The Half Decade Mark

Five Things for Owen on this his Fifth Birthday:

1. You Love Cars 2. You love to play races with your cars, lining them up, rolling them and yelling at Maggie when she takes them. The fact that you asked for Cars 2 bedding with that being your favorite present has only added to your love affair, but also your oddness as what five year old wants bedding. However, let me clear about something - it is pronounced Piston Cup. There is only so much your Dad and I can do to remain straight faced when you cry out that you have just won the “Pissing Cup.”

2. Holy Cow, Competitive. I feel that this is somehow my fault, given that this is surely retribution from God for my own transgressions against my parents. The other day after you defeated your father and me in a riveting game of Xbox Kinect Twister, you said to Dad when he was reading bedtime stories, “Daddy, guess what?” “You and mommy are doofuses, I’m the winner.” Yep. You also throw a major fit when you do lose, “Why I lose Daddy?” “Why you beat me?” And then you sulk. So now we are forced to expunge the “it is only a game”, “it is suppose to be fun” and “it is not about winning” mantras. Again, totally retribution or competiveness is a genetic trait, which I am thinking it is.

3. Mr. Sensitive. It is hard to believe that the same person who is a hyper competitive a*hole . . . err kid, can also be amazingly sensitive and sweet. But true! Yesterday after Maggie woke up from her nap, and was not feeling well. You asked to draw a picture “to make her feel better.” And then as she lay like a slug on the couch, you came up to her, rubbed her head and said “Aww, Maggie, feel better.” This empathy is one of your best qualities.

4. You Are Funny. You do things like this (by the way, go 9ers!).



5. You are the Best. As your parent, I know there is some obligation to make blanket statements like this. But I can’t really remember when you were not part of my life, which must mean that my life is exponentially better with you in it - or I am just really, really tried, which can totally be a possibility. You are my Os, my son, my first born and there will never be anything better than out of the blue hearing you say, “Mama, I love you.” I love you too Owsie. Happy Birthday.

P.S. How were you ever this small?

Happy Holidays

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Gobble, Gobble

Happy Thanksgiving to you, as I head into the car for a 5 hour plus ride with the kids, remember, be thankful that you are not me. That being said, things I am thankful for in no order:

1. Sleep. After a long time in which my sleep was interrupted by the random cries of newborn, infants, toddlers, almost 5 year olds with bad dreams, I would like to say that my now 38 year old body loves a good night’s sleep.

2. My Kids. Okay, as much as I portend that the trials and tribulations of parenthood are a roller coaster of awesome and awful - and they are people. I do love my kids and am thankful that they drive me absolutely bonkers with their boisterous and rowdy and sometimes ridiculous behavior. But nothing will ease you into acceptance of that than a kiss and strong hold hug from your daughter or the fact my son will say “Hey Mama.” And after I ask “What?” he responds with “I really love you.”

3. John McCall. I am thankful for John for a myriad of reasons which I will not list here because some things need to be kept to oneself, something that Facebook seemingly has destroyed in about 45% of the population. Oh, you know who you are.

4. Football. That is right assholes, football and fantasy football. I don’t care if you don’t like it, I do. I am pretty much under the assumption if one was to track total brain power usage on fantasy football it would hover at a consistent 30%. (As a side note, I am thankful for the word "asshole".)

5. Turkey. I love turkey, I really, really do. I love it so much that I am pretty sure that my last meal if I ever murdered someone and ended up on death row would be Thanksgiving Dinner. I don’t know what it says about me that these are the things I ponder late at night but there you go. Although it could be lasagna if I am PMSed. Or maybe roast beef. Jesus H. Christ, such a tough question. One needs to be prepared.

6. My Kindle. Holy cow, let me just say that I was one of “those” people professing my love “of real books”. But you know what self righteous judgey judge, the Kindles houses “real books” in a compact, easy to carry parcel with an illuminated light for easy night reading. Caa-choowww! (Please note I have watched Cars 2 approximaely 38 times). The Kindle kicks so much ass, and did you next to me on the bus know I was reading another biography of Ted Bundy, serial killer - no you did not. I blame my fascination on serial killers from my Senior Year Honors Psychology Class and final paper on serial killers which received an A+ - don’t be smart people, cause you will end up being able to quote inane facts about serial killers, which surprisingly does not make for “appropriate” dinner conversation. For example, there was this one guy who would cut off his victim’s boobs and then try to make plaster caster molds of them. This went on for months because said serial killer “could not get the mold right.” I do not lie.

7. My Family and Friends from Boston. Okay, I know that it is cruel of me in my San Francisco weather winter to send you forecasts that call for mild and sunny 60 degree days while you are the throws of punching out your neighbor who parked in the spot that you dug out from three feet of snow. I get that might be interrupted as a bit much, but do know that I miss you and your snow and your laughs and the fact that I spent 31 years of my life there and sometimes (read holidays), it is really hard for me not to curl up into a ball and lament about times of old. Like that time my Nana McInnis threw a turkey leg at my mom during Thanksgiving dinner. That was funny. But seriously, I miss Boston. I love San Francisco, and I love my time here and the incredible gift of having started my own family on its very shores, but there will always be a part of me that is unapologetically Townie. Give me Bell’s Seasoning, or give me death.




Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

P.S. I also love my San Francisco family and friends as well, and if you think I do not, then you let us get a bottle of whiskey and wax poetic about how all of you have made me feel loved and welcomed.

P.P.S. See that there - “P.P.” Hee hee. This may or may not have been stolen from Cars 2.

Hello November.

Hello there people who read this blog, i.e. John. There are no specific reasons (lazy and too much wine) to explain my absence of late. Perhaps it is that the very minutia of my life these past weeks begins with “B” and ends with an “oring”. Not that it can ever be that, for life is never boring when you have an Owen and a Maggie.

The other evening, while reading stories to Owen and in a blatant attempt get him to behave better, I asked him what he wanted for Christmas from Santa. Now that Halloween is over, I can ask this question ever single freaking day until December 24 and quickly follow it with: “You know, Owen, Santa keeps a list of everything you do and if there are more bads than goods you don’t get any presents. I don’t say you get coal, because then Owen would say, “Mama, what is coal?” Thinking it something extremely cool and something he must possess. This would lead him to purposefully choose the “wrong” thing to do in order to achieve this fated and glorious coal of which I speak. That is how he is, curious (and insane). I just enforce that he will receive nothing since nothing in the eyes of a child is something huge - nothing! Oh hells to the no.

So I asked him what he wanted from Santa. He then proceeded to say, “A new Cars 2 blanket”, (officially ousting Toy Story 3 as his Pixar movie of choice). He also said wanted the “Fresh Beats.” If you are not familiar with Fresh Beat, I give you this:


I could have linked a video, but the viewing of such a travesty would cause the immediate mush of your central cortex, followed by leaking out of your left ear to be forever gone and you forever changed for the worse. You can thank me later. But then he said he wanted a guitar, drums, and keyboard. So I think I will get him this:


One man bad bitches!

I proceeded to ask him what he thought Maggie would like for Christmas, keeping with the theme of good behavior for a bounty of goods. He looked at me and said, “Mama, Maggie would like a Barbie, a car and (dramatic pause) poop.” “Owen, are you saying that Maggie wants poop?” “Yes, Mama, she told me.” “She told you she wanted poop?” “Yep, today. She wants poop. Maggie is really funny. She’s crazy.” Okay then.

And there you have it, not the most exciting of daily adventures, but certainly not boring.

Tales From The NJudah Express

I am now a happy devotee to the NJudah Express which stops in the Outer Sunset then leaves like a bullet from 19th and Judah to Bush and Sansome. What was an hour or so commute is now a happily livable 35 to 45 minutes. The thing with buses though is that you often board them at the same time, and you and your fellow patrons are suddenly a bus posse. The same people day in and day out sitting in the same seats day in and day out. Because of this, I have come to notice the people on my bus. Today I present to you - Crazy Hair Lady.

Crazy Hair Lady is dubbed so because one day John and I sat in front of her and a friend. CHL began to go off on the fact that her hair was cut into layers by some arrogant Supercuts stylist when she specifically said - NO LAYERS. She lamented the fact that she was antsy about her hair and was dire need of a cut, so instead of going to her other less than $20.00 stylist who was on vacation, she went to Supercuts. This scourge of a stylist took scissors to her hair with the vigor of a layering ninja. She droned on and on in a voice an octave too low and medicatedly even. “So now I’ll have to grow my hair. And it will take at least a year. Last time someone cut my hair in layers, it took forever to grow out.” “I don’t understand, I did not ask for layers, I asked for an inch all around.” “I should have waited." On and on she went the entire bus ride.

All of this hair waxing I could understand, due to many an ill-advised (read PMSed) idea about a haircut. But this woman, this woman so adamant about her hair, so distressed about this layering massacre. This woman who I have seen day in and day out for weeks. She puts her butt length, dyed black, split-end ravaged hair piled on the top of her head in a ponytail secured by god forsaken scrunchie.

I was tempted to turn to her and say that what do you expect when you go to Supercuts with hair brittle, black and way too long for your age? They guy was doing you favor, Scrunchie. So shut up. I would like to point out that said scrunchie is always the same color and same style leading me to believe it is the same one.

Ah, buses. Next up - Gross Pervert Man.

