It Is Worth It

Sometimes as a parent you will stand holding your screaming banshee like child retreating inwardly to ask yourself was this worth it? Not to mention the fact that you have been sober for almost two years. But then one day your three year old son who is very curious about body parts says to you “Mama, what is that?” while pointing to your nether regions. Since you have a degree in Biology, you make use of it by saying “It is my vagina, Owen.” Your son turns to his Dad and says “Daddy, where is your vagina?” You then fall to the ground in a fit of laughter thinking, oh yes, absolutely worth it.

Out of the Mouth of Babes

My trip to Boston could be summed with one word “Family”. If using four, “a shitload of family.” It was great, I saw my nephew, cousins, aunts, uncles, parents and friends. Even though the plane ride to San Francisco was anxiety riddled hell. You want to torture a person - put them on a plane with an eleven month old that only wants to walk, explore and touch. It was so bad that when finally arriving, I saw John and burst into tears. Then I had a six pack. You may take the girl out of Boston, but you don’t take the Irish out of her. I have many great memories of my trip, but the following was worth its weight in gold.

My brother has a son Nicholas who is four and a half years old. I have not seen Nick since my visit in June of 2007, we did not really bond then because he was a toddler, and I had a six month old who really liked my boobies. As he sat at the dining room table drawing, I decided to join him. Nothing says bonding like a serious coloring session. Now I do not consider myself gifted in the art department, but I can draw. I can draw a dog, and it looks like a dog. People have said, “Wow, you can draw.” And I am all, “Bob Villa Bitches!”

We sat and I asked “Do you want me to draw anything?” This is where Nick said “Ncredible Ulk.” Seems my nephew has this speech issue where he drops the first letter of every word. He is getting help for this because although insanely cute at four and a half, I am pretty sure when you saunter up to some girl at a bar in college and ask “An I uy ou a ink?”, the evening is not going to end in a drunken grope session.

Unfortunately, I did not take a photo of my Hulk, but as Incredible Hulks go, it ranked an easy 7, possibly even an 8. Then I showed Nick. “The Ulk oesn’t ear nderwear, Assie” (The Hulk does not wear underwear, Cassie). You see I had drawn a pair of super hero undies for my Hulk. Granted, the kid was right. The Ulk does not wear Nderwear. He wears pants that are frayed because he just got super pissed off that some bitch on MUNI decided to wear an entire bottle of Whore Island perfume (side note: I am just guessing here). Not once did Nick say “Wow, Assie, good drawing.” Instead he showed me his Hulk, which was the size of a dime and a stick figure colored green. My guy had hair, frayed pants, bulging muscles and a menacing hulkish grin. But whatever, do I validate my drawing ability from the eyes of an almost five year old? Fuck yeah I do. So I did what any self respecting adult would do, I stopped drawing. And he did not even care in the slightest. Which means only one thing - this kid is his father’s son. Next year, he will be taking me up the bathroom to “do my hair” like the other girls. Yes, in high school my brother took pity on me and my social leper status to inquire of his harem how to perfect late 80s/early 90s styled hair. I am unsure what pain to you is, but at 16 years of age, this was debilitating.

Until August, Nicholas, until August.

Bring on the Binge!

Thinking of what I miss of Boston, I have realized that (aside from family and friends) about 80% of it is food related. In addition to the roast beef, foods I miss:

1. Oysters. Sure they have oysters in San Francisco, but what they don’t have much of is the Wellfleet. I love my oysters large and briny. And yes I am looking at you Kumamoto oyster, obviously the other San Francisco treat. You may call yourself an oyster, but if you were in a fight with a Wellfleet, your face would be a mass of blue and black and purple and your body broken.

2. Chinese Food. One would think living in a city whose population is forty percent Asian there would be Chinese food to impress and dazzle this tummy o mine. But nope, its sucks.

3. Clam Chowder. Although this may be negated due to my discovery of the Tadich Grille whose Boston style clam chowder is quite deliciously awesome. Don’t get me started on the bread that comes with it - sourdough awesomeness. But I can’t go there grab a cup and leave, so Clam Chowder at a local venue with a pack of oyster crackers, I miss you.

Now that I think about it, thank god I have been running for eight months, because I am pretty sure that my entire time in Boston will be stuffing my face with foods my belly use to adore.

IT’S FAMOUS AFTER ALL

At 10:50 p.m. this Thursday I will be setting off to Boston with Maggie in tow for a long weekend to celebrate the fact that my Dad is almost a senior citizen (sixty years old). What was originally thought as “no big deal”, is slowly making me insanely anxious. Not sure if I have reported my overactive and slightly macabre tendencies on this blog before (serial killers are awesome by the way), but let me say this. When I was in Amsterdam circa 1996 with a friend and was sick, that friend went out one night by herself - you see staying in a hotel room the size of a closet with a sick girl was not her idea of a good time in Europe. When I awoke in a haze of codeine cough medicine (sold in the drugstore!), she was not back. It was then, I came to the most logical conclusion for her absence, she was attacked and murdered. And as I sat in the dark thinking of her funeral, what I would say to her mother, she bounded in completely stoned, drunk and alive. Still my thoughts often go to criminally insane. Once I fell asleep in a tub, waking hours later convinced a serial killer was outside the bathroom door waiting to kill me. I stood at the door crying softly and getting dressed so that I could make my escape upstairs into my bedroom. Yep, I am that girl, the one who thinks someone is going to kill her but instead of running outside into the street screaming, I run upstairs to my room to my bed and under my covers. Because the knives of serial killers are nothing in the face of whatever Bed in a Bag my mom purchased that was on sale at Zayres. So, in an effort to curb my nervous imagination (the plane will go down), this week on the ole blog is Boston Week.

Those living in New England know of “The Famous Roast Beef”. It is everywhere and every sub shop has a version. Growing up I would often say to myself, why the hell is it famous? It’s a god damn roast beef sandwich with sauce on an onion roll. Duh. Flash forward to me living in San Francisco, PMSed, cranky, cursing and wanting nothing more that Famous Roast Beef sandwich. But it is no where to be found because San Francisco is famous for crab, sourdough bread, gay men and earthquakes, not roast beef. That is a New England treat, a tradition, and every so often, my brain will say to me - ROAST BEEF. ROAST BEEF. And I have to say, shut up brain, there is no roast beef here, but here is some fucking sourdough bread. But this weekend I get to say, one large roast beef, extra sauce please.

A Tale of Two M&Ms

When potty training, one must resort to bribery in order for the child to comply. Owen is potty trained, although still in pull ups, which will end soon. For #1 he gets an M&M and for #2, a matchbox car. Appropriately phrased, he is amassing a shitload of cars. So now we only reward “big poops” with cars. Yes people, this is my life.

On Tuesday night, there was a “little poop” where Owen asked “M&M, Mummy and Daddy?” I reached for the M&Ms which I keep in an old pickle jar (and yes, I recognize it is not Oklahoma circa 1933). Standard protocol is Owen reaching in and taking one M&M, something that he has been doing without issue for weeks. Accidently, he grabbed two. “Two?”, he said. “Two M&Ms”. His glee obvious. “No, Owen. Just one. Just one M&M, put the other one back.” With a look of pure confusion, there he stood, an M&M in each hand, directing his gaze between the jar and his M&M holding hands. “Owen, put back the M&M. You just get one. One only.” Looking at his face, you could see his brain completely engaged. The devil on one shoulder shouting “Eat them. Eat them both - NOW.” And the angel chirping, “Mommy said only one. Put the other one back.” Then it happened. He looked at me, he looked at John and with almost lightening speed popped both M&Ms in his mouth and laughed an almost cackle. He fooled us! Admittedly, the semi-stifled laughter John and I shared was probably not the best parenting move considering last night given the same opportunity, Owen stole a handful of M&Ms. I can say that this is one of my favorite moments with my son yet, because everyone has to give into the devil sometimes, especially in the face of M&Ms.

Belle of the Weight Loss Ball

Two things about losing a bunch of weight: (1) people notice and like to go on and on about it and (2) you realized that you must have been really fucking fat. Although, was I? Yes, I have gone down 3 sizes, almost 40 pounds since starting work (60 since having Maggie) and am venturing into Fit Year (holler 1998) territory. But was I that big? Being tall, I can carry more pounds than most, but the reaction from all is getting a tad hysterical. My favorites being the following:

You're still running? Yes I am still running. I like it now. Who knew? You know how they tell you about running and its addictive properties, but no one ever explains it to you because there are two types of people - those who run and those who don’t. It’s kinda like a secret society, and the first time out you are running with the runners, but you are not one of them, you like to pretend to be. And boom, seven months later, you don’t run for three days and suddenly you are getting trembles, shouting at people like a crack whore in need of a fix. So yeah, it is fucking addictive.

