The Rundown

Dear Internet, please forgive my slacker ways and my unwillingness to blog. But remember, that I am pregnant and hormonal and sometimes prone to long staring spells. So, in a nutshell:

Yesterday I pretty much passed out on the way to work. Everything is fine, and the baby is great. But it seems that I need to eat more. I was prescribed to eat more, people. This is pretty much the best diagnosis I ever received. Bring on the feast.

This will probably label me as weird, but come on, I have been wearing that sash and crown for about 35 years now haven’t I? Last Thursday night, I was chatting with John and the subject of me being in a coma came up, wherein I said “You know, if it is like two years, you should probably divorce me and get a new wife.” So the next morning, John says “So, I had this dream.” So basically he says that he and I are in this hospital room, and I am dying. And we are crying and I say to him, “John, you should totally find someone else when I die.” Whereupon he says, “Sweetie, I’d like you to meet someone.” Hah! Now, I might be a tad off. But is that not the best thing ever? He made me laugh on my deathbed. How can I love this man more?

Also, not sure if I ever told this story, but I am the same girl who during her final push of Owen out of her vagina - instead of holding in my breath, breathe it out. So basically it sounded like a big raspberry, and you know what I did at that moment - the moment wherein there was a baby head lodged in my private eden? I full out started to laugh. Needless to say when my doctor and the nurse started to scream - PUSH!!! PUSH!! PUSH!! I shut down the comedy hour and continued the delivery. But really, I laughed during the labor nitty gritty. Me thinks this speaks volumes.

So anyway, yeah, I have a license to get freaking huge, and I love my husband even more for a joke on my deathbed. So to my parents, thank you for dropping me on my head repeatedly as an infant. It can be the only explanation.
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What a Sweet Beer Gut.

Black and Blue by Anna Quindlen

My review

rating: 1 of 5 stars
This is what happens when you wander into a subpar bookstore looking for anything to read because you just finished a book and the prospect of being on MUNI bookless is something that you would rather not attempt, because people smell and are sweaty and you need something to take your attention from that. So I got this book, Black and Blue, which was an Oprah Book Club nominee in 1999. Oprah, obviously your tastes are grown, because five pages in I was like - Holy Cow, I am reading a Lifetime movie. This is the story of a nurse wife who flees with her child from her abusive cop husband. Again, LIFETIME!!! I don’t know why I even bothered to finish it, but I blame the fact that sometimes you are pulled into chickdom with a current so strong that any attempt to fight it would result in drowning. So with the flow I went, and jeez, this book is such bad fluff. I don’t recommend it to anyone, and I advise all to enter a bookstore with a plan, or you will find yourself reading 1999 Oprah nominee Lifetime Movie Channel crap.


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Bah Humbug

Oh December, you have come once again bringing with you Owen’s second birthday (what!) and Christmas (I am Catholic). However you also bring with you the most painful of all experience, and that is present shopping. Not to sound like a Scrooge or anything, because I really am not, but I hate holiday shopping. Buying gifts for people is to me pure torture. Also, opening gifts is kind of torture too, unless it is called Patron, Grey Goose or Maker’s Mark. But I am pregnant, so no White Russians will be able to rescue me this year, as I once again forage through the catacombs of the internet for gifts. Every time I got into Peet’s Coffee, I want to get gift cards, but not to actually put money in them, just to take them and perhaps give them to people who would use them, and then be all flustered when they were empty, and I would laugh to myself, because don’t you think that is funny? I do. I am not sure why it is I hate to receive or give presents, I think it may have to do with the fact that I hate to be told what to do, and buying presents for the sake of buying them seems really stupid. I mean, shouldn’t there be a 1,000 word essay on why I should buy you a gift? And vice versa? And holy cow if I have no clue what I would actually want anyway. When I want something, I do this thing that may sound a tad extreme - I pay for it myself. I know, right! Anyway, to you December, I will try not to look at the gift giving as a necessary chore, but something I should relish and be gleeful over and enjoy. Right after I make that appointment with a lobotomist. However, at least one good thing comes from all of this. Yep, TWENTY FOUR HOURS OF THE AWESOMENESS THAT IS A CHRISTMAS STORY. Ralphie!

Random Musings

I am making a blueberry pie for Thanksgiving because apparently blueberry pies in California are something elusive. Try to find one! People don’t know what they are missing. Also, I am pretty sure I am going to make this blueberry pie, and hate anyone who has a piece. It will be like my third child that I alone get to eat and devour. Just like my brother’s hamster Michael. Yes, my brother named his hamster after himself. Well maybe John and Owen can have some, BUT NO ONE ELSE!

You would not believe the freaking thing on my left cheek. I would call it a pimple, but that is too simple of a term for the beast sprouting upon my cheek. It is more like a growth that continues to get bigger without a white head end. It’s a total hormonal creation. I can only hope it dissipates before Thanksgiving, or the children will be scared of the lady with red pulsing flesh growing from her face.

Seriously, the constipation that is involved in pregnancy is so freaking ridiculous. I will not elaborate further.

I think there really is a connection between good and bad shampoo, because I have been using Herbal Essence, and my hair has been okay, but then I used Aveda Rosemary Mint and my hair is about 10 times better looking. Just saying.

I think I might wear tights on Thanksgiving with this purple dress. That should be fun. Let’s put something really tight on the pregnant lady’s belly, and see how fast she dissolves into a blubbering mess. I wager 52.65 minutes.

Owen projectile vomited the other night before bed and I am pretty sure that is the smell that comes from dead bodies. If I turn fast, I still smell it. I maybe scared.

I am pretty sure I made the playoffs in all of my fantasy football leagues. And that includes the loss of first round pick Tom Brady in two of them. Hooray for me (and John, my FFB partner).

Maggie kicks all the freaking time, it is like she is already starting to get the mother and daughter relationship on the wrong foot.

I will be 25 weeks pregnant on Sunday, and am beginning to think of the birthing process. But then suddenly my mind wanders away from the topic entirely - sort of like an abuse victim forgetting the experience.

And that is all, except that my blueberry pie recipe called for vodka in the pie crust. VODKA. I am that cool. Okay then, Happy Thanksgiving. Enjoy the day, and stay away from my pie!

The Abstinence Teacher by Tom Perrotta

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars
I love Tom Perrotta's books, and this one was no different. Something about his writing just reminds me of how one things to themselves, or ponders the world from their own perspective. Or maybe he just has a line on my train of thought. But either way, the O. Henry of Suburbia did not disappoint.


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Bloomingdale's

I was just on the maternity site of Bloomingdale's for some laughter, as if I would pay $200 for a pair of maternity jeans. I know there are some out there who would, and for that you should be beat, but while perusing, I stumbled upon the following:



Holy cow. I thougth the game mousetrap was an exercise in engineering, but this, this wins.

He Takes After His Mother

John IMed me yesterday with the phrasing “Our son is weird.” To which I immediately shook my head in agreement and asked “What did he do now?” Seems Owen when returning to the house, ran into the living room climbed upon the coffee table and started screaming. Why? Because under said coffee table was the remnants of his Cinnamon Raisin English Muffin had in the morning. John moved the table, and Owen swooped upon the leftovers eating them. This is funny because I once knew another being to do this - my dog Buddy. Buddy and my dog Ebony would receive treats. Ebony being a fifty pound cocker spaniel was voracious in appetite, so when Buddy got his fill he would kick his Bonza under the oven. A week of so later when the urge struck, Buddy would go to the oven and start barking until it was moved and his treat was found. It seems my son now does this. I guess I should be happy he has a good memory, because finding food you left eight hours previously is a real skill. However, I am worried he spent the entire day thinking about the last remaining nugget of that tasty English muffin. This is entirely possible, because he is just a tab bit anal. What do you expect from a child born from the girl who would ate her food for an entire year in reverse alphabetical order? I kid you not.

Sorry by Gail Jones

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars
A stunningly written novel. The language is beautiful and lyrical and so happy to have read it. The story set in Austrailia is about the unwanted daughter of Nicholas and Stella, and the an event that changes all around them. A good read.


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The Unnecessary

While perusing the MOMA Gift Store, I can upon the following. Really, the Banana Bunker? And what was the basis for your idea. Holy god!

A Lunch Time Visit to Safeway

Purchased:

Sara Lee Honey Turkey
Harvati Cheese
Tim’s Potato Chips (which promised to be super duper good)
Sandwich Rolls
Sour Jelly Belly Beans
Regular Jelly Belly Beans

I do not think anything screams pregnant than going to a grocery store to get turkey and cheese for a sandwich because you can’t stand another moment before that delectable concoction hits your taste buds. I had to get chips as well because well I love chips and sandwiches. Tim’s kettle-cooked promised “Many feel this is the best chip they ever had”. And thank you Tim, it is darn tasty. However the true pregnancy moment came when out of the corner of my eyes I spied the jelly beans. AND IN SOUR TOO!! I am now eating two sour lemons and two sour strawberrys for the recipe for a pink lemonade, and so good. Maggie is kicking up a storm. And I just had a sour watermelon. Orgasmic. I love cravings!

Who You Gonna Call . . .

Ghostbusters - Owen Dancing on Halloween from Cassandra McCall on Vimeo.

