Tales of MUNI

Let it be known that yesterday was a day of MUNI reckoning that was headache producing in nature. First let me begin by saying that in the morning, I like my coffee. I like it on the N-Judah, whilst reading and listening to music. So if the train is stationed and not yet going, I go to Java Beach, and order a medium black. Yesterday morning, I entered Java Beach and was happy - the train was parked and there was but one customer before me. However, Mr. Skinny Non-Fat, Non-Dairy, Bagel Toasted Dark, With Oatmeal And Bananas, you made me tap my feet in a fury of activity as I nervously eyed the train. After his seemingly 10 hour order was complete I quickly rattled off my order, received cup, pour coffee, got lid, and don't burn your hand cover, ran to the train as it sat parked and pushed the button. I pushed again. Door open!!! No, it did not. I ran to the next car as its doors closed. Muther fucka. As the Muni took off, I quickly followed. Let me say this, running with coffee is not an easy task. I ran at a good clip finally giving up because "No way will I catch that train." Flash forward to 10 seconds later, "Good lord, I can get that train, look at that line of fools waiting to pay." So I hoofed it again, like a half paralyzed animal due to coffee and my bag, only to be once again greeted by closing doors. Muther Fucka Part Deux. I know the pain of running for a train, only to miss it. But to run for the same train twice, with the same hurt feelings of failure and incompetence is a true horror.

So as the day progressed, and the 5:00 o'clock whistle blew, and I made my way to the Embarcadero Station for my train. Little did I know that June 30, 2008 was the day Cassie McCall would be driven to insanity by the good folks at the Bay Area Transit Authority. It began simply enough, a two car N entered the station. But the second car said "No Passengers". Muther Fucka Part Tres. I made my way to the other car with gaggle of others. Push, push, slam, bam, is that person touching me? Oh my god. So I got out my book, got a decent standing spot, and tried to forget all the body heat circling me like bees buzzing in my ear. The next stop added to the crush of people. At this time, a woman about 55 years old with wild white hair, a 6'0" foot frame and man hands stood behind me. It was at this time, I knew I was in trouble She repeatedly said, "Move in everybody, move in. We can all get in the car." Sorry, lady but currently my ass is being rubbed by the man behind me, my whole left half is sandwiched into the girl beside me like we are Siamese Twins, and you are getting a little too close for comfort. We continued onward, trying to lose myself into my book. Gargantuan woman makes her way beside me and gets out her USA Today paper. She beings to read, while touching my hand. I kid you not. She rested her hand on mine. I moved, she moved, I moved, she moved. Is this really happening? Her paper is on my head. My head! We get to the next stop and another rush of persons onto the train. Ms. Charitable Commuter actually says to the person trying to get on "Come on sir, you can get on too." Bitch, please. So now this guy is on after about two minutes of twister like contortions by the other passengers. We get to the Duboce Park stop, and before me the seated passenger is leaving. Hail Thee Jesus. I sit down, but who else sits down? Yep, Ms. MUNI United. As she sits, her cat hair strewn sweater is on my hand, this does not surprise me. If the was ever a poster child for the Crazy Ole Cat Woman, this lady was it. It is at this time, that the passenger who we let on at the previous stop shouts the following "Hey Man, don't let your frustration out on me, because I AM PRIME TO GO. PRIME!!" Great, now there is a going to be a fist fight. Thanks lady, soooooo happy he got on board. But peace reigns supreme.

Finally it seems that the world of MUNI had gotten off its crazy axis as the cat lady has left, and a young girl sits next to me. I was happy. But a minute into this bliss, came the following "Do you have twenty-five cents?" "No, sorry." Then there came the moaning. The guttural wailing of an insane homeless person and then the talk of purple potatoes. Ah, I don't hear you. Seriously, God, why me? I try to concentrate on my book while the girl next to me chatters, moans and speaks in demon tongue. And then it happens, a seat opens up, I make a beeline and plop down. Finally on my own within the confines of N-Judah ride of crazy. My head is aching, my nerves fried, only to hear "Sorry folks, but this will be our last stop." Oh the humanity. I make my exit, I make my entrance, and finally arrive at my stop. Needless to say, that evening, wine was had. MUNI, you may have won the battle, but I will win the war.

