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.

You Perspire, I Sweat Like a Stuck Pig

I am unsure if this blog has been made aware of my wee bit of a sweating problem. Not that I smell, the problem lies more in the wetness department. So much so that if modern science created a way in which to turn my sweat into drinking water, just let's say the word "drought" would go the way of floppy discs and hyper-colored tees. Now you may be shaking your head, saying "No way a girl sweats that much." But let me inform you dear reader that this girl does sweat that much. In fact, one time the sweat bore its way through a shirt, a sweater, and finally a leather jacket (then it ran down my leg, so I left a trail like a slug). Later that evening, examining my newly pit stained coat; I decided that perhaps a doctor visit was in order or join Ringling Bros. as "Sweat Girl - Stainer of Shirts". One does not know true embarrassment until uttering "Ah, yeah, so Dr. Weinstein, I think that maybe I have a sweating issue, because well, I sweat a lot, like through jackets, made of leather." So a prescription for Dry-Sol later, my sweat stood no chance. That is until recently. I have not used Dry-Sol for at least 3 years doing fine with Powder Fresh Secret Platinum - as it is strong enough for a man, a woman and apparantly, the genetically mutant. However, for the past two weeks it seems my glands have upped the ante, and "embarrassing wetness" once again reigns. However, thank you Secret Society of The Sudoriferous Sort, it seems deodorant now is available in "clinical strength". Ten dollars later, I am the proud owner. Please note that I solely blame my parents, as one day while discussing this very issue with my brother, he said "Me too, Cassie. Me too." We both cried and hugged finally happy to find "someone just like me." So yeah, I hate my Mom and Dad. Why couldn't I have crooked teeth and get braces like everyone else? No, I have to sweat, so that currently residing on the under arm of my white button down is an abstract of The Great Lakes.

Day 12.5

Well I ran four days last week and already two days this week (please note that all my weeks begin with Monday). So yeah, I am awesome. Or so stubborn that when I say thirty I freaking mean thirty (also please note that I am trying to refrain from cursing as my son now likes to say such words as mama, dada, purple, cracker, bubbles, book, and so one). And another please note - when he says cracker, he don't mean the kind you put cheese on. I kid. So anyway, back to running. Today I experienced what no person who is still waiting for that god damn, er darn, promised runner's high needs to experience. About 10 minutes into my run, I detected the unmistakable odor of, oh wait for it, BACON, also known as the chocolate of meats. I'll recreate the dialogue in my head:

Oh good lord, seriously, running is not fun. I mean, really, what the hell. Did an old lady just past me? At least this song is okay, and why the hell am I wearing fleece when running. Am I not in California? Stupid Massachusetts in me. Oh my god. What the hell is that? Is that bacon? What the hell man!! Why is it that I trying to be healthy am forced to smell bacon while running. Life is taunting me. Do you think is okay if you just try to eat the air? Yeah, I do too.

So there you go. I don't know who was having the bacon special today, but the better stop because trying to eat the air made me look like a rabid shitzu.

Are You There God? Its Me Cassie.

This Saturday while at the library for Owen's lap sit and story time, John got a library card and I got the following Judy Blume books: Are you there God? Its me Margaret?, Deenie and Then Again Maybe I Won't. Why did I get these books? Simply put, nostalgia. I just finished Are You There God today and my, my, my. First of all, on Muni today I was about a tad bit embarrassed that someone would see me reading it, but then I was like they will probably think I am slow. And you know what, I was fine with that. Basically for a book that I read at least five times, nothing but "I must, I must, I must increase my bust" stuck with me. Imagine my horror, when I read about the dreaded sanitary belt. How the heck did I forget that? Not that I really forgot it, but there it was. And I had the same reaction I did then, what the hell do those things look like? Thankfully today there is Google, and a quick search lead to the following:





Yeah. So I would at this moment, like to take the time to thank you to the person who developed the adhesive tape backing for pads. I love you, for there is no way in hell that my clumsy, fumbling teenage person could have ever managed such a contraption without injuring myself in the process. Now on to Deenie! I love a good story about teenage scoliosis.

Owen "Calvin" McCall

Recently a co-worker at work said the following to me: "Your son looks like Calvin, you know, from Calvin and Hobbes. And gosh darn it, I think he is right. Hollywood producers, please note that if you are thinking of a real life version of the C&H, I got the kid! So, I leave it up to you - Does the O look like Calvin? Vote in the comments.

Owen

Calvin