elvis in my marked flesh. I know it! I think it has come to the point in my pregnancy that I must forgo my pants of the old and make the leap to elastic waistbands and roll panels. In fact, I have to say, the few things I have bought and worn are actually not that bad, in fact, I keep on thinking that all woman might be happier with an elastic waist, especially when PMSed and bloated. So, girls, shop maternity and be happy.

P.S. The battle of my bowels has been won, and I am back on a regular schedule. I thank all of those who made prayers and virgin sacrifices on my behalf.

Hello Bowel Movement, My Old Friend. When Will You Come To Me Again? I have not pooped in almost 65 hours. Correction, I actually did just poop, but I don't think poop resembling hamster waste in size and amount qualifies. Especially after being on the toilet for fifteen minutes willing everything in my body to make it occur, which included breathing steadily with a rocking motion all the while praying to God asking why he has forsaken me. However, I don't think God listens to the pregnant and constipated, so my battle continues. This morning I was reading about my upcoming 15th week of pregnancy, which forewarned of the following: "Let’s talk about constipation. Or not. But it’s a fact of life for many pregnant women." Nothing like being in a state only to have it reinforced by the fine folks at Babyzone. Bitches. In an effort to get things moving on the advice of my mother, I have consumed about 30 sugar free jelly beans which have the warning "consumption my produce stomach discomfort and/or laxative effect." Please pray for me. But please not to God, because obviously he is not of kind ear. Perhaps a pray to Poopzilla, Banshee of the Bum or KakaLaka, Goddess of Going, maybe even a sacrifice. Please people, I need help.

I don't know what to say about this photo, except that man is not riding a big penis with hairy balls that is leaking poop. Rather, it is the mascot of a locally made BBQ that came across the television. On the unintentionally comedy scale, it ranked a high 9.8. In addition to this image, the mascot flew around to various weiner eating barbequers squirting his sauce. So many phallic symbols to endure in 45 seconds. The best part was at the end - it is to be continued! I don't know what this chicken leg riding man has in store for me next, but I do wait with bbq baited breath.

In pregnancy news - well my IQ continues to dip. I used to be quite bright; in fact, some in Boston would venture to say "wicked samhart". But now my once high 170 or so IQ is hovering around mentally challenged with food coming out of mouth when eating. Proof evident being this Sunday evening. At 9:15 p.m. the craving of chocolate chip cookies struck. So I made 3 frozen ones to curb the beast inside, but only eating two saving the other for Monday. After I finished my ice-cold milk and two delicious chocolate chip cookies, I headed to bed. Only to be awoken by John at 2:30 a.m. I gather he went downstairs after waking up in sauna chamber heat, only to find the entire loft smelling of gas. Seems I never turned off the oven, and in fact left the door half open. So it seems now my inner subconscious pregnant being is not the sweet capable mom-to-be, but rather a Jonestown's Massacre Mass Suicidal type.

Ah, exercise. Because of some early issues with my pregnancy, I had to discontinue my exercise routine. Which actually was a pretty good one, I was six weeks into this great running program - 45 minutes, various inclines, speeds and massive sweating. I was getting F-I-T. Until of course my egg made acquaintance with certain squiggly genetic material. My first notions that I could be pregnant actually happened the Saturday my period was due. While running, my boobs hurt something awful. Not the usual I am suffering PMS and look at me, I could be a stand in for Orca. But more like wow, my boobs really feel weird, and I have yet to have my clockwork period, well, better drink at this wedding tonight like it is your last time, because well, it might be. Its funny how the mind works. Anyhoo, 3 days later and one positive EPT pregnancy test, things had changed. And two weeks after that, there was a doctor imposed "no-no" on exercise. So I rested my uterus and avoided the gym for the past two months. Not that this was a great test of will for me, that had me crying to everyone about the lack of gym time, but there are some benefits to exercise usually involving a better disposition and firmer thighs. But on Tuesday, I returned to the casa de sweat and decided that swimming would be the answer for the next couple of months. I have always love swimming, starting at a very young age, having a pool at my house, swimming a lake in Kennebunkport and actually being asked to join my college swim team when I took a gym requirement. However, being 20-year-old girl, the idea of sauntering around in a bathing suit in front of people was akin to walking naked. Not going to happen. But since I am now older and about to rival Devine in waist expansion, I decided that swimming was low impact and agreeable to my pregnant state for the duration. So with a purchase of googles and flip-flops I was set to go, and go I did. Swimming Tuesday was heavenly. I forgot how much I enjoyed it. And yesterday was more of the same, pure love of the swim. Until of course 10:30 at night came and I discovered water deep within my ear that after 60 minutes of trying did not come out. I even check the internet for at home remedies to no avail. Crazed and with the left side of my neck hurting from repeated attempts to remove the water, I finally passed out. At lunch today purchased earplugs and eardrops to dry the ear canal. As you see, due to the Ear Paper Experiment, I am especially susceptible to swimmer's ear. I can even get it from showering, thus my patented Steve Wonder ear block neck sway. And Swimmer's Ear, if you have not had it, is very painful and something to be avoided. So hopefully this all works out and I can continue to swim so that my arms don't look like two logs of uncased sausage in the sleeveless dress I need to buy for my wedding. Light a candle for me. I think a prayer to St. Anthony of the sagging underarm might be in order as well. Thanks.

