Happy, Happy

You know what the best part of New Year's Eve is? It is when you hear the following "Happy New Years." (Please extend the "years" as follows - "yeeeeerrrrrrsssssss." Perhaps I am the only person on the planet who finds this funny - sorta like my belief that Daniel Day Lewis' suicide attempt in My Left Foot is on par with Laurel and Hardy's Who's On First. If you hear the dreaded Happy New Years (not, Happy New Year), and you look quick enough you will see that often that person using such phrasing falls into a certain category - older, balding and overweight. It is scientifically proven in the Theory of Cass Category. So, what am I going to do for my Happy New Years, well let me tell you . . .

First up, I am working. But we get out at 3:00 p.m. and are having a pizza party. I have noticed a few things about working on holidays. The company feels bad, and instead of just saying listen there is nothing going on, just have the day off, they instead let you out early and feed you pizza. Pizza and being let out early is the corporate world's bitch slap to your face.

After I leave the confines of work, with a little more weight to lose in the upcoming year, thank you pizza, I will be traveling to my OB/GYN who will be giving me a pap smear so that we can check out if my cervical cells are back in line. A little history - my cervix and I are constantly at battle it seems. My cells go a bit wonky, I get another test, all is okay until they go wonky again and we repeat the process. If my OB/GYN is the paparazzi, my cervix is Britney Spears. It loves the attention.

Third up on the NYE agenda is home wherein John and I will follow the routine of getting Owen to sleep and then we will be making Greyhounds with a gallon tub of Grey Goose Vodka that was on sale for 50 bux at Safeway. I don't know how you define love, but your husband calling you at 10:30 a.m. in order to inform you that he just save 30 bux on a tank size bottle of Goose, is better than all the hearts and roses you other saps receive. I love you John McCall, I really do.

As John and I wander down the road of Grey Goose and Grapefruit Juice, we will also be engaging in the play of our Nintendo Wii. I will say this, I have lost my chops. Last night I was defeated by what my brother-in-law now refers to as "The Shark". John smelled blood in the water, and I was his victim. My bowling pro status tumbled 120 points in 3 games. This, to some, is nothing, but to me and my ultra-competitive you will lose attitude, it hurts worse than the seemingly horrid ending to this "What's Grosser than Gross?" joke - sliding down a banister of razor blades into a pool of rubbing alcohol. That's pain people.

Speaking of rubbing alcohol and stories of my unfortunate past, when I was in 10th grade our school newspaper "The Blue and Gold" had a theme at Christmas in which the students would answer the question "What I Wanted For Christmas". It was the early 1990s, and in Boston it was just revealed that Kitty Dukakis, wife of Michael "Presidential Candidate 1988" Dukakis was an alcoholic. And her addiction was so severe that there was a time she pilfered her medicine cabinet to drink rubbing alcohol. So as I sat thinking about what I wanted for Christmas, I wrote the following "All I want for Christmas, is a bottle of rubbing alcohol. Signed, Kitty Dukakis." I know, absolute hilarity. However, I was told later by Mr. Hines that such a wish would not be published because it was not funny, and as a young lady, I should act more ladylike. Well, well Mr. Hines, little do you realize that was pure comedic gold. I still stand by it. I was the David Letterman of Malden High, only to be bullied into silence, by what I do believe was pure jealousy. So on this NYE, I wish you the very best - be it rubbing alcohol, or gallon size bottles of Grey Goose, for we all have our poisons.

Ring Around The Collar

This morning I was ironing my shirt and came across a thought. I know, what mother with a child turning one irons her clothing for work. Me. Why? Because of my mother, a woman that to this day still irons jeans, ingrained it into my psyche. I have tried to go to work with semi-wrinkled clothing. The result being feelings I can only equate to those who have committed the crime of murder. I feel dirty, lonely and guilty - ravaged with the knowledge of wrinkled pants and shirt. But I digress. So as I was ironing the collar of my button down, I had the following thought - is that ring around the collar? Which lead to another thought - what the hell happened to the horror that was "ring around the collar"? Remember commercials like these:



Yeah, I do too. But here it is 2007, and I have heard not a whisper of the evil menace that was ring around the collar. After a quick google search, it seems that ring around the collar does still exists. It is the grime and dirt that collects as one's neck rubs into the fabric of the collar. Basically dead skin combined with sweat pooling. Good lord that is gross. However, it seems that society today is not fearful as it once was. How did this happen? Did lobbyists and supporters of ring around the collar make Wisk abandon its movement to abolish same? I mean with all the freaking guys out there wearing stupid striped collared button down shirts, one would think there would be some sort of crisis concerning the Ring. But nope, it seems this scourge has been swept under the rug. And I am here to rectify this. The ring must be combatted. Forget global warming and the war in Iraq. Down with the ring!!! Down!!!!!!! Please join me in my campaign. Donations gladly accepted.

Introducing . . . THEORY TUESDAYS

This blog needs a gimmick, so henceforth let Tuesdays be known as (drum roll please) . . . Theory Tuesdays. What pray tell do Theory Tuesdays consist of? Well, simply put, Tuesdays will be the day to detail a theory which I have come to believe in as the years pass. Who knows, perhaps Theory Tuesdays will take off and readers will submit their own unique theories, making millions flock to this webpage so that I can quit my job, get rich from ad space sales and begin living the life I was meant to lead - that of an eccentric drunk. We shall devote this first post to my theory of "The Gracefully Clumsy". If you know me well, you will know that at any given time I am covered with at least 3 different bruises. It is not a secret that I am clumsy. My trials of this weekend include the following:

1. On my right upper thigh there currently resides a bruise the size of a grapefruit. This bruise was the result of me walking into a fire hydrant. Now, I would like to state that (a) fire hydrants are stationary and (b) are often painted a bright red, yellow or white. I just walked into it. Enough said.

2. My left big toe is a bloody bruised mess with the top half of its nail missing. This injury was the result of me walking from my bedroom to the bathroom whereupon I slammed my foot into the vacuum, the same vacuum that I moved not 30 minutes earlier. I should have realized at the time that by moving this vacuum I was giving way to the clumsy demons that haunt me. It is as if they got together and said "Holy crap, that stupid bitch just moved the vacuum right outside her bedroom door. And she knows without her glasses she is blinder than blind. She is so in for it. It is almost too easy."

So as the years have progressed I do believe that my constant clumsiness has somehow created in me an absolute gracefulness. For example, the non-clumsy when slipping will often fall flat on their faces. For me, I recognize the first slippage in a nanosecond, contorting my body in such a way that often negates mishap, therefore proving the grace in my clumsy movements. I think anyone given years of abuse will somehow find a way to thwart the first inclinations towards destruction. So the completely and pitifully clumsy, like me, do in fact over time evolve a grace to avoid utter disaster. How do I know this? Well if not, I surely would have been dead 1,000 times over. And that concludes our first installment of "Theory Tuesdays". Please feel free to share your own unique theories. After all, there are only two avenues to becoming my very own Miss Havisham - this blog and the lottery.

Strikes Suck

You want to know something? I really like TV. I won't lie, I may be addicted. It is the crack to my Ho, the vodka to my alky, the entire pizza pie to my bulimic. I love it. So it should come to no surprise that the current writer's strike is causing me great pain. Of all the TV shows that I love, and there are quite a few, there is one that rises above with a form of addiction nearing hysteria, and that dear friends is Lost, Or as I like to say LLLOOOOOOSSSSSSSSTTTT (high pitched in a rambling up and down voice). Call me; I can give an impromptu version. When Lost decided to have its season run in order with no repeats, I was a happy camper. When realizing this meant Lost would not return until mid-January 2008, not so happy. But like many others in denial, it quickly was put of my mind. There were others to occupy my time, like AMC's Mad Men (which is awesome!), HBO's Tell Me You Love Me (which for some reason I like - must be the ass shots), and many more that I care not to list in fear that you will call an intervention on my TV watching arse. In all fairness, I would like to state that my TV watching is much less given the arrival of Owen - which totally and completely sucks balls. I kid, I kid. Actually the term "sucking balls" is pretty awesome, don't you think? I wonder who came up with it. I mean, in order to originate a term, you must have actually done it, right? I can see it now, a pair of guys standing there pushing a brick to the pyramid debating on how much the job just totally stinks, until one of them finally says "You know what Amenhotep? This job sucks balls, just take my word for it." And so I would like to ask whatever God is up there, to please end this writer's strike so that I can sit my bum in front of the TV and rot my brain. Thank you very much.