Good for you. This is by far my favorite of the all the comments, only because I am insane and can’t help to think the person just said “Good for you (you fucking cunt, I hate you).” Because that is how I would feel. I would be, holy Jesus, here she comes again with her thinner face, and her running, and her smaller sweaters. Why does she mock me and my big butt? WHY!!!!! Asshole.

So yes, I am a tad off. Is this even news?

From the Mouth’s of Babes

Yesterday morning as I sat on the couch, looking at Owen I exclaimed: “Boy, am I tired.” He looked at me, and without any hesitation said, “Take a nap, Mommy.” I am also pretty sure, he thought to himself “Good god, what a stupid bitch”.

Horror of Horrors

Last night was the first attempt at the night wean. What is a night wean you ask? Well a night wean is when you stop feeding your baby with your boob at night. Surprisingly, it went extremely well, meaning tonight will probably be hell. But I care not, you know why? Because I was running today and had to place my building access card in my jog bra. When my run was completed, I searched for the card. As I stood there groping my breasts, there was nothing. Did it fall out? Did I lose it? Wasn’t it just there? But then, a slight tinge. Hand down my shirt and into my bra, there it lay, my 1 1/2 inch by 3 inch card completely hidden under my right tit. So when Maggie is difficult tonight, I will go to my special place - a place that does not involve boob girth capable of playing hide and seek with a god damn building security badge. 38 days!

Look Out, Here I Come

I just booked a trip to Boston for the last week of February in order to celebrate my father’s 60th birthday. This also means that there will be a huge snowstorm during my trip which will cause my slow descent to insanity at an airport because Maggie will be accompanying me on the journey. Nothing says awesome like being stuck in an airport with a kid about to turn one who can run. Do you know there are some babies who don’t even walk until after a year? Me either. Because my kids decided to do it 10.5 months and 8.5 months. And please don’t take this as bragging, because it is not. Those two kids are assholes. Which makes me wonder, what the hell is the rush? Are they trying to get away from me? So yes, Boston noreasters pay attention to my call - do not come between February 25 and March 2, 2010. Thank you very. Those unfamiliar with a “noreaster”, it is basically a snow storm that comes to town to dump a foot of snow on you only to get caught up in the ocean and turn around to pound you with snow again. Basically, a snowstorm bitch slap. Wish me luck.

Defiance

At this moment, I should be in my office’s lactation room listening to the gasping wheeze of my Avent Isis Duo collecting breast milk for my second born. But I don’t want to. This decision will almost certainly lead to the manual pumping of an overly full right bosom at approximately 8:30 p.m. and the lamenting of said decision. Do you know today marks fifty days. Fifty days from today, I will be free. My time served. I have been wondering of late when the day approaches, what emotions will bubble. Sadness for the fact this is it, no more babies? Accomplishment for the fact I did this year long sentence twice for both of my kids? Happiness that Maggie is a year old and we made it without killing her, Owen or each other? Joy that I can finally drink vodka, whiskey and tequila? Not really sure (well other than the fact there will be joy in the form of a Manhattan), but I am stumbling to finish this nursing marathon. I want it over, I want it done, and I want a non-pornographic bosom. I cannot wait for March 5, 2010 to arrive. Its been a long haul.

Resolved - Twenty Ten

Yes, I know there was a promise of a blog post about new year resolutions using the term “tomorrow” that was never delivered. But honestly, did you really expect one? Now that it is almost a week later, I feel comfortable saying I made no resolutions. Because I am not retarded. Although that could be up for debate. The thing about resolutions is that you are resolving to do something that you should have done ages ago, but it is a start and I for one should not be negating the good they may bring. So let’s shut up about it. Personally, 2010 will be about running since I have booked a trip to Boston for the first two weeks of August. Nothing provides motivation like seeing people you have not seen in three years, and in some cases twenty-one years as there is a promise of a grammar school reunion. Gotta love the Facebook. So yes, I will continue to run. Weighing myself last week it was revealed less than four pounds were left to attain goal weight. Woo hoo. However, I did something I should not have, I searched the ideal weight for someone 5’9. The answer between 128 and 168 depending on frame size. To determine frame size one put their middle finger and thumb around their wrist. If you overlap, you are small; if you touch, medium; and if you can’t connect, then large. Since god likes to laugh at me and curse me often, I was born with very small wrists. Tiny in fact. Don’t arrest me officer, because this Houdini will be escaping via her slender wrists. But this means I should lose 20 more pounds to be “ideal”. Twenty freaking pounds. Which seems absolutely insane, but we shall see. God knows I am not giving up my friends wine, beer and brownies, but I resolve to continue my running, eating healthy and see how it goes. Are you with me?

Oh My How the Time Flies - 2009 The Recap

Oh my god, it’s the end of the year don’t you know it, and what do I have to show for it? Other than a few more wrinkles. The following sums up my year. Holy God I am boring.

January 2009. I spent most of this month in bed on bed rest due to pregnancy. This would be the month I started to grow my second ass. Many would think that the growth of a second ass would be sweet, you know those in circus and carnival circles, or those in a large ass fetish community, but for me, not so much.



February 2009. Still on bed rest. It is here that my second ass really began to define itself. I ate a bunch, I watched a bunch of crappy TV and I attempted to crochet a baby blanket (which remains incomplete).



March 2009. This is the month where I basically went insane. I was off bed rest and expected my second baby to arrive any day as she was due on March 14. Because those assholes at BabyCenter say second babies come bigger and sooner. LIARS. Nine days later, on March 23, 2009, I gave birth to a baby we decided to name Maggie Nicole McCall.



April through May 2009. Not much here. Take care of baby, feed baby, watch baby smile, watch Owen try to kill baby, stop Owen from killing baby. Repeat. Also stopped Maggie from taking up with Somali pirates. Oh, and Happy Birthday John!



June 2009. I return to work after a six month absence. There is no cake. This is good because this month I begin to battle Azzilla by running at lunch on the Embarcadero. Although calling it running is a stretch since I basically walked, jogged and coughed a lung.

July 2009. No idea. Fireworks I am sure. Did continue with the running which actually resembles running. This marked the month in which some lady took me aside when running to tell me about a “sports bra”, yes, obviously my bounce was that bad. Got a new Iphone, I wonder why?



August 2009. Two lovely weeks spent at the cabin where Owen learned how to jump out of his pack and play and I learned how to wail to God as to why he has forsaken me.

September 2009. Maggie is six months, things are easier, life is better, my ass is half its old size. I made this pizza.



October 2009. I turn thirty-six. Three to the Six to the I am old. Can someone please explain to me how I became thirty six years old, because just the other day I was twenty-two at X night at Axis and some guy bought me a Zima with Chambord. Stay Classy, Cassie!



November 2009. Turkey Turkey. Owen decided to get a fever on Thanksgiving, and basically turn into most pathetic toddler ever. I made a turkey and a blueberry pie. Sometimes, I really do wish I could marry me.



December 2009. Since this month is the most fresh in my child having, riddle with inaccuracies and yes I do sometimes to talk to my self so shut the hell up mind, I recall my son turning three years old and having Christmas with five children 3 years of age and under and wine, lots of it. Also Owen’s potty training is taken to a new level, all I want for Xmas is a kid who does not poop in his underwear. Thanks for nothing Santa.



Tomorrow, goals for the new year!

One Love

I think everyone has an idea as to what sort of parent they would be, permissive, strict, middle of the road and everyone has steadfast “I’ll never”s. Some of mine being I’ll never hit my kids (well at least when sober so I can’t remember) and I’ll never try to be the cool parent (because really do I want to be friends with my kids - hell no. I want slave labor). But today I broke one of these “I’ll never”s. Today, I bought my son Owen a tie dye shirt. It is no secret that all things hippie make me angry, to Birkenstock socked feet, to the Grateful Dead, to white people with dreadlocks, to the general retardness of something that happened fifty years ago and should be a glimmer in everyone’s eyes. Again, surprising I moved to San Francisco. And why did I have to buy my son a tie dye shirt with gigantic peace symbol on it? Because his preschool class are being rasta reindeer and performing Bob Marley’s One Love for their holiday show. Yes, 3 year old Rastafarians, singing and dancing to Reggae for Christmas. When thinking of reindeer, I think Rudolph, red noses and holiday cheer, I don’t think of tie dye clad toddlers with fake dreadlocks and antlers signing One Love. But I can't lie, I love that this is happening, even if it means that Owen does now owns a hippie peace shirt. Because let's face it, there are always matches, but not many opportunities for your son to be embarrassed 10 years from now as Mom whips out Rasta Reindeer 2009 for the 1,000th viewing.

