An Ode to the Park Chalet and Did I Just Get Zitoed?

There are things on the weekend that I love - my husband, my son, John's Ocean Beach for breakfast, the fact I don't have to go to work, and now to those ranks joins The Park Chalet. When I moved to the Sunset, John told me that it was foggy, and that was true, it is, but seriously, I really thought that I would be under the cloak of fog constantly, becoming pale from lack of sun light, and becoming something akin to a mole people (which was really the selling point for me). But come to find out, when the fog lifts, the Sunset is actually quite sunny and being three blocks from the beach is pretty amazing, but even better is the miracle of The Park Chalet, which is located behind the Beach Chalet and is an outdoor area that serves beer, food and allows children to roam free. Basically it is an oasis to frenzied parents who are under the constant deluge of toddler antics. A place to find peace in the form of sun, wear out your little one, the reminder you are not alone in the struggle, and oh they serve beer. So to you Park Chalet, I thank you for providing an outlet for Owen and his parents.

Also, in baseball news, did the Giants get Zitoed? Will that become popular vernacular around San Francisco. That (expensive) dinner was a total Zito! I like it very much. My brother-in-law thinks I should urban dictionary it, perhaps I shall.

Why Don't He Have Any Brudders?

That was a question posed to me and John yesterday at the Park Chalet. I think we both mumbled something about him being our first and the stork coming every couple of years. However, if that six year old asked me today, I would have said the following to her question of "Why Don't He Have Any Brudders?"

Simple sweetie, because his Mommy loves her drink, and the though of another 18 plus months sober is something she rather not thing about, and fetal alcohol syndrome kind of sucks. And what the hell do you mean by Brudders? First off, if there is any Brudder, it will be singular as in Brudder, not Brudders. Oh my god, did you just curse me to having twins - both of which being boys. You are dead little girl!

So there you have it. I am pretty sure now I will get pregnant again when thirty-five where my ovaries will be firing off eggs like the end of a 4th of July firework display, so that two fertilized XY pairs will grow and be delivered leaving me the mother of three boys. Hmmm, this much closer to my own football team, maybe this is not so bad after all.

6.5 - Goal of Thirty

About two months into my move to San Francisco, my eyes began to get this white filmy crust on them. Going to the ophthalmologist revealed that my eyes were not losing sight, but just caking over due to wearing my contacts, possibly allergy related. So I continued on to the allergist and had my very fist allergy test. My back was pricked with various allergens. Fifteen minutes later, the doctor returned asking "If I was itchy?" My response was "Nope." Dr. Allergy said, "Great, you are probably not allergic to much." Flash to him uncovering my back while whispering "Good Lord", so I knew that was not the case. It seems San Francisco provides my immune system with an opportunity to go freaking bonkers all year long, save October/November. Aside from having to wear my eyeglasses (hello geek chic), it is not a big deal. But Spring has sprung and with it itching eyes and runny nose. I combat with Nasonex, which helps immensely. But with the Goal of Thirty, I have discovered something - "My name is Cassie, and I am a spitter." Today alone, seven times. I ran thirty minutes meaning approximately every four and a half minutes I spat. Obviously running clears your lungs, and I am with constant allergic phlegm, so the spitting is necessary or else I die choking on my on spittum. The funny thing is at first I was like - oh my I have to spit; I hope no one sees me - patooey. Now I am like, ten bucks I take out the kid in the stroller with this one. So, yeah, I like spitting, and considering entering some competitions. Who knew?

Five Dollar Books

Stumbled into the five dollar book store today after lunch. I did not run today because well I did not want to. I wanted to read and eat clam chowder and a half of turkey and harvati sandwich on sourdough (note to people visiting San Francisco - I hope you like sourdough bread, cause it is everywhere, luckily I lurve it). Not much in the way of fun, but two that caught my eye.