Back In The Saddle

In a little more than six weeks Owen will be having his first birthday. There are many thoughts racing around my mind but most pressing is the following - I have forty-seven days to lose the last of my pregnancy weight. I think 15 pounds will give me the leeway to gain five with no issue. I have to admit, that the past few weeks I have not been the poster child of weight watching. I have given into my desires of non-diet food specifically red meat and chocolate (a/k/a the Dynamic Delicious Duo). Thankfully, this has not resulted in weight gain, merely a steady maintaining. However, this Monday marks my return to yogurt, fruit, oatmeal as well as silent curses. Also, the return to the treadmill. Watch out San Francisco, another 5.6 is coming your way! (Does this joke every get old?) The month before I got pregnant I was an exercising fool. Even in the worse hangover, I walked my way to the gym to run like an interval training fool. It was awesome, I was awesome. But then I got knocked up. So, the last battle in this weight war is to be waged. Because if I don't lose this weight, it is said that it will remain with me for life as a girl has one year to lose the weight pregnancy begets or else.

As a side note, my stomach just made the strangest gurgling sound - it sounded like a banshee wailing while be strangled. Good lord that Clam Chowder I had for lunch better not turn into a bad idea. Oh sweet Jesus, guess my weight loss may have just gotten a swift kick to the arse. Help!

Holy Apples Batman!

I believe that I just had the most perfect apple ever created in this entire universe. It was like eating apple cider, but crunchier. I consider myself an apple connoisseur, pretty much eating one every day (thereby keeping the doctor away). As I stood in the fruit section of Safeway, there next to the Braeburns was the Honey Crisp. Intrigued, I bought one - impressed by its large size and pretty coloring. Holy crap this apple is good. It could possibly be the heroin of the apple world - you will be addicted with the first taste. After doing some research, I discovered the following:

Honey Crisp is the new sensation in the apple world, a large, sweet apple with crisp "to-die-for" texture! Believed to be an offspring of Macoun and Honey Gold, Honey Crisp was introduced in 1991 by the University of Minnesota breeders at Excelsior, MN. Both its parents were noted for having excellent flavor, moderate sized fruit, and "ok" texture. Honey Crisp's flavor is perhaps not as dramatic as Macoun at its peak, but is first rate. The Kicker in Honey Crisp is its crisp texture -- no other apple matches its crispness.

So true. So true.

My Pumpkin

This is the pumpkin that I carved for Halloween which I think is best summed up by the little girl who after getting her trick and treat goods said "Look Daddy, the pumpkin, its funny." That little girl, she totally got me.

Happy Halloween

Well the day of the devil is upon us. And I shall give you my Top Ten Favorite All Hallow's Eve moments:

10. When my Granddad baked for me a pumpkin birthday cake. He was a baker, and the thing looked exactly like a pumpkin. I think I cried when they cut it.

9. When at age 16 I took two girls I babysat for Trick or Treating, and I dressed up as a flenser (who loved Judy Blume?). Which was perfect because it was pouring out and it the costume involved a rain jacket. I am not telling what flenser is, look it up.

8. The fact that my brother dressed up as Dracula for about 7 years straight. Conversations usually went like this: "Hey, Michael Jaymie, what do you want to be for Halloween this year? Dracula? Really? Wow."

7. The fact that after a while my brother and I got smart in the ways of Halloween and used not the Halloween themed plastic small bags (which would always rip from the weight), but king sized pillow cases, and as for those pumpkin carriers - pure amateur hour.

6. The Great Candy Trade. Nothing beats free candy, but trading with your inept sugar frenzied cousin 3 Smarties and a Rollo for a full size snickers bar might even be better.

5. The fact that I never went berserk on Halloween - egging, shaving creaming, or toilet papering anything because I believed in the sanctity of the tradition. And before you ask, I was a loner in high school.

4. My pillowcase clown outfit that my mom made. It was fantastic. She sew pillow cases together, painted my face, put my hair in pig tails, and gave me a red bulbous nose. It was a phenomenal costume, and handmade.

3. Trick or treating in the projects. I grew up in Charlestown in the projects, which meant that each building had about 20 doors to knock on, and the candy was incredible and this one guy gave dollar bills out. I remember at the time thinking he was the best person I ever met in my entire life. Makes me almost want to give out money - but I just spent $17,000 on a new sewer pipe, so I don't think so.

2. My garbage can outfit. Which remains the best costume I ever came up with - basically I bought a plastic trash can, cut out the bottom, put shoulder straps on it and then wore the cover as a hat. I completed the look with these nasty brown and black tights and a garbage bag for my candy. Aside from people throwing my candy into the actual barrel I was wearing, it was the best. So basically, I loved being trash and I think my life all makes sense now.

1. Owen's First Halloween, which is today. He's a skeleton and so cute - photo above. I love that I get to do this all over again. Yeah!

Happy Halloween everyone.

Happy Birthday To Me

I have officially entered my mid-30s. Hello thirty-four. Did you know that is 17,870,400 minutes of being alive? You dwell on that. So in honor of this momentous occasion, let it be known, that I Cassandra Michele Catherine McCall, have added another moisturizer into the routine. I don't think marking another year of your life is better expressed than with a new moisturizer. So in addition to my alpha hydroxy peels, my Clarins moisturizer, and my tinted MD Skincare moisturizer I have now added MD Skincare's Hydra-Puree Antioxidant Firming Serum. Yep, nothing says Happy Birthday than the fight against wrinkles. Not that I am deluding myself. I understand that as I age, my skin will lose its elasticity and droop. I have a degree in biology after all, but I am thinking with good genetics, moisturizing, and the drinking of plenty of water, I can ward off the potential ill effects of aging upon my skin. There are two things I have learned from talk shows (well two things that I think are most important). The first was when I was 15 when I saw Bill Cosby on Oprah wherein he stated that water and drinking lots of it was the key to healthy skin. Needless to say as a 15 year old who just got 3rd degree burns on my face from combining Noxzema and Clearasil as an overnight mask, it had impact. The second thing I learned from talk shows, and it has nothing to do with beauty routines, was Jackson Pollack. Phil Donahue did a show about him - showing some of his art, him painting, and basically I fell in love. I can't remember how old I was, but I loved it. And after reading a biography of Mr. Pollack, I have wanted to see Blue Poles Number 11 in person. It is currently on exhibit in Australia. Someday I hope to visit. So, I guess that is my birthday wish, because I have already been blessed with a lovely son, wonderful husband and great friends. Sorry for the sentimentality, but sometimes the inner dork comes out. Speaking of inner dorks and Alice in Wonderland lovers, to all those not celebrating their birth today - Happy Unbirthday!

Happy Almost Halloween

Well it is Halloween, or almost. I love Halloween, probably because my birthday is tomorrow and I have had a host of Halloween themed birthday parties. This photo is from a party 3 years ago - which happened to fall on my birthday. It is my good friend Amanda. I don't think there is anything better than photographic evidence of your drunken misadventures, especially when they involve putting a carved pumpkin on your head. So in spirit (boo!) of the season, I do believe that this week of blogging with be in keeping with Halloween. Wait until you see the pumpkin I carved yesterday.