Pooping Boots

Yesterday it was a pigeon flying into my head, and today it was an accidental pooping. Yes, you read that right. In God’s effort to humiliate me into being a lard ass, yesterday he summoned a pigeon with the flying experience of a blind man to smack me upside my head, and today he summoned my stomach into a state of rumbling that only creates fear. No motivation to increase speed is bigger than that of a potential pooptastic accident on the Embarcadero. I made it, thank god. This week has also marked not one, not two but six different people telling me how much weight I have lost. An insanely great accomplishment considering I thought that my five months of running was for the caloric intake consumed this past Thanksgiving weekend. Blueberry pie bitches! That being said, yesterday my jcrew boots came (see below) and today I will be venturing to The Gap in order to try on skinny and straight leg jeans so that I can tuck them into said boots. I know people, the fashion! Hopefully I will not chicken out as this once again seems a very “costumey” way to dress, but these boots are quite lovely and I have seen many a gal about town with a largesse more than me do same. And so it continues, my slow crawl out of the coma of pregnancy and baby having into the sunlight of being myself with a new pair of kick ass boots.

OMG

As I was stepping onto the Embarcadero to begin my run up flies a scared pigeon who proceeds to slap its body into the left side of my head. I kid you not. Do you know that pigeons are flying rats? They are. Also did you know that you always think they are going to hit you in the head and you move awkwardly to avoid them, but the don't hit you and you look like a complete jack ass. But my pigeon obviously a lover of the drink, flies and hits me in the god forsaken head. So what did I do? I continued to run while cursing how gross it was and thinking of the bird lice now hatching eggs in my hair. Good lord I hate pigeons. Hate, hate, hate, hate. So now in addition to pooping on me twice a year, they have added "bitch slapping upside the head" to the mix. I need a protective helmet.

2, 4, 6, 8 - We Don't Like To Separate

That is the face of a baby that does not want me to leave. EVER. Yes dear friends, it is separation anxiety time at the McCall household. Separation anxiety is when your baby knows who you are, that they like you, that you are fun, and oh yeah, you carry those treasures that provide a steady supply of frothy milky bliss and if you leave them, they think you have stumbled into a black hole of non-existence so they start to panic and cry uncontrollably. Babies are so stupid. This is the stage in which Maggie has to grasp onto Object Permanence, wherein she recognizes that when I leave to go into another room, I still exist. I told you they were stupid. This does not really cause too much of a problem, but at night, after I nurse her and try to slip her back into her crib she is revolting. Because she is all - hey booby lady, where are you? Where are you? WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? I love my daughter, and for the most part, she has been a wonderfully easy baby. But for that all goodness, there had to be one bad. And that bad is a cry that is absolutely piercing and ultimately destructive to my nerve core. It sounds as if she is being stabbed to death, it is not a cry - it is a gut wrenching wail of wounding. I can’t listen to it without an immediate twitch in my right eye combined with a searing pain behind my temples. All those not familiar with the wail of banshees, I submit to you the following: In Irish Folklore is a spirit in the form of a wailing woman whose appearance is an omen that you will die. Although in Maggie’s case, it is just that I want to die. Oh, separation anxiety, how the hell did I forget about you? Oh yes, I know, because one tends to block out traumatic injuries to the psyche.

The Beast Within

What just occurred in the ladies bathroom was absolutely gruesome in nature. Have you ever had a pimple in your nose? Or Nasacne, little buggers of excruciating pain that pop out of nowhere to create havoc in your life. Do you realize how many times you touch your nose in a day? Why surely, not because you are not obsessive compulsive and insane. But imagine a pimple eligible for statehood in your right nostril and you have allergies. Egads! After six hours of what must have been an extreme growth spurt I inspected the specimen. Good god, its large size and white nature surprised me so. There was no other answer; it had to be dealt with. I grabbed a Kleenex and prayed no one entered the bathroom as I stood nose up to the mirror with fingers probing. There are many things in life I aspire to be, weirdo at work, not one of them. In what can only be attributed to Twister like gifts - right hand on forehead, left hand on nose - I managed with a shriek and tear filled eye to pop said beast. Except for the fact that my nose bled like it was 1985 and Michael J. Fox in Bright Lights, Big City, success was had.

The Birthing of Maggie Nicole

Yesterday on my run it occurred to me that I never did detail the magic that was the birth of Ms. Maggie Nicole McCall. In an effort to correct this huge injustice, and also let her understand what exactly she did to me on March 23, 2009, I submit the following.

After eight weeks of bed rest, four weeks of wondering if she would come early, the due date of March 14, 2009 came and went. This did not surprise me since her brother was eleven days overdue, and I was still hoping for a St. Patty’s Day baby. At my doctor’s appt on March 16, I was asked if I wanted to be induced. No doctor, I would rather continue my life as the world's largest woman not currently in a circus. Of course, induce me. Unfortunately, St. Patrick’s Day was booked. This was probably for the best considering a daughter named Maggie McCall born on St. Patrick’s Day is just screaming for hospitalization during a future twenty-first birthday party. The next date available was Thursday, March 19. It was during this appointment I was told that my cervix was 100% effaced and dilated 4 cm and basically my baby would be coming at any moment. However, they did not know Maggie “I love my womb” McCall, because on Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. as instructed, I called the hospital. If you have never been pregnant, let me tell you that 40 plus weeks of pregnancy without a baby does something to the mind and spirit. It is an anxiety mixed with zero patience and the slightest bit of crazy. I gave the nurse my information and she told me “Sorry, but we are really busy, call back at 9:00 a.m.” So I did. I was then greeted with the information that there was no way I would be induced today. It was here when my I had a psychotic break, as I put the phone down, went into the bathroom, sat on the toilet and cried the howls only the overly pregnant can make. My doctor called later in the day to say that she was sorry, but there was nothing they can do, and my new induction date was Monday. She also said she thought I would not go over the weekend. Placing bets? Correct! On Monday, I called again and this time got the okay to come. Hooray - baby exit, stage vagina. Also it should be noted that if I was denied admittance, I would have gotten a coat hanger. Just saying.

To the hospital we went. Surprisingly, we were given the very room we were going to have Owen in before it was discovered that the TV did not work and there was an upgrade to birthing room Shangri-la. But I was fine with this room, because this bitch was getting her eviction notice. The plan was to break my water, because I was already so dilated and effaced, labor would start pretty soon after. Yippee.

I was offered an epidural and since I vividly remember my OB/GYN up to her elbows inside me after my placenta with Owen detached I wholeheartedly said yes. However, since with my first epidural and a puncture of my spinal fluid that in turn created the worst mind numbing headache known to man, I was cautious. I told the anesthesiologist exactly what happened, and he said okay. Also he wanted to know the doctor’s name, which I did not know, because I am pretty sure when you do puncture the spinal fluid, the other anesthesiologists think you are a fucking retard. This guy however claimed to be “super good.” And I was all “Okay, buddy, whatever.”

It is here that I should also mention our nurse. Because I was 100% effaced, 4 cm dilated and this was my second baby, it was thought I would “go fast” when my water was broken. This nurse was assigned to me, and only me. And that nurse had no sense of humor. In fact, at one point when John, his mother and I were all cracking jokes, she said to us “Oh, I get it, you are funny people” in a heavy Asian accent and a look of complete scorn. Yes, lady, we are funny people, now do me a favor and get the funny progeny out of my funny vagina.

So back to the epidural (get it, “back”?). The numbed me accordingly. And Mr. Expert got to work. After what I can only guess was forty-five minutes, twenty plus pokes and me sweating profusely in pain, he decided to abandon the space where you usually put the needle and go one above. Guess what people? Epidurals are actually not that bad and only take two minutes. Seems in addition to having a freakishly long back, I also have an “elusive” space between my L4 and L5, and that he recommended in the future they go in L3 and L4. As if I am going to have any more kids asshole.

After my epidural, they came in to break my water. Do you know they break your water with what pretty much looks like a big crochet hook? So honestly, I could have gone up there with a wire hanger and been fine. It was a breeze. Okay, contractions. Let’s go! We waited, and waited. There was nothing. No blip on the Contract-In-Nator. Nothing but a steady line of you will never have this baby. It was here that my nurse started to get a bit pissed. She would come in, look at us funny people, and then silently swear to herself as to why I was not going into labor. I mean I was 4 cm dilated, 100% effaced and they broke my water three hours ago. Then she mentioned the magic word “pitocin”. Do you want pitocin? Hell yes, I want pitocin. And then it happened. Contractions. Glorious, sweet, wonderful contractions. But the Contract-In-Nator was not recording them, but I sure as hell was feeling them. It was then decided that the baby would have internal monitors because they could not get an accurate reading on her heartbeat. This was about thirty minutes after the contractions had started, and as they reached in to put them on Maggie’s head, it was discovered I was fully dilated. Have I mentioned to you how much I adore the inventor of Pitocin? I am pretty sure both Maggie and Owen would still be in my uterus at this moment playing a game of pinochle if not for its invention. As our nurse fluttered about the room, happy to do something other than try to understand our humor and roll her eyes at my belly, I was happy. Truly happy that this pregnancy was coming to an end, and I would finally see Maggie. They then told me to do a practice push, so that they could determine my pushing ability. I pushed, and then the nurse said “Stop, I am calling your doctor.” That is right, I had that kid’s head pretty much out with one push, and my doctor had to race over so that she could say to me, “Okay, Cassie, push.” I did and Maggie was out. Two pushes bitches!