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.

Lord of the Denim - An Adventure

I have been going to The Gap for over ten months trying to find a pair of jeans since the jeans I bought during the still hefty phase of post pregnancy were ill fitting. Luckily for me, I did manage to fit in my pre-pregnancy Banana Republic jeans. Mind you, nothing else pre-pregnancy without a muffin top. I don't get it either. I have been wearing these jeans religiously for ten months every jean day work Friday and the occasional weekend day. Which is fine, but I have been visiting The Gap approximately twice a month during this time searching for another pair. And much like Frodo's ring search, it has been an utterly tiring endeavor (but not with the homoerotic undertones). Now, I am sure you are probably saying to yourself, doesn't this girl know there are stores other than The Gap that sell jeans? And yes, this girl does, but read yesterday post about lacking a girl gene for clarification. Me no likey to shop. Imagine my surprise yesterday when I found pair to my liking, long enough and on sale for $29.99. Ca-ching! Hit the denim trifecta, anyone? I rushed to a sales person and said "Hi, can you put this on hold for me; I just need to run upstairs to my office to get something I need to return. Thanks." Upstairs I go, not believing that after an epic 300 day search, denim was found. At the counter, I informed the girl that the jeans behind her were mine, and I had a return. Gap girl says "Thirty dollars" and I am all "Aren't these jeans on sale?" "Not these". Oh my god, what to do. Not on sale? So the mental debate "Okay maybe they aren't on sale but you like them." "Yeah, I do like them, and it has been a long hunt." "You should totally buy them, forget the denim trifecta." And I did. You know why? Because I am wacky like that. Dressing this morning, I could feel the happiness well for the inaugural jeans wear. Will someone compliment me? Will John like my ass in them? Will Owen drool or vomit on them first? Frantically, I remove them from the bag, rip of tags, look down and say "Muthafarka." Why? Because there on the tag is a number, and that number is not mine, it is a "6". A six. I had got the wrong jeans, and the ones in my hands were calling me fat. As I stepped into B&R jeans for the fortieth week in a row, with a return to make, there was sadness, maybe even a tear. The good news is the jeans were still on hold - for Sandra, and they were in fact on sale. I knew it, bitch.

Further Proof I Lack the Girl Gene

This morning as I went about the business of the morning - waking up to Owen, saying hello to John, getting milk for the boy, getting Owen's food for the day ready, dressing, dressing Owen, walking out the door - when John says "Owen, don't you want to wish your Daddy Happy Birthday." Yeah, whoops! Am I not the worse person ever? I totally forgot. And you know why, because I am not truly a girl. Sure, I have boobies, had a kid, and watch Sex and The City, but deep down somewhere the internal gene that makes girls go goo goo and gaa gaa over such things as shopping, hair styles, manicures, Brad Pitt, leggings, and birthdays is missing. In fact, at this moment I am trying to recall the day we got married. I know it was July - but beats me if it was the 20th or the 22nd. I think the 20th, but I would not put money on it. But somehow I know that the New England Patriots won Superbowl XXXVI when Brady spiked the ball with 7 seconds on the clock to set up Adam Vinatieri's 48 yard field goal kick to win 20-17 against the Rams on February 3, 2002. So what does this mean? No girl gene! So Happy Birthday John McCall, I love you very much.

My Footwear is Accursed.