A Baseball Story

Although this photo is a tad old, it is in keeping with the spirit of the moment and that is a loud and proud: Go Sox! I just finished reading an anthology in which women writers talk about raising sons. For the most part it was great, although there were a few ladies who told the story of crying when they found out they were having a boy, and these were not tears of joy, but with time they came to love the idea of a son. Some people I tell you. I guess being a tomboy; I had no qualms with having a boy, and perhaps in a certain respect have preferred it. Although I am sure that if I was blessed with a girl, it would be equally fulfilling. How could it not? Another theme in this book was the assigning of gender roles to children. As in it is okay for boys to cry, not like sports and wear pink. All of which is fine and dandy, but these women planned on outright defiance of the gender roles set by society. Most of them met an acceptance that even though they may force the doll, most of their sons preferred trucks. One writer prided herself on her son's lack of the male love of sports. Which is fine, I guess. I have come to age in a generation of feminist son-raising women, and I have found that some boys my age indeed do not like sports and some given the alternative tide of the 1990s found it a selling point. I can't even recall the number of guys who would say "I am sensitive, and I don't like sports." Which I am sure would make many a girl giddy, but always in me it would produce a smirk and then the immediate thought of "Oh jesus, what a pansy". I was raised on football, and horrid football at that - the 1980s New England Patriots. I remember sitting with my father and praying the game would not be blacked out although often, it was. I love playing tackle football at daycare, and thought maybe I could make it a career. Also I was one of two girls in Babe Ruth Baseball (age range 13 to 15). I was an excellent second baseman, but my male coaches would always regale me to right field - a/k/a home to the losers. Of course, due to my super competitive nature, I decided to remedy this. I practiced constantly with my brother, my swing, my catch, my throw, all in order to prove that I did not belong in right field for 4 innings, but rather on the infield for the entire game. So one game, I did amazingly. I hit a triple, a double, and caught every fly ball that came to me in my isle of loserdom. And as the game ended, my coaches gathered the team around, I felt happy that finally I would get the recognition I deserved, only to be met with the following "What the hell guys, even the girl is doing better than you." So there it was a bitch slap with words. Needless to say, I continued in right field for the next two years hoping for justice and receiving none. However, I did learn the life lesson that some people are complete assholes no matter what you do, but this is not a reason to stop trying. So, to the weekend and to the Sox!

Overheard on Muni

Yesterday while riding Muni home (don't I sound just like a San Franciscan?), I overheard the following conversation:

Twenty Year Old 1: Ah, did you ever see that movie Risky Business?
Twenty Year Old 2&3: Nope.
Twenty Year Old 1: Well there's this scene where he eats a girl out on a train.

I think that is all I have to say here. First I was astonished that someone had not seen Risky Business and second I was immediately grossed out that someone would use that term with a high octave voice on crowded public transportation. In fact, I don't think I was alone in this as it seemed the entire train just stopped for those brief moments of shock. I think that phrase just will always in me cause a tad bit of nausea because eating out should be referencing a meal not at your home that includes tip, not a buried face in a female's genitals. And I swear, I am not a prude.

Delayed Backache

While watching the Red Sox whoop ass on Sunday evening, a commercial for one of the ever present ways a man can get the bone back in boner came on the air. One of the many possible side effects stated was the following: "Delayed Backache." Oh really? You mean to tell me that some guy over 50 who has not had sex in a few months is going to pop a pill and go at it like there is no tomorrow may have a delayed backache? Wow. Shocking.

Closet Discovery and Menarche Morn

A few weeks ago I was looking at some old photos and saw one of me in a maroon cardigan. At that moment I said "Whatever happen to that sweater? I must have lost it." So this morning, imagine my joy when I discovered said sweater. Of course, I immediately called myself an idiot as the sweater had been in my closet for almost a year. This happens to me a lot. I guess I don't pay attention to the particulars. Or more likely, the fact that I attended Catholic school ingrained a love of the uniform, which at my age has translated to pants, t-shirt, cardigan, flats. Repeat in assorted colors. So because said cardigan was not in my routine, it was neglected. Poor cardigan. However, welcome back to the fold. Speaking of maroon things, I have fully returned to womanhood. Yesterday morning I woke up to my period. My last period occurred March 4, 2006, so needless to say it has been a while. Of course, my sheets required immediate washing, and my pajama bottoms were destroyed but once again I am among the bleeders. I feel special. And no cramps! Not sure if this is going to be a continuing trend, but my mother always told me that my cramps would be less with the birth of a child. And egads, I think the lady is right. We can only hope since my consumption of 15 advil a day to ease the pulsating pain was a bit unbearable. However, my phrase of "It feels like a posse of drunken monkeys is in my belly fighting for the last beer!" might have to be retired. Such a shame. So to the monthly curse I say to you - welcome back. Of course, this means I am also fertile again. Yikes. Also, I am unsure of this, perhaps 80%, but I do believe some kid shouted at me from his car, "MILF". I felt both pride and disgust as obviously he thought I was cute, but although with the birth of Owen this is a club I have joined, my membership I care not to flaunt. Thank you very much.

The Ballad of Night Man

Not sure if you are familiar with the FX Its Always Sunny in Philadelphia, but the above produced in me hysterics not matched in over a year. I have seen this over 20 times and each time it is continues to be funny, which one would think impossible, but no.

The Dreaded Baby Germ

Well it seems that my fight with baby germs is almost concluded as is evidenced by the never ending supply of green snot in my nose. It seems no matter how hard or how much I blow, what escapes is replaced in about 2.5 seconds. I don't get it. Although I did some research today on green snot, and it seems that this is evidence that my immune system is waging a war it is winning. You go T cells. I'll be honest, when hearing that baby having equals getting sick a bunch, I scoffed. Why? Well, my immune system has been fighting off viruses, bacteria and other sickly woes with a cunning and agility not unlike that of the ninja. Its mastery of killing disease has basically rendered me healthy with nary a sniffle for a good 8 years. However, now that I have Owen Harborer of Health Horrors, my immune system has been riddled with disease, overpowered by The Dreaded Baby Germ (there should really be some music here - preferably of the 1940s gumshoe style). One would hope that The Dreaded Baby Germ would easily succumb to an adult's immune defense, but no - not unlike the baby itself those bloody germs get into everything causing headache, anxiety and fear. I don't think there has been a more miserable time in recent years for me than this Saturday when John woke me to feed Owen and put him to bed. As I sat reading Ten Little Ladybugs and Goodnight Gorilla, tears formed, and I thought death was imminent. Thankfully Owen went to sleep without issue, and I returned to bed with a box of tissues and hatred of the fact that when sick and nursing - there is no Nyquil heavenly bliss. There is nothing but chicken soup, water and lozenges. I can deal with being sick if given the opportunity to consume a half bottle of Nyquil and retire into a den of deep sleep and delirious thought, but it is quite another thing to be ill, nursing and taking care of a baby. Damn you baby germs!!! I hate you. It has also come to my attention that perhaps my conquering of illness in years past is not at all related to the super ability of my immune system, but rather the fact that my daily blood alcohol level hovered around 0.10 thereby pickling any invader into my bloodstream - deep thoughts indeed. Thankfully this illness is passing, and I am now 20 years old in Big Brain Academy. That is the youngest your brain can be. Yes, applaud me. (Sorry for the Nintendo DS Lite reference, but a girl in times of sickness, must find happiness in other arenas).

Obsession

I love, love, love this song, this video, this band. I can only say that I hope some day to see them live. I even turned off the new Radiohead for a listen - now that is saying something. Anyway, to Animal Collective, Peacebone and love amongst the aliens. Also, look how cool I am posting a video to the blog. Yeah me.

I am a 12 year old boy . . . .

Because I find this funny (and was the block composer of words). Also because I went to the movies to see Reign of Fire - you might remember this movie from years past. It was about dragons and starred Christian Bale and Matthew McConaughey. I went because it was about dragons. The sole reason - although it did have the requisite male eye candy. The movie was terrible, but as I sat in the theatre and I took a look around at the other viewers, there was no one over the age of 12 or female. So, yep, I am a 12 year old boy.

It Scared the . . . .

Please read this. I don't really know what to say about this news, other than it scared the poop out of me. Seriously, on the floor below me is digested meals of days past. Oh sweet Jesus. Although I have been nightmare free for over 2 months now, I think we have succeeded in causing my REM brain to once again be fraught with terror. I can't even fathom this being true, yet it is. Egads! This just goes to show you that the ocean is infinately better than lakes. Sure, a shark may come over one day and take a limb, but at least a blobby mass will not trek up your nasal cavity in order to consume your cerebrum. Salt water 1, stagnant water zero.