In other news, this morning I encountered this man. He is what I refer to as a costumer. These are people who although it is not Halloween, dress up in ways that cause the stares of other people. I will never understand these people. Probably because I went to Catholic School for eight years and the only discernable difference between anyone were their shoes. Oh, my eight grade light blue moccasins with the silver beading were awesome. Bringing attention to yourself is the antithesis of my more reserved quiet and watching everything approach to life. But in no particular order this guy had:

1. Bald head.
2. Requisite facial hair. Where in the mantra of man does it say - bald head must be accentuated with the following, goatee, soul patch, moustache, or other carefully designed facial man hair. I get it you can grow hair! But just not on your head.
3. Two tattoos on each arm above the elbow and below the bicep.
4. Short sleeve shirt to show adequately the bicep and tattoos. I don't get tattoos personally, but to each their own. But I will always remember the 80 year old man whose chest I was shaving when I was a nuclear medicine technology intern, who said to me "See these tattoos, I hate them. I got them when I was 17. Never get a tattoo." Also, let me tell you, the skin sags. And it sags a lot.
5. Jeans with metal studded belt.
6. And the piece of resistance - big ass headphones that scream, I just got off my job as a lander of airplanes at SFO.

Brokeback Mountain was not a good choice of movies for the pregnant, with its aching soundtrack and sad longing love story. Since becoming pregnant I have cried during two Lost episodes and Armageddon, however I did not think this highly unusual because have also cried during Spiderman I (Peter and Mary Jane not being together), the last X-Men (Dr. Jean Gray dying) and during Independence Day (the President's speech). A sap am I, this I know. However, I first watched Brokeback Mountain this summer while in Brooklyn, and it did move me to the point of tears, but if I was to gage it on weepy to full out bawl - it would have ranked a 5. So, I figured I'd have myself a nice little cry, and be a-okay. But last night, the tears started with Jack Twist dying, and ended 20 minutes after I shut the movie off. Full out bawl times 1000. It was that sort of cry that leaves you wasted, wherein your entire body shakes and you can't catch your breath, and you start coughing and throwing up phlegm because you have the worst allergies this side of nerd. I have learned now that under no circumstances am I to watch any movie that will move the normal to tears. For with me it will be doubly effective and cause great emotional upheaval. So no Terms of Endearment, no Champ, no Gone with the Wind, no Milo and Otis, for my heart (and hormones) just can't take it.

So I can finally unveil the reason my postings of late have been haphazard and neglectful. Drum roll please . . . I am eleven weeks knocked up. In fact, today is the day in which the little bean within my belly is officially a fetus. Those familiar with my exercises in alcoholism should be pleased to know that I am also almost three months sober. So yes, it could be done. However, I fear that my sailor level of tolerance will be whittled to teenage girl at a kegger by the time I get reacquainted with the demon. I can't wait until 2008! So, I think in this blog, I would like to focus on the daily happenings of my pregnant life. And today I would like to discuss with the masses (all three of them) morning sickness. Luckily, I have seen little of this curse, but when we do meet, it makes for an occasion. My only comparison, not surprisingly, is when you are deathly hung-over, and you have that bile taste in your mouth with no ability to vomit. You just keep on swallowing praying for it to pass. Except in my case I have nary a drop to drink and it hits at odd times - but mostly 10:30 to 11:30 a.m., or 45 minutes after a meal, or when I eat pineapple. And yes, I don't eat pineapple anymore since discovering this. But other than that, all is well, other than finding substitutes for booze - for we all know, it makes the good times better and the bad times bearable. Cheers.