Sorry for the "accursed" but I have been reading The Other Boleyn Girl and my language has taken a decided turn to 1500s England. I no longer eat breakfast, but break my fast. So cool, music to the dieting girl's ears, I no longer sleep but fast from the hours of 10:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. Also, the English sure did like to use the word "cunny", as in "Wash your cunny, you slut." Forget va-jay jay, give me cunny any day. And so it goes, I now want to watch Showtime's The Tudors, and find a time machine. This is something that is constantly on my mind - time travel and that invention the guy in The Fly was trying to master. Travel Pods. Can you image? How awesome. But back to the shoes (pictured below),



I want to say that I really like these shoes, they being the Privo "Hop" in black. This is my second pair. The previous pair was not accursed, thus leading me to this purchase which will more than likely mean some sort of leg injury in the form of amputation because in the past two weeks I have had my left shoe caught in an escalator while carrying Owen and just today, while taking a step down from the curb, somehow trapped half my foot in the sewer grate. The escalator incident was memorable because earlier in the day there was an article on sfgate.com about a freak escalator accident. Note to self, when something such as escalator carnage tickles your fancy; be prepared to pay the ultimate sacrifice. I don't even know how it happened, I took a step, then another, and suddenly I was shoeless with a baby in the ergo about to take public transportation. After about thirty attempts by helpful San Franciscans trying to dislodge my very lodged shoe (and me thinking that I was actually going to have to go on Muni with no freaking shoe), some behemoth of a man used his hulk arm to save my shoe (and my chance at Hepatitis B). I thanked him only to see my shoe now had a big section of the sole flapping. "Gotta buy some new shoes" said this man to which I responded gleefully "Most definitely sir. Thanks!" But alas, I am cheap and having a sole flap is not going to land me in Glamour's What Not To Wear. But today as I stepped down off the curb getting half my foot stuck in a grate, I am thinking that perhaps these shoes are to die a quiet death because clumsy feet and accursed shoes will transform me into that seventy year old who takes off her left shoe to revel a mangle mess of a stump of which parents warn their children.

Over the Hump

This perhaps does not hold true for all, but for me when involved in an exercise and diet regimen there is a stage in which I get "over the hump". The hump being viewing it as a necessary evil, not something I am happy to be engaged. But this week has finally produced the happiness within my plight of health, so much so it is no longer viewed as a plight. For it is not a DIE-it, it is a LIVE-It. Did you just throw up a little in your mouth? Me too. Today will mark five out of five work days that I have jogged on the Embarcadero. Also this week I have consumed grapefruit breakfasts, fruit salad lunches, cherry snacks and healthy dinners - although last night we had some Kraft Macaroni and Cheese (thank you Owen) with our chicken and red pepper skewers. But good lord, I am doing it, and I'm not hating it, although I must say that when I lose weight there is a certain progression, that I don't think I am happy with. Basically it is line that falls from my head and one that grows from my feet. And as I lose weight the lines progress - one down, and one up. So I imagine that my goal is to have them meet in my midline, thus producing all that I can possibly do without becoming an Olsen. But before the midline meet, I pretty much think I might look like a martini olive. I don't even know if that makes sense, but I don't care. You know why? Because I have those stupid little endorphins running through my body like little fairies of happiness that dance upon my brain and make me all giddy and smiling and not want to punch hippies. And that is a good thing. Happy Memorial Day Weekend!

The Weekly Wrap

Oh blog, where do I begin? I am sorry that I have been lax in updates, but there is not much going on right now. Was I to tell you how I made fruit salad on Sunday for an entire week's worth of lunch for me and John? Or how about how I have been cleaning my kitchen and bathroom every single night in an effort to have my house clean in 20 minutes? Or better yet, how I think the secret to my washing my hair after my run is to use the 2 in 1 shampoo, and then a separate conditioner. Hello bouncy. But nope, I decided not to share. Gawd, I am such a selfish bitch. So some highlights of the last week:

Hello Terrible Twos. This weekend I cut Owen's hair, or should I say, this weekend I cut Owen's mullet only to realize in hindsight that I replaced a mullet with circa 1980s Flock of Seagulls hair. A hairdresser I am not. However, I think with this cutting of his baby hair I have unleashed the demon within. Holy cow, someone is becoming his own little guy - and that guy is Toddlerzilla. For example, I have been reading a book to Owen as his last book before bed since he has been four months old. Its called Goodnight Baby. As a side note, I truly believe if I ever come down with Alzheimer's, there will be mumbling of "Today was fun, friends came to play, we played with blocks, and read our books, but now I'm sleepy . . .". Heaven help me. For the past week whenever this book is read, Owen starts whining, reaching for the book so he can throw it across the room. As you see Toddler Brain thinks no book, no goodnight. But unfortunately for him, Mommy Brain much schooled in the ways of manipulation reads another book, and then puts toddler brain to bed. I win (for now). I actually did a countdown to see the end of his Terrible Twos and the result was 549 days. Kill me.

The Goal of Thirty. The goal of thirty is going well, I have actually lost count truth be told, but I do believe I am at 19.5. I ran four days this week, and with a breakfast of grapefruit, a fruit salad for lunch and a pretty healthy dinner, I do believe I am on the path to better health. And we got the Nintendo Wii Fit last evening. And I am a-okay with the label of "overweight", because it was only slightly so. Although honestly, a video game just called me a porker. And for added insult, every time I step on the board, it goes "ooohhhhh" in a tone which I do believe is mocking. Talk about subliminal self esteem annihilation. However, it did inform me that I might "trip a lot". Well holy cow, Wii Fit - you are a promising an end to lifelong klutziness? Weight loss and not being embarrassed on a daily basis - yee promise the world machine!

Just Call Me Broiling Betty. So it seems that I have said goodbye to all other cooking methods in an effort to broil everything I eat. I am a total addict, which is funny considering the average of 15 minutes it takes for me to clean the broiling pan. Those not in the know, "broiling" is basically grilling in your oven. AND ITS AWESOME. Marinate some chicken, put it under the flames, flip, eat. And its good, like super good, like open flame, but not really good. Its broiling baby!

So there you have it I am an exercising mother to a newly created demanding demonlike child with an affinity, dare I say love, for her oven's broiler. And that is the week's wrap up.

Its Hot and My Body Tricks Me (Almost)

You know how hot it is today in San Francisco? About Eighty-Eight degrees.
You know what I did at lunch? Run.
You know what that makes me? Stupid.

I ran at lunch and thought death would quickly befall me, it was like running in hot soup. It was terrible, but now about forty-five minutes have past and my body is responding well. And my mind is doing little "you are so awesome" songs. I really did not want to run in hot as Hades weather, but my last run was just about a week ago, and it was promised that within The Goal of Thirty there would be no more than six days off. I had a good excuse - my monthly course, so it was not mere slacking off. Which brings me to another point: my body is at war with my mind.

I was five, count the 1-2-3-4-5 days, late. Now since the scare of last month, I have been militant about protection. So imagine the surprise when faced with a missed period. I took a pregnancy test that came up negative, so I waited, and waited, and waited. I am not late. Never - except that one time, and it resulted in Owen. So on Monday, my friend finally made her fashionably late appearance. I was happy, until it came to my attention that Monday means one thing - I NOW WILL BE OVULATING ON MONDAY. Damn you ovaries!!! Those not familiar with reproduction, please note that an egg is fertilized when a woman ovulates - which with a twenty-eight day cycle, means about Day 14. Since I have a 28 day cycle, that means I will ovulate Monday. Now you may be saying - so big deal. But as parents of a toddler, John and I like many tired and weary souls save most of the fun for the weekends. So my previous Thursday ovulation worked out perfectly. But now with this entire Monday ovulation scenario it seems that although my mind says no, my ovaries are saying yes. I understand this somewhat as I am approaching thirty-five, so my eggs are going to start going all "LAST CHANCE FOR CONCEPTION. ALL MEN ON DECK." But holy cow, who knew one's own body could be so devious and cunning. As a side note, I really cannot believe I will be thirty-five at the end of October. Holy old - I was fifteen 20 years ago - which is the year I got my first period. I have been on my moon bike for 20 years people!! So what will be the result of this dastardly move by my biological clock? Only time will tell - but I tell you, I will not go down without an easy fight - or at least six more bottles of vodka, 3 bottles of tequila, 18 visits to the Park Chalet, and a round of Six Cups.