The Getting Older Underwear Raping Patron Saint of Boobies

My underwear is totally riding up on me so that I feel like I am raping myself with every step. Honestly. It seems due to my weight loss all my clothes are swimming on me. Even things that were fine before the being that grew in my belly. I guess things that are stretched to the limits of their seams do not bounce back. Gosh darn it. A weeding of my closet is in dire need. Yesterday due to lack of clean laundry, I wore pants two sizes too big. I looked like I had Jimmy Hoffa hiding in my arse. Those pants are officially retired, but not thrown away. Since baby number two is somewhere on the horizon (no I am not pregnant), and I am sure my weight will increase once again. But maybe not, I think this go around I will be much more conscious of that fact that Ben & Jerry's every day makes for a big ole booty, but a sweet ole baby. However, in my defense, I was on bed rest for 10 weeks. So there fools. Also, when I went to Nordstroms this weekend for a new nursing bra it was pointed out to me by the molester, errr, sales clerk, that my boobs had not decreased, the circumference of my chest had. WHAT!?! I went from a 36G to a 34G. I have never been a 34. I think the reason for this is of course dieting, but also the fact that for nine months my back has been supporting G size boobies. That is a hell of a lot of work. You try putting two honeydew melons on your upper chest and go through the motions of a particular day. No wonder I collapse into bed, exhausted with an aching back. My life I tell you. I really should be nominated for some sort of sainthood. St. Cassandra, Patron Saint of Large Breasted Women. Girls could pray to me in the throws of puberty. "Dear St. Cassandra, please give to me the gift of boobies. I have been a good girl, conscious of my parents, and school teachers, but now I want boys to be conscious of me. Please grant me those fat sacks in size C. Thank you." In other news, I have two birthday parties to attend on Saturday, both of which are for boys - ones first, and another's second. And the best part, after attending both of these parties and going home it will be around 3:00 p.m. Wow. Two parties and done by 3:00, and not a.m.! How a life changes. Which brings me to another birthday - mine. I will be turning 34 on October 30. Those wishing to send me gifts, please note that I am fond of music of an alternative bend and books of a non-whiny chick lit form. I can't believe I will be thirty-four - thirty freaking four people. I am officially in my middle 30s. However, I don't really feel too bad about this since to be honest as each year has passed in my life it has only gotten better. No longer the overanxious teenager with a shy streak, or a fumbling twenty-something who knew nothing of herself, I am now a thirty-something with a amazing kid, a wonderful husband, and a great house. And yes, I can be an overly sentimental (semi-mental) sap at times - you should have seen the tears during the President's speech in Independence Day. But if this what being old is, then bring it on God of the Old. But please don't bring on the wrinkles, because I don't want those.

Vegetarian No More

Good news at the pediatrician's office yesterday - I can give the boy whole milk at 11.5 months which means that December shall be an exciting month for me. Read bender. Owen is also of the carnivore set. He had his first chicken meal yesterday - granted it was from Safeway Organics, but this evening chicken breasts and brown rice shall cook and pureed accordingly. So in addition to breastfeeding that kid, I also make all his food. For a hippie hater, I am beginning to blur the line. But if I was true to the hippie roots, I would be nursing that kid until first grade. Which is not happening. Can you imagine? I get the creeps already since he has unlatched a few times and touch my nipple in a playful way. Saying "Don't play with Mommy's nipples" is phrase I thought I would never utter as I am not a porn star or into S&M. It is hard not to have a look of horror on my face, but I was reading that kid's look to your face for clues about right and wrong. And this especially true with the stinky diaper - for to make a face of disapproval makes a child equate his or her genitals with that disgust making for a rough transition into a sexual being. So I laugh and giggle and smile, and barely suppress the vomiting when changing a super duper noxious diaper all in the name of my son not having issues with his peter. The sacrifices!

The Limericking Lass Named Cass

Many people don't know this about me, but I can pretty much come up with a limerick for any person on any occasion at a moment's notice. So in addition to functional alcoholism and potato loving mania, this too can be traced to my Irish roots. Also, I hate to say it but do I not have a mastery of the Microsoft program Paint? Between today's earlier boob post and my near perfect rendering of John and I in bed, there is no other conclusion than I have a gift. Today's Paint picture is of a Manhattan, which will surely be mine (November 17, 2007 - you hear me), and today's limerick is to mark the occasion.

There once was a girl named Cass
Whose breastfeeding will soon pass
The Manhattan her drink
Oh those glasses shall clink
Until she falls shortly on her ass

Dear Diary . . .

Or should I say, Dear Blog. Well for the life of me, whether it is good or not, I think I will detail the every day nonsense that is my life in this here blog. This way I don't suffer for hand cramps due to writing - which happens often at work if I am forced to print Certified Mail/Return Receipt Requested forms. Wow, see the excitement already! So it seems that I am in the midst of a quandary - my nursing bras are too big. How do I know this? Well I will tell you. The other day when in the elevator I saw my reflection in the mirrored wall and my nipples were erect and cockeyed - one pointing low to the left and the other pointing high to the right. I have attempted a drawing to illustrate. Obviously my boobs are not being well contained in my bra, but the problem is nursing bras in umbrella sizes are expensive and I am cheap. Purchasing two bras for 13 weeks (the time I have left nursing) would amount to about $120.00 bux, if I am lucky. This seems a little extravagant since I am expecting that once I stop nursing my boobs will return to their previous size. God I hope so, because I am banking on a 10 pound weight loss with such event. I think I might purchase one bra and live with cockeyed boobies every other day of the week. Which brings me to another thing - I am sick and tired of pumping. I am so done with breastfeeding. It has become a chore, well not feeding Owen, but the pumping twice at work, and once at night and the cleaning, and the bottles, and the freezing, and the measuring, and the worry about not pumping enough, and most importantly, the not drinking. However, I shall suffer the 91 days until Owen turns one (what?!?!) and is able to have whole milk. I have begun the weaning process and hope that it goes without issue. But how does one make a sacrifice to the weaning gods to guaranty same? I am thinking lighting a paper mache boob on fire and then dousing with milk? Hmmm, I must investigate.

My Son is Cuter Than Yours

I know, I know everyone thinks that their kid is the cutest thing ever. As they should really, but I have to say that the photo of Owen on the left is truly the definition of cute baby. That smile, those blue eyes, that fair skin. Good lord, give me some A-1 sauce for I want to eat his face off.

My Apologies

Obviously my life of a blogger is haphazard in its entries, which plays to the fact that I am a procrastinator. The blog in my head is full of entries that would make your sides ache, your eyes widen and your mind excited. But alas, the procrastinator in me has set up camp with no intent to leave - a renter in the rent controlled apartment of my brain. But enough about my inner turmoil, and let me catch you up on all the joy that has occurred in my life, it should be short given my boring parental (but extremely happy) life of the moment.

1. Weight Watchers Works. I have lost 14 pounds on the Weight Watchers plan, which is great considering on weekends I eat whatever the hell I want. I feel like a prisoner given a conjugal visit, except my romp is with the heavenly bliss that is pizza, ice cream and more importantly beer which leads me to another milestone.

2. Hello Beer, My Old Friend. After a 7 plus hour drive home from the cabin (pictured above), I had an itch. And this itch had only one cure, booze. So, after almost 8 months of leading a somewhat sober life save the occasional glass of wine or bottle of beer, I dived wholeheartedly into a pool of Heineken (of course this pool was kiddie in size as four Heinekens delivered in me an inner peace that was usually the product of 2 shots, 4 jack and cokes and a beer). Now, I can firmly state that nursing the boy shall end December 19 (Owen’s first birthday), as Momma needs her cocktail. Originally my thought was that this cocktail would be a Maker’s Mark Manhattan (as in MMMmmmmmmm), but now I fear due to my lightweight status (both literally and figuratively) I may have to have something more simple, like a Vodka Cranberry. However, I am still leaning towards the MMM, which probably means after the consumption of one I will be of the stumbling but super silly sort.

And that is pretty much it. Not really but I have 15 minutes left before work ends for the long weekend. I plan on going to the new haunt that is the backyard space of the Park Chalet with Owen and John where we will sit outside, eat and drink beer in a sea of parents, kids, dogs and other refugees of the usually banned from restaurants camp. We have found true joy! Happy weekend, and I will try to write more, but that fat balding guy with the short sleeve dress shirt and the procrastinator title on his desk really does create an obstacle.