Last Friday I went to the Giants/Dodgers game. Which is the West Coast equivalent to the Sox/Yanks rivalry. At least that is what is contended. And although there were boos, and heckles of the fans in blue and white, the following taunt is what differs the East Coast from the West Coast. Said by a Giants fan to a Dodgers fan - "Well, our weed is much better than your dank chronic." Yep, California.

The other evening, I entered Safeway to make a few grocery store purchases - a bottle of wine, and 2 pints of ice cream. And as I waited in line gazing upon my items, I realized that I had the very things that screamed female, single and doomed - ice cream and white wine. I wanted to scream that someone did in fact like me, and at the age of 32 I had not given into the magnetism of alcohol combined with cold creamery crack. But alas, I fear the cashier Juan was not fooled as he looked at me with a pitiful gaze. Ah well, time to invest in a fake wedding band.

This week has been a whirlwind, thus the lack of posts. But fear not, I shall begin again next week with a renewed diligence. Right now I crave a pillow, but 4 more hours of work must be completed. 4 hours, or 240 minutes, or 14,400 seconds. Does anyone else do this? I have been doing it since I was little, and can't see to stop. Ah, well. Actually I do have a story that popped in my head on the way to see Charlie Murphy last Thursday while my boyfriend's brother was telling of how he got an extreme pain in his ear. Only to find out it was about an inch of sand buried in his ear the cause being his falling asleep on the beach while with his dog Otto. As he told about the pain, I remembered my paper experiment circa Fifth Grade. I had a problem with water in my ears. No matter what, I got water in my ears, and it drove me bonkers. Still does, but with age, I have a tried and true method. Basically, whenever I put my head under the shower, I block my ears. This is especially fun to witness when I am washing the shampoo soap out. Ears blocked, head swaying from the left to the right to the left to the right, pure Steven Wonder. Sometimes I even sing "I Just Called To Say I Love You." So one day in science class, I could take no more, so I took some notebook paper, rolled it in a ball, and put it in my ear. I figured that the paper would absorb the moisture in time, so later that evening I took the paper out. And I did this for a number of weeks; progressively getting increasingly bold. More paper, longer stays, both ears now involved, ear wax ratio on the paper documented. And yes this is completely disgusting, but also completely true. However, one day, I got the sharpest ache in my left ear. And as the day progressed it got only sharper until I could take no more. I ran screaming to my mother about my ear and the pain. She rushed me to the emergency room and there I sat waiting for the doctor. At no time during this wait, did it occur to me that the cause was the experiment. So the doctor asked questions, with my Mom there. I told him how the pain started in the morning and only got worse, and it hurt badly. He then took the ear probe out and stuck it in my ear where I just remember the following "Ah, there is something in here." "There is definitely something in here." So the doctor gets a tool and removes 7 balls of paper from my left ear, and 4 from my right. My mother looked stupefied and the doctor went on to say that it was obvious they were placed there at different times due to the different sorts of paper and wax. If looks could kill, there is no way I could be writing this. Of course, I tried to explain that I did it because I had water in my ear and I figured it would be a good way to get the water out, and I took the paper out at night, but I must have missed some. After the doctor informed me of Q-tips, and the fact I could have caused permanent and severe damage to my ears, my mother and I left the emergency room. My ear better, and my mother utterly embarrassed. And that is my notebook paper ear absorption experiment. And believe me, it was a success.

Because I am leaving work early, and have been a tad busy, I submit the beginnings of a children's story I started about 3 years back. I had to stop because I was becoming insane with the use of 9 syllables in every line. Although it is my intention to go back to it, hopefully by next week. Of course, I am thinking of illustrating this as well. That should be fun.