Google Analytics

Well, the time has come for us to review (due to the high level of hilarity) some of the searches on Google that were directed to my site. Please note that this is for the time period of April 13, 2008 to May 13, 2008, and I am only including the ones that made me say - what in good god's green earth is wrong with people.

27 with wrinkled forehead!!! Please note the use of three exclamation points. Poor thing really, I have one word for you "moisturize".

37c cup porn. It is really a fickle pornographic mind that searches the net for cup size related jollies.

A boy's fatal flaw. Wow, what could that be? Penis maybe?

"Poop my pants". Okay then.

"Camel toe creating". It is amazing one would have to search this out when the causation could be easily linked to tight pants plus big vulva. Simple.

Bacon Smell Allergy. Seriously?

Cassandra Hairy Hairy Lady. I feel really sorry for this girl, but more importantly, the person who looked her up.

Cassie McCall porn. What?!?! Seriously, is there a porn star out there with my name? Or was I that drunk in college?

But by far the search that directs most to my site is my Patriots poem, because well it's awesome.

You Perspire, I Sweat Like a Stuck Pig

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

Day 12.5

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

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

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

Are You There God? Its Me Cassie.

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





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

Owen "Calvin" McCall

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

Owen

Calvin

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

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

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

Why Don't He Have Any Brudders?

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

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

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

6.5 - Goal of Thirty

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

Five Dollar Books

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

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


Perhaps the reason was this:



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

The Goal of Thirty

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

Oh Really Williams Sonoma

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

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

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

Return of the Blunt Bob

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

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

Me: What?

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

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

Marcus: You're funny.

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

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

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

The Scare and The Agony

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

J.Crew, Why you hating?

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

I Got a Dirty Mind and Sleep!

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

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

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

Teething, the 9th Circle of Hell

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

Owen Eats Pasta

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


Owen Eating Pasta from Cassandra McCall on Vimeo.

The Five Dollar Bookstore

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



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



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



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





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



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



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

Ms. Clumsy 2008

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

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

Captivate TV

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End of the Sickness Road

I honestly do not know what is worse when it comes to illness - when you are in the weeds marginally demented by lack of coherent thought or towards the end when you a few rungs from the top of the health ladder. Sure it sucks to be sick, but it is made better by the joys of Nyquil, Dayquil and your confused somewhat delirious being. Did I just say and not think you are a fucking asshole mutherfucker? Sorry, I'm sick. Whoopsie. Being almost healthy is a horrid state, easily tired; prone to coughing fits and whenever a nose is blown a mini Jackson Pollack remains in the wrinkled Kleenex. Not to brag, but if I was running a supply store for witches, let us just say the ingredient of mucusey snot would be well stocked. Perhaps it is the scientist in me, or my love of all things gruesome, but I am almost to the point of collecting it to gauge how much freaking yellow discharge my nose is producing. We are talking Guinness Records, people. I guess I should be happy that this latest duel of baby germs is almost completed. However, tomorrow Owen is in back-up child care which is often a petri dish of pediatric phlegm producing possibilities. (Good god, I love alliteration). So stay tuned. In other news, the other night I threw away the last half of my madras (vodka, OJ and cranberry), which was significant as it was then the realization that the illness had handily defeated me hit. One Cassandra Michele Catherine McCall does not throw away booze; she sucks it up, downs the remainder and continues onward. I think any unfinished adult beverage is akin to a leaving a child on a doorstep. In other words, a tragedy. This in certain realms would be considered "a problem." But whatever, there are few things in this life I view as sacred, and the drink is one of them. So to you half filled pint glass of vodka, I am sorry. I wish I could have loved you better, but alas, I could not. For this, I apologize.

From the Funny Farm

Last night I stumbled upon this little gem. You can thank me in the comments section.