Who would have thought a book of photographs of professional athletes and their kids would not do well:


Perhaps the reason was this:



This could be the scariest baby I have ever witnessed. The Farve Baby Frightens. There goes my no-nightmare stretch. Jesus.

The Goal of Thirty

Two weekends ago, I embarked on the Goal of Thirty. I respond well to goals - some in the past have included The Goal of Only Drinking Tequila Shots and Water (ended badly), the Goal of Watching Every Pats Game (can you say success!), the Goal of Sleeping until Noon (still working on that one, thank you very much Owen Patrick McCall). My most recent goal is the promise to myself that I will run thirty times and then reevaluate (read eat pizza, drink beer and consider what ice cream pint I want to devour, Chunky Monkey or Oatmeal Cookie). I am currently on 5.5, as this past Sunday I tried to run with Owen in his jogging stroller only to be accosted fifteen minutes in with "oh my god, was that my stomach? I am going to poop my pants. Holy Jesus." So that counts as a half because I think walking eight blocks with your butt cheeks firmly clenched so that you don't poop yourself due to an onslaught of something you ate is a workout. I would have admitted this sooner Dear Blog, but let us easily sum up my first three days of running: Cassie runs, Cassie walks, Cassie runs, Cassie walks, Cassie considers death. Oh my goodness it was hard, and the level of soreness that followed was in the high ache zone of almost crippled. But I continued for The Goal of Thirty does not end at 3, shook it off and although slightly sore, things are not bad, and I am beginning to like it. In fact today, 25 minutes of straight running (and hardly any cursing). The best part, I am running at lunch on the Embarcadero (see photo), it is complete me time. I love it. Also, do not fret for my work has showers, so I am not going back to my desk stinking of sweat. However, my love of Subway has increased three-fold because oh my goodness the sweet deliciousness after jogging at lunch for your lunch. And so it begins, 5.5 down, 24.5 to go.

Oh Really Williams Sonoma

I just got an e-mail that stated the following:

Mother's Day is May 11. For a one-of-a-kind gift, our Personalized Apron arrives embroidered with her name or initials. It's easily adjustable for a comfortable, flattering fit and available in your choice of solid or striped cotton. It's just one of our personalized gift ideas.

A personalized apron? Can it be embroidered with Bitch, Slave or better yet, House Elf. I rather have a bottle of tequila, thank you very much. Patron Silver if you are buying.

Return of the Blunt Bob

Can you say sassy? Sophisticated? Classic? Timeless? Pure Awesomeness. Well I can, watch me now - Blunt Bob. Yes friends, the blunt bob has returned upon my head, thus ridding me of the Crack Ho #2 look I have been sporting since the WHE. Oh looky at me and my purty head of hair. The best part of the hair shearing was the following:

Marcus: So, what kind of finishing product do you use?

Me: What?

Marcus: What do you put in your hair after you dry it?

Me: Oh man, do you think I am an actual girl? Hahahahahah. Finishing product. Hahahahaha. Don't let the boobies fool you dude, I am lucky to get a brush in my hair after the blowdry.

Marcus: You're funny.

So there it is I love my hair. And the next time some lady comes at me with a razor to cut my hair, I am going to go all matrix on her, fling myself out of the chair, go airborne for 30 seconds, land behind her, grab the razor and then put it up to her neck and say - no way bitch, not this time! The hostility of a poor hair cut never really leaves you.

Finally!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Its on San Franciso 49ers, thank goodness our bye week falls Week 4 so that Bill Belichek has two full weeks to prepare for your onslaught. I shall cheer and drink beer, while possibly do irreparable harm to my marriage, because John is a 9ers fan, and well just let us say that all of our arguments (aside from that time I took a flight from sanity) have been about sports. The gauntlet, she has been thrown. I can't freaking wait for the season to start. Drooling on the floor.