Let's Dance

The problem with not writing in your blog for a bit, is that after a time period you feel that you cannot come back to the blog with the minutia of your daily life, instead a great event worthy of your absence must occur. I am a working mother of two and the only “great event” worthy of mention is perhaps my overindulgence of vodka on Friday night - hello, party of one. (Thank you to my brother-in-law Garen for said term, which I love). Even that only involved 3.5 vodka gimlets while watching Project Runway. Dudes, I know, the awesome.

The best thing occurring in my life thus far is my son Owen’s penchant for peculiar phrasing and fascinating mind. Let us examine the following:



If you are unable to understand the following exchange it goes as follows:

Me: Do you guys want to dance your butts off?
Maggie: Yeah.
Owen: No. Not at all.
Maggie: No, not all.
Owen: No.
Me: Are you sure you don’t want dance your butts off.
Owen: No. Our heads.

Remember that Owen is almost five years old, but uses the phrase, “No. Not at all.” I don’t even use that phrase. If one looks closer at what he does want to do - dance his head off. You can see he wanted to say was: “No. Not at all, I much prefer to dance my my head off.” And that word, “prefer”, in his vocabulary regularly.

I am not sure what any of this means other than he must be watching the BBC late night or his Welsh name of “Owen” is more than just a name. By the way, everyone should want to dance their butts off, heads are far too important.

When Rainbows Vomit

There was a time when I would see little girls dressed like rainbow vomit and say “What is wrong with that mother?” That was before I had a girl, a girl who now picks her own clothing. Maggie is 2.5 years old, and has the fashion sense of an eccentric bag lady drunkard. “No, I want my tights, Mama!” “I want my boots!” “No, I do it, Mama!” It is pretty much to the point John and I throw up our hands and let her have at it. She is a girl very adamant (bordering on pyschosis) about her wants and dislikes. She HATES when I put her hair in ponytails, much preferring “my barrettes”. Last Saturday, she grabbed 8 barrettes and made John put them all in her hair. And seriously, this sucks because even though I am a tomboy, I loved doing my Barbie’s hair. Now I have a girl with hair, lots of curly ringlet hair that just screams “Play with me!!”, but, no, it is a steady stream of headbands and barrettes for Mags.

Today this is what Maggie wore:


Please note the cowboy boots, with blue tights, and pink tutu.


Her Beatles Shirt with bedazzled elastic as a bracelet (because you know, not like I can actually ever put her hair up in one).


And the hair. Today we have a blue and white striped headband with hot pink flowers. Maggie, opting for an around the head effect ala NBA stars, as well as a purple barrette - because hell be damned if this girl does not have a barrette in her hair.


Maggie McCall, Fashion Maven.

Give Me Your Money

I am a mere 9 days away from my first half marathon. I think that there will be no problems with this because last Wednesday I ran 10 miles. I never thought I would run 10 miles, unless someone with a machete was behind me with the inkling to kill. But I did, and it was fine and dandy. I was not sore the next day, but I did come down with a kid’s cold that knocked me out of the run for a week (I also was on vacation, so really don’t feel too bad for me). But next Saturday, August 27, I will be running the AT&T Half Marathon. 13.1 miles of awesome, at least that is what I am telling myself. The last 11 weeks I have thought this marathon was on Sunday, August 28. Last night finding otherwise. Which means either (a) my subconscious is really smart or (b) I am really stupid. I go with (a).

So if you read this blog and would like to donate to my fundraising page, please do -

http://www.race-sfgiants.com/TheGiantRace2011/cassiemccall

Thanks.

Just Shoot Me

Yesterday I got a crown for a back tooth and today I got my period complete with cramps. It is like a bonus of awesome over here at Cassie Central. I don’t really mind my period too much even with the cramps because it means I am not pregnant. So torture away uterus, I care not. But you back tooth that cracked into four without me knowing, you are an asshole. Although I am sure this is my punishment for having a slight addiction a few weeks back to Runts. Which are really, really good, but they require you to bite them using said back teeth. Runts 1, Cassie 0.

This was my first major dental work visit, up until this point it has only been the occasional cavity. Most of which I had when I was a wee lass of childhood age. I should have known there would be more pain involved in this procedure when the biggest needle ever filled with numbing solution was repeatedly injected into my lower left gum-line. I have come to the conclusion that I have super powers when it comes to anesthesia. My back is incapable of getting an epidural in the proper location and even with same I still felt the "oh so" large newborn head of Owen exiting my va-jay-jay. After 15 minutes, I was asked how my mouth felt. I said “tingling”, not right, as the hugest needle ever started its third series of injections in the soft flesh of my gums. Finally I was numb (or blacked out from pain). I sat back watching Its Complicated (my movie choice because doesn’t dental work scream Meryl Streep), as my tooth was whittled down to burning smells and screeching sounds, to be finally capped with a “temp.” Because guess what, I get to go back to get my "permanent" crown put on. What a bunch of bullshit. Maybe this appointment will be for the morning on the first day of my next period. And I will bring vodka.

Things I now know because of this temporary crown:

1. Chewing on only one side of your mouth is quite challenging and also requires you to eat slowly. I think this is the bonus of the crown because I am eating much less due to the fact I am not stuffing food at breakneck pace into my gullet because I am famished (which is pretty much all the time).

2. Crowns are fake teeth. I thought they were little hats that would just sit atop my tooth sparkling away. But nope, a quick look to Wikipedia informed how your real tooth is shaped down to a nugget so that your fake tooth can be glued upon that bone. Crowns are gross.

3. I never want a root canal.

4. Lots of food is “crunchy”, a bit difficult to avoid - as I take a bite of celery dipped in humus. I am eating on the one side, so don’t worry. This is me being a rogue. Fear me.

5. Vodka Gimlets help with pain. (I already knew this but any chance to justify my pseudo alcoholism is a-okay).

I am feeling better now and have come to terms with the fact that I am pretty sure I bought this all upon myself by stumbling on a box of Runts in Walgreens three months ago, and then eating them like the candy they are for a month straight. Now I get to pay $750 bux for this mistake. Oh, the dentist also told me I need Invisalign because as you age your teeth move forward and start turning and bending. Screw you old age.



(Disclaimer - these are not my actual teeth, jackass.)

Happy Anniversary

Today I celebrate five years of marriage with John McCall - five years, two kids and seemingly 13.5 hours of sleep. Last night, as we were going to bed, John said called me a doofus. You see, I am one of those people who only truly believe humorous acknowledgments of my being. I live for the joke, this is not to say that I am not serious, I am in ways. But I much prefer to laugh than lament. For example, the other night on the Bachelorette, one of the bachelors was having a serious conversation with his mom about his emotional development, his acceptance of himself and his new reality of wanting to be a person of substance. His mother listened intently, thanking him for an apology. All the while I am watching this, I am saying in my head - Do people really act like this? If I was to tell my mother any of that, she would have said “Oh my god, Cassie. What the fuck is wrong with you? Get a load of Cassie Mikey, Ms. la deee da. Emotional reality? Oh for Christ’s sake. Shut up and get over yourself.” So yeah, I don’t take things of a serious nature very seriously. But neither does John. After his doofus comment, I retorted with “Well, you are the one that proposed to me.” And he said, “Did I?” And I said, “Yeah, right?” To which he responded, “Ah, I don’t know.” And I guess I could have been “that” girl who can’t believe her husband forgets such important things, but seriously, I had no freaking clue either. The only reason I know today is my anniversary is because I have the wedding invitation on my refrigerator. So, yeah, Happy Anniversary John. You may or may not have proposed, but who cares really? I 50s styled trapped you by getting pregnant and now you are condemn to a life with a girl who doesn’t like birthday gifts, anniversary gifts, Christmas gifts but will instead play fantasy sports with you while drinking gimlets. Cheers to us. Also, we sorta kinda made these two nitwits.

Its Starts Early . . .

While Maggie repeatedly uses the phrase “Where my socks?”, when John repeats it, she suddenly remembers that said socks are “downstairs in my bed.” John then volunteers to get said socks. And there you have it, pretty girls getting guys to do things for them when they can do it themselves, starts very early, indeed. Also, her curls are killing me I love them so much.

I Knew He Was Giving Me Come Hither Eyes

"My cashier today was Randy." Capital R. Not only does Safeway provide an avenue for me to get food and booze, but now I bear witness to a sexually agitated cashier. Was it because of me? I think so.

Please note, that yes, I am a coupon cutter. Don’t judge me, because food shopping is more fun when it is a competitive sport. And the answer to your question is “Yes, I am a still big ole nerd.”

Kaboom, Kaboom - A Fourth of July Tale

The Fourth of July is one of my favorite holidays - possibly because it too qualifies as a drinking holiday and there is the added bonus of fireworks. The combination of nighttime explosiveness with cheap beer is one of the pleasures in life worthy of awesomeness. Growing up, because we had a pool, my family would have an annual 4th of July party. My parents, each the middle of seven children, would invite our family -lots of uncles, aunts and cousins. It was fantastic for us kids - barbeque, swimming, playing - and equally fantastic for our parents - barbeque, beer, the kids not driving me bonkers (I now know this).

A few weeks prior to one 4th of July party, my father came home with a gift. During my Dad’s drinking days, he would often come home from the bar with a surprise. One time he came home with a dozen cream filled Dunkin Donuts because they were my favorite (best Dad ever), another a pizza with everything on it, including anchovies (what the hell Dad?), but that night he came home with a box of fireworks. Living in Massachusetts you can’t buy fireworks anywhere because they are banned. But my Dad gave me and my brother, ages 8 and 10, fireworks for 4th of July - again, BEST DAD EVER!