This morning while walking a large boobied lady made her way across me in all of her plastic surgery enhanced beauty. I shook my head. There are two things in this world that I don’t get - (1) Fake Boobs and (2) Tattoos. Perhaps because I am well endowed, I can’t possibly understand why a woman would choose to go out and pay money for things that basically cause dents in your shoulders and make the wearing of some v-neck shirts outright obscene. I also am hard pressed to understand how any heterosexual man could enjoy the feeling of said boobies which I imagine feel like a gallon size Ziploc bag filled with sandwich size water filled bag that continually moves as you grab it. Sorta like, oh wait a second, I know why men would like it - it feels like their balls! It all makes sense now. But why a girl would want larger melons is beyond me, but then I am never one to intentionally seek out attention from the masses. This brings to another thing that causes in me the immediate tisk, tisk and that is the tattoo. How could you like something so much that you choose to get it inked permanently on your body? A friend of mine in the mid-1990s got two tattoos - the infinity symbol on her foot and Dionysis’s staff on her belly. Although I could appreciate her journey to be different, I never really got it. Also, I think in 2007 both of these tattoos are dated. Especially since her Dionysis’ staff (see photo above) basically got the following from people who viewed - “Is that a rosebud?” “Ah no (disgust), it is the staff of the Greek God of wine and intoxication. Geesh. (rolling eyes)” Yep, that is right - the staff of a Greek God who stood for wine and intoxication. Ah, being in your 20s. So, I don’t know maybe for all my liberal intentions I am quite conservative in my views of boobies and tatts - one should be real and the other strictly reserved for sailors.

For the Love of Verily. Those unfamiliar with high rise office buildings are missing out on one of my favorite inventions over the past five years - right behind the Nintendo Wii and Grey Goose L’Orange - and that is Captivate TV which is found in the elevator. Captivate TV is a television that informs the rider of general, entertainment and sports news as well as odd and educational tidbits. I love Captivate TV for many reasons, but mainly it has to do with its name. Is it actually Captivating TV or is it because you are in an elevator and basically a captive. Hmmmmmm. Today I learned of my new favorite word ever. The word is “verily”, an adjective meaning “in truth”. The sentence use was “I verily believe that wearing white should be reserved for after Memorial Day.” This appealed to me for two reasons:

1. I too believe the wearing of white should only be used during the days between Memorial Day and Labor Day or by virgins offered for sacrifice.

2. When said out loud “verily” sorta sounds like really, but in a fucked up retarded tongue like when you are drunk. I am all for words that make me appear stupid and/or intoxicated but in fact play up my intelligence. I verily do.

Other things that I verily believe in are as follows: I verily believe the Manhattan will be my first liquor drink after the baby. I verily believe that it will be made with Maker’s Mark. I verily believe I will become drunk. I verily believe that this will cause exuberance in me bordering on mania. I verily believe during this Manhattaned induced exuberance I will more than likely fall and meet an untimely death. I verily believe at the gates of heaven St. Peter will ask me if it was worth it. To which I will reply “Well, St. Peter, I know lots of people would be pressed to say no, but I disagree, for I verily believe it was.”

Why I Am a Dork. I think that this may be a continuing series because the list is very long. First I would like to report that I have gotten an A in Big Brain Academy on my Nintendo DS Lite. Although I am satisfied with this grade, I still want an A+. Also in the realm of gaming goofiness, John and I just moved the Wii into the bedroom so that we can play Mario Party 8. I will let you chew on that for a bit. I allowed a gaming system be moved into my bedroom so that I can play Nintendo with my husband before bed. I think that violates total girl code, but whatever, I love the Wii. I am officially on Day 2 of my Weight Watchers diet. So far, so good. Of course my in-laws came over last night with boxes of See’s Candies. Curses! However, I only ate 2 pieces, which is an improvement over grabbing the box running to a corner and growling at any passerby. And you probably think I am kidding. I will like to state as a nursing mom, I get 10 extra points a day for a total of 35 points. 10 extra points? That is basically a big slice of pizza a day because I breastfeed. Finally my ravenous hunger makes sense.

I just made a purchase of a Jonathan Weiner print entitled “Flower Offering” that makes me so happy that I would hop, skip, dance, sing and whistle all at the same time if it would not cause me to fall flat on my face in a heap of twisted leg and tongue. As luck would have it, I stumbled upon his site from my numerous searches for art for Owen’s room, and fell instantly in love. The print is above. Of course, I am still looking for art for Owen’s room as well as pondering whether to buy Flor tiles. I am seriously insane when it comes to anything in that room - the crib and bedding purchase alone was a two month adventure in internet searches. But I got the Dick crib and the ABC Dwell Baby sheets and crib skirt and the room itself is a cold steel blue with white curtains. The color scheme being brown, blue and white. I have to say that I am rather impressed with how it came out, but I still must get the art and the rug which causes numerous headaches. I have this great Interpol print by Tara McPherson that is what the colors are based on, but still need to get some other things. I should seriously just get an entire wall of mirrors given Owen’s love of himself, but alas, I guess this is normal. I hope. Otherwise, I just gave birth to reincarnation of Narcissis.

So to sum up, I am a dork for the following reasons:

1. My grade on Big Brain Academy bothers me.
2. I have a Nintendo Wii in my bedroom.
3. Weight Watchers.
4. A piece of art has made me as giddy as when the Red Sox won the World Series.
5. I equate my son to a Greek god who fell in love with his reflection.

Don’t worry; this list is in no way complete.

Boston Betrays, Infant Flying and Competitve Trickery. Remember how I said there are things in Boston I miss? Like scali bread, Wellfleet Oysters and Famous Roast Beef. Well, there is one thing I don’t miss and that is humidity. After 3 years of only visiting in the winter, I returned in June to find the welt in swelter. Holy crap. The next day however it was 50 and rainy. My dad repeated the phrase “If you hate the weather in Boston, just wait a day.” Well, I have another saying “If you hate the weather in Boston, fucking come to your senses and move already.” Needless to say, I am glad I moved for the weather in San Francisco although foggy on occasion, is never ever hell-like in its heat. Well except for the day I got married and it was 112 in the shade. In other news, I shan’t ever go on a plane again with Owen until he is at least 18 years old (maybe). The plane ride out was not bad, but the one back was six and half hours of pure torture. The poor guy got a head cold 10 hours before our flight, and was indeed Woe-wen. Thankfully, it is all a distant memory (photo of Owen in Boston above). The wedding was great though as was seeing my family. But from now on relatives and friends - you visit me.

This Monday will be my first Weight Watchers meeting, which is horrendous to type, but alas the 10 weeks of bed rest, the fanatical addiction to ice cream and my inability to stay on track has caused me to make the move. However, I have to say there is only one motivation for me joining the WW, and that is the fact that I am ultra competitive and need to join in order to put others to shame with my dramatic weight loss. Yep, I am this pathetic. At my old office we used to have something called Fat Track in which we all put in 20 bux and whoever lost the most percentage weight over a specific period of time, was named winner. And guess who was named winner and co-winner on every occasion? Me. And you wanna know how? The last weeks I would be running on my treadmill in garbage bags in order to eliminate any water from my system as well as eating hardly anything but tuna in a can and water. All this suffering for a mere 200 dollars, but it was worth it. Because I won! I won! I won! So, in order to trick myself into getting focused I have joined weight watchers. Even though there is a total crazy lady running this thing who annoys the hell out of me. Her name is Gwen, and she is a vocally high pitched cheerleader. But it must be done, for the boy is 6 months old, and I have exactly 6 months before we try for baby number two (who will never see the inside of an aircraft).

