The Hustle, The Mistake, The Mad Piss

As the clock approaches 5:00 p.m., I do as many a San Francisco working fool does, log into nextmuni.com to find the status of my train. Well imagine my surprise yesterday at 4:56 p.m. that the next trains would be in 4, 8 and 27 minutes. So, I high tailed it out of the office in a running attempt to get the 8 minute train. However, with luck and a gazelle like pace, I ran down the escalator onto the N-Judah. I immediately texted John gloating of my hustle to catch the seemingly impossible 4 minute N-Judah. Well, not so much. I did not catch the 4 minute N-Judah, but rather the M-Ocean View. This is the second time this has occurred. I would like to point out for the record that my eye sight without glasses is 20/450. So you as a person with good vision see at 450 feet what I see (without contacts or glasses) at 20 feet. Yeah, I don't know where my walking cane is either. I would also like to point out, in my defense, that the M goes to Ocean View and the N goes to Ocean Beach and if you look quickly at the digital M/N they are similar, very similar. And honestly, I don't even get why the N-Judah - a train that basically goes down Judah Street is called the N, shouldn't it be called the J? But nope, not here, the J is the train that goes to the Castro. And then there is the L-Taraval that goes down Taraval Street. We just got a T Line that goes down Third Street. What the hell? Commonsense prevails? So I got off the train, and then got onto the L - the train that goes down Taraval and requires a 15 minute walk home. I got on the train, got a seat and noticed a skunky smell. I looked up to see across from me a teenage hoodlum rolling a blunt (and I had no idea I knew what that was called either, but I thank Snoop Dog and Dr. Dre). So as I sat reading, smelling the odor of weed, and listening to the friend of the rolling hoodlum speaking of the "mad piss" he had to take, I thought how lucky I truly was at that moment, but not as lucky as the poor owner of the house wherein the bladder buoyed boy let a stream of urine out with a shriek of happiness. Ah, Muni Madness.

She puts the Oh! in Wino

I would like to first state that my battle against the bulge has been going swimmingly well. I have taken up running, as well as walking lots due to my pedometer (although this week has been fraught with rain, so the walking has been kept to a minimum). In addition to a lunch of Subway and a breakfast of toast and Laughing Cow cheese, I do believe I am getting slimmer. At least that is how it feels when I put on my clothing. It is funny how pregnancy changes your body, or should I say 10 weeks of bed rest and a dire lack of physical activity in the year that followed. But I feel good, and the motivation of Hawaii and a bathing suit did the trick. That being said, I have finally come to terms with the fact that a year of breastfeeding has changed my boobies. I really thought that I would just fit into my old bras the minute the milk stopped gushing, but I do not think that is the case. So this weekend I shall be molested by the lady at Nordstrom's and buy new bras (more than likely at a hefty price tag), but my boobs need support and cups that fit. In two short weeks, I will be in Hawaii - Kauai specifically. On the beach I shall sun myself and try to put all thoughts of tsunamis out of my head. I will eat coconut shrimp, and drink fruity rum drinks, and slather the palest kid in the world with a metric ton of sunscreen. It will be joyful, it will be triumphant. It will be just the thing to snap me out of this Sunday footballess depression. Oh, and last night I had an entire bottle of wine. I don't know what happened. I feel fine today, which is great - but my god. I poured a big glass to consume while viewing the joy that is Lost, and then I had another when that was finished, and then I was like - okay, a little bit more, and then in a blissfully buzzed state, I finished the bottle while John slept and I continued the torture that is Nip/Tuck. And although I should feel like drinking a bottle of wine in two hours was a tad much, I don't care - it was one of those evenings where it just made sense, producing a giddily warm inside. There was no stopping. And yes, this will be first story in my desperate spirally tumble into alcoholism that I tell at AA. But until then, tonight is Rock Band Beer Friday - yeah, be jealous.

A Moment of Reflection

I miss football. I miss it so much that when Sunday rolls around and I open my eyes to greet the day, I feel empty and sad. Why is it that I cannot sit around all day drinking beer and watching my fantasy stats automatically update on Direct TV (I love you by the way Direct TV). This period (the one between Football and Baseball) is hard trying time. It is especially difficult because I do not have the basking glow of a Superbowl win by the Pats. I got nothing but a bitter lost which leaves an even bitter taste that no amount of liquor seems to wash away. Why can't football be on every Sunday? Why am I forced to live a life that is only truly meaningful between the months of September and January? I guess I can try to think of the positives - the fact that the Pats are playing the 9ers in San Francisco, a game in which I will attend with wild abandon (unless knocked up that is). But even this does not help. Football, I love you. I miss you. I want some more of you. Boo hoo. Boo freaking hoo.