I can’t completely describe the level of obsession my brother and I had for those fireworks, but it bordered on unhealthy. We would take them out of the box one by one, examining them, talking about the order they would be fired, how the one shaped like a tank was his, and the roman candles were mine. We pretended, we plotted, and we prodded along in a firework haze waiting for the party, where we could enact our extravagantly thought out plan.

That day was one of the happiest of my life, it rivaled Christmas morning. When will it be dark? When? WHEN? Our many cousins arrived, and each one was brought them up to Michael’s room where his closet held our magnificent treasure. The day progressed. We swam, we ate and we showed the fireworks approximately 300 times. As it began to get dark, we brought the fireworks outside in their box. Carefully going over the order of what would be done. Michael was first with a bottle rocket, and I would follow with a roman candle. Finally, after what seemed like a century of waiting, we were given the okay. Most of the family was situated on the lawn by the tree, my mother on her lawn chair with beer in hand. (An example I am proud to follow.)

Michael held the bottle rocket up and ignited it to a screaming ear popping blast. Hurray! Now the real display was to begin, I reached down and grabbed a roman candle. Michael lit it. I held it to the sky when boom, one went off, two went off. Wow, there are lots of sparks. Another boom and more sparks. Then it happened, below my feet catching all those sparks was our utter happiness, our box of fireworks. Lesson to you, when setting off fireworks, the box containing said fireworks should never be below the ones that you are currently lighting. I remember turning and seeing explosive light everywhere. Some people screaming, but most people running. They went everywhere, all at once - flashes of light, booms, and bottle rockets screeching. Five minutes later, my Dad managed to grab the hose, so that it was over. The box a sodden charred reminder of what was. We walked over, my brother and I, looking upon the wreckage in tears. He picked up his tank, and then dropped it defeated. I think he may have forgiven me, but I can’t say for sure.

My mother still says that it was the best fireworks show she ever witnessed, because unlike the rest of us she remained seated and watched - her possible death only 10 feet away (again, she is kind of awesome, right?). But for my brother and me, it was our first true heartbreak. We thankfully managed to get over it, and now that story is one of our family’s funniest. Which in a way, is what 4th of July is all about. Taking a break from it all to be with the ones we love and remembering our history all while drinking beer and watching explosions in the sky - or around your backyard because some dumbass decided a box of fireworks would be best by her feet. Fourth of July, I love you.

She Bangs, She Bangs

The other evening in an effort to not let strawberry jello fall to the floor thus making a mess, I leaped forward to the sink whereby my second toe slammed into the child’s gate. This gate that protects Owen and Maggie from certain kitchen death often leads me to swift pain in the form of a stub. “Fuck! FUCK!!! Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Mutherfucking FUUCCCKKKKK.” I feel to the floor in a heap, clutching my foot and crying. I don’t normally cry after injury, I cuss like a sailor and then shake it off. This is something I usually tell Owen and Maggie when hurt, “Shake it off.” (Not swear). Owen usually responds with his ass shimmying; Maggie, her hands. But there I lay on the floor, my toe again the victim of a viscous stub. The pain was so bad that I could not uncover my hand at fear of what I might see. And when I did, it was bad, a bruise already forming and skin dangling. Thankfully, it was not the toe-decapitation imagined. My toes, if you have not been privy to see, are a tad long. My 2nd and 3rd in line are longer than my big toe. This is a trait from my mother that luckily has not been passed to my children. For years, I have suspected this was the source of my totally clumsiness. My big toe in its diminutive state is incapable of providing the stability necessary to a support body. I submit to you, Evidence A - my toes (pardon the state of my feet - I run and could care less about pedicures).


As you can see by the above photo, my big toe is woefully deficient. It should be at least an inch longer. Thankfully, it is not. Because that would mean size 11 shoes, and have you seen size 11 shoes? Neither have I, maybe once on a carnival clown. Although my big toe is awful in its ability to keep me from toe banging excruciating pain, it is thoughtful enough in its small stature to provide me with an assortment of shoes that do no scream circus. Thank you, big toe.

Tales From MUNI

Two weeks ago, I got aboard the NJudah and made my way to work. At Sunset Boulevard a girl sat next to me. Score, especially since she was rather thin and not smelly. I think we can agree that although we will sit next to the musky man muttering, we prefer a semi-normal being to share seat space.

Then it started. She started playing with her hair. Combing her hands through her long brown locks over and over until there was a stray single hair on her shirt, or pants or coat that she would carefully excise from its location. Bringing it forward, she would would flick her fingers until the hair fell between her knees to the floor. She was grooming herself as if she were a monkey the entire way until Montgomery Street, which was at least 50 minutes.

I sat reading my Kindle getting the side vision of what she was doing. As she succeeded in pick and flick number ten, I began to get annoyed, but more importantly disgusted. How can you possibly believe this is okay to do on public transportation? I thought it had to be a nervous tick of some sort, and then how sad it was this person will never marry. I wanted to shake her, but instead adjusted my vision so that it was impossible to bear witness to the abhorent action. I covered my eyes with my hand, essentially making a blinder. But every so often into my field of vision there it was - a hand releasings its find. Finally the speaker announced “Montgomery Station”, whack-a-doo off boarded and I breathe a sign of relief.

Is this normal? Was my reaction normal? I don’t know. Believe me for some reason things do get under my skin and make me insane - like open cabinet doors, or curtains, or vodka bottles. I kid, that last one is kind of awesome. But holy cow, Ms. Hair Extractor 2011, you top them all. Please do me the favor of never sitting with me again for I will gladly take psychotic bi-polar off his meds bearded clam smelling man, at least he's normal.

The Social Etiquette of Running

Tomorrow is my two year anniversary of running at work. I feel happy that I have continued on the path of the Embarcadero to relative health and fitness. And while I like running as much as anyone can like an activity that is very solitude in nature and often painful in effort, there is a seemingly social etiquette aspect that I am learning.

1. Men runners like to waive “hi” to me when running.
2. Women runners like to just stare.
3. Men runners talk to you sometimes.
4. Women runners check out your thighs.
5. Men runners get really pissed off when you pass them.

I don’t really get the “hi” or “great jobs” I sometimes receive from male runners. Once there was a wink, but I am pretty sure that might have been an insect that had flown into this guy’s eye because the last thing I would imagine anyone would want to do when gasping for air down the Embarcadero is flirt. But then this guy today waved at me and I was all - holy shit, maybe I need a new sports bra to contain this bounce. So, someone, tell me - is it just a friendly thing one does to acknowledge your comrade in breathing hell, or are these fools unaware that I can’t even comprehend the concept of flirting anymore. I am a mom for god’s sake. Gross.

Running and Kids Update

This afternoon for strength training, I decided that the best course of action was to run one mile to the front part of AT&T Park in order to do the exercises, because the likelihood of anyone seeing me from the office was minimal. And it is pretty.


On that grassy field I proceeded to do pushups, triceps dips, step ups, lunges, and sit up after sit up. I also had the audacity to see some guy working out with a kettle ball and thinking him strange. Ah, yeah. I killed myself and was virtual jelly, but still had to run the one mile back to my office. This just goes to show you that the pain of embarrassment from your co-workers looking at you while working out maybe less than that of running a mile after “toning” up. Anyway, I truly doubt I will be able to walk tomorrow.

This weekend we headed to Point Reyes Drake’s Beach which is very lovely, and the kids got their Clam Chowder fix. Of course, Owen napped on the way back home. This is not good for me, because usually on the weekend he does not nap. Meaning 7:15 p.m. bedtime and no yogup (his term for yoga) or talking about our day or me reading to him from my Kindle. Which he now likes me to do as he rests into oblivion. Does reading aloud Wuthering Heights to your child qualify as child abuse? Anyhoo, in an attempt to get him tired we allowed him to ride his bike to the Park Chalet - about 2.5 miles back and forth. He was very excited. Someone not so excited, Maggie. To their credit, Owen and Maggie share pretty well. They take turns picking out what to watch on TV, sharing their toys, etc. But Owen’s bike is Owen’s bike. She can’t use it because she is smaller than him. So the entire time Owen is riding his bike, Maggie is in the stroller screaming “Owen no share the bike!!” “I want the bike!!” “BIIIKKKKEEEEEEEEEE.” There is no reasoning with the two year old in tantrum mode. There is drinking though, thank you Park Chalet. When we finally arrived, Owen got off his bike and Maggie proceeded to grab his helmet, climb on top and stay there pretty much the entire 90 minute visit. Trying to peddle, but not able to because she does not fit on the thing, but that did not stop her happily sitting atop the seat. And then when it was time to go home, Little Miss Crazy threw another tantrum because “Owen no share.”, even though she was on the bike for 90 minutes. I told John to just go with Owen and I would walk her in the stroller another way back. This way she would not be tortured by the sight of a happily riding Owen. But Maggie is a girl that does not give in easily to her Mom’s attempts to distract. Bubbles? “BIKEEEE”. Raisins? “BIIKKEEEE”. She clawed, shook and moved her body so that she was able to get out of her five point harnessed BOB stroller. Houdini has nothing on this kid. She refused to get back into the stroller. So, I got to carry her in my arms all the way home while pushing the BOB and hearing her whispers of bike, bike, bike until one block from the house. Because that is when she decided to go into the stroller with her bubbles. She is insane.