New Moon by Stephenie Meyer

My review

rating: 3 of 5 stars
I learned that with vampires come werewolves, as if they can ever be separate. I did not like this as much as Twilight, much more predictible. This book felt more of a set up for the upcoming books, but still a good read. I think I will take a break from vampires, only because I ordered the Spanish version of Book 3. I tell you.


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Mike Singletary - I Love You

Tales of Muni . . .

To the man standing to me on MUNI this morning: I am unsure if taking a shower this morning in Drakar Noir was a good idea. As a pregnant lady with super sensitive smell it took all of my energy not to scream why it was necessary for you spray your cologne 8,000 times this morning. Did you drop it in your bathroom? I did that once with my perfume, and it smelled like a brothel for about two weeks. And because of this, I decided to smell through my hand and imagine a life in which I did not have to take the train to work, because I would not be working, because I won the lottery. And now my days consisted of throwing darts at a world map to see where John, the kids and I would end up next. Looks like Australia. Also, seriously men folk, cologne is just stupid. No man needs to smell like burnt beechwood and sand. Unless they had been trapped on a desert island for the last 1,000 days, then that would be acceptable. But barely.

Lost!!!!

After washing my hands after a bathroom trip, I was leaving when I noticed something very peculiar in the full length mirror. It seems, my ass has gone bye-bye. Upon further investigation, it seems that my pants, which are in no way too big for me, are in fact big in the badonkadonk. Peculiar. Not that I ever had a J-Lo type bootie, as my friend Diane once said to me “Cassie, you have the flattest ass I have ever seen.” Which I scoff at, but today, in the mirror, perhaps she is right. So to you Maggie McCall, I would like to say - thank you for stealing my bum. Hopefully it returns. There is nothing worse than sitting on MUNI with no cushioning.

And The Verdict is . . . .

Labia. Yep, that is exactly what the ultrasound tech said, "I see labia." Well now. So, the beast within is a girl. We are very happy, I have to say that I am a tad shocked I was having a girl, only because I was playing the odds of probabilities within my friends and people I know and it seems that another boy/girl combo was not going to be had. And this girl will probably be the girlest girl on the Planet Girl. But according to my father, I was a very girly girl. Obsessed with red and barbies, I can't believe it either. And after much going back and forth, I love the name Maggie, and I don't care if Maggie McCall sounds like an Irish bar, that is the name - but maybe I like it because it sounds like an Irish bar. We will never know. So, Margaret (Middle Name to be determined by John with my right of first refusal) McCall, see you in 20 weeks. Love, Mama.

A Letter to My Unborn Child

Dear product of the successful union between sperm and egg,

When I became pregnant, I remember thinking to myself, I can’t wait to feel this baby. Because it is well known that we of the second pregnancy often find ourselves feeling baby movement much sooner than the first - because our uteruses are stretched out and we are familiar with the sensation. But you young miss or lad are awe inspiring in your movement, that or spastic. At this age it is said that you are almost 6 inches long, and about 7 oz. However, your kicks within are little jabs of thunder. Last night when your brother woke up at the ungodly hour of 4:30 a.m. and I tried to soothe him, you were all “Mom, you know what I would do with Owen right now? Kick him. Like this and that, and this!” (We think alike!) So in addition to have todzilla screech his 4:30 a.m. wail, I had you kicking me with abandon - needless to say, Mama is tired today. On the train, at work, at home, at 4:30 a.m. - it does not stop. Not that I want it to because then your Mom would freak the hell out. It is evident to me now, that in the womb you are insanely active, I can only imagine the power of your kicks come Month 8 but do envision entire infant legs protruding from my gut at warp speed. Oh, and I am thinking this is not going to bode well to a quick full night’s sleep when you arrive. But I will say this to you, your brother Owen, did not sleep through the night until about 10 months. So, if you want to get over that entire second child not loved as much as the first, well that would be a sure fire way into your parents’ hearts. No pressure or anything, but think about it.

Love,
Mummy

Hungry Like the Wolf

In no particular order, the following are a list of cravings that come into my head at the oddest times. I think about said food in a way that I can only equate with the word “graphic”:

1. Pears. I would like to eat 1,000 Barlett pears. They are so deliciously good, I take a bite and finish a pear and then am like - hello, MORE PEARS!! MORE PEARS!!

2. Truffles. Lemon Truffles, chocolate truffles, I don’t care. Just feed them to me non-stop. Let me be at the end of conveyor of truffles, and then let me die happy.

3. Potato Chips. Actually this can include anything crispy. I just want to eat them all - sour cream an onion, thai chili, salt and pepper, honey Dijon, new york cheddar. Just let them crisp in my mouth. Oh sweet heaven.

4. Grilled Chicken Sandwiches With Cheddar Cheese. No matter what I do, I can’t get these things out of my head, or out of mouth it seems. I don’t even want anything on them. Just the chicken, just the cheese, and just the bun.

5. French Fries. Specifically I want these fries I used to get in Beverly at the Goat Hill Grill. Steak fries. Big heaping fried pieces of potato dipped in catsup.

6. Sour Candy. I want to eat sour patch kids, sour patch watermelons, sour patch baby fingers. The funniest about this, is that I have not given into this temptation like the others. Mainly because I see them at See’s Candies, while in line for Truffles, but the price for a bag is $4.95, for Sour Patch Candies. It seems in the cheapness versus cravings war, cheapness wins, for now.

7. Oranges. Whether Orange Juice, or orange fruit, or orange tic tacs. I want them. And I want them bad.

8. Chocolate Milk. Bring it on. I will drink it until my blood is replaced by it. I would really like a fountain of it, so that I can swim in it with a extra long straw.

9. Pasta. Whether it be in pesto form, butter and cheese form, or baked ziti form, let me eat it, and let me shout from the rooftops - carbs, carbs, carbs, carbs.

10. Peanut Butter, Extra Chunky. On toast, on a spoon, in the jar where I gaze at it lovingly, Cassie and PBEC 4-eva.

By the way, after all is said and done after this pregnancy, I am sure that will be my new code name - extra chunky. But that is what Weight Watchers, running and breastfeeding are for.

Twilight by Stephenie Meyer

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars
Teenage love, but this time between a teenager and a vampire. Hmm, what is it about vampires? Between this book, and the HBO series True Blood - I gotta bad case of the vampires. I liked this book, and enjoyed reading it. It is YA, but I am pregnant, and my brain cells loose from hormones. Quick, fun, easy - and 3 more books to read in the series. Happy Vampire Time is upon me.


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A Rant

Dear State of California and the MLB, I am from Boston, and as such, I am a Red Sox fan. Today is Columbus Day, a day if I lived in Boston, I would have had off from work. But I live in California, and am at work. So imagine my surprise this morning to find out that Game 3 of the ALCS was taking place at 1:37 PST. WTF MLB? I should have feigned illness and watched from home. But no, I sit at the office with ESPN Gamecast on. Do you know what watching a game on Gamecast is like? Well imagine Pong combined with Combat combined with a frontal lobe lobotomy and you may have the picture. I now have a headache, and not only because the Sox with Lester pitching are down five, but because I have to stare at the computer with near anxiety hoping for a yellow ball to fly into the air and the caption “in play” to occur. Then I have to sit with my breath caught in my throat until “flied out”, or “grounded out”, or “pop up” to appear on my screen. Then I silently (at least I hope so) curse to myself. Where are you David Ortiz? WHERE??

Oh Sweet Jesus

When checking google analytics, a popular search team that comes up about 4 times a week is “Cassandra Hairy” or “Hairy Cassandra”. Yeah. This search always directs the person to my site. I may be many things, an oversweater, a football fan, a crazed pregnant lady, but I am not apelike by any means. I have a Venus, and I know how to use it. Yet, this search has probably been made about 1000 times. Upon further investigation, it seems that all those searching for hairy Cassandra are from Italy. Which explains much, because if one delves into generalizations - the Irish drunks, the Poles stupid, the Italians hairy - this fits perfectly. But now I am left wondering that somewhere in Italy resides psuedo-celebrity Cassandra, covered in a hair, ala Cousin Itt. Can it be true? Someone, please let me know!

The Things You Hear . . .

This afternoon after lunch I journeyed to See’s Candies for a Dark Chocolate Chip Truffle, otherwise known as heavenly bliss. As I stood in line waiting for my chocolate, two ladies walked in chatting back and forth. It is then I heard the most frightening of words: “Oh, did you know I collect Barbies? I do. I love Barbies.” Immediately, I wanted to snap my head back with a look of horror at this person who well over the age of twelve collected Barbies, but I did not in fear of what my eyes would see. There I stood waiting in line listening to the Barbie Freak talk about how she has “Barbies from around the world. I have fifteen countries. They come in their country costumes, very ornate. But I don’t have room in my house to put them out.” (Thank God.) “I also have some Franklin Mint. Scarlett O’Hara, Princess Di.” (Are you single?) “I wanted the See’s Candies Barbie, but she got sold out.” (The shame!) I stood flabbergasted, behind me was a woman heartbroken over her lost chance of a See’s Candies Barbie doll. Me, I would be heartbroken if See’s Candies ran out of dark chocolate chip truffles, not Barbies, because you know why - I AM NOT TEN YEARS OLD. Her coworker, because I can only assume this woman has no friends, said “Barbies? Really.” Where Insano said “Oh, do you collect them?” As if. “No. But I had them when I was little”, hard not to suppress a chuckle there. Finally I get my chocolate and am able to look at Ms. Barbie, and unsurprisingly, she was middle-aged, a bit dour and kind of sad. I guess it is Barbies or cats. Maybe she is not entirely bad.