Tetris, Wedding Lady, Boston. My Mother’s Day Gift Kicked Ass. Some mothers get breakfast in bed, some mothers get flowers and some mothers, such as myself, get Nintendo DS Lites. Oh joy of joys! And today marks the first time in my entire life that I actually beat Tetris. I cleared those 200 lines and was in the zone, even with the lady next to me involved in heavy wedding preparations. Mind you she was about 40. I am sorry, but you 40 year old bride, do not need a big white dress or a huge ceremony. I understand that at long last after years of missing the bouquets, it is your turn, but at 40 you need not to wear white or command the attention of 200 guests. She was actually showing three different versions of her wedding invitations - each ornate and intricately bowed. I wanted to shake her and say “Lady, are you insane? Do you really think your invitees care?” But that is the wedding minded woman. In other news, I am going to Boston next week for the wedding of my dear friend Diane. So that should be exciting, not the trip back and forth across country with an infant, but still fun. It is at times when I am going back to Boston I realize how much I miss - mainly all of it having to do with food, in particular the Wellfleet Oyster and the Famous Roast Beef. I admit that I would often make fun of the “famous” attached to the roast beef, but then you move to San Francisco and you are PMSed, and the only food you want is a roast beef with sauce and cheese on an onion roll. But nothing similar is found because every god damn sandwich made in this city has avocado on it, not that I hate that, but my god. When a girl ranging with hormones wants a roast beef sandwich she either gets that sandwich or ends up crying in the tub at night pondering the decisions of her move, all because of a sandwich. As for the oyster situation, I like oysters of all kinds, but my favorites are Wellfleets. I love the saltiness of the juice, the plumpness of the body, the absolute tingly feeling that they create within. And I miss that feeling, since I use to indulge at least once a month. But now I am in a haven of west coast oyster faire, which is also good, but lacking to fulfill my Wellfleet need. So I am going to Boston with a few needs to be met, so if you see me on the street with oyster shells all around and my face streaked with roast beef sauce, back off - you never want to interrupt an animal as it eats.

File It Under TMI. First things first, I did in fact get a big ole pimple upon my chin on Saturday morning. This would be god punishing me. Those not familiar with God Punishing You must not be Catholic or raised by my mother - who would often say, “Well that is what you get, God punished you.” Personally, I can’t believe that God has the time, but he often goes out of his way to make my life so much more interesting. Today I have to discuss the fact that since I gave birth, my va-j-jay is prone to make noises. In fact, I think mostly what it is trying to convey is “God damn woman, what the hell was that 19 weeks ago?” The first few weeks after Owen was born, I was pretty sure I had the new star of American Idol between my legs. I can hear Randy now “Well Cassie’s Vag, you were a tad pitchy in parts, but dawg, I gotta say, I loved it.” Although it is less common now due to the implementation of the Kegel, its sweet song is still sometimes heard, usually at such moments when the train goes blissfully quiet. Hmmm, maybe this all is just a new punishment by God. What a jerk.

I Feel Pretty, Oh So Pretty. Yesterday was the first day in about 7 months (aside from that one day when 8 months pregnant) that I have felt pretty. I recently read somewhere that over 60% of new moms admit to have letting themselves go, especially in the first year. And although my beauty routine is far from extensive, I understand the need to cut corners with getting ready. So yesterday while walking to the N Judah with the air full of a sea breeze, and the sun glorious, I felt very, very pretty. It was almost skip worthy. And what do I attribute this shameless self loving? Well the answer is two-fold:

1. Dr. Dennis Grossman and his Alpha Hydroxy Pads. When I was about 19 years old I read in some female magazine that if a girl did not take care of her skin beginning at a young age she would be saddled with wrinkles by 40. For some reason this shook me to the very core. I still don’t know why, but I immediately went out to Woolworth’s in Downtown Boston and began what is now a 14 year obsession with washing and moisturizing my face. I don’t believe in the last 14 years there has been one night wherein I have not washed and moisturized. Even when under the influence and my face is suddenly three fold with distorted drunken eyes, it is washed. Even when under the strain of childhood, it was washed. And truth be told, I am a rather frugal person, not spending much money on anything, but when it comes to skin care penny pinching be banished. Currently my favorites are Skincare MD’s tinted moisturizer in light, Clarins Daycream, and those amazing Alpha Hydroxy Pads, which promise a facelift in a package. And they do deliver girls. So, enough about my obsessive compulsive skin care regimen, and on to factor two of why I felt pretty.

2. The Beasts Have Been Tamed. I love my father dearly, but what I do not love is the eyebrows that he has genetically bestowed upon me. I became an avid plucker after I bought Cindy Crawford’s guide to make-up circa 1993 when I finally decided to wear make-up and needed a tutorial. I plucked and plucked and plucked (cleared the debris from the sink) and plucked some more until my bushy little caterpillars became acceptably arched and angled. Looking back on photos of me prior to my 20th birthday, the question of “Why I never dated?” could be found clearly upon my face. However, now that I live in San Francisco, I get my eyebrows waxed. For a very ungirly girl, this is a very girly girl thing to do. But I accept it since it seems these days if you don’t get your eyebrows waxed you are banished to some sort of bohemian subset that reeks of hippie. And hippie, I am not.

So with my face crystal clear and glowing, my hair long and flowing and my eyebrows non-bushy and groomed, I stepped outside of my house, the air improved by the ocean breeze and the sun shining, feeling incredibly happy and pretty. It was a feeling long overdue. Of course tomorrow due to this boost I will probably be saddled with the pimple equivalent of Mt. Fuji. Ah, thanks again Sully!

The Battle of the Pregnancy Bulge Begins. When I first got pregnant, I was cautious of weight gain. Come Month 8 when I was eating a pint of Ben & Jerry’s a day, this caution was obviously thrown to the wind. Now that Owen has hit the 18th week of life, it is fast becoming clear to me that calorie reduction is a priority. After moving, I had the opportunity to unpack my pre-maternity clothing which now sit in my closet mocking me with such comments as “Hey fattie, remember me, your favorite gray pants? Remember how good you felt when you wore me with that black cardigan and white camisole with the black maryjanes?” And I collapse in tears and say, “I do remember gray pants, and I do love you. I want to be reunited with you so that we can dance the favorite girl outfit dance.” Needless to say, that unpacking and closet organization leveled me with Stage 5 depression (only to be followed by Stage 6 - Jump Out the Window). Now that some time has past and I am adjusted to my working schedule, I can finally focus on myself and the whittling away of the pregnancy pounds. Honestly, I would have to say that I was under the assumption that after I gave birth, I would be breastfeeding, and breastfeeding with its 500 calories burned a day would make for fast weight loss. What no one told me was that when you breastfeed you become a ravenous chocoholic sweet seeking fiend. Before when I ate a piece of dark chocolate I would say “Oh my, was that good. Yummers.” And this would occur maybe once a month. Now in my breastfeeding psychosis I seek out chocolate with planning bordering on stalking. A typical day in the mind of one breastfeeding mother: the setting, after lunch:

“Hmmmm, I’m still hungry. Why the hell am I always hungry? What do I want? Oh you know what you want, don’t try to fool me. Okay, chocolate. Let’s go to See’s. Oh yes, let us go to the magical land of dark chocolate and tasty goodness. (Skipping, I arrive). Jesus, why is this line so long? (Tapping feet). God, this lady is going to take forever, I hate her. Fucking bitch. Why yes, you can help me chocolate giving girl - I would like one dark chocolate chip truffle. And yes I know it cost 58 cents, I only get it every freaking day - here is the exact change. And yes I will take that free sample. Oh heavenly goodness, sweet chocolate truffle melt upon my tongue and satisfy the part of my brain screaming for you with the desparation of 40 year old with no kids. I love you, I love you, I love you. I need to cry in happiness.”

Needless to say, eating chocolate is not going to help anyone lose the thunder in their thighs or that rocking double chin. But it must be done. And I know I have said this before, but I am employing a never fail mental tactic that will allow me the loss of some weight, and that my friends is the “Maggot Materialization Method”.

Although I am a fan of all things insect, there is one thing that I cannot stand due to an unfortunate event in the 15th year of life, and that thing is maggots. I warn that this is not for the faint of stomach. It was summer of 1989. I sat on my dad’s recliner watching Bob Barker on the Price is Right. I was chilly, even though it was summer and the temperature was probably in the 70s. I ran down to the basement and procured a blanket, running back upstairs so as not to miss the always exciting game of Plinko. About 5 minutes in, I got really itching. I then realized that I was not itching, but that there was movement under the blanket. Horrified, it was at this point, I had what they in the psychiatry profession call a dissociative break. I took off the blanket only to discover about 100 maggots on me, the blanket, and the chair. I screamed ripping off my clothes, brushing off the larva and running to the shower. Eventually I recovered, but never again was I the same. Even typing these words creates in me a sense of utter dread that may lead to ultimate vomiting. I hate maggots, I despise them. The name alone makes me queasy. So, in an effort to banish the pounds from my frame, whenever I see something bad for me, I will picture 1,000 creepy crawling maggots on said food. And I will not eat it, believe me. In fact, I may not be able to eat for a good 3 hours after. But it is a proven way for me to attain the goal of my gray pants and I having a day at the park complete with twirling and a possible somersault. We can only hope.