The Friday Rundown

I want to state that this blog will no longer will be featuring recaps of the epic saga Game of Thrones, mainly because I am sick of people visiting my site but typing the words “boy sucking tit game of thrones” into Google. Call me crazy.

This week marked my first week of Half Marathon training. Those not in the know a Half Marathon is wherein I will run 13.1 miles. I told you to call me crazy. Because I felt that two years of continuous running warranted something, so immediately my mind ran to self-torture in the form of running 13 plus miles. Although truth be told, I was getting a bit bored with my runs and needed something to shake them up - an attainable goal. This week has involved 50 minutes of yoga, three 3 mile runs one of which was interval training. Today, thank god, is my only rest day of the week before another 3 miler tomorrow and my initial Sunday long run of 5 miles. Holy cow, exercise. This is the intermediate training program, not the beginner as I felt that too easy. I think I might regret this decision. I feel strong, and hopefully I can accomplish this goal with minimal cursing.

The world of parenting continues and always fraught with adventure. Owen is obsessed with turning five lately, even though that will not happen for another six months. “I want to turn 5 tomorrow, mama.” “I want a piñata at my birthday.” The last statement took me about 3 minutes to figure out as he began with “I want an Ngata.” And I am all, “Like the defensive tackle on the Ravens?” But nope, it was not Haloti Ngata but a Piñata. This is awesome as his birthday is in December, and it is usually cold and rainy then. But if he wants a piñata, a piñata he will get. I am a cool Mom like that.

In Maggie news, we are firmly entrenched it Tantrum City. I suggest you never visit Tantrum City because it is fully of crazy people who want everything and when they don’t get it they throw themselves on the ground for 20 minutes wailing like they are being water boarded only in some instant to forget it all, get up and start playing like nothing ever happened. This repeats every two hours. Maggie is also very fond of the words “No.” and “Go Away.” She has also developed an almost crazed addiction to popsicles and Mike and Ikes. Every morning she asks for “opposickle.” Its morning, no. “Cannddyyyyyyy, Mama.” Not until we leave. I give my children 2 Mike and Ikes each morning so they will get the hell out of the house so that I can travel on the N Judah. Bribery works. It works well. And they are losing those teeth anyway, so whatever.

Our weekend is going to be filled with such exciting adventures as swim class, the Park Chalet and a journey to Drake’s Beach in Point Reyes. I am sure there will be fish and chips and clam chowder involved because that is the thing my kids like right now - fish and clams. I know, they are weird - or you can inherit Bostonianisms. Go Bruins!



Don't let their cheerful demeanor fool you.

Its Night Night Time.

I have mentioned before that after John reads stories to Owen, I go in where we do pseudo yoga (breathing, humming, and stretching) and talk about our day. Owen has been on a nap strike at preschool which means that his stories with John last about 4 minutes before he is well under the veil of sleep. It seems that his strike is over, so once again we get to delve into the mind of a four year old. Yippee. Last night’s conversation began with the letter of the day, which was “S”. For socks, as Owen was clear to point out. Owen also likes to sing his ABCs in the style of Super Why while also counting them on his hands. “Use both your hands Mama.” He then proceeded to name all the stickers on his bed various family names and school friends names and then he said “Good job everybody. Thank you for listening.” After that Owen asked me if I wanted to play Elephant in the Jungle. What? Okay, I said, but I don’t know how to play. So we go under his covers, and he starts rolling imaginary dice saying there is a happy face, there is a star. I win. Then, how does one say this delicately, he was visiting his twigs and berries. I have told Owen repeatedly that his private parts are his private parts and only he touches them. Last night he goes, “I am touching my balls, Mama.” And I am all, “Touching your testicles. Testicles.” I do this because that is what you do today. There are no more terms like “dinkey” and “nuts”, it is penis and testicles. If nothing, our children will be adequately prepared for health class unlike me who after attending of Catholic school for 8 years went to public school and watched a cartoon of gonorrhea and chlamydia attacking people in absolute horror. Honestly, it is amazing I even have kids. But as Owen sat “exploring”, I told him that is fine to do that, but it is a private thing that you do at home. Because masturbation is now fine too and does not make you blind. Who knew? As he lay, he said to me “Mama, I am playing with my balls. I am rolling my dice! My dice!” And yes, I have not stopped laughing.

Game of Thrones Episode Six - The Wolf and The Lion

This Game of Thrones episode should have been entitled “The Boob and The Eye”, that is because the two most terrifying moments for me involved a seven year old boy sucking the tit of his mother and the fact that a sword was stabbed into the eye of a man causing his immediate death. Icky on both accounts, one more than other. Seriously, I can handle a maximum of 18 months of boob feeding by mothers because after that, you are just laying the bricks for years of intensive therapy. Just nurse him until 18, home school him and then enter him in the Scripps Spelling Bee already, thereby securing the fact he is a virgin for life and maybe a serial killer.

Basically this enter episode is centered at King’s Landing. King Robert wants Dany dead. Ned is done being the Hand. Tyrion is held prisoner by Kathryn who brings him to her sister - she of the suckled tit. And this lady is CAH-razy. Whackadoo is too kind of a word. Tyrion is forced prisoner in a room with a view - as in a room with no wall on one side, just your death. Windy!

The best scene for me was the conversation between Robert and Cersie, in which they drink wine and Cersei asks about Ned’s sister, the once in a lifetime love of King Robert. And Robert, says, “I don’t even remember what she looks like.”, but she was mine and was taken from me. Cersie in a vulnerable moment says that she did at one time love him, right after the death of their first son. And she asks, if there was “Ever hope for us.” To which King Robert answers an emphatic, ‘No.” Which goes to show you, guys are awesome.

Ned quits the Hand of the King, obviously finally being exposed to “The King Shits, the Hand wipes.” He knows there is something up with the King’s bastards aplenty, what could it be? Well given the fact that Jamie and his sister Cersei were humping Episode 1 and Joffrey is blond and a bit off, I would say perhaps, maybe, King’s Robert son is not Joffrey. But I can put two and two together.

Anyway things are in flux - Tyrion is held by Kathryn, Ned is now held by the Lannisters, my brain has been permanently damaged by the sight of a grade schooler saying “mummy” while suckling on his crazy ass mother and its Friday. So there you have it. I will be back on Monday with Game of Thrones Episode Six. If I can stay awake. This show is like fucking Unisom for me.

Game of Thrones Recap - Episode 4

Sorry, I have been busy. When Episode 4 aired, I was up that Sunday morning at 3:30 a.m. suffering an allergy attack. I guess you could call it that, but to me it felt as if my brain was being taken from my nose via coat hanger ala mummification. So when 8:00 p.m. rolled around, I was in a daze, and feel asleep really, really fast. Then it was the week of preschool hell all thankfully resolved before our trip to Las Vegas sans kids. I love Vegas. I love the weather, the heat, the fact I read under a palm tree uninterrupted except to sip my frozen drink for five hours straight and that lots of people there are really overweight and I felt thin. Better than winning the slots any day.

Episode Four - Cripples Bastards and Broken Things

At Winterfell. Bran can walk! Psyche, it’s a dream. Bran can’t walk, and is carried around by this guy named Hodor - who is a bald Andre the Giant who can only say Hodor. Tryion stops by on his way to Kings Landing, and is refused a bed. But being the swell imp that he is still gives Bran is Leonardo Di Vinci-esque crippled horse saddle diagram so he can ride again. He goes to the brothel, but before he speaks to Greyjoy who I guess was like the Starks and the Lannisters, but his family led an uprising against the King and got the smackdown so now he is Ned’s ward and likes this whore named Rose. Who he recommends to Tyrion.

At the Wall. More sword play, but then a fat guy named Sam shows up. Dude, this is not the Biggest Loser. Everyone hates Piggie, but not John. He tells them leave Sam alone, and they do with the help of Ghost his direwolf. Sam says he is a coward, and a loser, and a virgin. John says he is a virgin too, but he had a chance once with a whore once named Rose with really good boobies. Rose gets a ton of play it seems.

At the Horse Camp. They finally arrive and we are treated (or scarred) by the image of Viserys in a bath with Dany’s sex mentor. They talk about dragons, and launch into a Skinnemaxy scene, until (surprise!) Viserys gets pissed off. Still pissed off he goes to Dany and yells about being the true king, and respect me and slap, slap, slap. But Dany is the Kahlessi. She finally stands up to her brother, and states if you use you hand against me again, it will be the last time you have hands. Holler, girlfriend.

At Kings Landing. Ned is checking into the previous Hand’s doings before his death and discovers that he is checking out the lineage of the King. And he discovers a bastard of King Roberts, one of many it seems. But none of this matters, because we meet this guy called the Mountain who is the Hound’s brother. And during the first joust, the Mountain totally takes out the previous hand’s squire donning a super new (and expensive) armor in bloody, spurty gore. We also learn that when the Mountain and Hound were boys (and hating their mom for their names) the Hound took the Mountain’s toy. The Mountain, a chipper lad it seems, retaliated by taking the Hound’s face and placing it into the still hot coals of a fire melting his younger brother’s face. And let this be a lesson to you all, don’t EVER take my wine.