Oh Pregnancy . . .

I am sure you are all “Geez, can this lady please shut up about being pregnant already?” But I am the writer of this blog, and I am pregnant, and need to vent the seemingly mundane aspects of my life because well that is what I do. I use to drink, doing it quite well. But now, I am sober and pregnant. So deal people, onto the belly.

The past few days have been marked by an extreme tired state. Which is funny because when I journey home, I am all - as soon as that kid into bed, I am plunging into my bed for the sleep of the dead. But then I come home, and do this, and then that, and pretty soon my window of sleep passes on by. I then find myself at 10:30 p.m. randomly searching the television for something that will aid in sleep. That thirty minute biography last night about Jackson Pollack did not help in the effort. As a side note, screw all you people who have made the name “Jackson” popular. I hate you. Finally sleep comes, but in what feels like five minutes, morning arrives and caked upon my face is about a metric ton of drool. Curse you daylight. I guess this is the beginnings of the super tired phase. It is also the beginning of the how many zits will pop on my face in a 24 hour period phase, at last count seven. Honestly, I get up to go to the bathroom, and look at myself and another pimple is there. There is no way to stop this it. I think I may have had two days of clear skin since this pregnancy, which is funny because with Owen, I did in fact GLOW. This pregnancy, I give off the quiet hum of a halogen energy efficient 15 watter. Actually thank god for the pimples, they give me some glow. Sure, they are in carefully dotted places, but still.

I have no clue what the hell I am talking about because in addition to being sleep deprived, hormonal, one can add mentally challenged to the list. For example, after lunch today I asked the following, “What time is it?” I took out my iphone, clicked the button, got the time, and then said to myself not 30 seconds later. “What did that say?” So I checked again, then ten seconds later confused, was it 12:59 p.m.. But that was impossible, because my lunch was in no way fifteen minutes. So I checked again, 1:17 p.m. Hello doofus, you just checked you phone three times for the time in a span of two minutes. Which brings me to another point, I should not be working. I am writing down everything and giving myself outlook reminders. But for someone a mind of mush, it is had to remember ten seconds ago what I meant to do. And is there nothing worse, than standing by your desk, mumbling to yourself, and trying to trace back what the hell you were going to do. Instead I am bedazzled by the bright fluorescent lights above? Oh pretty lights. So Obama, why don’t you add to your healthcare plan, the allowance of the stupidly pregnant to take off of work so they can stare into space and try to come up with some baby names because Jackson are taken by yuppies, and Maggie McCall sounds like an Irish bar I got drunk and threw up in circa St. Patty’s Day 1997. Thanks.

Secrets of the Baby Whisperer for Toddlers by Tracy Hogg

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars
From this book I learned that Owen will be a demon at some times, and a happy go lucky man about town the next. It is up to me to deal with the crank so that it is put in a little box and neatly packaged away. I think this book gives good techniques on discipline, that puts the child first, but also does not allow one to give into their prima donna ways. I like the advice of just stepping back and taking in the situation before acting (unless it has to do with hitting or biting), and how to calm the situations and not give in to tantrums. I know this will be a long battle with Owen as he develops into his self, but happy that I have some tools to deal with the occassional meltdowns. I especially like the information on future additions to the family - advice I will use very soon. I need to reread the Baby Whisperer as well, so review to come.


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So Sleepy

There is a distinct possibility that my head will come crashing into my keyboard and I will delve into a coma like sleep that will last this entire pregnancy. Well, I hope at least. After dining upon a roasted turkey sandwich, I have both pregnancy tired and tryptophan sleepy combining into a whirling hurricane of shut eye. Work ends in two hours or 120 minutes or 7,200 seconds. A freaking lifetime. The problem with pregnancy is that you are very tired - your body is making a baby for Christ’s sake. With my first, I would sleep a ton. My entire weekends would be devoted to the art of sleep. I would go to bed Friday evening at 8:30 p.m., wake up at 8:30 a.m., pee, fall back to sleep until 12:00, eat, and then take afternoon nappy, shower, then lookey there, bed time approaches. Now I have Owen. And second baby sleep is way less. I close my eyes at night only to open them seemingly five seconds later to learn that it is time to get up. This is not good. And now this tired, combined with that turkey sandwich, have produced the zombie state. I am yawning every 10 seconds. My eyelids are impossibly heavy, as if two carnival fat ladies have taken residence upon the real estate. My face is slack, my attitude shaky, my vision blurred. I lust after my bed like a rowdy sailor on shore leave. Oh sweet heavenly, blissful bed. I want you madly.

Nerd Time

CLICK HERE. The Periodic Table of Elements - WITH VIDEOS!!!!!!! Hello, my name is Cassie, and I am a nerd.

Holy Hormones

Well it seems that I have entered the hormonal stage of my pregnancy, wherein my mind usually fun loving and carefree decides to become bi-polar. I reside in one of two states, pissed off wanting to punch someone in the head or overly emotional prone to crying jags. This past weekend, I give you two examples of my bi-polar nature:

Overly Emotional. Saturday afternoon after Owen has descended into nap and John has decided to join him in the endeavor, I sit on the couch flipping the remote while consuming a chunky peanut butter smothered sourdough English muffin. I stumble across Deep Impact. In the summer of 1998 there were two movies about the planet being destroyed by outer space - Armageddon had a big ole asteroid and Deep Impact had a big ole comet. Where Armageddon had Bruce Willis, Ben Affleck, and Liv Tyler, Deep Impact had Tea Leoni, Morgan Freeman and Elijah Wood. Yeah. So as I sat there watching Tea Leoni as an MSNBC anchor describing how the rescue ship Messiah is about to drill into the comet to insert nuclear bombs in order to blow up the comet so that it veers from its course of Deep Impact, I began to cry. At first I shook it off, this was Deep Impact, a movie, and as far as I knew, no comet was currently hurtling to destroy me. But as the music swelled, and Astronaut Gus (played by Jon Favreau) was blown into deep space, my chest began to heave, my eyes watered, and I began a soft wail. OH NO, DEEP IMPACT. You will not Brokeback Mountain me!! That is when I decided to get up and build Owen’s toddler bed, because it is one thing to meltdown after Brokeback when pregnant, another to cry at Spiderman and Independence Day while not pregnant, but obviously PMSed, but not Deep Impact. No way, no how.

Overly Psychotic. Before the football games yesterday John and I rushed to the park with Owen to give him some fresh air time before his parents hunkered down for their Sunday fix of football and fun. Although in hindsight, given the performance of a certain New England football team, I think we should have stayed at the park. At this park, there are often children’s parties, so you will see parents early in the morning setting up for their kid’s birthdays. We arrived at the park at 9:30 to see two guys decorating one side of the park in balloons, red ribbons, and a piñata. That is when this lady came and said - “Excuse me, but where else can you set up.” Now these gentlemen had obviously claimed that area, and told her other areas with tables were claimed by another. “But I have 40 people coming.” cried Mommy Dearest. It was at this point, the hormonal anger in me surged. So you have 40 people coming to a park for a birthday, and you decide to show up to claim tables at 9:30. Stupid bitch. Normally, I could care less - I really don’t plan on having any birthday party for Owen until his 21st. So, there is that. But the lack of planning by this woman was so infuriating. Because if it was me, I would have been up at 5:30 a.m. claiming spots, because you know 40 people (adults included), love to hang out in the middle of the park on the two benches that you now are forced to claim. I think the best part is when she said “Okay, well I guess we will have to have a person up there to direct people over to us.” This is not Yellowstone lady, it’s a kid’s park, that I could probably crawl the length of in a minute. But you get your director of traffic. Geesh. John had no idea why I was so angry, but I was, and I guess still am. Furious Anger!

So yes, be prepared from some fun with my new bipolar mind. Yesterday, as I was cleaning up from football, I spilled a half full beer off the counter, and I swear to God, if I did not want to punch a wall and kick a kitten. Then cry, of course.

For the Love of God . . .

I recently got invited to a birthday party for a two year old. Please hold back your screams of jealousy. It was an Evite. I love these things because you get to read things like the following “Sorry we can’t make it, but our babymoon is scheduled for that weekend.” Are you faithful reader not aware of the babymoon? Well, urban dictionary describes it as:

Mandatory vacation for both parents before the live birth of a child. Maybe a weekend, maybe a week. Requires the male end of conception to pay for all expenses out of his pocket. Travel, lodging, preferably at a seaside hotel, and gifts (to the mother to be, not the baby,) are an absolute necessity. Eases away the stress and woe of pregnancy.