John told me that basically Maggie came out with a face of “Hello? What the hell? Oh my god!” And the tears came, and they put her on my belly. I gazed upon the back of her head full of dark hair while John and his mom gushed over her beauty. I then became progressively pissed off, as evidenced in the photo below.

Because Owen had pooped himself, and I had a detached placenta I did not see him and pretty much thought I was going to die. This time, I carried Girlzilla for 40 weeks, 9 days and 8 weeks of bed rest and all I got to see was the god damn back of her head. But then I did see her, and she was absolutely gorgeous. (Have I told you that people say we look alike? Take that as you will.).

Maggie Nicole McCall, born in two pushes on March 23, 2009 at 3:58 p.m. to “funny people.”

I Like Big Butts

Today as I was perusing Nordstroms.com for some denim, I stumbled across the following:


I like the fact that Nordstroms just goes out there with this. They don’t simply say “available in plus sizes”, they say - here is a big ole denim covered ass for your perusal. Whoah! Once again I am involved in the frantic search for jeans because the ones that I loved from The Gap are now too big. Which is great in the sense my ass is no longer that big, but sad in the sense it took me a very long time to find those jeans. Also, I don’t know what it is, but I pretty much want to set a match to everything I own and start over. But I am cheap, and hate shopping so there is that. So if you are reading this, why don’t you nominate me for What Not To Wear. Thanks.

Reason #257

I am suffering from a cold, and it is a total lingerer. Although starting to feel symptoms last Monday, nothing truly manifested itself until Wednesday evening. Now a week later from that Wednesday evening it feels as if my head is surrounded in a green snot haze. For the first three days, I pretty much wrote it off to allergies, because I like to do that. I am not one to ride the sickness pity party parade. Its allergies, dude. But nope, this is not allergies, this is a cold. And like any crazy person with denial about illness, I ran yesterday, with a chest cold. In all honesty, I can say it was okay, I felt better. But then this morning, I woke up. The worst part about all of this is that because I am breastfeeding there is nothing to take. I can’t Nyquil into hazy facial recognitions and purple ponies, nor can I Dayquil in order to make my officemates not look at me with abject fear. I take Halls Menthol Cherry Drops and this Vick’s Vapor Rub nasal shot that looks like I am doing cocaine. And this is reason #257 I will be happy to stop nursing in March 2010. Go Immune System!

Spanx You Very Much

It is a well documented fact that when your uterus is used to grow a child, after you expel said life sucker, err baby, you tend to fall off the current fashion trends bandwagon. Where once there were heels, dresses, straight ironing and applied make-up now there is a slapping of tinted moisturizer, a brushing of lip gloss, a quick comb and hopefully no baby gooped clothing. For those scoring at home today proved to be unsuccessful. This is why when on maternity leave watching the Today Show’s Fourth Hour hosted by Kathie Lee and Hoda that I first heard of Spanx. Later in the week, Spanx was again mentioned, this time on Oprah. Seems when I was birthing babies a revolution of under garments occurred. And did anyone tell me? Nope. Because of an impending wedding, I decided to buy some Spanx. I mean if Oprah tells you it’s a must, IT IS A MUST. Even though there is seemingly another fashion trend of women wearing no panty hose (someone? anyone?), I ordered the high waisted, tummy tucking, thigh shaping nylon Spanx in nude. I am sorry, but my ancestors come from Ireland, there is no way these very white legs should be seen by the public. The only time someone needs to be witness to such blindingly white light, is after they die. Truth told, after ordering these twenty-eight dollar essentially control top hosiery, I felt there was no way the buzz could live up to the product. Walgreens sells the same thing for $4.99. When my Spanx arrived, I looked upon them with a fear that is only shared by victims of torture, this was some serious engineering. No way would these things ever be comfortable. But as I put them on, it occurred to me, who was I to doubt Oprah Friggin Winfrey. Holy cow, the comfort. Also did I mention that have a pee hole? Because they do. A god forsaken pee hole, “to make your life easier”. Why thank you Spanx, I appreciate you thinking of me being drunk and trying to pee when wearing an almost chastity belt. You rock. So yes, although my womb has housed two, I am getting back into the fashion game. First with Spanx, and someday, god willing, black diamonds.

Farmer's Market Betrayal

On Sunday morning in our weekly attempt to get Owen worn out significantly in order to watch football in peace, and by peace I mean him running around the house yelling “Play Niners Daddy. Tickle!! Tickle!!”. Tickle meaning tackle, and Niners meaning football. As a Patriots fan hearing these words from my son’s mouth fractures my heart each and every time. We journeyed to the Stonestown Farmers Market which has two jumpy houses. Thank you Stonestown Mall for thinking of me and my football Sundays. Sure I can’t go to Zeke’s and drink pitchers while drunkenly conversing with other Patriots fans about how picking up a Patriots running back always kills my fantasy football team and how pretty Tom Brady is, but I can have my son jump around an inflatable plastic orb so that he will be dazed and confused enough to allow something other than Cars and Monsters, Inc. to be played on the television. Yesterday after Owen had exhausted his ticket supply, we walked around the market wherein I saw this jewelry vendor. If one ever frequents Farmer’s Markets, usually the jewelry is pretty much turquoise and whatever else the stoned not very washed hippie making it decided to create. But in this display case was a most beautiful necklace. Looking I was immediately drawn in by its beauty, its dark metallic gray undertones, its shiny, and its absolute awesome. Oh pretty necklace, I love you so. Before even asking the vendor about the necklace and disregarding my fundamental cheapitude, I thought to myself that even if it was two hundred and fifty dollars, it would be mine. It would be mine! Then the following conversation was had:

Me: Hi, can I see that necklace. What is that? A metallic gray?
Vendor: Lovely choice. These are black diamonds.
Me: Laughter. (Thinking - oh sure, diamonds, right. At a Farmer’s
Market? Funny.)
Me: Its so beautiful, how much is it?
Vendor: 1000.
Me: One Thousand DOLLARS?!?!?!
Vendor: Yes, it is not something one typically finds at a Farmer’s Market.
Me: No shit, asshole.

It was then I thanked him and walked away dejected. It is not a lie to say that for over ten years I have searched for a perfect necklace. And yesterday, that necklace was found. With a price tag of a thousand dollars. Usually, this would not upset me so because I tend to avoid high end jewelry stores for this very reason. But at a Farmers Market? A one thousand dollar necklace for sale at a god forsaken FARMERS MARKET. I am unsure what a black diamond is, but I am sure of one thing - it stopped my heart. My eyes became saucers of adoration. I should have punched that vendor in the mouth, took the necklace and ran off to Kauai with it. But nope, I just went on the internet and further hurt myself by googling “black diamond necklaces” for an hour. Oh black diamond strand necklace, will you ever be mine? Will you? Also, anyone reading this right now, please note my birthday is Friday.

My Imagination

When I started running, it never occurred to me that seventeen weeks later there would be this amount of pain. A pain that is completely and utterly isolated in my triceps. It hurts to type, which I do believe is an indication of one hell of a sore. Logically all I can come up with is that my body is attacking the last true bastion of fat laden cells. When thinking of losing weight, I imagine little beasts consuming the fat stores that lay upon my body. Which scientifically is pretty fact based; however, I don’t believe most people believe it looks like this:



Eat em up my little purple monster. Eat em up.

Eff You Great Britain

I just finished ordering possible outfit number three for a wedding I am attending in November.

Outfit No. 1 was from J.Crew and tragically incapable of holding my ginormous nursing boobs. I actually ordered the dress a size up in an attempt to house said monstrosities. Unfortunately the size up meant that my chest area was still sausaged while the bottom of the dress could smuggle a family of five across the Mexican border. It was at the point I realized that I either had to do a wrap or a two piece. No dress without tons of alterations would do, and since I am not nursing forever (although it seems like it at times), there is no way Cheapskate McCall would spend money on something so unnecessary.

Outfit No. 2 is a simple black wrap dress with 3/4 sleeves that I got at Macy’s for the absolute low, low price of $64.00 bux. This is a great dress, and perfectly acceptable for the wedding, even though it cries boring. But in a fix, it will do. And every girl should have a black wrap in her wardrobe.

Today I got an e-mail from Boden declaring “new winter outfits.” And on perusal, I instantaneously feel in love with a 50s styled beaded cardigan and sateen skirt. A two piece wedding appropriate outfit that when paired with my black suede Mary Janes would make a girl skip. In my head, Cheapskate McCall was all “you have a dress, it fits, why bother?” But I was all shut up, I am acting on impulse, and I still get 10% off and free shipping, so quite down you ole bat. (Again, isn’t it is amazing I am let among the people?).