The episode ends with Tyrion discovering Kathryn on the road. Capes with hoods are not the way to go when wanting to be anonymous guys. Kathryn calls on this guy and that guy and this other guy and says that Tyrion tried to murder her 10 year old son, and she needs their help. So fifty swords are drawn on little wee Tyrion Lannister. A little much, eh?

Tomorrow - Episode Five.

Game of Thrones, Episode 3: Lord Snow

This episode was mainly divided between scenes at Kingsroad, The Wall and what I imagine the field in which Holden Caulfield was catching children a/k/a Dothraki Nation. The only thing from Winterfell was some scary shit about Winter. When they say Winter is coming in Westeros, they don’t mean four months of rain (San Francisco) or snow (Boston), but years and years of darkness, 100 foot snow mounds, White Walkers and spiders the size of horses (what the heck George RR, your name ain’t JK Rowling). Winter is some serious business, some serious scary business. I know this because Bran’s eyes are about to bug out of his head before Robb interrupts and asks Scary Story Old Lady to leave.

The Starks arrive at Kingsroad. Ned is beat. Killing direwolves and being the King’s Hand is tiring. Especially since Jaime has informed that the “King shits, the Hand wipes.” So I guess this makes me the Hand of Owen and Maggie. Ned has his first official HOK meeting where he learns that the kingdom is debt - six million smackaroos to the Lannisters. King Robert is in trouble. But he does not realize it because he just pretty much drinks a ton of wine, talk about the old times of killing and war, and makes fun of the Lannisters - who you know, own his throne. We meet Littlefinger - who right away I know is up to no good as he was Carcetti in the Wire for god sake. Also, I was unable to see if he had an actual little finger, or if that was euphuism for something else - heh heh. Which may be the case, because when Catelyn arrives incognito by wearing a kerchief on her head, Littlefinger hides her in one of his whorehouses. It is there, that Varys, the Perez Hilton of Westeros, informs all that he knows what happened at Winterfell, and where is the sword, and I have birds everywhere, and Tom Cruise is totally gay. The sword turns out to have belonged to Littlefinger, who lost it in a bet with Tyrion Lannister. Those blonde bastards! Ned and Catelyn meet, kiss, talk shit about the Lannisters, and then he says “Off with you.” Which I need to use more, especially when I am annoyed, want people to leave and goodbye seems too nice. “Off with you!”

Up north, where Winter is actually starting to come, snow is falling and everyone is hovering over fires. Read, it is cold. The men of the wall are not so good - no food, no weapons, old men, rapists, thieves, and the poor of society. Basically, a motley group of people who are totally going to be White Walkered (see beheaded, torn apart and arranged like crop circles). Jon is a bit pissed. He kicks the crap out of all his wall-mates, and makes a point of saying that his Dad knew about this and still allowed him to join in order to waste his life (not to mention his penis). The ass kickees take revenge by cornering and attempting to kill Jon. Tyrion enters and makes it all better. He informs Jon that you can’t go be beating the crap out of the men you are spending the rest of your life with, especially since that guy over there stole bread for his starving sister, and that one Dad’s died and you are a bastard after all. So stop being a douche bag, and make some friends. Jon heeds Tyrion’s message, and begins to teach the others how to sword fight. Tyrion makes a new friend as well, drinking wine and eating bear balls (surprisingly, chewy). Then he makes fun of Benjen for believing in the boogeyman and pees off the wall - bucket list check!

Meanwhile the traveling Dothraki continue their journey. I am guessing they are actually going somewhere, but who knows. Daenerys has decided to forgo prom wear for MC Hammer pants and a belly bearing top. She is getting use to her powers of the Kahleesi. She can stop the entire parade of horses and men to take a walk. Her brother, Viserys, however, is all “Ah, hello, I am in the King of the Seven Realms (and awful hair) and what right do you have to command me, to stop, you slut.” As he tried to hit her, a whip comes around his neck from the Kahleesi’s protector and he is in t-r-o-u-b-l-e. As he chokes for breath, Dany orders him to be released. But she now knows the power she holds. Viserys is made to walk the rest of the way, sucks for him. We learn that Daenerys is pregnant, a gift fro the Great Stallion. Not sure if this is a god or a pet name for Kahl Drogo, either of which fits. Again we see the dragon eggs - pink, lavender and purple in their box, with candle fire all around. It’s almost at this point they should have their own theme song - like Billy Joe’s We Didn’t Start the Fire.

We end with our lady Arya learning to sword fight from Syrio Forel. Or dance as he calls it. He also calls Arya a boy, and refers to himself in the first person 2/3rds of the time. I like him. And there is a certain beauty to the dance, while Ned looks on. This episode showed us much, the stories are drawing nearer to one another - and there will be a baby. This might prove problematic to me, since I pretty much wince every time I see pregnant women. Post traumatic stress disorder, but for you, dear readers, I will suffer through.

Game of Thrones - Episode Two, The Kingsroad

Before launching into my recap of Game of Thrones Episode Two, in my last recap I forgot to mention that during the first episode each of the Ned’s children, including Bastard Jon Snow, received a direwolf. Direwolves in Westeros are like regular ole grey wolves in North America. Originally they were to be killed as their mother was dead, but them someone said, “But the Direwolf is the symbol on the Stark crest.” I wish the symbol on the McInnis/McCall family crest was Jameson Irish Whiskey, to know that I could never pass it by without taking it into my awaiting arms. Heaven.

We open on a whole lot of horses walking in a line. Horses like line dances, I know this from cowboys. Seems the Dothraki are nomadic. Daenerys looks at them wearing a lovely sheer gown. When I am on a horse, traveling with savages, I too like to look pretty. She is given something to eat by Jorah and she says “Isn’t there anything else”. What comes first the bitch or the queen? She is told that the Dothraki have an abundance of grass and horses, and people can’t live on grass. Tell that to San Francisco, Jorah! They come to camp and poor Daenerys can’t walk. Is it the horse ride, or the fact that her King is eight feet tall and makes Conan the Barbarian feel fat so I can imagine what that wedding night was like. Ouchy. Her brother is there being a big douche bag, as usual.

Back at Winterfell, seems Bran did not die from his three story fall, which is surprising given the fact that I am pretty sure leeches are the medical miracle of the day. He lies under his fur blankets (Pottery Barn?) with eyes closed, his mother looking on. Boring. Thankfully the next seen is a bunch of dogs in a barn, and who is that laying in the bed of hay - our very own dwarf about town, Tyrion Lannister. He awakes and find his nephew Joffrey looking upon him and saying “A better of lot of bitches than you are used to Uncle?” Oh, what! Tyrion tells Joffrey to pay his respects to the Starks, and he is all “Yeah, no.” But the Tyrion slaps him repeatedly to get his point across. Joffrey is aghast and runs away like the pansy he is. We meet his protector - the Hound. The Hound’s face is partly melted away. You can’t protect someone with a whole face, retards.

Tyrion bounces into the Lannister breakfast where he dazzles his niece and nephew with his wit and crude humor and infuriates his sister Cersei, especially when he brings up the fact that the Stark child is going to survive. Eyes bug. Tyrion sips on his dark ale and explains that he will not be traveling back to Kingsroad, but instead going to see the Wall. Sightseeing! Seems Jon Snow has decided to take the Black - which from I can gather, means you will never have sex again, because you can’t watch a wall and do it.

Cersei makes a bee line for Bran and finds his mother Catelyn, who apologizes for not being appropriately dressed. Thankfully, Cersei understands. She asks how Bran is doing, and then launches in how she lost her son. Because that is exactly what you want to bring up to a mother agonizing over her near death child. How your kid died. But this tale of her son’s death did put Cersei otherwise known as Bitchface into a better light. I guess but she is still the same lady screwing her brother.

There are many goodbyes. Jon to Arya (who gives her a sword). Jon to Bran (I wish I could see you wake up, but I am taking the black!). Jon to Robb (Hugs). Ned to Catelyn (Don’t cheat on me again, asshole). Ned to Jon (I’ll tell you about your mother when we meet again - which may be never).

The King and Ned have lunch and start to remember about the war and the women. It was war, what could we do? Remember that busty lass Bessie? Remember how you had a son with a wench and then brought him home so that your wife would silently hate him? Good times. Then the King gets down to business - Daenerys has wedded Khal Drogo - leader of the Dothraki. The Targaryens are after my thrown. This is proof. And Ned is all, dude, why even worry, that Dothraki don’t even have boats. They have horses and can’t swim. Fucking Kings are so stupid, right? But the King warns that a war is coming. Like I would be watching this show if one wasn't.

Back at Kamp Khal, the Dothraki are whooping it up, eating horse, and probably killing each other. Tired and Horny, Drogo comes in and flips Daenerys around and mounts her accordingly. Who says romance is dead? As Dany winces and cries, she stares at her dragon eggs - which are now in a box surrounded by candles - pretty, pretty dragon eggs take away the pain of honeymoon mischief.

Some guy I don’t know is talking to Catelyn about something (I had taken Nyquil at the beginning of the show). He is all - blah, blah, fire. He runs out, where this hooded man comes in with a knife wanting to kill Bran to put him out of his misery, but Katelyn fights him, her hands on the blades. Then Bran’s direwolf jumps from the window, into the room and basically removes said attacker’s neck and gizzards in bloody gore. Finally, blood!