An Open Letter to Arlen Specter

Dear Stupidhead,

Please leave the New England Patriots, Bill Belichick and the NFL alone. You my sir are an idiot. I don't know what your motivation is, but I believe it is something to do with the fact that you are unloved and need attention - maybe because you have cheek jowls or a stupid first name. I do not know. Were you picked on by football players in high school? I was reading on ESPN this morning that you are particularly concerned with your state's loss to the Patriots. Well boo hoo. First, as all Philly fans know - they are cursed. Second, the Steelers' themselves stand behind Goodell. So what the hell are you doing? I'll let you in on a not so little secret, Bill Belichick is crazy competitive. If possible, I think he would tape an opposing team going poop so that he could examine the bowl to see if there is some sort of secret football language released from their anuses. The man is ultra competitive (something I heart him for, and appreciate being somewhat the same way). He is a nutter, yes. But a nutter with an amazing football mind and obviously a person who holds a grudge - read the almost perfect season. Do not besmirch him, Arlen. Leave him alone, leave the Pats alone and more importantly leave the freaking NFL alone. Spygate is not the MLB steroid mess, it never will - so stop trying to make it that way. Why don't you focus on something else, like the war, or the fact Katrina homeless are in toxic trailers, or even better why there is a shooting every three weeks at a school.

Sincerely,
Cassandra M. McCall

Pre-Haircut Emotions and Obama Barack

So this is the day my hair (I hope) returns to the land of the normal and not the land of the pseudo hipster. I am a mom, I don't need to be looking all crazy and young and hipsterish. Thank you very much. I am feeling a bit antsy because I don't know what Marcus the Hair Cutting guy is going to say to me. My one fear is he says - what the hell are you talking about, your hair is fine. But hopefully he pities me and makes sense of what lies upon my head. Not even sure I want to share this, but what the hell. This morning while laying in bed between the not sleeping and not quite awake limbo I started thinking about Barack Obama. The following is a trace of my thought process (it ain't pretty).

Wow, Barack Obama had the initials of "OB".
Hah, that is funny. My tampon is called an OB.
And I took my virginity with it.
Hah, Barack Obama took my virginity.
Wait a second. His initials are BO, not OB.
What a fucking retard I am. Is that Owen?

Yeah. So, I don't know what the hell that was all about. I could blame dyslexia, but I am not dyslexic, so chalk it up to mental deficiency due to major hair trauma. And you know why I am only sort of worried about this haircut, because I could have sworn that this morning (given my Guardian Angel Sully's disposition of distain) that it would be the perfect hair day. But nope, I got nothing but the crack ho. So shear away Marcus. Shear away.

Blah, Blah, Blah - PMS Ramblings

I do believe that a sufficient time has passed with regards to the Patriots loss in the Superbowl that I can now blog again. That evening at around 2:00 a.m. I woke up and just shook my head trying to figure out how it happened. And the worse part of it all? John repeatedly saying the following "At least Joe Montana never lost a Superbowl." Yeah, kill me.

And moving on, it has been three weeks and I still hate my hair. I am remedying this tomorrow with a hair cut. Alternatively I thought this morning I would just wear barrettes for the next 3 months, but whatever, to the hair cutter I go. I don't know if they will be able to fix the razor ravage mess that was once my flowing mane, but I surely hope so. At this point, I don't really care - I just don't want to look into a mirror and cringe saying "I fucking hate my fucking hair; I look like a crack addict." Mind you, I don't really, but that is the level of hate I have - similar to my hatred of the New York Yankees and now the New York Giants. I could go on about this, and I am sure John can attest, endlessly, but lessoned learned - if someone comes at me with a razor and states they are going "to give it a go." Well I am going to spit in their face, stomp on their feet, and hightail it out of there.

And moving on (again), this Thursday is the blessed day of St. Valentine. Not that I am celebrating, as I have a child who is just about 14 months with green snot flowing out of his nose, and that is the day I am suppose to be visited with the women's curse. Nothing says Happy Valentines, like cramps, Advil popping and the craving of pasta. I have been torturing John about it though to comedic results. The other evening when telling him that February 14 means he has to woo me, he responded with the following "Wooooooooooo." "Woooooooooooo." (ghost effect, please). And there I had it, my present.

And moving on (for the last time), I have been fighting against the scourge of fat. I attribute this to the motivation of Hawaii in 4 weeks. Which is great, but also, I got a pedometer. Nothing will tell you how sorry and inactive your fat ass is than this miracle of an invention. My goal of 10,000 steps a day has been going well - combined with running (which I started this weekend), Subway, and staying within my weight watchers points, I can say that when trying on my old size today at the Gap I was thisclosetohappiness. However, I really need to get new bras. I am still wearing my use as a parachute in case of airplane emergency ones because I am cheap and don't want to dole out the money for a new bra if my old bras may fit again. Why pay for interim bras? Why people? Oh wait, maybe because my boobs are like oranges in a cantaloupe size containers that shift and move causing great humiliation in the form of off kilter nipples. So to Nordstrom's this weekend I will go to be molested.

So to sum up - (1) the Patriots lost the Superbowl, (2) tomorrow hopefully the hell that is my hair will end, (3) Valentines Day is for suckers, (4) weight loss is going well and (5) my boobs should be contestants on Dance Wars with Carrie and Bruno. That is all.