The World Presses On. I have this theory that as one ages at some point they decide on a decade. You see it around you all the time, the 45 year old with the big permed and teased hair looking like a groupie from an 80s metal band or the mid-30 year old black leggings, flannel shirt and clunky shoe escapee from a Nirvana concert, or the old lady with the beehive and cat's eye glasses. I don't think any of us can escape the decade trap; it is just a matter of when you are going to settle and become trapped. However, as I age, there is no escaping the fact that the world is trucking on without me, sorta like how my dad when moving a computer mouse moves his entire arm 3 feet in each direction. And that my dear friends is initialing in replace of typing what you actually want to say. Sure, it took me a while but I now know that LOL means Laugh Out Loud, but recently I joined the Pumping Moms Group at yahoo. I will pause for you to laugh. And my god, I can't understand what half these bitches are saying. I think I have figured out that MM is mother’s milk, DS is darling son, DD is darling daughter, and DH is darling husband. What I don’t understand is why the hell do you need to place “darling” in front of these. Maybe it does not mean darling, but that is all I can figure out. And why the hell is darling what they are using? I don’t get it. I am so tempted to write - my BS (bastard son) is BMNO (biting my nipples off) and my SOBH (son of a bitch husband) LOL (laughs out loud). Does this irritate others as much as me? For the life of me, I still don’t know what hell “HUTH” stands for. As used here “did something like this when I was trying to reduce my supply a month before HUTH”. I think it has to do with going to work. I am not sure though. I need help or a time machine so that I can be born in 1980.

Back to Work. I think there is no better illustration of my first day back to work, than the following: Sunday night I go to sleep antsy because of my reintroduction to the working world. I wake up, confident in my ability. I step into a steaming hot shower and while scrubbing my head with Aveda rosemary and mint shampoo a wave of emotion overwhelms me so that I begin to sob. And this cry is not mere weepy, it is wrenching, full guttural sobbing. So much so I wake John from a slumber with my woeful shower howl. Somehow I managed to get it together to take Owen to daycare and say a happy goodbye. But the sad just keep nagging me until finally on Wednesday evening I had an emotional episode where a straightjacket would have been welcomed. But since then I have accepted all, and have nary a worry. I do believe a good cry however crazy will often direct one to a more peaceful acceptance. That and the fact that I truly believe someday I will win the lottery. Go ahead and scoff, but someday I tell you. So during these past two weeks, there are some tidbits I have realized:

1. I am a social retard. Like all bedridden folks, I did not get out much. And with the introduction of an infant, my social life did not take a turn for the better. So after six months of myself, Owen, John and the television, the concept of adult conversation is perplexing. For some reason of late when people are talking to me, I find myself watching them. I have to force myself to actively participate and listen, because my mind wanders. On my first day back, while my boss told me of her impending retirement, and new house, and plans for the rest of her life, I just sat there smiling, watching and thinking “is this bitch every going to shut up.” I would so turn the station on her.

2. I love riding public transportation. Sure, public transportation has its bad - the delays, the smell, the crowding, but there is so much good on it too. And yes, I am talking about the weirdos. I don't think there is a person more fond of the freak than me. And they say circus freaks have no home now-a-days. As of yet, the train rides have been pretty mundane, aside from this one guy who sat, pulled out a calculator, and calculated nothing for approximately 20 minutes. Yep, good times. But I am waiting for the gold that will surely come. I cannot wait.

So that is pretty much it, and since I am at work I will be sure to post more. Because well it is work, and I now have the time. Funny isn't?

Could It Be? For the past week and a half I have been suffering what I believe to be the demon woe of womankind – PMS. However, since I have not engaged with the beast since mid-March 2006, I do not know if it is truly a sign that my period is going to spoil my white pants wearing wiles. (Please note that I actually do not wear white pants, well not until Memorial Day, and only if I can somehow manage to lose the baby weight that is plaguing my existence). But back to the PMS:

Symptom One: One day last week I left my house to forage for food. I was gone for 45 minutes. I went to nine different places, 2 of which I waited in line only to bolt right before ordering because I was unsure of what to order. My mental process during the Subway line wait: “Oh, Subway. Okay, I can do that. Hmmm, do they have that Meatball special on Wednesdays? Do I want meatballs. Oh, with cheese would be good. But meatballs aren’t exactly figure flattering, what about turkey? What turkey and cheese on wheat? Hmmm, that sounds okay, but they give you like a slice of cheese, which they say is 2 pieces because they fold it in half in a diagonal. Whatever Subway, you tart.” Finally I gave up, got Vitamin Water and wondered if I was going nuts. Then it dawned on me that this nuttitude is exactly my MO when PMSed - going from food locale to food locale, having inane conversations in my head, and basically driving myself mad.

Symptom Two: On Tuesday night I saw a commercial for Kellogg’s Raisin Bran Crunch. On Wednesday morning, I loaded Owen in the Bjorn and we made a beeline to Safeway under the pretense I needed a few things. But the only thing I truly needed was that cereal. So when I got home, I immediately had a bowl and good lord it was good. The flavors danced upon my tongue like a Jackson Five Era Michael. It was heavenly. I resisted another bowl until 9:30 p.m. However, this morning, I have already have had two bowls and the box is reaching an empty state that is causing worry. So again, craving a particular food to obsession is classic PMS.

However, other than being a tad irritable that I associated to our moving to the new house, I have no other symptoms. I could be bloated, but I could also be hiding Jimmy Hoffa in my belly, so I really don’t know. Supposedly breastfeeding is a natural birth control, but I think do believe these mental breakdowns could be the beginnings of my foray into Advil purchasing and cramping bliss. Which leads me to another concern – will the fact of me giving birth relieve my agonizing cramps as promised by my mother. We shall see . . .

He Liked My Frames. I have issues, which I like to refer to politely as quirks. Quirks are the bizarre idiosyncrasies that define who we are. For example, for a long time I had an irrational fear of going into a Gap store. The reason? The hardwood floors. It was impossible for me to walk into The Gap without my shoes making a clicking clack upon the floor. Which would bring the attention of a salesperson, who in turn would ask me if I needed help. To which I would respond “No, thank you.” The entire process aggravated me, so I avoided The Gap until I discovered headphones equals no salesperson harassment. You as a reader will surely be saying to yourself “Bitch be crazy.” But nope, that is just one of my many quirks. Another quirk of mine is the fact that I hate the attempt by some to turn the mundane into cool. Starbucks has been doing this for years with their Tall, Grande and Vente shenanigans. I outright refuse to use those terms. A typical Starbucks Order:

Me: Could I please have a Medium Non-Fat Latte? (Defiantly).
Clerk: So, a Grande? (Trying to convert me to Starbuckian).
Me: Yep, a Medium. (Hahahahaha bitch!).

I have never used the term Grande, and will continue to refuse until the day I die, when I will probably be buried in a Grande Coffin. Well that is my hope given my new exercise and diet regime, we are still floating around piano box at the moment. But I digress. So, last week while getting my hair cut (not styled), my hairdresser (not stylist) said to me “I like your Frames.” My five-second thought process before uttering a weak “Thanks” was:

Frames? What the hell are Frames? Frames . . . Oh, my glasses. What the hell? Frames? That is stupid. Stupid hairdressers with their stupid salon and their stupid cooler than thou attitude. Yeah, so what I have not got my haircut in 7 months and you are looking at me like I just murdered someone. I was on bed rest. And no I will not be buying any of the 15 products you will put in my hair and drill in my head I need. I don’t need them . . . AND THEY ARE EYEGLASSES, DORK.

Anyway, is it wrong of me to hate the hipster attitude of turning the mundane into something brilliantly different? I think not. But I do like my glasses. Don’t you agree?