The Lonely Spider: A Tale Woven Especially for You

A spider lonely? How could it be?
By reading this tale you just might see.
First, lets begin a long time ago,
So I can relay all that I know.

While walking along a path one day,
my ears heard the whisper “Want to play?”
“Of course,” I said turning around,
But search as I might, nothing was found.

How curious. I thought to myself.
Could it be an invisible elf?
“Hello” I said, “I will play with you.”
Please don’t hide. “What would you like to do?”

But there was no response, nothing said
I waited, listened and then just pled
“Answer now or off to home I’ll go.”
And then came a voice, afraid and low.

“I am here, down here, just by your knee.”
“You are where?” I said with utmost glee.
So look down I did and with surprise,
I found a spider before my eyes.

“You’re a spider, I can’t play with you.”
“Whatever could we possibly do?”
You can’t swim or run or even bat,
We’re different, its as simple as that.”

“Before you saw me, you would have played.”
“You said so yourself, and even stayed.”
“Why has that changed upon seeing me?
“Just be my friend,” the spider did plea.

And so I stood and looked in his eyes.
They were blotchy and then came his cries.
“We are different, but that could be good,
Please be my friend. Do you think you could?”

I love San Francisco. I adore its weather, its beauty and its plethora of comedic relief in the form of the hippy. However, there is one tidbit about this fair city that I can't freaking stand. And that is simply, the lack of public transportation etiquette. I lived in Boston for 31 years before moving, and there were "Rules of the T." No, they were not written down, nor was there a class taught about the basic ground rules. But you know what, we waited until the people got off the bus or train before entering. Yep, it is true. And you know why? Because it is really fucking hard to get off the train when a sea of people are coming aboard. Also, we used the word "excuse me" when say brushing against someone on our way off. Yep, crazy Bostonians. Here though, I don't get it. Basically when the door opens it is akin to a football being snapped. Offensive (people coming on) and Defensive (people getting off). I have pushed, clawed and hip checked people on my way out at times. Also, I have this thing about strange people touching me, even the slightest contact sort of makes my skin crawl. Especially if they are sweaty. Thus my Frodo like tendency to "find the solo seat." Today, the bus was crowded - luckily I found a seat between two people who did not look like they would give me Ebola. I sat down, happy. Until the next stop brought a wave of person. Crowds crushed in, and I got a bit sick in my stomach. This woman before me stopped and sort of straddled my legs, and I could not help to think that she was trying to get off as she kept leaning forward invading my personal space until finally I moved my legs out of her bowlegged masturbatory grip. Repulsed and counting to 20 slowly as to calm myself from screaming bloody murder, I was happy in the fact that it is March 30. As I have moved, I did not renew my Muni pass for April. My only trip on the bus being a night trip to the gym, and at night, I don't fear my leg being molested by 70 year old poontang. So getting up 15 minutes early in order to walk to work will be well worth the effort, and the escape from the sick touch fest that defines a morning commute.

This morning I overhead the following conversation between two boys ages 7 or 8.

Glasses Boy: Do you know that it takes 100 people to kill an elephant.
Other Boy: No.
Glasses Boy: Yeah, its true.
Other Boy: Really? I would think 1,000 people.
Glasses Boy: Maybe. Maybe with a boy elephant.
Other Boy: Yeah, definitely a boy elephant.

I sat there stunned. First, when did elephants become so popular with today's youth that tales of how many people it takes to slay them is appropriate morning conversation and why the heck does it take 900 more people to take down a boy elephant. What was the girl elephant PMSed and they threw her some dark chocolate or better yet did they call her fat and she crumbled to a heap in tears easily caught. Boys.

Two stories about my mother and her often wacky sense of perception. One day in the mid to late 80s, my mother and I were driving in our lovely AMC Concord. The cars of my youth were a baby blue pinto, a brown pinto, the AMC Concord, a red Hyundai and a grey Hyundai. As you can see, we were lovers of the cheap. Truthfully I am surprised that a Yugo was not purchased. My Dad's car at the moment is a Ford Focus, so yes, the madness continues. The first car he got for me was a 1984 Ford LTD. Nothing says cool like a 10 foot long car with a door length capable of tripping passerbys on the opposite side of the street. Anyway, as we progressed down the street my mother happily chirping away, out of no where runs a squirrel who was immediately greeted with the wheel of the tire, his fate obviously sealed. My mother, in this instant, turns to me unfazed and says "Did you see that? That squirrel had suicide in his eyes." Ah, my mom. I do love her.