I then closed my eyes in a Nyquil haze opening them to what I thought was Cinemax. But nope, just Daenerys and her lady helper engaged in showing Dany the ropes when it comes to pleasing Drogo. Seems while other girls at twelve were playing with Barbies and wondering if they truly had a psychic connection to Flintstones episodes (me), others were learning the ways of wooing (Dany’s helper). Interesting, the way to Khal Drogo’s heart, is riding him - just like a horse. You are what you eat it seems.

Joffrey and Sansa are strolling and drinking wine where the stumble upon Arya playing pretend swords with the Butcher’s son. Joffrey is pissed (because of his hair?), and takes it out on the boy while Arya and Sansa look on. As he cuts the boys face, Arya can take it no longer and hits Joffrey. Then Joffrey tries to hit Arya. But oh hell no, Direwolves don’t like people hurting their masters, and Joffrey’s hand is mangled while his sword is thrown into the water by Arya.

Because Joffrey is probably genetically handicapped, he runs to his mom who summons the King and all hell breaks loose. Joffrey wants Arya punished, her dog dead. But the dog ran off at Arya’s bidding, and now Cersei says that Lady, Sansa’s Direwolf, must take the punishment. Because Ned is Ned Stark does not let others do what is his to do, he himself insists on putting Lady down. Meanwhile the Butcher’s son was also taken down by The Hound. More gore, and here I was about to worry.

We don’t see the Direwolf being executed (because beheadings are one thing, direwolves are quite another), but what is this, what do we see next - Bran, with eyes wide opened. I’m back!

Two Stories

Story One - Out of the Mouth of Babes

Owen was home sick on Tuesday from some mystery fever that lasted all of the 2.5 seconds his preschool was able to take it and call us for the 24 hour mandatory stay away. Owen was not sick, but he had to stay home. John who has the fortune (not really if you have a sick kid) of working from home, watched him. About to be on an important telephone conference, John told Owen that he had to be very quiet and if anything came up, he needed to go to him and pull on his shirt and whisper what he wanted. Ten minutes or so, there was a gentle pull on John’s shirt, “Daddy. Daddy.”, Owen whispered (amazingly!). “What?”, asked John. “Daddy. Can I have my drums?”. “No.” “I’ll be quiet. I promise.” Then John laughed for 22 minutes.

Story Two - My Running Pants Raped Me.

Since the end of January, I have been running a ton. I have upped my distance, upped my speed and become one of those people who only use stairs. Hate me, I don’t care. Yesterday, on my 5.5 mile Fort Mason Up that Awful Hill Run something occurred. Granted, my running clothes are loose of late. Running clothes should never be loose because you will be like a gazelle down the Embarcadero - sweating and spitting and swearing - all the while, unbeknownst to you, because you are all hopped up on endorphins, your pants will be moving up and down repeatedly. Because you are cheap and prefer to by factory deficient running clothes from Ross, these cotton pants will begin to chaff you. The rough fabric and fantastic running speed no match for the smooth skin of your backside. So not only has the so-called healthy sport of running brought me exercised induced asthma, it now has given intimate knowledge of anal sodomy. Thank you exercise. Thank you.

Game of Thrones: A Recap

Unlike other recaps that delve into the intrinsic nature of plot and character development, this recap is simply my perspective of the show via a single viewing and while, most likely, drunk. Full disclosure, I have read Game of Thrones and have started the second book A Clash of Kings three times. Because I was either pregnant or nursing Owen, there is little I remember about these books. And let’s face it, fantasy as a genre is not my favorite - probably because I have a 25% chance of pronouncing anything correctly, and reading names like Daenerys over and over causes anxiety. Before proceeding I think we need to make mention of the Game of Thrones fan - I direct you to this: http://www.georgerrmartin.com/fans/index.html. Exactly, so without further ado -

HBO’s Game of Thrones, Episode One: Winter is Coming.

Up goes a gate and there are three men on horses. Horses! They exit through a tunnel carrying torches. Because it is fantasy people, and there is no electricity in fantasy. There are horses, fire, big gates, and fur. All of which is shown in 3.2 seconds. Is this the middle ages? No, its Westeros, a fantasy land created by George RR Martin. FANTASY. Our men exit the tunnel in front of a huge white snow covered imposing wall. Due to the ominous background music, I have deduced that these men are on a search for something most likely of a terrible nature. Our three men separate in the search. A tall lanky blonde blue eyed guy stumbles upon cut up bodies arranged in some sort of cultish symbol, or the murderer is obsessively compulsive. He races back to the others, where he begins to speak in an English accent. Because English accents scream fantasy, although poor choice George RR, because a Boston accent would have killed it. Killed it! Now we have some scuttlebutt because whisper thin Blondie is all - they are dead dude, we gotta go back. His friend, a burley bearded man, agrees. The leader is all - we gotta check it out, because “he” will want to know what happened. Who is this “he?”. I don’t know, but he sounds like an asshole. If I just saw a sculpture of body parts, I would have been all - outy 500 bitches. But Mr. Suck Up needs to impress his boss, so they travel back to the location. And nothing is there. No blood, no dead girl on a tree with weird eyes, and no bodies. Nothing. Basically, he of the cockney accent says “But sir, they were there.” “Oh really! Where are they now?” But then this super tall white half yeti creature appears and with a single blood laden sword swipe takes out the leader. Which is a lesson to all - when someone tells you there are a bunch of cut up body parts in a circle then you should probably not go back to check it out. The other two take off, and yeti gives chase catching up quickly to bearded fat dude, because he’s fat. He lifts his hair and a sweep of his sword decapitates while our blond skinny looks on. Yeti then flings this head so that it rolls up to Blondie with eyes fully opened. Holler bitches! This is Game of Thrones. Fade to black.

Theme Song and Opening Montage. This basically was a map with buildings sprouting up and some weird flutey music. I wanted to jig and/or fast forward.

Our story opens with an errant arrow. We pan to a young boy with bow, the source of many laughs. A man obvious of great power says - and were any of you great marksmen at the age of 10. Everyone becomes silent, because dude just smacked your ass down. There is some chit chat of a somewhat serious nature because of a deserter. Who dat? Dat is blondie, eyes bugged out and speaking all crazy talk of White Walkers (a/k/a the yeti snow giant). Ned Start, leader, must now take care of said deserter the only way he know how - in front of his kids with a giant ass sword. Another beheading is had and this time in daylight. Or fog-light, since you know, winter is coming.

Anyhoo, next some guy is dead. I know this because he is on a slab and has stones on his eyes. I can put two and two together with the best of them. Seems this guy was the Hand of the King, which is seemingly a close advisor. So now the king needs a new advisor - hello Eddard Stark. The King and Ned go way back. Homeys! In fact, the King travels a month to reach Ned in order to woo him into being Hand of the King. Is it me, or does that sound sort of gross and homoerotic? The King travels with his wife (Cersei), his son (Joffrey), her wife’s twin brother (Jaimie) and her other brother a dwarf (Tyrion) and his minions. Ned prepares by getting lots of booze and hookers. This is my kind of party.

The King arrives. Ned, his wife Catelyn and his children - Robb, Sansa, Arya and Bran - bow accordingly. The King calls Ned fat, and they laugh. Just like me and my friend Diane, who is really fat by the way - I don’t care if she gave birth 2 weeks ago. By the way, Ned also has another kid named John Snow - he is a bastard. As in Ned got busy with someone other than his wife. The cad!

The King asks Ned to be his Hand. Ned wavers. The King goes to see Ned’s sister’s grave - whom he really loved because he is all she should be buried atop a hill in a meadow in the sunlight - also he said she should have been his wife. True love people. Ned is all she belongs here, underground in stone. No light for her!

Now begins the boobies. Our next family to meet are the Targaryens (I had to look that up), sister Daenerys and Vicerys. They are the descendents of the former ousted king currently exiled. They have silver hair, and Vicerys takes off his sister’s clothes to examine her “womanly figure” (boobies!) because he is going to marry her off to a savage. The savage is Khal Drogo, leader of the Dothraki. From what I can tell the Dothraki like to fight, drink and have sex. What a wedding. There are intestines gutted and a wedding gift of petrified dragon eggs. And I thought my Kitchen Aid mixer was cool. Then comes the wedding night - Dany crying while Drogo strips and circles her saying “No.” Just like me and John. Ah, memories. Drogo has some impressive man boobies. I told you it was all about the boobs.

Next we meet Tyrion who is a little person, although I don’t’ think there is any political correctness in Westeros, because we are calling one kid a bastard and another one a dwarf. But Tyrion has a big wiener, I know this because when with a whore, he states “It is my only gift from God”. I ask you, why is he called Tyrion and not Tri-pod? Also, he is played by Peter Dinklage. Dink! Is that too much penis humor for you? I don’t think so. Boobs galore in the meeting of Tyrion. He seems to like whores.

Party time. Queen Cersei and Catelyn sit watching the King who is “whoring” and “drinking”. Love him. He is dancing with a wench, then proceeds to make out with said wench in the presence of his queen. How dare he. The queen only flinches. A totally appropriate response. Then there is some discussion about Sansa and Joffrey getting married so that Ned and the King will become one big happy arranged marriage family. Sansa is pretty annoying, but this Joffrey guy looks a bit genetically challenged. Which is funny, because what do we find out at the end of this episode? Cersie and her twin brother totally going at it, to which Bran (climbing the castle wall) has the unfortunate accident of discovering, because (1) incest is gross and (2) Jamie shoves him out the window.