Oh really? You know what I define it as - stupid. You know what else is stupid - push prizes. The only thing I wanted after pushing Owen into the world was him. And maybe a new vagina. But babymoons and push prizes? When did men get so pansy assed to put up with this utter nonsense. I mean isn’t it enough that they are forced into the delivery room instead of drinking and smoking at a bar telling the other drunks that they are about to have a baby. Also, how awkward would the following conversation be:

Person: Oh Cassie, what a lovely necklace. Where did you get it?
Me: John, he got it for me.
Person: Birthday? Anniversary?
Me: Ah, no.
Person: Just because?
Me: Well, if you have to know if was for squeezing Owen out of my vagina. It’s called a push prize. I also pushed out a poop, but I think this is just for the baby. But maybe not.
Person: Nice, I am going to leave now.
Me: Okay!

So maybe I am betraying another secret girl code that I was not privy too because of my tomboy nature, but let me say I am not partaking even if it would mean diamonds and beach vacations. Wait a second, can I retract everything I just said.

Maybe Lasik Is Not So Bad Afterall . . .

In case you did not know, I wear glasses, and am pretty much blind without them. As evidence of this psuedoblindness, I just received the following IM from John:

...so i just got out of the shower. while taking my shower, i noticed something strange in the tub. it turned out to be a poop. so that means that either owen pooped in there last night and it's been sitting in there this whole time (and you showered in there with it...ummm....ewww...) or you pooped in there this morning. which is it cassie? enquiring minds want to know.

Let me just blame this on my eyes, Mr. Bubble and not my incontinence.

Maternity Clothing - My True Dilemma

I do not think there is anything more depressing than maternity clothes shopping. Well maybe attending a funeral, but if it is my family that usually involves drink and food and laughs. So again, maybe it is maternity clothes shopping. And I don’t really find it depressing in the sense of “Wow, I can’t wait to put this on so that I can look like a gigantic peach.” But rather depressing in the sense that I repeatedly said to myself, “Wow. I really hope I can still wear this after the baby is born, super cute!” Also, I said it before, and I will say it again. I love elastic waists. Who needs zippers and buttons and potential muffin tops, when there is cute maternity wear? I ask you this?

Pregnancy Is A Funny Thing

There you are with an itty bitty person growing inside you. You are the vessel controlled by surging hormones and too tight pants. You are the victim of morning sickness and cravings. You are no longer are alone. Things about being pregnant that I have recognized this week:

What is it about meat? I have had two meatball sandwiches in the past three days, one from Toaster Oven and one from Gambinos New York Style Subs, because someone told me that they were much better. A normal person would say, I will get that meatball sandwich next time I crave it - say in 3 months. A pregnant person says. You don’t say, Gambino’s, eh? And then proceeds to think about said sandwich for the next 20 hours. How big are the balls? Is the sauce good? Is the cheese provolone or mozzarella? Is the bread super soft? Conclusion - I like the Toaster Oven better. I am unsure if this actual due to the meatballs or the fact that I in general hate anything associated with New York.

Someone in the office, who knows I am with beastie, said the following to me. “Cassie, have you lost weight? Your face is thinner.” Needless to say, after I dove upon this woman in flurry or kisses, hugs, and inappropriate office touching, I felt blissfully good. I do not think it is often the pregnant are given praise for their weight loss, but hallelujah I was. And do not think this is not going upon my gravestone:

Here Lies Cassandra Michelle Catherine McCall
Born October 30, 1973
Died TBD
Was once told during her second pregnancy, her face looked thinner. Also, loved the Pats. Considers the day Matt Cassel hoisted the MVP Superbowl trophy a day of pure awesomeness. Hopes she gets to haunt people.

I think I need to retire my button and zipper pants, because right now I am wearing a pair that castrating my mid-section. Is my face purple? Because I think it is. I must unleash the belly. I must!

Ham, A Love Story

Today is a great day. Not only has my seven month separation from my true love ended (hello NFL) but I have finally, after six weeks of obsessing, decided to make a baked ham. I desire ham crazily, pretty sure it has to do with this life growing in my belly. Please note that my last foray into haminess probably occurred circa 1998. It is in my thoughts at least three times a day. Dreamingly, I ponder the heavenly taste of it dipped into buttery mashed potatoes and then driven into my hungry wanting mouth, over and over again. I imagine there is no greater joy to me at this time than that of a freshly baked ham with cloves and pineapple. Saturday I have a date with destiny, until then I will drool and daydream. At the supermarket, after a careful and probably fraught filled selection process of the bone-in ham, I will pick up my love and dance a disco of delight. Shall I crochet a cozie for its journey home? Perhaps. Will it mind me peeping at it through the oven while it cooks in its juices and coca-cola (my mother swears by it)? Of course not. Will Owen or John get a single bite? I don’t know. Will I change my name to Hamzilla? It does have a ring to it. Will I eat it all in fit of ravenous desire? Most assuredly. Oh ham, I love you so. I can't wait until Saturday. Ham, sweet precious ham.

A Pregnant Pause . . .

That is my title because I am pregnant and have had an awfully long blog pause. Oh my goodness, aren’t I just the most witty thing ever. Anyway, yeah so I am knocked up, and just about to enter my second trimester. Also known as the glory trimester because you are no longer sick all the time, but not yet able to be harpooned by fisherman due to your large girth.

Things about pregnancy this time around I have noticed:

1. When you tell your husband, you know this might take like six months to a year, so we better start trying now. Please be prepared to be pregnant right away, and put away your flask.

2. When pregnant with Owen, I had often said due to some issues at the beginning “Please God, just let me be sick.” As this was suppose to be the sign of a healthy pregnancy. Well let me tell you, God is very funny, and very mean spirited. Only recently has the nausea subsided, but for the past seven weeks I have been hit with waves of pukiness. But I never puke, because you know that would mean relief, I just sit there thinking of puking, for hours on end. But you know what, I don’t care, because “it is a sign of a healthy pregnancy.” This to me know falls under the “a bird shitting on you is good luck” category. Absolute crap, but the unfortunate sufferers need a bright side.

3. The other day, I looked in the mirror and said to myself (or out loud, as I tend to do unknowingly): “Wow, Cass, you are getting chunky.” But then I was all like - I AM PREGNANT. THANK GOD, I AM PREGNANT. So the entire allowance of being a fat ass is a pretty sweet perk.

4. Forget bloodhounds, just let me track that missing hiker lost in the woods because my sense of smell is superhero extraordinary. Is this a good thing? Hell no. There is nothing worse than being the victim of morning, late morning, noonish, afternoon, dusk, evening, nighttime sickness and be met everywhere you go with the smells of the world. You ever change a 20 month old’s poop laden diaper when battling throwing up with the smell of a nasal ninja? And don’t get me started on MUNI. I am sorry man next to me, but your burps of Chinese food every 30 seconds might just cause me to punch you in the face repeatedly, and is that a beer you had with that lunch? Because I think it is, and I hate you!

5. You don’t know true happiness in your husband, until you look to his face when uttering these words “Its only one baby.”

So, yeah, pregnant again, meaning that my next hard alcohol cocktail will more than likely be for the celebration of the year 2010. Hello, my name is Cassie McCall, and I have been sober for 8 weeks. Our baby is due March 14, 2009. We can’t wait.

Things I Know Now . . .

I know what you are thinking, what a sweet and innocent boy (also, dude has hair!). Please remember, however, that said boy is captured forever still in this photograph. For if it was action, then you would see this boy jump left, jump right, put his right hand in, put his right hand out, put his right hand in and shake it all about while uttering a guttering wailing that can only be surmised as a cross between a Planet of the Apes bellowing and the sound I imagine victims of x-ray guns utter before vanishing into the great unknown. Last night, we visited relatives in an unchild proofed house. No biggie you say. But with Owen, Curious of All and Destroyer of Much it was hell on wheels. They say a toddler has an attention span of five minutes. And if one was to track his or her moments over a specific time frame, it would resemble the product of an intense session of spirographing. I left the apartment two hours later with a pounding headache. I remember the day before thinking - Yeah, I don’t have to cook dinner! But in all honesty, I would have made an eight course meal complete with crème brulee instead, because you know why? My house has gates, which contain the roaming beast. And it also has a bunch of toys, which pacifies the wondering beast. Oh, and there is this wonderful Cable TV station called Sprout, which soothes the beast with its Goodnight Show. So in a continuing list of resolutions with child, in addition to not smoke crack or invite hobos in for coffee, goes NEVER GO OUT ON THE WEEKNIGHT WHEN THE BOY HAS TO GO TO BED AT 7:00 P.M. I always hated tattoos, but thinking this one on my forehead might stop invitations.

Oh Really Vitamin Water?

And so it begins . . . .

I know that it has been a while since I have taken finger to key to type the wonder that is my life, but honestly, I have not even thought of this blog of late. I know! What a bitch. But I am back, because it must be said that my son has been taken over by the Terrible Twos. And in no particular order, the joys so far:

The Wind-Up Toddler. When picking up a frustrated and angry Owen Patrick, be careful of the full kicking of his feet back and forth. Like a demented gazelle, my son will scissor his legs at such a rapid pace, one would not be surprised if placed in water, he would cross the Atlantic in 2.5 days. Although locked in my arms, and incapable of escape, his legs do not get the message. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Furious feet do you magic! I am afraid to put him in corduroys for fear of fire.