The Scare and The Agony

Dear Reader, I will not lie. This past week, I thought maybe I could be pregnant. Luckily, yesterday the curse arrived. And by curse I mean a mind-altering barrage of crampiness that requires steady dosing of Advil and quiet whimpering. I see now that the constant breast pain, the bloating, the headaches did not mean pregnant but rather PMS to the 18th power. Holy Jesus. Also, before discovering I was not knocked up (thank you First Response Pregnancy Test), I was pretty pissed off at my egg. Usually before my egg ovulates, it receives the following instructions, "Okay, listen up here missy, you are not to make any contact with those squiggly godforsaken hooligans you may meet on your journey. First, I have only been drinking again for four months, and that is too short a time. Second, do you know how expensive infant care is? Third, spring is here, meaning sun, meaning the Park Chalet, and if I have to be there not drinking beer while everyone else is well just say I will not be happy. I will be angry. Very angry. So stick to your guns and do not under any circumstance listen to the sweet words of any spermatozoa. They have nothing good for you. NOTHING." So, imagine my dismay that my ova perhaps did not listen to my instructions. But happily, I am without child but under attack in the form of gut twisting agony. I fucking hate my period. But I do love vodka. So I guess I can suffer for my art.

J.Crew, Why you hating?

For Christmas I asked my mother to buy me some pant from J.Crew, trouser style corduroy pants to be exact. Surprisingly, instead of saying "Oh my God Cassie, I'm not paying that much money for a pair of pants", she bought them. They are very lovely except for one glaring design flaw. Those of you not in the know (a/k/a equipped with penises), trouser style is code for a wide leg (see example). So that basically with every step I take, the fabric comes into contact creating the tell tale corduroy swoosh. I walk, swoosh sounds. Most of the time when one is of an even keel mind this is no biggie, but quite another when you just got your "friend" and am so bloated you are considering entry in the Macy's Day Thanksgiving Parade. In order to combat this, I have been walking around the office with a stride that has my legs jetting out at 45 degree angles. Now I don't know what is worse - having someone think my thighs are rubbing together about to start a three alarm blaze or the sight of me rounding the corner as if I had just pooped my pants? Thoughts.

I Got a Dirty Mind and Sleep!

So, I was reading an entree from Top Chef Season One's winner Harold restaurant and the first entree was the following:

Roasted Poussin
rainbow swiss chard, white turnips, prunes & chicken sausage 22

Does anyone else think someone has got to get himself a girlfriend? Also, can't wait for Top Chef tonight, which I get to watch at 7:00 p.m. because DirectTV tapes it at that time. Not that I will really watch it at that time because I have a kid, who requires dinner, then a bath, and stories such as The Hungry Little Caterpiller, All About Me, Counting Kisses, The Rainbow Fish, Good Night Baby, Good Night Moon, The Good Night Book, and Good Night San Francisco. Sense a theme here? Actually, it is funny - pretty much every kid's book ends with someone going to sleep. You can be taking about cats, shapes, numbers and then all of a sudden the number five is under the moon taking a siesta. Awesome.

Teething, the 9th Circle of Hell

Fifteen and a half months ago when I gave birth to Owen many thoughts went through my head - thank you Jesus for him not having his father's head, goodbye sleep, or on second thought maybe I should have taken the nurse up on the narcotics offer. But not a single thought as to teething. Owen was an early teether, his first two appearing around three and a half months, just like me says my mom. And even though breastfeeding, I took this as a good sign considering I never had braces while his father required ten years of metal correcting caging. And well I'm very cheap. Now after suffering through his first molars, one would think there would be the eye of the storm calm. But nope, his Dracula teeth are now making their debut - all four at the exact same time poking, prodding, and punishing his soft baby gums. Last night from 11:30 to 12:30, Owen rolled and screamed in pain while I cursed myself for falling asleep before administering his savior dose of Motrin. His shirts are constantly wet from the drool and his hand is becoming something of chewed meat. I finally have come to an understanding as to the concept of the Tooth Fairy. It is not a cute fantasy in order to give your child a few bucks for the arrival of his adult teeth, but the reminder of the torture that your son or daughter went through so you best make the appropriate restitution. At this point, we are hovering about a hundred dollars for pain and suffering associated with teething, there goes being cheap.