And there you have it - Game of Thrones, Episode One: Winter is Coming a/k/a Beheadings, Boobies and Let’s Kill a 10 year old - oh my!

The Tomboy's Guide to Pregnancy and Parenting - When Two Is Enough

Because John and I have decided that there would be no further additions to our family, I am on the birth control. John did volunteer to have himself snipped. But I said no. Do you know that if a man does not die of anything else, he is guaranteed a 100% chance of prostate cancer? That little nugget of fact made the vas deferens (science joke!) to me. And although the two are most likely not related, it screamed to me - let those sperm swim free and not be prisoners in my husband’s testicles causing his inevitable demise. Because if John were to die, I would be alone with those two kids. NO!!!!!

Now because these sperm are present with their little heads of genetic material waiting to ravage my eggs, I went on the pill. The typical use failure rate of the diaphram (my previous chosen birth control method) hovers at twenty percent. These are dice I had no intention of rolling. Pretty much anything that does not guaranty me 99.99% effectiveness is not going to fly. Because I do not want anymore kids, ever, in case I have not made myself perfectly clear.

The side effects of the pill are best summed up as short term monthly psychosis. I don’t say this lightly, because let’s face it people, the pill is telling your body - “Dude, you are so knocked up.” “You got a little baby in there.” “So don’t be shooting eggs off.” “Keep em housed up in that ovary.” “That a girl.” Then every 28 days it goes “Psyche! You stupid bitch, you ain’t pregnant.” “You are so dumb. Let me make you crazy with PMS.” “Look, that person looks like a Dorito, you better eat him.” I am sure there is some hormonal scientific explanation about this but I feel better that the pill is like the older brother I never had who is constantly lying to me and punching me in the gut at appropriate times. Because that is what the cramps feel like, punches to the gut.

But I suffer on a monthly basis because the thought of more children makes me weep and curl into the fetal posiiton. I can't stand Pill PMS, its a super hybrid of regular PMS which in itself sucks ass. Yesterday, every look to the mirror made me cringe. Incredibly uncomfortable in my body and super short-tempered - the best combination ever! But I took deep breathes, and more importantly downed an almost bottle of wine and a few beers. And today is better. I finished a 6.5 mile run and my thoughts are clearer and less psychotic. The tide, she will come. Although I am counting the months until I go back on the diaphram. Because 2 years from now, my eggs will be little old ladies of crippled DNA incapable of children. Hooray for my 40s. I can’t believe I just said that.

Eyes Like a Tiger

Two nights ago in a deep sleep I awoke to find our bedroom door ajar with the shiny white of an eye flashing before me. “Owen, is that you?” No answer. I was submerged in the drool phase of sleep and immediately thought this was a dream, all the while fearing my impending murder. “Owen?” No response. John woke up and looked to the door. “Owen?,” we said together. “Are you okay?” This is when he took the door, slammed it and ran back to his room. I stumbled there, to find him on his bed, head buried into the pillow on his knees with his butt saluting the air. This is his usual, “I am mad at you, so leave me alone pose.” “Are you okay?,” I said while rubbing his back. He was asleep in thirty seconds without a word. Maybe it was a bad dream, or sleep walking or any possible number of toddler sleep antics. But if anyone had a right to be mad in this situation, it was me. Being awoken from a coma like sleep to find a pair of hostile mutant midget eyes glaring at you with deep breathes of attitude is not something qualified as a proper wake up technique. And “scared” does not adequately describe my mental state: confusion/non-recognition/fear/recognition/amazement/why-are-you-slamming-the-door-you-are-going-to-wake-your-sister-and-then-I-will-have-to-kill-you/did that just happen? I have read about parents who say nothing is more horrifying than waking to find a pair of tiny eyes staring, and now I completely agree. At least I did not wet the bed.

Ten Things About Maggie McCall On This Her Second Birthday.

1. Strawberries. I do not believe there is anyone on the planet more in love with strawberries than you. I have to hide the pints below the carriage at the supermarket so you don’t go into hysterics shouting “STAHHHBEERRRRIIIEEESSS.” After giving you a half a pint, you will return with the empty bowl 3.2 seconds later, your face covered in strawberry juice, moaning “More, more, more, more.” Strawberries are freaking expensive, and it is your crack.

2. Your Hair. Holy cow, I don’t even know where to begin with this one. Your hair is nuts. It is fine and curly, not tight cork screw but sort of long dangly curls that are always dry. This is what you looked like on Saturday when you woke up:



Wow. Thank god for conditioner and elastics, because if strawberries are your crack, this is your crack ho hair. Is it wrong to liken a 2 year olds hair to a crack ho, I don’t think so.

3. Owen. I believe that your brother is your favorite thing on the planet, aside from strawberries. Ohwin! Ohwin! You love him. You follow him around imitating his every act. Which is not good when he is doing something wrong, but hey, I decided to have two kids, and that is my punishment.

4. Fearless. You really have no real fear that I can see. In fact, a few weeks ago you at 22 pounds decided that it was an opportune moment after your 45 pound brother stole your car to tackle him, put him in a head lock and then throw him and you to the ground. I think you realized when you smacked your head, that your next assault would have to be better planned.

5. Rage. I think it is apparent that you have a bit of a temper, you always had. God forbid I got my boob to you 0.0003 second late when you were a baby, but now when you are mad, you throw up your arms and shake your clenched fists, a screaming malcontent. Its pretty hilarious. We try not to laugh, but its really hard. You look like the cover of Platoon for crying out loud.



6. Sunglasses. Just let’s say you like them:







7. Hugs and Kisses. You are very responsive with kisses and hugs to anyone. Which in the family is fantastic, but when we are leaving MUNI for the street, and you start saying bye and hugging the person next to us, well that is a tad bit too friendly. But also pretty awesome.

8. Dancing Maggie. Your dance moves are sick.



9. Toy Story 1, 2 and 3. I am pretty sure if you could replace your father and I with Woody and Buzz, you would.

10. The Mags. That is what we call you when we are not calling you Maggie, Maggers, Maggaroons, and her Magsesty. I think your brother said it best last night when I told him that today was your birthday and remember to wish you a Happy Birthday, “Mags is crazy. I love her.” I know your father and I feel the same.

Happy Birthday Maggie. We love you.

Evidence

Those familiar with this blog are also familiar with the torment caused to my psyche when last May I sat in a hairdressing chair and stated the following “So, yeah, I want my hair to look like it is in a pony tail, without the actual ponytail.” Again, people - NEVER FUCKING SAY THIS EVER. It is now almost the end of March and my hair is a chin length bob, which I like and plan to continue growing until god knows when because I have been damaged internally by excessive scissoring. My hair is finally to the point where I can put it in a ponytail, albeit a sad impersonation of one. But a ponytail. And this morning due to an almost comedic poof in my hair, I did just that (with a green elastic, my ode to St. Patrick’s Day). Because, again, my hair is short it falls out and was in need of a quick fix, I sauntered into my work’s ladies room where I saw it. What the hell is that? What is that? Is that . . . holy shit, that is a gray hair. Oh my god, it is not even gray, its white. White and kinky and glowing harshly under the cruel fluorescent lighting it stood bold. After a wince and a shudder, my fingers quickly excised the intruder from my head of hair. And as I examined the inch and a half long indication of my aged future, it occurred to me that this, this right here, was evidence that my kids were in fact, slowly killing me.

Tales from Bedtime

In order to curb the bedtime battle that was ensuing with Owen resulting in screams, cries and bottles of wine (all me), we decided a few months ago that after John read him stories, I would climb into bed with him until he was sleepy. It works great, usually by Owen’s third yawn I can head out of his room and he falls into a peaceful slumber. Because of this, Owen and I have been conversing while he tires. Two evenings ago, the following transpired:

Owen: “My head is itchy.” “Its soooooo itchy.” Scratching head.
Me: “You want me to scratch it?”
Owen: “Yep.”
Me: Scratching head. “What happened?”
Owen: “I hit my head.” “Its so itchy.”
Me: “How did you hit your head?”
Owen: “Maggie did it.”
Me: “I though you said you hit it.”
Owen: Silence.
Me: “You okay?”
Owen: “Mummy my eyes are itchy.” “Soooooooo itchy.”
Me: “Well, itch them.”
Owen: “No Mummy, you do it.” “I close my eyes and you itch them five times each.”
Me: “You are insane.” But yet itching his eyes, five times each in concentric circles.
Owen: “Thank you Mummy.”
Me: “You are welcome.”
Owen: “Let’s go to sleep.”
Me: “Okay.”
Owen: “Let’s cuddle.”
Me: “Okay.” (heart melting).

To be continued under Conversation With a Four Year Old: Your Window Into Insanity.