However, fine folks, do you know that Boden has UK sizing. I looked at the UK Sizing Charts to discover that even though I have lost forty-five pounds since having Maggie, and am finally in my old size (even though I still have 15 pounds to go), I still had to order a size up because it said “if you are a larger size then please order up for the UK equivalent.” Uh-huh. Talk about a fashion bitch slap. I will not be moving to London, EVER!

I never thought that one of the most important relationships in my life would be with the following:

What is that you ask? That is my breast pump. Every working day, five times a week, three times a day for 15 minutes a time, my Avent Isis Duo molests me. In addition to working for the man, I am working for the mammaries. This pump has lasted an entire year with Owen, and god willing, through these last five months with Maggie even though it sometimes delivers an exasperated wheezing that begs to ask “Aren’t you done with this shit yet?” No breast pump, I am not done with this shit. You will know when that time has come because I will be coming to you in a drunken vodka haze with a sledgehammer. You can imagine that this is a whole bunch of alone time with my exposed boobies. I usually pass the time with my Iphone, Nintendo, a book or just staring at how far that god damn machine can stretch my nipples. I am talking inches people. There are times, I forget to lock the door of our lactation room while pumping. That is what they call it here - not the Milk Mecca or the Conference Room Boob - but “Lactation Room.” I know that public education being as it is might make someone say “Lactation?” What is that? I should investigate. And sometimes with unlocked door, you do get a curious visitor. Once very heavy set woman in her fifties entered, someone obviously not lactating or in need of a lactation room, but medical science being as it is and the average age of first time San Francisco mothers hovering around 45, maybe she was. But my answer was quickly found in her reddened face at the sight of me, my boobs and awesome hum of the Isis Duo. I see this woman sometimes around the office, and want to shout “You saw my boobies!!! You say my boobies!!”, but refrain. I think she was scared straight. A few weeks ago, our wellness room was being used. That is what we call the nap room. Yes, there are adults who take naps at work. Who knew! Anyway, there was a knock on the door, and I was asked if a woman who was not feeling well came in to rest on the couch. Hmmm, let me think, some sick woman wants to rest her head while I sit her with my boobs out pumping breast milk to a pump that sounds like it is saying “you whore” “you whore” “you whore”. Ah, nope. Does she? I don’t think the term awkward quite defines how I felt as she lay on the couch with closed eyes while I played Bedazzled 2 on my Iphone. But let me say I am happy for wine and beer. I really am.

Mine Eyes Have Seen The Glory of the Coming Of Old Age

For the past few weeks, I have been suffering from pretty intense headaches that make their way from dull ache to blinding pain back to dull ache, so an eye doctor appointment was made because my last visit was almost three years ago. I’ll admit that my first thought was I had some sort of stroke or aneurysm, but then I figured that this was am impossibility not due to the unlikely chances, but the simple fact an IUD was removed from my gut not three weeks ago. God could not be that cruel. I think this way often, my house was burned in a fire in 1991 so there is no way in hell my house could ever catch fire again. Right? That would be just too terrible. But then you hear about these people who have been struck by lightening twice, and a rethinking my position starts. At the eye doctor yesterday, after a series of brutal tests. My favorite being the eye puff one. Man, is that not the most awesome thing ever? I want that job. You tell a person to blink, open their eyes as wide as they can and then puff some air in their eye at any given moment. There is no warning, just boom, eye puff. I love it. I explained to the doctor about my headaches, and she then said “Are you tired?” Am I tired? Hmmm, let me think about this. Well I have an almost three year old son, and a six month old daughter who has never gone 4.5 hours between feedings. I don’t think tired is quite the word to describe me, walking dead, zombified and oogly dark circle eyes all much better. It was there that the doctor informed of the need to under script my glasses for reading and the computer. Under script? Under script? You mean reading glasses! Yes, that is what she meant. I am thirty-five years old, soon to be thirty-six years old at the end October and was just told I needed reading glasses. After hearing the news, John said “You are an Old Hag.” Indeed, John. Indeed.

At A Loss

The other day I was getting off my stop on the N-Judah, when this man out of no where starts running for the train going “Oh wait, wait, wait.”, just as the doors closed. He then said “Shit.”, taking out a cigarette and lighting it while looking up the street for the next train. I will now like to point out that my stop is the second to last stop on the train. The last stop is two blocks or a five minute walk from where he smoked. It has been three days since this happened, and I still don’t know what the hell was going on. Welcome to San Francisco.

On the Downcurve

Let me explain the above diagram.

The head at the beginning is representative of March 23, 2009. The day in which my vagina expelled a human life into the world (and yes, I could have used the term “gave birth”, but let us all not sugar coat it, okay?). The peak, or apex, is today September 23, 2009, six months from the date in which a human head was pushed into the world by me, one lone girl who really likes to drink. This brings me to the end point which is six months from now, where a big ole vodka filled martini glass waits. This represents the end of breastfeeding, the return of my very big, but not pornographically so boobies, and my return to the sweet joys of hard liquor. There is only so much beer and wine I can drink (and never to the point of drunkenness). I miss being drunk. I think it is fun. And maybe that will land me in AA someday, but until I hit rock bottom, I look forward to the end of this year long nursing my baby because it is really good for her and how could I not road. Hooray!

I'm Alive

I suppose it would be considered poor form to go on and on about an impending surgery, only the day before the surgery to end all communication. Consider me evil. I did not die on the operating table. Thank god, because I can imagine what that would be like in heaven:

Heaven Inhabitant: Wow, you are pretty young? What happened? Car Accident? Cancer?
Me: Uh, no.
HI: Murder?
Me: No.
HI: Did you fall?
Me: No. I got an IUD, it punctured my uterus, and I had to have surgery, and I guess I died.
HI: That sucks.
Me: Tell me about it.

Dr. Lofquist with her quick and nimble fingers got the IUD out in five minutes. I received two cuts (one in my belly button, and one right on my bikini line, a few bruises and a bottle of vicodin. A win, win for sure. The pain the next day started getting pretty bad, so I made sure to take a vicodin every 3.5 hours. And let me tell you, as I lay in bed that night, after some wine (of course), I felt as if lapping waves were gently taking over my entire body, and it was awesome. It was here I understand that someone could get addicted to pain medication. I totally forgive you Burt Reynolds.

So that is that. My next surgery should be the removal of my lipoma on my shoulder. What is a lipoma you ask? Well it is a sac of fat that just turns up on your body and grows. I have had mine for almost 11 years now, and although initially small it has decided to have a growth spurt it seems. Ah puberty. I need to think about a lie so that my doctor will remove it because it seems that it might be medically unnecessary. How is having a permanent softball size skin growth on your shoulder necessary? Other than a head rest.

Frankly, my life has pretty much been all about Fantasy Football and the return of Mad Men, John Deere Footectomy being amazingly awesome. Finally a TV show delivers. If you don’t know what this is about, I pity you. I leave you with this photo, a Football Sunday:

T Minus Forty Eight Hours

It is forty-eight hours before someone cuts me open to get a rogue IUD out of my pelvis. Readers, please note that I have decided to turn this sad medical story into the tantalizing tale of a rogue IUD incapable of handling the Mirena protocol. It did only what it could, and that was pierce my uterine wall to escape. It now lays in my pelvis trying to figure out its next move, but can’t really concentrate because it is right next to my bowels, and even though I don’t eat Kashi I Will Make You Have Gas Pains That Mirror Contractions, it is still really loud.

Today I had an x-ray. The technician said to me, “Would you like to see?” “Hell yes baldy, I would love to see.” I then glanced upon my screen, and there right above my hip bone, my Mirena IUD looking like an anchor on the ship of cruelty that is my life lay. On the table beforehand, this guy informs me how that something like this in a pelvis can move pretty freely: when you get up, when you sit down, when you fall down drunk because you can’t handle the pain of the fact that your uterus and cervix are total bitches. He also mentioned that he hopes they get it out quickly, but you never know because there are flaps and folds, and matter, and gobbily gook (he did not use this term, but I feel it suffices). Basically he made it sound like my doctors are going on a god damn fishing mission for Moby Dick. But you know what? I don’t really care because after getting the x-ray, I had to give blood. You know what giving blood is like for me, it goes something like this:

Me: I have really hard veins.
Tech: They all say that, blah, blah, blah. (Looks at my arms)
Tech: Wow, they are really tiny.
Me: Yep. That is what I said (asshole).
Tech: Let’s try to get them out. (Puts on arm strap).
Me: Uh huh.
Tech: Oh, they are really deep. (Tries other arm).
Me: (Considering whether getting a tattoo on my veins that says - yes, they are deep, and thin, and you will have trouble getting them so don’t even try dickhead - is too much.)
Tech: Your hand looks good.
Me: Yes. Lots of time they will do my hand after poking me.
Tech: Well let’s just do the hand.
Me: I love you.

