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.