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.