I Shall Slaughter You All. I imagine that being the youngest kid and only boy in daycare has its moments of “Holy cow, I really wish I could take those girls down. Dolls, dolls, dolls, stupid dolls.” And it seems that Owen has finally had enough as he has begun hitting the other kids, I believe the phrase “threw her to the ground” was used this morning, which as a football fan makes me proud, but as a woman makes me call domestic violence hotlines. But I guess this is all “normal toddler behavior”. Seriously, I was wondering if having a hissy fit, and punching some one at work out could be qualified “as normal adult behavior.” Because, that would be awesome.

Although a Bruiser, I Ain’t Stupid. John informs me that at the park Owen will only knock down and push kids that are smaller than him, while he leaves the big kids alone. Smart boy.

You Are an Obsession, You're My Obsession. Owen has two obsessions of late. The first is brushing his teeth. Never has there been a child on this green earth who has loved the tooth brushing so much. We brush his teeth in the bath, first thing. Don’t break out of the order, or you will have deal with the wrath of Owen. “Teeettttt. Teeeetttt. Teeeeetttttttttttt. Teeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeettttttttttttttttttttt.” Okay, dude, I got it. So I brush his teeth and there is such joy and happiness in his eyes. The second thing, and I am pretty sure this might prove out to be beneficial, is his new fangled love of the potty. “Pppppooooddddyyy. Pooooddddyyy. Poooddddyyyy”. For now all he does is sit on it, with a proud look upon his face. So proud, this morning I asked if he wanted any reading material. He yells poddy, sits down, gets up and repeats 10,000 times. John and I are actually considering this may be the start of a diaper free existence. Can you imagine not wiping the ass of someone else 3 to 6 times a day? Well I can too. And it is glorious.

So there you have it, the first of what I am sure will be many stories of the joys of my son entering his “first adolescence.” Heaven help us.

Movie Review: Wanted

Let it be known that as a mother of an 18 month old, my trips to the movie theater have taken a horrid tumble. Last Saturday due to the blessing of babysitting grandparents, John and I took ourselves to the movies. Our choices were: Get Smart, Wanted and Wall-E. Now Wall-E is a kid’s movie, and since I have a kid, I figured, let’s be adult. So that left Get Smart and Wanted. Now, I loved the old Get Smart, and I love Steve Carrell, but those two shan’t be together in my mind. The only Maxwell Smart is Don Adams, and the only Agent 99 is Barbara Feldon. Nuff said. So that left Wanted. Did you know that Wanted has gotten really good reviews? Well it has. Honestly, I had no clue what it was about. So imagine my surprise when before the movie began the following appeared on the screen in written text:

1000 years ago, a Secret Society of Weavers created a group of assassins called the Fraternity.

A fucking secret society of WEAVERS. WEAVERS!!!! Now, when I think of assassin I think of ninjas, the CIA and Lee Harvey Oswald, I do not think of a group of weavers. I decided to forget about this stupid weaver thing and enjoy the film. And I did, until the following occurred: Morgan Freeman informs James McAvoy how it is that they receive the names of people to assassinate. Okay then. Morgan leads him into a room, and there they stand among a loom. But this is not any loom people, it is THE LOOM OF FATE. Yeah, Morgan Freeman just seriously uttered the words “The Loom of Fate.” You see folks, The Loom of Fate weaves and at some point it will have a double stitch - so if the stitch is on top, it is a zero, on the bottom a one. This binary code yields the name of the person to be assassinated. Again, why don’t we all say it together “The Loom of Fate.” Needless to say, John and I were laughing. You know who else was laughing? No one. You know why, because well the rest of the audience actually must have thought that a loom of fate was a plausible storyline. It would have been better if a secret society of dog walkers had a talking dog. That I would have easily accepted, as opposed to this secret society of weavers protecting The Loom of Fate that gives binary code of people to assassinate.

This movie sucked total balls. I would say it even sucked Donkey Balls. It was like Fight Club for the recipients of frontal lobotomies. I should have seen Wall-E.

The Shipping News

The Shipping News : A Novel by E. Annie Proulx

My review

rating: 3 of 5 stars
The Shipping News was good for one thing, I know a bunch about knots. Not sure if the entire knot thing at the beginning of each chapter threw me for a loop (hah!), but I would spent a few minutes following the course of the knot to figure it out. Which probably did not help the flow of this book. The Shipping News is beautifully written, and has a few lines that are just awesome, like "Quolye had the big man's love of a petite woman." But I never really got into the characters or the story, although I must say the last 40 pages did enthrall me, but was it worth the preceding 280 pages? I guess the answer is yes. Its an odd story of an island community, sorta reminded me of Northern Exposure a tad. Or my visits to Martha's Vineyard. Oh Islanders, you crazies.


View all my reviews.

Tales of MUNI

Let it be known that yesterday was a day of MUNI reckoning that was headache producing in nature. First let me begin by saying that in the morning, I like my coffee. I like it on the N-Judah, whilst reading and listening to music. So if the train is stationed and not yet going, I go to Java Beach, and order a medium black. Yesterday morning, I entered Java Beach and was happy - the train was parked and there was but one customer before me. However, Mr. Skinny Non-Fat, Non-Dairy, Bagel Toasted Dark, With Oatmeal And Bananas, you made me tap my feet in a fury of activity as I nervously eyed the train. After his seemingly 10 hour order was complete I quickly rattled off my order, received cup, pour coffee, got lid, and don't burn your hand cover, ran to the train as it sat parked and pushed the button. I pushed again. Door open!!! No, it did not. I ran to the next car as its doors closed. Muther fucka. As the Muni took off, I quickly followed. Let me say this, running with coffee is not an easy task. I ran at a good clip finally giving up because "No way will I catch that train." Flash forward to 10 seconds later, "Good lord, I can get that train, look at that line of fools waiting to pay." So I hoofed it again, like a half paralyzed animal due to coffee and my bag, only to be once again greeted by closing doors. Muther Fucka Part Deux. I know the pain of running for a train, only to miss it. But to run for the same train twice, with the same hurt feelings of failure and incompetence is a true horror.

So as the day progressed, and the 5:00 o'clock whistle blew, and I made my way to the Embarcadero Station for my train. Little did I know that June 30, 2008 was the day Cassie McCall would be driven to insanity by the good folks at the Bay Area Transit Authority. It began simply enough, a two car N entered the station. But the second car said "No Passengers". Muther Fucka Part Tres. I made my way to the other car with gaggle of others. Push, push, slam, bam, is that person touching me? Oh my god. So I got out my book, got a decent standing spot, and tried to forget all the body heat circling me like bees buzzing in my ear. The next stop added to the crush of people. At this time, a woman about 55 years old with wild white hair, a 6'0" foot frame and man hands stood behind me. It was at this time, I knew I was in trouble She repeatedly said, "Move in everybody, move in. We can all get in the car." Sorry, lady but currently my ass is being rubbed by the man behind me, my whole left half is sandwiched into the girl beside me like we are Siamese Twins, and you are getting a little too close for comfort. We continued onward, trying to lose myself into my book. Gargantuan woman makes her way beside me and gets out her USA Today paper. She beings to read, while touching my hand. I kid you not. She rested her hand on mine. I moved, she moved, I moved, she moved. Is this really happening? Her paper is on my head. My head! We get to the next stop and another rush of persons onto the train. Ms. Charitable Commuter actually says to the person trying to get on "Come on sir, you can get on too." Bitch, please. So now this guy is on after about two minutes of twister like contortions by the other passengers. We get to the Duboce Park stop, and before me the seated passenger is leaving. Hail Thee Jesus. I sit down, but who else sits down? Yep, Ms. MUNI United. As she sits, her cat hair strewn sweater is on my hand, this does not surprise me. If the was ever a poster child for the Crazy Ole Cat Woman, this lady was it. It is at this time, that the passenger who we let on at the previous stop shouts the following "Hey Man, don't let your frustration out on me, because I AM PRIME TO GO. PRIME!!" Great, now there is a going to be a fist fight. Thanks lady, soooooo happy he got on board. But peace reigns supreme.

Finally it seems that the world of MUNI had gotten off its crazy axis as the cat lady has left, and a young girl sits next to me. I was happy. But a minute into this bliss, came the following "Do you have twenty-five cents?" "No, sorry." Then there came the moaning. The guttural wailing of an insane homeless person and then the talk of purple potatoes. Ah, I don't hear you. Seriously, God, why me? I try to concentrate on my book while the girl next to me chatters, moans and speaks in demon tongue. And then it happens, a seat opens up, I make a beeline and plop down. Finally on my own within the confines of N-Judah ride of crazy. My head is aching, my nerves fried, only to hear "Sorry folks, but this will be our last stop." Oh the humanity. I make my exit, I make my entrance, and finally arrive at my stop. Needless to say, that evening, wine was had. MUNI, you may have won the battle, but I will win the war.

If It Is Yellow . . .