The second story is a bit more personal as it involves a momentous occasion in a young girl's life, but I will share. One morning during my junior year, crippled with the joy of being a girl, I had run out of maxi pads. I went downstairs to inquire of my mother if she had any I could use. She stated, no, but that she had tampons. I was a bit hesitant, but she informed me that it was no big deal and got the box, and handed me the instructions. So upstairs I went and read how the tampons were created by a woman gynecologist, and how they were specially formulated to adjust accordingly to the unique shape of a woman. Thankfully I had finished health class so I knowingly nodded. Confident, I took a tampon, unwrapped its plastic wrapper, and took the string and flared the bottom so as to insert it with my finger as instructed. Always a nerd when it comes to directions. I then stood up, and as suggested, put my left foot up on the toilet, squatted a bit, took a deep breath and inserted. As I pushed up I felt a tear and a terrible pain hit my gut immediately so much so I let out a yelp. But within a few minutes I was fine, so I got dressed and met my mother in the kitchen. "How was it?" she asked. "Good, although I felt this sorta tear that really hurt." "Don't worry, it won't happen again. You'll be fine." It was then that I realized that I had taken my virginity in my bathroom at 7:45 a.m. with the assistance of my mother. And nope, no amount of therapy can help that.

If I were a male midget wrestler, my name would be the Wee Warrior. I would wear a metal studded black leather wrestling pant, with matching boots - the laces would gleam as they were dipped in titanium. I would date a tall and attractive woman who would refer to me as her human tripod. I would enter the ring to the sounds of Tiny Dancer, a testimate to my size as well as my most aerobic wrestling moves. My signature move would be the Tazmanian Twist, which would involve hurling myself off the top ropes onto my opponent, swirling and clawing my way around them like a demented devil all while screaming a high pitch wail of the banshee. Children would cry, women would swoon and men would envy, all if I were a male midget wrestler.

Drunk Bus Lady I Love You. I recently got a new mobile phone, with all the bells and whistles - polyphonic ring, color display, camera. Basically a complete waste of money as I hate talking on the phone and receive about 3.2 calls a year. However, it was free with rebates, so the purchase. If curious, it is the Sony Ericsson S710a, Stars Wars edition. And no, I did not know that when I purchased the phone - but honestly a ring tone that echos CP30's "the probability of getting hit by a meteor is approximately 1,578,042" is annoyingly cool (and anyone considering e-mailing me about that number being inaccurate - this is probably why you don't date). One day I was previewing the games, and low and behold the number one downloaded game was Tetris Deluxe. As a huge Tetris fan whose free time for an entire year consisted of nothing more than my Nintendo Game Boy, Tetris and dreams of interlocking blocks, I decided there would be no way in hell that this game would be purchased. EVER. Until the fateful day when I got locked out and had nothing to do for a good half hour. The download was made, and addiction renewed. Since I am older and a lot more susceptible to thumb cramps, I tend to relegate myself to play on the bus to the gym and the rare evening before bed. Last night I got the new high record of 42,895, Level 10, 193 lines with a 23% efficiency. Actually Star Trek guys, why don't you leave your number or something, I fear I might need it. This past Wednesday, play began when waiting for the bus, and discontinued as I situated myself to the rear single seats whose inhabitants would be leaving on the next stop. And yes, I do this every day. I have it to almost a science. Unfortunately, a single seat was not procured, and my arse planted itself in an empty three seater. Tetris resumed. The next stop brought Mr. and Mrs. Drunkard 2006 aboard, who as luck would have it sat right next to me. Tetris Me, Drunken Gal and Drunk Man, a happy trio. As they entered the bus with boisterous laughs, you noticed the smell immediately - a sublime mixture of whiskey, cigarettes and urine. Enraptured in my game with the only possibilities of standing and stopping or sitting and playing, like any addict, I made due. They pretty much ignored me and laughed the insane laughter of those drinking for 3 years straight, although there was an argument about how there was no way that the last beer in her fridge would be sipped. I believe the exact words were "Uh uh. I drink my beer, but need myself a beer in the morning. Damn, waking up without a morning fix. Uh uh." After that was settled, she focused her attention on me with the following "Damn girl, you got some Matrix shit happening there." "What you doing?". Stifling laughter, I ignored and continued play. Luckily for me, as we drove by the water she was mesmerized with the site of ships wherein she sang loudly "The Love Boat, Exciting and New. Come aboard, we have been expecting you." I exited for the gym the next stop and quite honestly sad to leave a woman who (a) needed a morning beer fix, (b) referenced Matrix to my Tetris playing and (3) sang the Love Boat Theme song, all without a care to the world (except the morning fix part). I do love riding the bus.