Confessions of the Sick Mind

My brain in encased in a fleshy sinus induced cloudlike shell. Behind my eyes are the stabbing pains of a dull knife. My nose is faucet of clear snot on one side, and cakey green snot on the other. They battle, switching sides every 15 minutes. My throat is scratchy and pained. Obviously, I am still sick. Last night after Robitussining, I sat upright in bed coughing unable to sleep. When I finally did fall asleep I had a dream in which I had another baby, a son. I could not figure out a name for him but was debating between Thomas and Christopher. Also, somebody at the dinner party my in-laws were having tried to kidnap him and Owen. I knew this because I found their sippy cups in the front of their car. My mother-in-law served a salad that contained yellow peppers. I said "Are these yellow peppers?" And she said yes, I and looked a John and said "Did they just forget I was allergic?" "I mean I only passed out in Kauai." As my throat closed and dizziness ensued, I tried to breast feed my new baby only to repeatedly dose him with a spraying boob. Needless to say, the weary, sick and heavily medicated mind does make for nighttime drama. Also, I don't like those names for a baby boy at all. Tommy McCall sounds like some drunk at the end of a bar who just got out of jail. And I am pretty sure in my dream I said Chris McCall - oh goody, just like Chris March from Project Runway. Lord help me.

Parenting Ideas 101

I do not think it is evil of me to be considering that I think I want to place my son in a hermetically sealed bubble. He has been sick for a week, and thankfully, on the mend. His fever lasted five days and now John and I are suffering from this evil and vile disease. What is it about baby germs? I can't figure it out. It is like a normal virus enters a baby and suddenly it becomes this machine of madness that will infiltrate the best of immune systems with the precision of a ninja. I do not want to brag or anything, but prior to having a kid, I did not really get sick. I was healthy - although in hindsight, I think perhaps this was more to do with the fact that my blood alcohol level never really got below .08. Instantly pickled! However, I can't take the illness, I can't take Owen being sick, and I can't take John being sick. Welcome to the McCall House of Disease 2008. Enter at your own risk. So, this weekend, I am buying some Ziploc bags and configuring a bubble for the boy. It has to be done.