At nineteen years old I went up to New Hampshire with my friend Valerie, whose family had a cabin. Upon going to the bathroom, I was greeted with the following embroidered and framed sign:

If It Is Yellow, Let it Mellow
If It Is Brown, Flush It Down


As if. Please note that said sign was done in browns and yellows on an ivory background with flowers and butterflies. It still haunts me. Upon explanation by Valerie I was told that they had a septic system, so you did not really want to flush anything but poop, so there would be no overflows. Okay then. I will let you know that I flushed every time, I had to. I could not let the yellow just mellow. Flash forward 15 years, and what am I currently doing due to the water restrictions? Yep, letting my yellow mellow. And good lord it is hard, try reversing years of programming of flushing. It is ridiculous. I often go into the bathroom thinking "What the hell man? Who didn't flush?" Only to immediately think, "Cassie, it is mellowing, that yellow is mellowing." So I guess I am being green, or disgusting, I have yet to decide. Speaking of disgusting, I kid you not when I say that on Monday's N-Judah ride the old lady next to me was ravaging her nostril with her finger at a break neck pace. I just sat thinking, this is not happening. Does this woman think she alone, or in her car? I get entire wisdom when older, but it must stop when you are happily picking and then flicking, FLICKING, your found treasure into the air on public transportation. Is this a total giving up on life, or just further proof that you just don't give a damn when old? I don't know.

Not that I am Mad or Anything

I was thinking the other day that if I was ten years younger, running as much as I do, there would not be an ounce of heft on my frame. It is not that the running isn't going well, it is. Last week I ran six out of seven days, and this week every day so far. I even ran on the treadmill this weekend while Owen napped because "might as well. I got the time." Guessing those happy little endorphins do provide you with the crazy. My clothing is fitting better, my muffin top is mini in size, and my legs, dare I say it, are getting quite svelte. But the fact of the matter is at 34 years old running approximately 12 to 18 miles a week provides you with the slow weight loss which I suppose may be the best kind. At 24, I would be wearing size six pants and flaunting my body like a crack ho in need of a fix. When younger, you could skip a meal and lose five pounds, now it a battle of epic proportions. I can't even imagine what it will be like in my 40s. But I am pretty sure by then I will give into a life of Bon Bons, big girl sizes and QVC.

Speaking of big, guess whose little monster weighed in at 27.1 pounds and 33 1/2 inches in height - otherwise known as the 75% percentile for both height and weight? Yep, Owen. He is officially living up to the linebacker title that no less than 50 people given him. Initially when they said it I was all "no way, he actually his is just 20% percentile in height and weight." But now, I am trying to figure out which colleges will provide him the best opportunity to join the Patriots in 2027. Also, the kid received 3 shots and cried for a solid 2.2 seconds. He shook it off to climb on a chair, to get up the examination table, where he tried to jump off. Owen is a year and a half old monster in the making, with no fear, and a high pain threshold. Help us Jesus.

George Carlin

I think I owe a great deal of my sense of humor to George Carlin, especially since I listened to Take Offs and Put Ons for only about three years straight when 7 to 10. Hi, this is the Hippie Dippy Weatherman, doing the Hippie Dippy Weather, Man! And my favorite of all time has to be Wwwwwwww, Iiiiiiiiiii, Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn, Oooooooooooooooooooo, Wonderful WINO Radio. So, to George Carlin, I repeat the best song of the lot, the love song:

I sent my sinuses to Arizona,
My liver to Peru,
My lungs and my kidneys,
For the summer to Sydney,
But I am sending my heart to you.

You will be missed.

Oh No He Didn't

This morning around 4:25 a.m., I woke to the sound of one Mr. Owen Patrick McCall. For the past two weeks, Owen has been waking between 4:00 a.m. and 6:00 a.m. Usually I can get him into bed with us for at least another hour of sleep. I do not know what is going on with him, but have read about this 18 month old sleep regression that comes on suddenly and then disappears, so I think it is this or teething. Basically whatever is wrong with your kid, you can attribute it to teething. Crying? Teething. Drooling? Teething. Horns? Teething. I knew we were in trouble this morning, when I got him and he started chatting. Seriously, this kid is one motor mouth of a McCall. I have never seen anything like it, he never shuts up. It is amazing. And as he lay in bed with us, aside from the flipping over and constant moving, it seemed as if he had achieved sleep once more. Hoorah! That is until John tooted a wee bit of a fart, and I kid you not, but 15 milliseconds later, Owen said "Koooooooooooollllllllll." Obviously in the midst of our laughter, there was no going back to sleep. And I don't think I would trade it for anything, seems my son is officially a man. One that loves brushing his hair, I mean if it took you 17 months to grow hair, you'd love it too.

In Celebration of Owen

Tomorrow Owen will be a year and a half, which is so very scary and so very awesome. So very scary because I can not believe that 18 months have passed since this little guy came into our life. Kid is going to be in college and playing beer pong in a blink of an eye (on that football scholarship god praying). It is very awesome because I no longer have to say months now to denote his age. I can say he's a year and a half, a little older than a year and a half, almost two, and then finally two. I can't tell you how much of a pain in the ass it is to say months when describing age. It is something you do, because well you have to, because it is all about developmental gains. Like when Owen walked at 10 months and people would be like - ten months? And I would be like - yeah, ten months bitch! He's the bee's knees. But no longer, months is being banished from my vocabulary, just like curse words because you know who dropped his first F-bomb? Owen. When did he drop it, after his mother screamed at the TV during a viewing of the Celtics Game 5 loss. Honestly it sounded more like "Buck". Can I help it if the kid has a deer fetish? I have to stop swearing. I really fucking do, assholes.

Father of the Year

This morning while walking up the stairs I heard the following conversation:

Guy: So Rebecca threw up last night.
Girl: Oh really? Is she okay?
Guy: Not sure, I think she is just vomits to get attention.
Guy: That or she really is sick.

Oh my god, father of the year anyone? Seriously, when you think your kid is vomiting to get attention before actually thinking that she is or may be sick, please just hang up your testicles and call an end to procreation. What an asshole.

Oh Really?

I am just about finished with Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love. This book was purchased months and months ago, but recently read after picking it up maybe ten times and saying, "Yeah, no." I finally gave it a go, liking it very much. It details a year in the life of the author traveling through Italy, India and Indonesia as she searches for pleasure after a terrible heartbreak. It is very spiritual, but I did not mind it, as she does not force feed it down your throat, but merely opines any avenue to God is a good one. The woman spent four months in India in an ashram, waking at 3:00 a.m. for four hours of mediation before breakfast, and then more chanting, and yoga, and studying under her guru. So, when reading her biography today, imagine my surprise with the following:

Much of her writing has been optioned by Hollywood. Her GQ memoir about her bartending years became the Disney movie "Coyote Ugly."

Coyote Ugly? The movie where the bartenders dance on the bar, with Piper Perabo and a whole slew of bad that is almost comical in its heights.

I do not know about you yoga lady touting spirtuality, but that is one little tidbit I would removed from my biography. Just saying.

And another thing . . . .

Go Celtics.

The God Punishment Theory

When little, I first came in contact with the phrase "Well that is God punishing you." It would usually happen after I talked back to my mother, and then promptly stub my toe. She would say "See, that is God punishing you." Now, how does God overseeing six billion plus people possible take the time to punish me? I mean come on already? No way, Jose. Well, you know what, he totally does. They don't call him omnipotent for nothing. This is not Catholic guilt speaking, this is a true and tried fact. God will punish yee, especially when you are doing something that is completely and utterly laughable. It is the slap in the face that wakes you up from the fog of your own stupidity. A perfect example was this past Saturday. After indulging in the joys of the Park Chalet, namely beers and oysters, John and I walked home with Owen. It must have been something about the beer, or the fact that I have lost weight, but these beers hit me. And they hit me hard. As we were walking home, the following occurred:

John: Cass, why don't I get the boy fed, bathed and to bed.
Me: No John, I can do it. Really.
John: Sweetie, you're drunk. I will do it.
Me: I am not that drunk.

0.00000002 seconds later, I am sprawled on the ground with skinned knee. In a fall that John said was of "comic proportions." God had punished me. I imagine him saying the following: "Oh look, I really hope she admits that she is drunk and incapable of taking care of her son." "Ah yep, nope, she failed. It must be done." Zing, Zam, Zoon. And there I lay on the concrete with the realization that no matter what, God will always punish me for being stupid. And leave little reminders not to do it again, like the current state of me knee (if you are squeamish turn away):



So yeah, lesson learned.

A Fun Game

Ever wonder what your band name, first album title and album cover would be? Well wouldn't you know, the internet can assist you in such a search.

1. Journey to Wikipedia's random articles. Whatever the title of the first article is, that's your band name.

2. Next, travel to random quotations. The last four words of the last quote on the page are the title of your debut album.

3. Finally, go to Flickr's "Explore the Last Seven Days." The third photo is your cover album art.

My band name is: 10-Spine Grouper
My debut album is entitled: You Just Take It
And the cover art is this.

Awesome! I think I am a heavy metal band.

Sex and The City - A Review

Forewarning - spoilers ahead.

Last night I indulged in the seemingly new girl right of passage, a viewing of the Sex and The City movie. Holy estrogen. Scientifically speaking, if one was able to harness the estrogenic energy radiating throughout the theater, menopause would be no longer. Eighty year old women would be having kids, buying Tampax and asking their elderly mates if their ass looked fat in their pants. Since birthing The O, my weeknight evenings have consistently involved me drooling dreamingly on my pillow by 10:00 p.m., not going out to see an 8:35 p.m. movie. In fact, the night before I forced myself to stay awake until 11:15 p.m. for practice. The sacrifices I make for being a girl. Was it worth it? I guess.