I get my blood drawn through my hand. I would like to point out that I find it funny that now people don’t even attempt to get blood out of my veins, but instead just go to my hand vein, even though it is more painful and causes bruising, because the alternative is that bad. I would make a horrible junkie. After the blood letting, it was time for a urine sample. To the CalPac instruction writers of the urine sample, the term “labia” should not be used ten times in the instructions. In fact, I venture the term “labia” should not be used at all since it is entirely cringe worthy. In addition to the cup and wipes provided, perhaps include a barf bag, because you know what? I am nervous enough about this entire situation, I don’t need to read instructions about parting my labia and wiping in a downward stroke with two different alcohol based wipes. I honestly felt like calling the cops on myself for sexual assault.

Also CalPac, let’s call it what it is, a “surgery”, and not a “procedure”. Are you having a procedure? No, I am having surgery for a militant IUD incapable of protecting my eggs from the evil and dastardly spermatozoa. It is by no means a “procedure”. It is a battle for supremacy. So yeah, forty eight hours. And yes, I do realize the entire having surgery on 9/11 might not be the best idea, but it is a Friday, so there.

Holy Mole

Two days ago was my pre- surgery appointment with Dr. Fingers (not my OB/GYN’s real name). I have been under the assumption that this surgery despite being a “surgery” would not be that big of a deal. This train of thought would directly correlate to the amount of alcoholics in my family line, we love denial. When asking when I could resume running, Dr. Fingers said, “Three weeks.” THREE WEEKS! That sounds like an awfully long time to recover from a “minimally evasive procedure.” She then informed me that there would be an incision in my belly button and two along my bikini line (thank god too, because I would really hate to have a reason other than two pregnancies in three years not to wear a bikini) and hopefully, I repeat HOPEFULLY, she will be able to get the IUD out on the first try. She then went over the risks of nicking my intestine, bleeding, and the very slim chance of death. Hello people, all I ever wanted was never to have my uterus be the lifeblood of a human life, and now I am risking “a very slight, but had to mention, chance of death.” Kill me. Oh, wait, no don’t kill me. I swear to god, what the hell Fertility Gods - WHAT DID I DO TO YOU!!???!!!!!!??!

The Tides Have Turned

When returning to work ten weeks ago, I never believed during the huffs and gasps of my luncheon run there would come a time when running would again be pleasurable. However, over this past week, my brain clicked, my legs strode and it all seemed so right. Today is Friday, marking the fifth time I have run this week. Every day of this week I have gotten out there and spent twenty-five minutes enjoying the views of the Embarcadero, concentrating on my breathing and feeling absolutely amazing. The thing about exercise is that it totally and completely sucks donkey balls, but it totally and completely also makes you feel wonderful. So even if some strange lady walks up to you with advice on a sports bra able to contain your behemouth breastfeeding boobies, it is all worth it since your pants fit again and your mind runs ecstatic with endorphins.

When Boobs Attack

Yesterday while running a woman stopped me. At first, because I see this woman a bunch when running, I thought that she was going to compliment me on my success with the weight loss. Oh yeah, I have not told you? Hopped on the scale last Friday to find out that in 9 weeks I have lost 16 pounds. Take that pregnancy bed rest! So she grabs my arm and starts to run in step with me and says “You should really check out Title 9, they have great sports bra.” What! Did this woman just stop me running to inform me of a sports bra. Whatever could the reason be? Flustered, I mustered “Ah okay, I uhhhhh, just had a baby, and am breastfeeding.” As if this was an appropriate response. She said “Me too.” “Title 9, trust me”. Needless to say I spent the rest of my run looking down checking the bounce of my boobs. Below is a photograph of the sports bra I was wearing.


It is not pretty, and could double for a straight jacket, but still I have boobs that offend a stranger so much so that she had to take the time to let me know that I need to contain my assets. Now what am I to do? I think I will just wait until she brings me the catalog.

Fox’s More to Love

It was Friday night, John was out of the house (seriously), the kids were asleep and I was bored. Flipping channels, I reached Fox’s More to Love. Typically I would not watch this show because the premise is basically The Bachelor for a bunch of fatties - The Fatchelor. (As a side note, I am quite surprised of my highfaluting reality TV watching ways, since I still watch the Real World). Considering that I have not slept more than four hours in a row in almost five months and if you were to jiggle something shiny in my eyes I would follow you like a rabid dog, I started to watch.

That being said, joy of all joys, this show kicks a whole bunch of ass for the following reasons:

Kristian. Hello insane. This woman has stalker written all over here. I am pretty sure that if a man were to smile at her, it would constitute to her an undying eternal bond. I think it is funny that the Fatchelor is still keeping her around, but fear when they are off the show and she kidnaps him ala Kathy Bates Misery style he will see the error of his Fatchelor ways.

Holy Low Self Esteem Batman. Never has there been such a display of low self esteem ladies. It is like FOX went to a bunch of fat camps to see who was picked last, assembling them into a freak show of pity. “I have never been on a second date.” “I have never been kissed.” “I have always been bigger than the guys I date, so they cheated on me.” Personally I think the issue here is not your weight, but the fact that you have absolutely zero confidence. Group hugs.

Bathing Suit Date. One date required all the attendees to be in BATHING SUITS. I think any woman no matter what size views the term “bathing suit” in the same context she views the word “c*nt”. But thank you FOX for going there. First there was the horror on the faces (see low self esteem above), then the crying (again, see 2 above), then the bathing suits. I truly enjoyed the fact that the girl who had the most trouble with the date, came out in a bathing suit that was leopard print with red accents. Note to self: when as big as a house, do not drape yourself in a bathing suit that might get you killed in an African safari.

Fatchelor. I don’t even remember this guys name, all I know is Fatchelor is a whore. I think he has kissed everyone at least six times. And dude, has game. Basically he sits there listening the girls complain about their weight, and how ugly they think they are, and he says “Oh no, (insert fat girl’s name here), you are beautiful, your eyes, your skin.” Cock head to one side and go for the kiss. You think it is uncomfortable watching people kiss? Try watching it on this show. It is like a car accident, you can’t help but watch in horror and carnage. Who needs birth control?

More To Love. FOX, Tuesday nights. Be there, or be you know, normal with a good head on your shoulders, and not easily persuaded by reality rejects.

She's Back . . .

I am back from vacation. I will be posting a photo blog of the loveliness that occurred, as soon as I down load the photos. You excited bitches? But until then, a few things:

1. There is this homeless man that I pass each and every day on my way to my run. His legs are wrapped in ace bandages; before they were rapped they were really swollen, like elephantitis swelled. Can ace bandages really remedy something like this? I think about this every day.

2. If you are a fan of True Blood, then you know of this vampire named Eric. Let me say that in all of my almost thirty-six years of breathing, never have I have been so enraptured by a blonde man. I am firmly on Team Eric. And also became a fan of his on Facebook, and yes, that sound you hear are the dork police arresting me right now.

3. I am going to be an Aunt (Part Duex) (brother-in-law’s spawn. I have not mentioned my soon to be born nephew in this blog because I don’t like to jinx, but the kid was due 8/10 and still has not arrived. Personally, I feel it is because his parent’s are naming him Floyd, and he is staying in there until they change their minds. That being said:

4. DID I TELL YOU THAT I HAVE TO HAVE SURGERY TO REMOVE AN IUD THAT IS SOMEWHERE IN MY PELVIS IN 25 DAYS? I just want to mention that because I will be walking down the street, or looking at my kids, or watching TV and this pops into my head. However, truth be told, I am really looking forward to the anesthesia. Oh, and the possible pain pills given after, because if they try only motrin, I might just kick someone’s ass.

Vacation

Please let it be know that I will be leaving for the great and wild Chester, California. I will be sure to regale you with tales of the swimming hole and Owen’s rock throwing (which should border on 10,000,000). Also, we are not taking Maggie’s swing. We are so stupid.

Oh Dear Lord

You want reality? Try being pregnant twice in three years and then trying on an outfit you bought ten years ago. Uh-huh. Actually, you want a quick trip to the nearest mental hospital? That is what I did this weekend. Dear readers (all three of you) know that I have been running and dieting, my Goal of 30 slowly progressing. But there is nothing better to snap you back from any weight loss delusions you may start to have than trying on a skirt and top made of silk santung from Ann Taylor circa 1999 that you bought when you were twenty-five (the fit year). Forget what I said the other day about fitting into my pants, the road ahead, she is long. I don’t think words could quite describe the carnage that lay reflected in the mirror. Hot dog and sausage factories, much acquainted with casing and overstuff meat products, would provide a better description. Estimating high, two pounds a week will have to be lost by November for this dress to be worn. Breastfeeding makes this a near impossibility. However, forge on I shall. Because let’s face it, The Goal of 30 has pretty much been met, and motivation continues to be needed. Yesterday, I could not zip, could not button, but could get the dress on. A good starting place considering the skirt was over my hips and my arm flab contained in the shirt sleeves with not a single burst seam or material rip. It occurs to me that I should snap a photo of my progress week to week, but I don’t want to horrify you. Or myself. Wish me luck.