My Boob Revolts Against Exercise. Today marks nine weeks since I gave birth to The Head, which would be a great nickname for Owen, given his genetic predisposition for a monster noggin, but alas, his head is normal. Darn it, for I had visions of him joining a modern day freak show and being called the Human Lollipop. Dreams for your kids, I tell ya. Anyway, at the moment I am in complete agony, well not so much to the degree of tears, but give me a few hours. It seems my right boob is suffering from the breastfeeding woe of a plugged milk duct. The blame is solely my own. Last week, disgusted with myself and tired of the jiggly state of my body, I began to exercise with an obsessive compulsiveness bordering on crazy. More specifically I began to squat, lunge, and lift weights all to the most annoying bitch on the planet. Thank you Comcast On Demand. Sunday I began to notice that my right breast felt a bit sore, which was initially attributed to normal breastfeeding pain. However, last night it became quite clear that a duct is plugged. The cause – a sports bra. Well more specifically, my pre-pregnancy sports bras that I have used even though the process of getting into them is a contortionist impressing display of acrobatic maneuvering. But the result was my boobs compressly packaged and immobile which is exactly what a 9 week post-pregnancy mildly insane exercising gal wants. However, it seems the breastfeeding boobie needs not to be confined. It like a bird, desires freedom from the prison of a too tight sports bra. So, my boobie revolted and now a continuous, sharp and progressively worsening ache courses outward from it. The only cure of which is continued feeding, massage and heat. Although it is painful, it will be cured within the next few days. A more painful prospect is figuring out how to adequately support my swollen mammary. A trip to Old Navy today was futile. My only hope is that my night nursing bras will be able to support me when I began my newly purchased “Buff Moms” DVD. And yes, it is equally embarrassing to type that, as it was to purchase it. Ah well, the road to fitness continues. Wish me well.

Oh looky what I made. Yes, after months of not posting, I have returned and hopefully with a vengeance. But more than likely with tales of baby poop and my slow descent into insanity. My life of the past five months since that joyful announcement of BRAS ARE HERE can be summed in ten parts.

Part I. Dr. Mucci Scares the Bejesus Out of Me. Mid-September at a routine ultrasound at almost 27 weeks it was discovered that my cervix was funneling and that I was possibly contracting. A trip to the hospital confirmed that although I was feeling nothing, my uterus was indeed contracting. So after 2 days in the hospital and visits from doctors about such wonderful things as brain bleeding with the premature birth, I was sent home and ordered to bed rest for 10 weeks. Needless to say I did not post because regaling you with tales of my bed ridden life which consisted of (1) ER repeats, (2) trips to the bathroom, (3) 5 minute showers and (4) absolute terror and worry did not seem appropriate to the blog. However, I do think a post would have been the following “I think that my new friends of pillow one and pillow two are mad at me, I think perhaps my greasy non-showered head is offending them. Selfish bastards.”

Part II. 36 Weeks, Where the F*uck is this Kid? After making it through my 10 weeks of joy, my jellified body was able to move again, however, slow. So at this point one would gather that with movement at any moment my “dynamic cervix” (the technical term) would open up and the process would begin. However, this was not the case. After each day nothing happened, except my growing addiction to ice cream. I truly believe that I am solely responsible for quarterly sales of Ben and Jerry’s and Dryers to have skyrocketed.

Part III. Overdue and Pretty Pissed Off. Again, here is where my demonic guardian angel Sully entertains his bar buddies. After 10 weeks of bed rest and 4 weeks of Price Is Right “Come on Down” expectation, nothing happened. My due date came and went and I was left searching the Internet about how to get labor started. I tried all the old wives tales to no avail and began to suspect that having a dynamic cervix was code for “lets drive the pregnant lady crazy.”

Part IV. Relief in the Form of Low Fluid. Oh, I forget to mention, also at the appointment of premature horrors, it was discovered that my umbilical chord had two vessels instead of the normal three which occurs in 1 out of every 1,000 pregnancies. Again, who has the best luck ever? In response to this, it was ordered that each week I have a non-stress test which basically is a measure of the baby’s heart rate and amniotic fluid. On the December 18, 2006 appointment, it was discovered that my fluid was indeed low and I would be sent to the hospital to be induced. Yeah, induction! Even though I was 2 cm dilated and almost completely effaced, my dynamic cervix was still holding on and induction was necessary. By the way, I hate my cervix.

Part V. Never Get An Epidural From a Doctor Who Just Awoke From A Deep Slumber (a/k/a DUH!). Prior to actually having the baby, I had considered the possibility of a natural childbirth. I was going to see how it was, and make my decision. At 1:00 a.m. with contractions one minute apart, I made my decision – EPIDURAL. So Dr. McSleepy arrives and accidentally drives the needle into my spinal fluid. The result of which he said was a possible headache that would require re-entry and a blood block. Yeah, big deal I think. Just stop this agonizing pain. By the way, do you know that I have an abnormally long back? Yep, not one but two anesthesiologists commented upon its freakish length. And yes, I am thinking of painting myself a nice mahogany, learning yoga, and doubling as a coffee table during parties.

Part VI. My Dynamic Cervix, Abnormally Long Back and I Give Birth. Not much to tell here, I push and push and push. Baby arrives. I see Owen for all of 2.5 seconds because he is whisked away due to the fact he has pooped on himself. He is fine, but I am not. Seems my placenta has detached from the chord. When you OB/GYN says to the nurse – “Ah, she has an epidural right? Yeah, can you push that button a few times.” it is never good. So as Dr. Fingers is rooting around my uterus for my placenta like keys in a purse, I am planning my own funeral. John and his mother are with the baby I have only glimpsed, while I have a hand and forearm up my love canal. Finally a discovery of placental gold is made, and I do not expire although it looks like a murder scene. I again ponder what I have done to be so cursed.

Part VII. Owen and Back to Work, Bitch. Finally I am given Owen and I look at him anticipating that instant love that moms all over exclaim about. I gaze and wait. Then the nurse tells me to feed him. So, after 10 weeks of bed rest, 4 weeks of waiting, 1 week of absolute frustration, 6 hours of labor and 1 and a half hour of pushing (he was back labor) I am given the new task of breastfeeding him. No rest for the weary it seems. Also it seems it is amazing to me that any mother can instantly love a creature that has parasitically lived in them for 9 months, requires exit from an orifice that is quite small and then immediately needs nourishment in the form of latching on to your once prized boobs. Or maybe I was just resentful since a moment before I had the arm of a woman flossing my teeth internally for 20 minutes.

Part VIII. Leaking Spinal Fluid Causes Your Brain to Drop. At the time I felt that having a headache due to the mistake of Dr. McSleepy was no big deal. How bad could a headache be? However, flash two days later when up at 7:00 a.m. feeding Owen, my head is pounding. It aches and aches, throbs and throbs, I am crying. And guess what? Outside are jackhammers. Yep, jackhammers. Construction. It is at this point I decide to get the blood block, actually it was the time I decided to end it all by jumping off a roof, but I decided to try the 60% success rate torture session. So in comes Dr. McSavior. She is very nice and awake! She comments on my long board back, and after five attempts due to my poor veins, blood is drawn and injected into my back. I am an absolute mess at this point. Crying due to hormones and pain and the fact that it seems my back is a science experiment gone wrong. However, the block works and my head no longer pounds, and I actually feel really great. I attempt to skip, but fall down.

Part IX. The Baby. Owen is an absolute treasure, completely healthy, quite handsome, and very good and John and I are extremely lucky. Not much to tell here except that I am so unbelievably happy and only once wanted to throw him out the window when he did not shut up.

Part X. The Biggest Mistake. Two weeks ago I decided to free myself from the elastic waist prison that is maternity wear. I figured that I would have to go a size or so up, but whatever; I would be able zip my pants and button a button. I would be somewhat normal. However, as I put on my first pair of pants, I realized that having a 7 pound, 7 oz baby does free you of weight as does breastfeeding, but ice cream binges, being immobile for 70 days and having a post-partum chest size of 38G is another story. So, I left the store with the only thing that fit, a pair of shoes. And no delusions of the state of my body. But fear not, this Tuesday marks 6 weeks since the birth and my return to the gym. An epic story in the making, of which I will be sure to keep you posted. Promise.