I am a big fan of movie previews. Huge. I like little glimpses into upcoming theatrical events. Dividing them accordingly, "cable", "DVD", "must see" and "what the hell were they thinking". Last night was an onslaught of chick flickedness that would have turned the most debase of all men into a pedicure getting, highlight hair having metrosexual of the pink shirt wearing degree. There was Meg Ryan flanked by three other women trying to overcome her mate cheating on her with Eva Mendes (can you blame the guy?). Then the Richard Gere and Diane Lane vehicle "Nights in Rodanthe" described as "two unhappy people's lives become entwined when they have a life changing romance." Oh my god, what the hell have I done to myself?

I am still asking myself that question today. It is not that I didn't like the movie, I did, especially the first half. But I do think the movie was a rehash of the last two seasons only spun in a different way. There was nothing new. You basically end up with what was given during the television finale. Mr. Big and Carrie after torturous heartbreak find a way to forgive in the most dramatic of loving forms (last time his journey to Paris, this time e-mails of famous love letters) so that in the end they end up together. As if there was any doubt, and now a few thoughts on the movie.

When Mr. Big decided he can't do the big fancy wedding thing, and gets nervous, and leaves Carrie at the alter, was I the only one thinking "Karma anyone?" Hello Aiden. I still don't understand how that woman gave up on Aiden. Stoopid. Team Aiden all the way. Mr. Big, Aiden. Mr. Big, Aiden. Is there any doubt? When this happened in the TV series, I wanted to throw my television out of the window. Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch was all I could yell for 10 straight minutes.

Charlotte (miraculously pregnant) and her husband have a baby, a girl. God forbid there is any form of wiener or testosterone in the film. They name the baby "Rose", after the bald husband's grandmother. He states "A Lily (their first daughter) and a Rose." Someone please pass the barf bag. Also, seriously, the asian adopted girl does not get the family name - only the genetically pure? Someone's a favorite.

Carrie and Miranda go out on Valentine's Day, and the waitress says "What would you and your girlfriend like?" And there is this smirk. And I am all like - "So funny, right, because Miranda in real life left her husband for a gal and is now a lesbian." Inside joke!

Also, HBO Films, please do not show me the future in the form of forty year old skin sag. There is this one scene where Carrie enters the bed with Mr. Big in her trademark man undies and camisole. My eyes!!! Gravity is a force to be reckoned with, an ugly force. There is a lot of nakedness in this movie, and a bush shot. And a red headed bush shot at that. I guess the carpet does indeed match the rug.

I would just like to state that if I was left at an altar, there would be death. Not the death of love, but the death of that person in the form of me willing ever fiber of my body for them to live a horrible sickly life full of woe, and misery and STDs. I mean way to teach the gals of today Carrie Bradshaw. Be a doormat, end up with a rich husband.

In conclusion, I would like to thank HBO Films for getting me out of the house on a weeknight, I really did enjoy those two Ketel Ones with lime pre-show, and the movie was okay too. I laughed, I cried (but not as much as Independence Day) and now know what a red beaver looks like. But please do me the favor of making your next movie a little more appealing to the masses, as in FREAKING DEADWOOD. Gather up your monies HBO and find me Calamity Jane, McSweargin and a fabulously exotic stream of swear words that will make my little heart dance. I thank you.

Liars, You are Liars

Seedless watermelons have got to be the biggest lie ever committed upon the American people. I think instead of seedless they should just say flimsy white but digestible seeded watermelon. Just because they did not develop into black hard seeds, does not make them seedless. Okay? This is the biggest thing going since the leprechaun sighting:

Comedy of Errors

This is a complete list of things that happened to me during my run at lunch.

1. No socks. Somehow when I placed my socks by the bed with the rest of my running attire, they decided to go missing so that in the bathroom while getting changed there was the inevitable question "To run or not to run?" I decided run. Stinky feet, stinky feet, someone has stinky feet.

2. Wrong shirt. Instead of grabbing my Nikey dry-fit shirt, I grabbed a Gap stretchy T of the same color. Let me say that its sweat wick factor - NON-FREAKING EXISTENT.

3. Boob Shrinkage. Well it seems my knockers are getting smaller, because while running my boobs repeatedly fell out of my jog bra. Yeah weight loss, but heavens to Betsy, sticking your hands down your bra while jogging. Stupid.

4. Fleece Running Outfit. Speaking of stupid, hello Cassandra McCall you no longer live in Boston, Massachusetts but sunny (today) San Francisco, California. Fleece jogging wear, not conducive to a low sweat factor, especially when running sockless with no drifit. Seriously, today I was the evil villainess of sweat - fear her salty sweaty stench.

5. Towels, Who Needs Towels. While finishing my labor intensive record long shower, I realized I forgot the towels. I am shy, so unlike many others, I can't saunter across a room naked and not wish a swift death. Besides, our work showers are also the Promenade's women's bathroom. I ran across the room to the other bathroom (where the towels are located) and then skedaddled back in about 3.2 seconds as on the return trip I slide across the tiled floor almost falling. Unfortunately these towels are tiny and incapable of hiding the goods, so I had to make the quick dash back to safety. Thank you Jesus for allowing me some grace so that I was not laying spread eagle for a bathroom visiting co-worker, because that could have been just slightly awkward.

6. No Hair Brush. I forgot my hairbrush resulting in me having to finger comb my hair while drying, which in all honestly looks exactly the same as if I had a brush. Thank you fine hair.

So there you have it. Next time when I forget my socks, you will be damn sure I will take it as the first sign of the apocalypse of running.

Lord of the Denim - An Adventure

I have been going to The Gap for over ten months trying to find a pair of jeans since the jeans I bought during the still hefty phase of post pregnancy were ill fitting. Luckily for me, I did manage to fit in my pre-pregnancy Banana Republic jeans. Mind you, nothing else pre-pregnancy without a muffin top. I don't get it either. I have been wearing these jeans religiously for ten months every jean day work Friday and the occasional weekend day. Which is fine, but I have been visiting The Gap approximately twice a month during this time searching for another pair. And much like Frodo's ring search, it has been an utterly tiring endeavor (but not with the homoerotic undertones). Now, I am sure you are probably saying to yourself, doesn't this girl know there are stores other than The Gap that sell jeans? And yes, this girl does, but read yesterday post about lacking a girl gene for clarification. Me no likey to shop. Imagine my surprise yesterday when I found pair to my liking, long enough and on sale for $29.99. Ca-ching! Hit the denim trifecta, anyone? I rushed to a sales person and said "Hi, can you put this on hold for me; I just need to run upstairs to my office to get something I need to return. Thanks." Upstairs I go, not believing that after an epic 300 day search, denim was found. At the counter, I informed the girl that the jeans behind her were mine, and I had a return. Gap girl says "Thirty dollars" and I am all "Aren't these jeans on sale?" "Not these". Oh my god, what to do. Not on sale? So the mental debate "Okay maybe they aren't on sale but you like them." "Yeah, I do like them, and it has been a long hunt." "You should totally buy them, forget the denim trifecta." And I did. You know why? Because I am wacky like that. Dressing this morning, I could feel the happiness well for the inaugural jeans wear. Will someone compliment me? Will John like my ass in them? Will Owen drool or vomit on them first? Frantically, I remove them from the bag, rip of tags, look down and say "Muthafarka." Why? Because there on the tag is a number, and that number is not mine, it is a "6". A six. I had got the wrong jeans, and the ones in my hands were calling me fat. As I stepped into B&R jeans for the fortieth week in a row, with a return to make, there was sadness, maybe even a tear. The good news is the jeans were still on hold - for Sandra, and they were in fact on sale. I knew it, bitch.

Further Proof I Lack the Girl Gene

This morning as I went about the business of the morning - waking up to Owen, saying hello to John, getting milk for the boy, getting Owen's food for the day ready, dressing, dressing Owen, walking out the door - when John says "Owen, don't you want to wish your Daddy Happy Birthday." Yeah, whoops! Am I not the worse person ever? I totally forgot. And you know why, because I am not truly a girl. Sure, I have boobies, had a kid, and watch Sex and The City, but deep down somewhere the internal gene that makes girls go goo goo and gaa gaa over such things as shopping, hair styles, manicures, Brad Pitt, leggings, and birthdays is missing. In fact, at this moment I am trying to recall the day we got married. I know it was July - but beats me if it was the 20th or the 22nd. I think the 20th, but I would not put money on it. But somehow I know that the New England Patriots won Superbowl XXXVI when Brady spiked the ball with 7 seconds on the clock to set up Adam Vinatieri's 48 yard field goal kick to win 20-17 against the Rams on February 3, 2002. So what does this mean? No girl gene! So Happy Birthday John McCall, I love you very much.

My Footwear is Accursed.