Gin - My Evil Nemesis Part II. Since Stair Crawl Vomit Fest Circa 1994, I avoided gin with the gusto of a scorned woman. Occasionally we'd meet at parties, I see him, then run the other way or enjoy myself a little too much with a vodka cranberry or jack and coke. Yep, gin was snubbed and this continued with near a thought in my head until moving to San Francisco in November 2004. It seems that my one good friend in the town, Grant, was a lover of the gin and tonic. Not one to dwell on past relationship disasters, I stayed the path of the righteous - tequila, whiskey, vodka and beer (oh my!). However, one evening at Grant's apartment, with no other liquor to be consumed, I had my first gin and tonic after a 10 year absence. It was good, not the same of course, but old familiar feelings were there. I perhaps enjoyed his company three or five times after that, with nary an ill feeling. Friends again! But just friends. There would be no more consumption to drunkenness - I learned my lesson, or so I thought. This brings me last Friday, St. Patrick's Day. I had to work, but that evening I went out for my St. Patty's Day meal, chicken tikki masala. Personally I feel the eating of a boiled dinner or the wearing of green on St. Patty's is pretty much amateur hour. You are not to eat and wear green, you are to be blurry eyed on whiskey and beer. My first drink of the evening was a Heineken. In hindsight, this was my first misstep. As a girl of Irish descent, and one who likes the cocktail, there is a mantra set in stone - liquor beer, never fear; beer, liquor never sicker. And on a day like St. Patty's where drinks would be consumed like virgins at a sacrifice, I should have had liquor to begin. I blame the Polish in me. So, after dinner and my one beer there was a journey to a bar - 2 shots of jameson, 3 beers (bud) and then to a party that was touted as a St. Patty's Day Homewarming Birthday Bash. And yes, it was as gay as it sounds, almost as much the two guys swallowing each other's tonsils on the couch to the left of where I sat in distain drinking beer - 1 redtail, 3 pabst - while touting the day as worst St. Patty's eva. Contemplating how it was that I could even see straight on this day of debauchery when the hour was approaching 1:00 a.m., relief was found in the form of Grant wanting to leave. So off to the Irish bar Finnegan's Wake. Finally among my own - the drunk, slurring and incapable of cohesive thought, home. I had another shot of Jameson and 2 more beers. For those keeping tabs: 3 shots Jameson and 7 beers. Then last call came, and not one to stop the madness of the snake master's day - nightcap! I sat on Grant's couch waiting for my drink where I was offered the choice of brandy or tanqueray. For those not alcoholically inclined, Tanqueray is gin. Since I am neither 65 nor a man, I choose the gin without any worry in my head, for we were friends once again. Two gins and tonics and drunkenly conversed out, I headed home. This is where my recollection is a tad bit foggy. I took a taxi home, entered the apartment, and from evidence gathered in the morning (clothes strewn, facial wash out), went to the bathroom. Then upstairs not sure if there was any stair clutching, because like all drunks with a foggy memory, it is best not to question the person who loves you and show them how close to rock bottom you truly are, but I was told drunkest ever. And truth be told, I was sort of disappointed there was no sash, beer case crown and ceremony the next day, but this woe I will suffer. What I do remember, is the visit to the bathroom, and I fondly remember the tikki chicken masala. Oh, how I remember it, especially the next day when my pillow was a lovely yellowy orange. And who do I blame for all of this? Gin. Oh sure, you could say 7 beers, 3 shots of Jameson, but I am not one who pukes the joys of an evening had, I am one to just float away to sleep in a haze so this leaves Gin. Evil, vile, son of a bitch, Gin. I equate this entire experience to the Revenge Fuck. Gin fucked me over, and fucked me over good. He gave me a taste of the normal, and then tricked me into bed again. And once again I laid strewn on the bathroom floor, my head on the cool porcelain, my insides being roller coastered 100 mph through my mouth. So the lesson learned is quite simple, never be friends with an old flame. It only leads to misery.