Guess What I Did?

This morning while standing in my closet in my underwear trying to decide which pants to wear, I did the unthinkable. I reached for my blue j crew khaki pants, the ones that fit me prior to becoming pregnant with Maggie. And guess what, they fit. Sure, they are a tad tight, but there is no camel toe, so hello pre-pregnancy post-owen sized pants. Obviously this entire running and eating right thing is working. I mean I can fit into my pants only 18 weeks post baby. Yeah me. However, this is only the first step in my goal of getting into my pre-Owen pregnancy pants. Which I hope occurs, because I have an entire wardrobe in my closet. But I am of the impression that perhaps my waist will never be that size again, but we shall see. The battle forges on.

What a Boob

The thing about nursing and having a well endowed rack is that you can’t really find the lift and support your fat puppies need. In fact, it is said by the La Leche League of Loudish Preachy Crazy Hippies that one should not wear underwire because it may interfere with breastfeeding leading to plugged ducts, mastitis, etc. I had mastitis after Owen, which pretty much involved having a fever of 105 degrees and thinking I could possibly die at any moment, so I heeded those words. But underwire to the big breasted gal, is like black clothing to the teenage goth. Necessary! So after a few months of a mono boobish life, I succumbed and purchased an underwire nursing bra. Boobs fixed and I had no near death experiences. Unfortunately, those bras were in size 38G and I am now a 38DDD (triple D-lightful) so wearing them now makes my boobs look pretty heinous in the sense of cockeyed nipples and belly grazing lows. I suffered my mirrored reflection because nursing bras are fucking expensive. However, I could no longer stand being made fun of behind my back (cross eyed nippled lady and she of the one boob), and purchased a Playtex bra on Amazon for 15 bux. Holy cow, let me say that I love Playtex. Sure, they make the ugliest bras known to man, but my boobs and Playtex are like moustaches and the 1970s, a match made in heaven. I have lift and separation people, LIFT AND SEPARATION. My boobs are for the first time in 17 weeks above sea level, and they look freaking awesome. No lie, I have gazed upon them at least twenty-five times today, each time saying in my head “Oh my god, they are still huge, but holy crap, I think they look good. Like really good.” So needless to say, I purchased some more Playtex underwire nursing gems and am considering stripping for money. But only that bra and panty type stripping, because I don’t want to be getting off the pole and tripping over my boobs. Because I think that could actually happen.

Parenting 101 - Solutions for a Modern Mom

Last year when discovering I was pregnant, in addition to the “what the hell did I just do” there was the one other thought - Owen needs to get out of that crib. Taking the initiative early, I bought and assembled a toddler bed and after three weeks of give and take Owen was fine. He loved his bed, I had a crib for Maggie, and all was golden in the world.

As time wore on, it occurred to John and me that Owen never got out of his toddler bed. In the morning he would call for us, and at night, even if he was upset, he would never get out of the bed. For in his mind, that bed was a crib, a crib with invisible bars. We heard stories of other parents of toddlers fighting to keep their child in their bed to no avail but we just chalked it up to tackling the bed issue at an early age. Even my mother could not believe it.

This Tuesday, in a phrase my father likes to use, the dawn finally broke on Marblehead. Seems our son came to the realization that he could in fact get out of bed, and nothing was holding him back. So after John finished his stories, instead of crying in protest. He got up, opened the door and walked out of his room. Go back to bed Owen. “No.” “Owen it is bedtime. “No.” John and I looked at each other in horror. It has come to pass. As John lay in Owen’s room waiting for him to sleep, I frantically googled strategies to keep your toddler into bed. The experts recommend that you state just once to your toddler that “It is bed time. You must stay in bed and go to sleep.” Each following time, you are not to talk, not to make eye contact and continue to lead your child back into their room and back into bed until finally they will succumb. Flash to that evening at 12:30 a.m. when Owen awakes and exits his room. John does as is instructed for 30 minutes. I then join the party for another 30 minutes until finally I put him in the crib since he still is unable to climb out of it. As a side note, to the makers of the Bratt Décor Dick Crib, I love you. I adore my son, but he is of the stubborn lot, the Irish in him flaring. Although I suspect this shall be an excellent quality for his future, it makes his toddlerhood all the more difficult.

The following day I asked some friends about their son’s forays with getting up to be greeted with the following “Congratulations, at least we know that Owen is not stupid, but nothing has worked for us.” Back to Google, where it basically the same going back and forth until the child finally succumbs. And since “Ridiculous Stubborn Toddler of an Insanely Stubborn Mother Gets Out of Bed, Needs To Stay There” did not elicit any results, I went back to the tried and true, denial. I mentioned to John three times that day, “Well, maybe he won’t even get out of bed tonight.” John took pity on me with a “Suuurrrrreeeee he will.”

That evening as Maggie slept, and Owen’s last story was told, I crossed my fingers. But as John left his room, so did Owen. We took him back to his bed, tucked him in and said “Owen close your eyes and listen to music. Go to sleep. It is night time. You have to stay in bed.” But Stubbowen was having none of that. I brought him in his room, he exited. I brought him back, he got out again. I brought him back and then I held the door shut. And what do you know, after a screaming, kicking an almost rabid meltdown, he returned to his bed. FOR THE ENTIRE NIGHT. Yesterday, the holding of the door lasted 30 seconds. Tonight, who knows? I do know that when dealing with a manipulative stubborn toddler, the best remedy is to get down and dirty on his level. Because it works, and I did not have to waste who knows how many hours of my life playing this back and forth no talk, no eye contact nonsense guide to parenting. I held the door shut. And it may not win me Mommy of the Year, but I slept. Well I might add.

My Kind of Math

Maggie will be sixteen weeks old this Monday. And now for some quick math - 52 - 16 equals 36. 36 x 7 equals 252 . 252 x 24 equals 6048. 6048 x 60 equals 362,880. That is 362,880 seconds until I can drink a grey goose gimlet. The Triple G!!! I now know what prison feels like. One would think that an Irish girl going through nine long months (plus 2 weeks) of pregnancy would come out of the hospital with a swaddled liquor bottle. Not this girl. This girl needs to breastfeed for a year so there is no hard stuff consumption because your milk is tainted with awesomeness (just not awesome for the baby, unless a slow half witted child is your thing). Pump and Dump my ass. That being said, I think it is only 362,725 now. Thank God. Check it out.

Three Reasons I Would Not Want to Be 10 Years Younger

Lately, whenever I think of my forthcoming birthday there is a certain shudder at the prospect of being thirty-six. Mostly because thirty-six sounds old, and matronly, but let’s face it, this vagina has delivered two children, matronly suits me. But I really don’t care, because even though technically I am at the cusp of thirty-six, my brain is that of a twelve year old, a twelve year old boy. That being said, I was thinking, what if I was ten years younger, twenty-five instead of thirty-five. And you know what, no freaking way. My reasoning is illustrated below:

Every girl in their twenties borders on psychotic when dealing with relationships, a psychosis that can technically last into your thirties (but shouldn’t). Every man reading this right now is shaking his head yes, because let’s face it, a twenty something girl is just a fraction away from being institutionalized. I have no idea in this day and age how anyone dates. There is just too much stalker friendly technology. Facebook, Twitter, Blogs, Texting. Did he write about me? He is going where? He defriended me. What does this text mean? It is enough to make my head explode just from thinking about it. No thank you. I will take my husband, my children, and the sad fact that my twenties were spent in the 1990s.

Which brings me to my second reason, if I were twenty-five today, I would fall into the hipster category of life. Because I am an alternative band whore, although I bet the kids today don’t call it “alternative” music, but my 1990s sensibilities say it is. Anyway, this would lead me being surrounded by the bearded alternative gent. As there seems to be this god forsaken trend among the 20s male of growing beards. I am sorry, but the last thing I want to do when drunk at a show is make out with Jesus. I would have a no-beard policy, because in addition to the fact I lack a Christ fetish, I have very sensitive skin. I could see myself waking up hung over on a Saturday morning, my entire mouth area flaming red because I engaged in an ill advised make out session with Moses. No thank you hipster bearded men.

And finally, I would not like to be in my 20s because I could not handle fashion. Skinny jeans? These tops that make one look pregnant? I have a big rack, a small waist and hips. Nothing youth oriented in fashion would flatter me unless I became an anorexic, another seemingly very popular trend among those in their 20s. Eat something already.

To sum up, thank goodness I was born in 1973 instead of 1983 because I got to miss stalker dating, the bearded man and a foray into bulimia. So bring on thirty-six, hopefully with gimlets.

Tales of Muni . . .

Yesterday while sitting on the N Judah making my way home, I looked across the aisle and saw a homeless man sitting down. I was about to begin reading when it suddenly occurred to me that said homeless man was good looking. Looking again, I confirmed he was handsome. I had stumbled upon the ever elusive Homeless Stud. I began to wonder if homeless life was easier for him with his carefree boyish looks, whether all the homeless ladies in town spoke of him in girlish giggles and if being good looking in the downtrodden clique was a bonus - like high school. But then he opened his mouth to reveal tarred and yellowed teeth, three of which were missing. And I stopped thinking, because I had suddenly become ill.