Sorry for the "accursed" but I have been reading The Other Boleyn Girl and my language has taken a decided turn to 1500s England. I no longer eat breakfast, but break my fast. So cool, music to the dieting girl's ears, I no longer sleep but fast from the hours of 10:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. Also, the English sure did like to use the word "cunny", as in "Wash your cunny, you slut." Forget va-jay jay, give me cunny any day. And so it goes, I now want to watch Showtime's The Tudors, and find a time machine. This is something that is constantly on my mind - time travel and that invention the guy in The Fly was trying to master. Travel Pods. Can you image? How awesome. But back to the shoes (pictured below),



I want to say that I really like these shoes, they being the Privo "Hop" in black. This is my second pair. The previous pair was not accursed, thus leading me to this purchase which will more than likely mean some sort of leg injury in the form of amputation because in the past two weeks I have had my left shoe caught in an escalator while carrying Owen and just today, while taking a step down from the curb, somehow trapped half my foot in the sewer grate. The escalator incident was memorable because earlier in the day there was an article on sfgate.com about a freak escalator accident. Note to self, when something such as escalator carnage tickles your fancy; be prepared to pay the ultimate sacrifice. I don't even know how it happened, I took a step, then another, and suddenly I was shoeless with a baby in the ergo about to take public transportation. After about thirty attempts by helpful San Franciscans trying to dislodge my very lodged shoe (and me thinking that I was actually going to have to go on Muni with no freaking shoe), some behemoth of a man used his hulk arm to save my shoe (and my chance at Hepatitis B). I thanked him only to see my shoe now had a big section of the sole flapping. "Gotta buy some new shoes" said this man to which I responded gleefully "Most definitely sir. Thanks!" But alas, I am cheap and having a sole flap is not going to land me in Glamour's What Not To Wear. But today as I stepped down off the curb getting half my foot stuck in a grate, I am thinking that perhaps these shoes are to die a quiet death because clumsy feet and accursed shoes will transform me into that seventy year old who takes off her left shoe to revel a mangle mess of a stump of which parents warn their children.

Over the Hump

This perhaps does not hold true for all, but for me when involved in an exercise and diet regimen there is a stage in which I get "over the hump". The hump being viewing it as a necessary evil, not something I am happy to be engaged. But this week has finally produced the happiness within my plight of health, so much so it is no longer viewed as a plight. For it is not a DIE-it, it is a LIVE-It. Did you just throw up a little in your mouth? Me too. Today will mark five out of five work days that I have jogged on the Embarcadero. Also this week I have consumed grapefruit breakfasts, fruit salad lunches, cherry snacks and healthy dinners - although last night we had some Kraft Macaroni and Cheese (thank you Owen) with our chicken and red pepper skewers. But good lord, I am doing it, and I'm not hating it, although I must say that when I lose weight there is a certain progression, that I don't think I am happy with. Basically it is line that falls from my head and one that grows from my feet. And as I lose weight the lines progress - one down, and one up. So I imagine that my goal is to have them meet in my midline, thus producing all that I can possibly do without becoming an Olsen. But before the midline meet, I pretty much think I might look like a martini olive. I don't even know if that makes sense, but I don't care. You know why? Because I have those stupid little endorphins running through my body like little fairies of happiness that dance upon my brain and make me all giddy and smiling and not want to punch hippies. And that is a good thing. Happy Memorial Day Weekend!

The Weekly Wrap

Oh blog, where do I begin? I am sorry that I have been lax in updates, but there is not much going on right now. Was I to tell you how I made fruit salad on Sunday for an entire week's worth of lunch for me and John? Or how about how I have been cleaning my kitchen and bathroom every single night in an effort to have my house clean in 20 minutes? Or better yet, how I think the secret to my washing my hair after my run is to use the 2 in 1 shampoo, and then a separate conditioner. Hello bouncy. But nope, I decided not to share. Gawd, I am such a selfish bitch. So some highlights of the last week:

Hello Terrible Twos. This weekend I cut Owen's hair, or should I say, this weekend I cut Owen's mullet only to realize in hindsight that I replaced a mullet with circa 1980s Flock of Seagulls hair. A hairdresser I am not. However, I think with this cutting of his baby hair I have unleashed the demon within. Holy cow, someone is becoming his own little guy - and that guy is Toddlerzilla. For example, I have been reading a book to Owen as his last book before bed since he has been four months old. Its called Goodnight Baby. As a side note, I truly believe if I ever come down with Alzheimer's, there will be mumbling of "Today was fun, friends came to play, we played with blocks, and read our books, but now I'm sleepy . . .". Heaven help me. For the past week whenever this book is read, Owen starts whining, reaching for the book so he can throw it across the room. As you see Toddler Brain thinks no book, no goodnight. But unfortunately for him, Mommy Brain much schooled in the ways of manipulation reads another book, and then puts toddler brain to bed. I win (for now). I actually did a countdown to see the end of his Terrible Twos and the result was 549 days. Kill me.

The Goal of Thirty. The goal of thirty is going well, I have actually lost count truth be told, but I do believe I am at 19.5. I ran four days this week, and with a breakfast of grapefruit, a fruit salad for lunch and a pretty healthy dinner, I do believe I am on the path to better health. And we got the Nintendo Wii Fit last evening. And I am a-okay with the label of "overweight", because it was only slightly so. Although honestly, a video game just called me a porker. And for added insult, every time I step on the board, it goes "ooohhhhh" in a tone which I do believe is mocking. Talk about subliminal self esteem annihilation. However, it did inform me that I might "trip a lot". Well holy cow, Wii Fit - you are a promising an end to lifelong klutziness? Weight loss and not being embarrassed on a daily basis - yee promise the world machine!

Just Call Me Broiling Betty. So it seems that I have said goodbye to all other cooking methods in an effort to broil everything I eat. I am a total addict, which is funny considering the average of 15 minutes it takes for me to clean the broiling pan. Those not in the know, "broiling" is basically grilling in your oven. AND ITS AWESOME. Marinate some chicken, put it under the flames, flip, eat. And its good, like super good, like open flame, but not really good. Its broiling baby!

So there you have it I am an exercising mother to a newly created demanding demonlike child with an affinity, dare I say love, for her oven's broiler. And that is the week's wrap up.

Its Hot and My Body Tricks Me (Almost)

You know how hot it is today in San Francisco? About Eighty-Eight degrees.
You know what I did at lunch? Run.
You know what that makes me? Stupid.

I ran at lunch and thought death would quickly befall me, it was like running in hot soup. It was terrible, but now about forty-five minutes have past and my body is responding well. And my mind is doing little "you are so awesome" songs. I really did not want to run in hot as Hades weather, but my last run was just about a week ago, and it was promised that within The Goal of Thirty there would be no more than six days off. I had a good excuse - my monthly course, so it was not mere slacking off. Which brings me to another point: my body is at war with my mind.

I was five, count the 1-2-3-4-5 days, late. Now since the scare of last month, I have been militant about protection. So imagine the surprise when faced with a missed period. I took a pregnancy test that came up negative, so I waited, and waited, and waited. I am not late. Never - except that one time, and it resulted in Owen. So on Monday, my friend finally made her fashionably late appearance. I was happy, until it came to my attention that Monday means one thing - I NOW WILL BE OVULATING ON MONDAY. Damn you ovaries!!! Those not familiar with reproduction, please note that an egg is fertilized when a woman ovulates - which with a twenty-eight day cycle, means about Day 14. Since I have a 28 day cycle, that means I will ovulate Monday. Now you may be saying - so big deal. But as parents of a toddler, John and I like many tired and weary souls save most of the fun for the weekends. So my previous Thursday ovulation worked out perfectly. But now with this entire Monday ovulation scenario it seems that although my mind says no, my ovaries are saying yes. I understand this somewhat as I am approaching thirty-five, so my eggs are going to start going all "LAST CHANCE FOR CONCEPTION. ALL MEN ON DECK." But holy cow, who knew one's own body could be so devious and cunning. As a side note, I really cannot believe I will be thirty-five at the end of October. Holy old - I was fifteen 20 years ago - which is the year I got my first period. I have been on my moon bike for 20 years people!! So what will be the result of this dastardly move by my biological clock? Only time will tell - but I tell you, I will not go down without an easy fight - or at least six more bottles of vodka, 3 bottles of tequila, 18 visits to the Park Chalet, and a round of Six Cups.

Google Analytics

Well, the time has come for us to review (due to the high level of hilarity) some of the searches on Google that were directed to my site. Please note that this is for the time period of April 13, 2008 to May 13, 2008, and I am only including the ones that made me say - what in good god's green earth is wrong with people.

27 with wrinkled forehead!!! Please note the use of three exclamation points. Poor thing really, I have one word for you "moisturize".

37c cup porn. It is really a fickle pornographic mind that searches the net for cup size related jollies.

A boy's fatal flaw. Wow, what could that be? Penis maybe?

"Poop my pants". Okay then.

"Camel toe creating". It is amazing one would have to search this out when the causation could be easily linked to tight pants plus big vulva. Simple.

Bacon Smell Allergy. Seriously?

Cassandra Hairy Hairy Lady. I feel really sorry for this girl, but more importantly, the person who looked her up.

Cassie McCall porn. What?!?! Seriously, is there a porn star out there with my name? Or was I that drunk in college?

But by far the search that directs most to my site is my Patriots poem, because well it's awesome.