Owen Eats Pasta

I got nothing for you today - no funny books, no tales of my slamming into walls, nothing more than this video of Owen eating dinner last night. Please note the delicate way in which he eats. What a guy!


Owen Eating Pasta from Cassandra McCall on Vimeo.

The Five Dollar Bookstore

First I would like you all to bear witness to the scene of the crime. This is the wall that I walked into. Ponder that for a while while thinking "what a clumsy bitch."



Now for the humor. Yesterday at lunch, I walked into Crown Books which is one of those bookstores who sell cheap books that no one wants to read. What a treasure trove of fun. Check out the following:



You know when I think authority on cocktails, my mind wanders to hemingway, my dad, and other raging alcholics, not Chrissy from Three's Company. Sure they loved the Regal Beagle, but does that necessarily make one an expert?



I never have to be alone? Really. Man God is awesome. I love me some God (who obviously is a rainbow lit dove). Speaking of which, no one is buying religious books, as evidenced by the following:





I don't know who this Zacchaeus is, but if Jesus is visiting him he must be important for a man in a tree. Wait a second, is Jesus like Firemen with a cat? The second one is something I think we all have thought at one point or another. I actually like the sequels, "Lord, please don't let this pregnancy test be positive" and "Lord, please don't let this be last call." Jesus Visits Zacchaeus is actually a children's book - nothing like corrupting minds when they are young! Here is another:



Obviously "Growing Up in Crawfish Country" is code for kneeling with your dog at a bog with a kerchief on your head. It truly is a hard knock life. And finally the piece de resistance:



I don't know what Ms. Millet was smoking, but I want some.

Ms. Clumsy 2008

This morning while searching for some change in order to purchase some coffee, I walked full speed into a concrete wall. With my head down, I did not negotiate properly the turn and slammed my face into the wall. Now my forehead (complete with red spot), neck, nose, teeth and left big toe are throbbing. I am pretty sure this ranks me in the upper echelon of carnival freaky clumsy. I am actually quite surprised I did not knock myself out. I walk pretty fast, and took a turn into a concrete fucking wall. I still can't believe it. I am stunned. I have a headache and wondering if it is possible that I gave myself a concussion. So, Ms. McCall how exactly did you give yourself a concussion? Well doctor, I was walking and was taking a turn while looking for change and slammed my face and left foot into a concrete wall. I think this is certain proof of my winning of a Darwin Award. I mean really.

Now in other news that does not involve my complete and utter lack of grace, last night while walking home (this time without slamming my face into walls), I stumbled upon some dog poop. Most would just step aside, and continue on. But what did I do? I said, holy crap (get it?), that poop looks like a butterfly! So I took a photo. Please don't judge me. This dog is obviously Picasso reincarnated.

Captivate TV

In the elevator today, the question of the day was the following:

What was the best office prank that you ever participated in?

The answer from a Mr. D. Barrick of NYC stated "I once switched the M and N keys of my office mate's keyboard".

Wow D. Barrick, don't you just walk the edge of sanity. The M and N keys!!! I guess the prank of this attorney I once knew who took a fish and placed it in another person's car which remained there for 3 weeks just pales in comparison. You are one Hellraiser D. Barrick. Surely you is.

In other news, today is the April Fool's and I just told John over IM that "my boobs feel really weird." Which in case you don't know is girl code for "Me thinks your spermatozoa doust made zee connection with my egg. Baby in nine". John's response was "oh dood". Mine was "Happy April Fools". Hah. I really love when I get to make a grown man cry at 10:00 in the morning.

I leave you with this photo of Owen taken in Hawaii after he got his black eye. I don't think he is too happy. Do you?