Since being threatened with homelessness by my boyfriend for not updating, I pledge on this day renewed diligence. So . . . . Gin - My Evil Nemesis Part I. Back in the early 1990s, I first encountered the liquor with the moniker gin. Like all alcohols before it (and since it), I greedily ingested same with vigor. In fact, gin and I engaged in a love affair of sorts - mainly because a good friend, Jess, and I had created "The Canadian Bomb" - which was gin and Schweppes Ginger Ale with a touch of Chambord. We would sit drinking this tasty concoction and regaling pride upon ourselves for our cocktail generating genius. At the bar, like the true dorks, we would ask for the "The Bomb". It was a failed attempt to bring recognition to our creation, and like many of these ventures - it failed stupendously. Bartenders basically looked at us with scorn asking for the ingredients. Also at the same time, I tried to bring renewed interest in the word "higgledy piggledy" which means in an utter disorder or confusion, but that is another story. So, gin and I were friends, good friends. Many a laugh was had under its influence. And like all relationships built on lies, we came to a disastrous end. One evening at the Piano Factory in Jess's apartment, my love and I were engaged. I sipped, and he gently warmed my insides. I am unsure of the total of the beverages consumed - Jess was known for her doubles. But as the evening progressed, I felt the change. Something had happened. It occurred suddenly on the couch, when I could not focus and felt violently ill. I left the apartment at 10:00 p.m. and arrived at my door at 10:30. It should be known at this point, I lived exactly 2 floors up. The details are distorted but this is what I know is true - I clutched the stairs crawling up all the way murmuring repeatedly to God to help me and that such pollutants would never touch my lips again (since he didn't, I revoked the offer). When finally stumbling into my apartment, the only location proved helpful was the floor of my bathroom. You can imagine the rest. Tomorrow - Gin is My Nemesis Part II - St. Patty's 2006.

After watching last night's season premiere of America's Next Top Model, I had a few ideas in which I would like to share:

With her departure from the runway of Victoria's Secret and her TV talk show doing well, I think that our dear Tyra "Fierce" Banks has in fact decided to go the Oprah route. Not in terms of wild and all encompassing success, but rather - Fat Oprah. Did anyone else notice the size of her upper arms last night? Or the junk in her trunk? And let us not forget the repeated stories of starving herself in order to become a Top Model. I think it is time the food beast in Tyra is unleashed. No more modeling contracts, just her, a bucket of KFC and an appearance on Celebrity Fit Club in 2010.

Why can't we have more America's Tops anythings. For instance, would you tune in to watch the following - America's Next Top Crack Whore, hosted by Whitney Houston and Bobby Brown? Ah yeah fear not, I am right on the couch beside you. Can you imagine this genius of combination, maybe the ladies from Flavor Flav's House of Love can get involved, because this has all the makings for television history. For this week's challenge, our 13 crack whores are sent to a crack den wherein they must score crack. The catch, no cash!

Whitney: "Hi Girls."
Girls: "Hello Ms. Houston."
Bobby: "On today's challenge, you will be driven to a crack den."
Girls: "uh huh."
Whitney: "You must score crack. The catch being you will have no cash, just the clothes on your back."
Bobby: (snickering) "Not for long."

Oh the fun!

And finally, I am very much looking forward to more of the Jade and Furonda Exercises in Narcissism and High Self Esteem Workshops.

Oh Good Lord. Yesterday while perusing the website of Banana Republic, I came upon the following notification "now carrying size 00". WHAT? Double zero? I am 5'9" so the entire concept of the size double zero is something akin to Isiah Thomas leading the Knicks to the NBA Finals - in other words, incomprehensible. Who would have thought the anorexic market was that big. Pardon me, while I take up bulimia.