Whoops - Mothering Called

Sorry that the TBGTP&P took a day off, that was because this Tomboy was at Owen’s preschool for a meeting about my son’s unparallel blind rage. I blame this entirely on my genetics because the McInnises are known for their tempers, and also their jail sentences. Owen seems to have the switch where in he goes from happy, sweet and awesomely awesome to complete dick. This is a pattern that goes for a few weeks. Then suddently, he will stop the shenanigans and be back to his old self. John had a good idea that it might have something to do with his mental and physical growth because he seemingly grew two feet over night. When mad, we are teaching him to take deep breaths: “In with the good, out with the bad.” And, yes, I do live in San Francisco (but still hate hippies). I am sure this is a phase that will get better as he has a better grasp on his words, and it is evident he is trying very hard to be a “good boy”. To Mr. O, freshly shorn handsome:

The Tomboys Guide to Pregnancy and Parenting: Bat Shit Crazy

My children have decided that they are a tag team duo in an effort to drive me and their father insane. If one is happy, quiet and occupied (Owen this morning), then the other decides to throw a temper tantrum for no discernable reason from 6:15 a.m. until 7:45 a.m. (Maggie). The pain behind my right eye that took residence about 3.2 seconds after arriving home on Tuesday night remains still, made only slightly weak by the drone of work. They say the perfect spacing between children is four years. Mine are 2 years, 3 months. What you negate to realize when you decide to have another child when the first is 18 months is that you have absolutely no fucking clue as to what will come. You think you do. At the park, adoringly you admire those seemingly happy and self sufficient two, three and four year olds. But what you see is a lie, because you don’t live with the bi-polar assholes. The park is their Prozac. The place John and I visit when our sanity is in mere shreds. This is not to say that there are not moments of happiness and bliss (bedtime and naptime, namely). It is to say that this is hard; it is really, really hard. A typical conversation with Owen when he has done something wrong.

Us: Owen, why did you do that?
Owen: Because I did that.
Us: Why are you mad?
Owen: Because I SOOOO mad.
Us: Owen, why did you hit your sister?
Owen: Because I hit her.
Us: Owen, why do mommy and daddy drink?
Owen: Blank stare.

That there is crazy talk. Nuttiness to the nth degree. It makes no sense, and I without the aide of corporal punishment. Have you tried to reason with a four year old? You can’t. And you can’t yell because that makes Captain Insano more “SOO mad”. Instead, you reassure him. Say things like “Owen, Daddy and I are not mad at you. We love you. But you can’t hit your sister. You can’t hit anybody.” A concept he seems to be grasping more and more as the days go on to what I perceive to be a five year old Shangri-La. (If it isn't, don’t tell me. Please let me have my delusional hope).

Then there is Maggie, who last Saturday, when Owen took a car from her, came up behind him, put a choke hold around his neck, and then slammed him and her to the ground. Her 23 pound body was no match to Owen’s 43 pound linebacker frame. What resulted was her head hitting the floor with an awful thud, tears of anguish, and Owen looking at her like she was, quite frankly, retarded. I was impressed by her gusto. But the parent in me had to reiterate that we don’t hit people when we don’t get our way. But seriously, though, wouldn’t that be awesome if we did? I dream of it constantly.

I guess this is parenthood, and this what I get for not spacing my children at the recommended ages. Although it can be horrible, torturous and eye-twitchingly maddening, I must admit it is also amazing, laugh filled and kind of awesome. Which is why we do it right? That and the invention of wine and the fact they are pretty cute (see below). But what I don’t understand for the life of me is why any person would ever consider having more than two. That is just an entire level of psychosis to which I want no part. All hail the empty womb.

The Tomboys Guide to Pregnancy and Parenting: Breastfeeding

As promised, this week we delve into the topic of breastfeeding. I breastfed Owen and Maggie each for 11.5 months, then gave them milk. Why did I breastfeed? Yes, there are the immunological benefits and the supposed high IQ but truthfully have you people seen the price of formula? Holy god. While pregnant, I bought a book about breastfeeding. I got through the first chapter which was touting the benefits, the bonding, and the ballyhoo for you before putting it down. First and foremost, formula is not poison. I was raised on formula. More than likely, you, of the stink eye towards formula feeding mothers, were too. Not all of us can do it, not all of us want to do it. Also, I am pretty sure parents who give their children formula bond. I mean, my mother (formula giver) showed up on my doorstep last week as a surprise from Boston and I started crying happily and hugging her. I know, totally embarrassing. But the point is we bonded. As have probably 99.99% of the women giving formula to their kids during the first year of life. Nursing was easy for me. I did not have the trials and tribulations that plague others. Meaning that these ginormous knockers I carry around, that were responsible for a baseball size growth on my shoulder to be surgically excised, actually had some fucking purpose. I went with the mindset try it, see how it goes, and go with what feels right. Never would I ever feel guilty about not breastfeeding my child. I don’t get that guilt, or the mindset. Who the hell cares what you feed your kid as long as it is not lead paint or rat poison or mayonnaise (seriously, that stuff is so awful to look at). Another thing, why is it when you tell people that your kids were not formula fed you get congratulated? Good for you, wow. That is so great. Why the hell give me a sash and crown just because I had kids on my titties for a combined 23 months. If anything, look at my boobs and say - wow, after all that they still hover high. And then I will wink, and say “Dude, seriously, thank god for underwire.” We need to get over the breastfed mommas are superior attitude. Although we are superior in artful ways to conceal our boobs in public with a baby and cloak. This brings me to another point, if you are nursing in public, please hide your boobies. I once was in the Ferry Building walking when my eyes stumbled upon this earth mother with blue vein etched boobs displayed with suckling seemingly six year hold child attached. It’s the god damn Ferry Building for God’s sake; I want to taste free samples, not vomit. Gross. In conclusion, breast feeders and formula feeders, we are all the same thing - people in dire need of a good night’s sleep and a bottle of wine. Don’t feel bad about your choice, or judging of another’s choice. We all want what is best for our kids, and it is up to us to figure out what that “best” comprises.

The Tomboy’s Guide to Pregnancy and Parenthood

Because I tend to do best in regimented environments (thank you Catholic School), and this blog is in dire need of directive, I have decided to try to write daily (Monday through Friday) focusing on one subject. What those subjects will be, I don’t know. But today, Thursday, will be known as “The Tomboy’s Guide to Pregnancy and Parenthood”. Those wondering at home, this will be my tomboy related view of things relating to pregnancy and parenthood. Really, the title pretty much sums it up. Pregnancy views will be restricted to my prior two pregnancies, and no future pregnancy, because this womb is closed for business. The sight of a pregnant woman causes a violent eye twitch followed by instant headache. If that does not say “done with kids”, perhaps this possible tattoo on my abdomen will be clearer:



Let us begin with the reason this is called the Tomboy’s Guide. Before actually reading the positive sign on a pregnancy test, there was a lurking suspicion in my mind that I would never become pregnant. It was absolutely impossible. The reason? A wrestling move. My youth was one filled with the wrestling styles of the WWF. Such stars as Hacksaw Jim Duggan, Hulk Hogan, Macho Man Randy Savage, and the Demolition Duo. I loved it. One evening, my brother and I locked in wrestling battle, he managed to get me on the ground, stand up and then kick me in the stomach hard. An immediate pain like none I ever knew surged through my stomach (this was the lovely time before my period and the hell of cramps). I cried and rolled around clutching my stomach. This is when my mother said it “Michael, you can’t kick her in the stomach, she may never have kids.” Because of this utterance by mother, I believed that my chances of getting pregnant were very remote. After all, a Jimmy Super Fly Snooker kick to the abdomen even performed my younger brother would be extremely damaging.

Flash forward to April 2006, as I sat peeing on a stick the first month of us “trying” for a kid. Five minutes later, there it was. A positive sign. I was pregnant. And what did I say to John upon exiting the bathroom “Positive. I’m pregnant. I can’t believe it. I mean, my brother did that wrestling move on me.” To which he stood staring at me dumbfounded. Let this be a lesson to all parents, the things you say casually to your children can be etched in their minds forever. This is why I often tell Maggie in her sleep that boys are horrible, horrible creatures she should never date until she attains her 21st birthday.

Next up on the Tomboy’s Guide - Breast Feeding: Get Over Yourself.

Little Ms. Independence.

Ah, the tiny toddler tyrant. The formation of confidence and independence are a necessary evil in the development of the mind. Maggie is currently in the “I do it” stage. She needs to do everything, even if she can’t. “No, I do it. Mama. I do it.” I tell her she has to take a bath 15 minutes prior because that is about how long it takes her to take off her socks. I try to help in ninja like sweeps to her heel. But she will quickly brush away my hand and say with authority and a frown “NO, I DO IT.” Okay, bitch, go for it. Luckily for me she is easy to distract with gummy bears. But who isn’t really? Last night when getting home, John said “Guess what your daughter did?” “Kill someone with her fury?” Not yet. However, while watching Dora the Explora, which she calls “Dorie”, she had a moment. If you are not familiar with Dora, it is a Nick Jr. animated show in which a girl is faced with a problem, and she needs to figure out the clues to attain a positive result. This, in theory, sounds reasonable. But this morning’s Dora, involved Dora waking up to find her twin brother and sister aged 6 months out of the cribs, and on a stroller that was capable of moving itself since the twins all of sudden disappeared. As Dora, her monkey, her mom and dad raced to find “the babies”, they went through a gate, and then came to a red hill, which was actually a giant rooster. Finally, they found the babies. Yeah. Anyway, when the mission is accomplished, Dora and her pals launch into a rousing edition of “We did it. We did it. Yes, we did it.” Ms. Maggie McCall, finding issue with this, suddenly ran to the television and started screaming at the top her lungs "NO. I DO IT. I DO IT.” And that is your tiny toddler tyrant.