Placenta Encapsulation

As luck would have it I stumbled upon an article by Joel Stein. Yeah, you read that correctly, EATING YOUR PLACENTA. But fear not, dear readers, this is America, it is not as if someone would actually take the placenta and eat it “as is”. No, no, no. It has to be steamed, dehydrated, ground and then put in capsules. Proponents state that some of the benefits of doing this are to ward of depression and to increase milk supply. In fact, one reviewer said “I pumped 1.6 oz of milk and my lactation consultant was amazed so much came from one boob.” Sure, she was. Please note that I pumped one of my boobs three days after Maggie’s birth and pumped 7 oz. It is amazing to me that people actually believe this, and no one even thinks that the entire process of cooking and dehydrating probably kills everything that could potentially be useful. Never mind the studies showing animals that do not eat their placentas do not become depressed. You know what a dog does after birth also? Lick its vagina clean. Let’s see you do that one. I guess these days we live in a world that wherein “natural” means better. One only has to look at the Zicam fiasco to see that just because something promises to be all natural and beneficial, does not necessarily mean it is. Sure, that cold totally went away, but you no longer have the sense of smell. People forget that this stuff is unregulated, that any goofball with a strong stomach and a dehydrated can do this for a premium. In fact, the people Mr. Stein’s wife used have a certification program ($300 bux), start-up kit ($250 bux) and referral membership ($300 bux). Can anyone else say scam? It seems to me anything that has to do with pregnancy, birth and/or parenting these days are targets for a good old fashion shakedown. My father once told me that if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is. I think those are words to live by.

And Just Like That

Today I did it, I ran to the ball park and back and I did not stop to vomit, walk or curse. I actually jogged the entire way. Day 10 of the Goal of Thirty proved the one. It makes me hope that when Day 30 comes around, I will be rounding around the ball park happy as a jogging clam. The good news is that I am losing weight, even without dieting on the weekends, which is what we of the diets consider an added bonus. I feel good. I feel accomplished. I tasted the runner’s high. And it goes, my friends. It goes. In other news, my son, Owen Patrick McCall, is a bit of a ham. When asking him “Owen, can you say ‘Happy Fourth of July”. He said “Yeah.” Okay then. Ask a stupid question.

Oh No They Didn’t

There is a something in the corporate world, called the day before a holiday. Usually one is let go early on such a day so that they can embark on whatever three day weekend is before them. This makes all happy, because let’s face it, half days in the working world are non-existent, and if you can get out a few hours early, you are totally and completely loving it. In Boston, we would be let known of the intentions the day off, because I worked in small law firm. Usually around noon and e-mail would go around announcing the office closing at 3:00 p.m., and didn’t I just jump at joy at the prospect of heading to a bar for a Grey Goose Gimlet. However, now that I am at a larger firm there is no announcement day of because we have a time tracking program so they usually inform us in an e-mail a few days prior. Starting Monday the office was all in a tizzy awaiting the letting go early e-mail, because our office has been very good about doing this lately. Monday passed, and no e-mail. But we had hope, I mean it was only Monday; it will have to be tomorrow. Tuesday will produce the unleashing. It had too. There was nothing in the morning, but then Tuesday afternoon it happened. THE E-MAIL. The blessed e-mail has arrived. I quickly opened it and to my horror and utmost dismay, there it said “Come Celebrate the 4th of July, with an ice cream social at 3:30 p.m., July 2.” Oh no they didn’t. I think I was just corporately bitch slapped. Tempted to immediately reply with a “Sorry, but I am on diet, could I just go home early?,” I refrained. But seriously, I mean come on dude. What the hell? Perhaps I am just spoiled, but an ice cream sundae social does make not up for the fact that you purposefully took away my 2.15 hours of freedom. It’s July 4th for Christ sake, do I really need to start a revolution, again?

For the Owes

This morning we took Owen to his two and a half year wellness pediatrician appointment. His percentile ranks were 75% in height and 80% in weight. Needless to say all of those “he is built like a linebacker” comments since Day 2 of his life did not go to waste. He did great. He made his patented “show me your eyes” face when Dr. Langston directed light into his pupils. The face evidenced here:



We are fortunate he is the picture of health, and a great kid to boot. He is getting older, and bigger, and more talkative. And that is sad in lots of ways, but totally amazingly awesome in much more. I feel blessed to know the person he is becoming. Hooray for Owen.



And that person is a complete goofball, or as I like to say “Goofball McCall”. But look at his parents, was there another way? So to Owen, Happy 2.5. I love you very much.

Update of the Exercise

Today made eight days of running, the results of which are evident but not in the way I would like. Basically it is like my lower half and my upper half slowly are progressing to my middle in an effort to say - TA DA, body back. Except for my boobs, my boobs have remained massive in their girth. Sometimes I catch myself in the mirror and say - holy jesus, look at those things - their largess more evident with the rediscovery of my waist. However, this time around the pregnancy merry-go-fat ass, I am way ahead of the game. With Owen I was in denial until I went to a weight watchers meeting, step on the scale and was scared straight. Mainly because of those assholes who say that breastfeeding helps you lose weight really fast, well you know what, breast feeding does not do that until about six months into the process. Yep, read the fine print. It is right after the insatiable hunger of a circus fat lady clause and right before the clause about how you will leak boob milk at your office at least once causing people to pity you. But I digress, the good news is that it is happening. I am doing it. And sure it totally sucks, and I hate it, and I wish there was a way to cut off my extra thigh meat and serve it for dinner, but I can’t do that, so I run. I run, and run, and run some more.

Love, Exciting and New

This weekend while checking Facebook, the following came up in the news feed as commentary to a photograph of a couple:

R: Not sure if I like this....I look really tired, maybe because I WAS.
J: I think you look adorable my darling.
R: Thank you my love.

My immediate reaction: BARF. Which I repeatedly tried to comment, but was denied. Obviously, God does not like me to be snarky. But it got me to thinking, when is this appropriate? I mean sure if you want to be a candy ass loser in the privacy of your own home, by all means, but please do not subject me to it. I have never been really big on the entire lovey dovey, hand holding, unicorns, rainbows and fairies romance, because to me it is unrealistic. Maybe I was raised in an Irish American unloving household, but thank god I was. There is a general pussification of the American Male that is epidemic in its proportions. I don’t know how it happened, or why it happened, or how term “metrosexual” used by any man as description of himself not the immediate cause for a belt beating. And I am sorry, but never should the term “soulmates” be used to describe a relationship. I once had a friend who was on Soulmate #22, or was it 23. And it’s the immediate jinx of death. I would never use the term “soulmate” to describe anything other than a bottle of vodka, tequila or whiskey. Or would I use Facebook as a way to declare my love - I do that by farting in bed and saying the Fartatollah So Many has arrived. Enough said.

A Few Things Friday

Because I have no real story to tell, I think I will just rattle off “A Few Things”, which I think will make for a lovely series. So I present to you the very first “A Few Things Friday”.

Holy Fucking Jesus does breastfeeding make you thirsty. I am a big water drinker anyway, but currently I must down about 200 ounces a day if not more. And the funny thing I don’t pee that often, so you know my body is using it. I am an endless pit it seems. I wake up in the middle of the night my mouth caked with dust and down my entire Kleen Kanteen 40 ouncer.

Which brings me to another thing, I really thought the Kleen Kanteen was super stupid, because you can’t really see in the bottle to clean it. And who knows what myriad of grimey bacteria has taken harbor, but what you don’t see, don’t hurt.

My son last weekend was singing as song. That song was the following, “Blue, Blue, Blue, Blue Balls. Blue Balls. Blue Balls. Blllllllllllllllllluuuuuuuuueeeeeeeeeee Ballllllllllllllllls.” I am not lying.

Every time I tell people or even think that Maggie is a really good baby, and how lucky I am. I feel I am cursing myself into the misery of sleepless nights and a future biting toddler. Can we say altogether, “catholic guilt.”

I have to make brownies tonight for 75 people for Owen’s preschool picnic. I am not buying them, but making them, because I am stupid.

The Risque Walgreens

Because an IUD now exists in my pelvis and not in my uterus, and the fact that the diaphram I was prescribed is discontinued, I had to make a purchase at Walgreens of condoms. As a married lady with two kids, I feel that condom purchasing by me feels like I am embarking on the first steps of an affair, because do people in long term relationships actually purchase condoms? I don’t think so. I even think the lady at the register was all, this lady has a ring on her finger. What a tart! But then as she rang up the total and said $7.11, I realized that all of my trials and tribulations were worth it for this moment. The price of condoms was $7.11, as in 7/11, as in lucky, as in getting lucky. Oh Walgreens, you joker you.