The Hawaiian Adventure

Well I have officially returned to Hawaii. It is official because Owen has a 101 degree fever. It seems the young child is incapable of plane travel without succumbing to the airborne attack of various viruses. Which is entirely understandable given the developing immune system, but still a pain of the ass when you realize you might have to call in sick from a job that you have been absent from for over a week. But luckily for me, and not so much for him, John was able to work from home - which translates to suffer immensely at home while balancing job and sick child. And that would be the post-vacation you are back to working hell homecoming. Yeah! Also yesterday was St. Patrick's Day, and I would like to state that I began my beer at 6:30 p.m. to finish it at 8:20 p.m. During that time I (a) drank first sip, (b) bathed Owen, (c) read to Owen, (d) put Owen to sleep, (e) started dinner, (f) cleaned the kitchen, (g) finished dinner and (h) had last sip. Which is quite the departure from my usual St. Patty's routine of (a) drink a shot, (b) drink a beer and (c) repeat until pass out and drooling. So, back to Hawaii, it was in a word fanfreakingfabulatastic. We swam, we snorkeled, we sunned. It was a most relaxing vacation to have experienced and a true horror to have left. But even the best of times when you are me (and cursed) have their downs. A few weeks before our vacation, the San Francisco Chronicle did an article on the Poipu area of Kauii, the exact location where we were staying. They listed many things to do and see, and in particular, told of a must eat experience, that of the Shrimp Truck. It was said the coconut and garlic shrimp were out of the world, and had to be tasted. So basically John and I salivated for 3 weeks, dying to eat the shrimp. The first full day, we went to the truck, ordered accordingly and headed home to eat. As I devoured my coconut shrimp and he his garlic, we were happy - happy in the sun, happy with our food, and happy that the boy was about to nap translating to an escape to the beach for boogie boarding. John, his Dad and I all headed to the beach and had much fun in the sun. The waves were great, the water refreshing, the boarding a blast. Reluctantly, we headed home walking the path to our condo. It was then I began to feel a tad off. Pretty dizzy, but I sucked it up and continued to walk. We got to the water spout to wash our feet, and it is here all went bad. I remember saying "I don't feel so good, I think I am going to faint." And well, that is exactly what I did - out cold, three times it happened. I remember waking up and having no clue where I was just John and his father standing over me. It is this point that John's Dad runs back to get some water as he is of the belief I am dehydrated. I drink and nothing is getting better, the illness coming in waves. I can't focus, pass out a few times, and sometimes slur my speech. An ambulance is called, and I am rushed to the hospital as my blood pressure is all over the place and my heart is racing and slowing down. I get the hospital, where they undress me and take notice of about 1,000 hives on my body. Seems my lead ambulance guy was color blind and could not see them. Now, I would think that as an EMT, you might want to be able to see the hives that could possibly indicate a severe allergic reaction. Just saying. It is determined at the hospital, I am suffering from anaphylaxis. Also known as an allergic reaction to something I ate. That something, the highly touted (and highly delicious) coconut shrimp. I think if I could punch that Chronicle writer, I would. Because honestly, do you think I would have eaten there if not for that article? After an IV of benedryl, a coma like sleep, a test of my blood pressure, 6 hours later I am released with the strict instructions never to consume shrimp, yellow pepper or mango - all three of which could have been the ingredient responsible. Although I truly do not believe it was the shrimp, am I going to risk it? Well maybe for Burma Superstar's salt and pepper shrimp - good god that stuff is yummy. But nope, I can't. I am officially shrimp free, which is okay since I often them of them as the cockroach of the sea. I guess the only thing of this entire experience I am grateful for is the fact that John's father now truly believes I am allergic to yellow peppers. Something, I am pretty sure he thought I was making up. Oh, and the fact that it was an allergic reaction, and not dehydration, which I think would have been brought up for years after the fact. Go me and my hyper sensitive immune system! Wooooo.

Doh! and Owen

I am a stupidhead. It is true; do not try to argue with me. I do some really stupid things at times. Like the time I put a FedEx label holder on my head as a hat wherein the sticky part rolled back and attached to my hair so I had to run to the bathroom with a FedEx label on my head. Yeah. Or the time when I was about 10 years old and told the deli guy I wanted eight Make Believe Hot Dogs. Make Believe Hot Dogs!! Ah, how about Maple Leaf Hot Dogs? There is nothing better than being 10 and being laugh at by the throngs of deli folk waiting for their number to be called. My latest bonehead, well two weeks ago I ordered a bathing suit from Victoria's Secret, as well some underwear. I tried on my bathing suit, and surprisingly did not want to kill myself. So I put all the bathing suit back in the package. Flash forward to last evening when I am looking for my new bathing suit, when it hit me. Last Thursday a/k/a Trash Night, I took said Victoria's Secret package thinking it was trash and threw it away. Yep, I threw away my brand new bathing suit, and 3 pairs of underwear (one of which was striped orange - which happens to be my favorite color). I might as well taken a 100 dollar bill and set it on fire. And although stuff like this happens, it is hard not to berate yourself as being an idiot. Really hard. So now I have to get a new bathing suit at lunch. Sully, I hate you!!!!! Anyway, some photos of Owen - which always makes me happy.

The Evil Beneath
















The Blank Stare (a/k/a farting or pooping)















The Holy Crap The Kid Looks Five

The Hustle, The Mistake, The Mad Piss

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

She puts the Oh! in Wino

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

A Moment of Reflection

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

An Open Letter to Arlen Specter

Dear Stupidhead,

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

Sincerely,
Cassandra M. McCall

Pre-Haircut Emotions and Obama Barack

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

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

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

Blah, Blah, Blah - PMS Ramblings

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

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

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

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

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