Lies, All Lies - A Craigslist Story

Yesterday on Twitter, I posted the following:

If ever in doubt as to the term "delusional", just take a gander at the furniture on Craigslist, and the price being asked.
— cassiemccall (@cassiemccall)

August 14, 2013

Since I have promised to myself that I will write in this blog, again with renewed diligence, I present to you:  The Lies Craigslist Tells Me. 

First up, a VINTAGE OVERSTUFFED CHENILLE OTTOMAN. ''ROMANTIC SHABBY DECOR'' - $89 (novato).  Whoa, that sounds cheap?  89 bux for vintage chenille ottoman?  And Romantic Shabby?  What could that mean?  Well, it means this:

I don't know about you, but that does not to me present as "romantic shabby".  Torn, beat up and baby poop green, yes.  Shabby, not so much.

One thing I have noticed living in the Bay Area (aside from the god forsaken hippies) is the people here love to put concrete lions around their homes.  It is pretty rampant.  If you too seek the roaring threat of a concrete lion - Handsome pair lions for your garden / driveway - $375 (san rafael):

I mean, these guys are "handsome", but also pretty ferocious, especially this one:

It is almost like he is saying - "You better think before you ring that bell asshole."  But is $375 is too much to scare a Jehovah's Witness.  Also, please someone, what the heck is up with the lions in the Bay Area.  Although I don't even know why I'm judging considering every other front yard in the Greater Boston area has the Virgin Mary sandwiched in half of a bathtub.  Doesn't the mother of Jesus deserve better than this?

For those in need of outdoor furniture may I present:  Antique White metal Garden Table & 4 Chairs - $400 (novato)

 

Never mind "table has no top."  Or the fact that your ass would fall through the slats. 

Those willing to furnishing their "summer house" - Summer House Sofa and Armchair - $749 (san rafael)

 

Exactly whose "summer house" is this sofa and chair set going into?  John Wayne Gacy?  Nothing screams summer than the death pallor gray velveteen. 

French Linen Slipcovered Stool - $150 (sonoma).  This here is a "charming, French linen slipcovered stool with extraordinary detail--buttons and trim. Perfect condition, from a decorator's own home. 16" tall, 19" wide and 13" deep."  From a decorator's home, people:

 

It is funny because I could pay $150 dollars for this, or you know, throw a white handkerchief over a box.  Decisions. 

Those into country things - Rustic Farmhouse Cabin Small green Wood Shelf - $10 (healdsburg / windsor)

This is green painted 2x4s and plywood.  The fact that one would go to the trouble to post this (with 6 photos total, no less) all for $10 dollars is just awesome.  I imagine said person refreshing their e-mail inbox diligently with hope and promise only to have no response.  And their rustic farmhouse eyes brimming with tears of what could be. 

And there you have it - delusion in the form of Craigslist's Furniture Section, as opposed to its most known delusional spot - the personal ads.  Let us all take away the following, (1) "shabby" means ripped, (2) "antique" means beat up, (3) rustic farmhouse means crap and (4) the Virgin Mary deserves better than a bathtub.

Christopher Cross Radio On Pandora

Because Journey Radio plays far too much Bon Jovi, I made the switch to Christopher Cross Radio, which surprising began with “Sailing”.  I know! As I have been a bad blogger of late, I submit the following - a Friday afternoon of soft rock for your reading pleasure.  The first thing about soft rock is that it is, well, soft.  Soft rock is rampant with professions of undying love, current feelings of love, ever dying love and, of course, stalkery love.  It also possesses far too many sax solos if you ask me.  I know that yesterday was Valentine’s Day, and that cries of love or cries of hatred for love were enthusiastically professed.  But love in all its glory and horror is summed best in the easy listening that 70s soft rock provides.  As you can see below, the lyrics of soft rock:

All Out of Love, Air Supply

Can someone truly be all out of love?  Is this a medical condition?  On future dates you have to face the person and say “Well, I really, really like you.  Unfortunately, that is all I can do. You see, I am all out of love.  It happened in my last relationship, just completely out of love.  In fact, I was pretty lost too, but that seems to have turned around.  But, love, I am O-U-T, out.” 

I Can’t Tell You Why, The Eagles

This song is THE song of every dramatic relationship, the couples who fight and fight and fight and never actually break up even though they should.  “Every time I try to walk away, something makes me turn around and stay, and I can’t tell you why?”  Well, I can tell you why, you codependent asshole - you love drama.

Arthur’s Theme (Best That You Can Do), Christopher Cross

“If you get caught between the moon and New York City, the best you can do is fall in love.” Or you know, call fucking NASA.

I’d Really Like to See You Tonight, Eagle Dan and John Ford Coley

A booty call, pure and simple. “But there is a warm wind blowing, the stars are out and I really like to see you tonight.  We could go walking through a windy park, or take a drive along the beach”  Or you know, fuck.  Also, “I am not talking about moving in”, so don’t expect a phone call.

Everything I Own, Bread

“I would give up my life, my heart, my home, I would give up everything I own, just to have you back again.”  I hate this stuff.  If you are giving up your life, you are by default giving up your heart and home.  Duh. Obviously you think I am stupid.  Also, it is a tad presumptuous to think someone is into necrophilia.

It Might Be You, Stephen Bishop

Basically this person has been watching trains go by, seabirds fly and holding his love until he meets that special someone.  He has been also been saving his love songs and lullabies - because every girl wants to be put to bed like a fucking two year old.  Who wants the romantic equivalent of love blue balls in a potential partner?

How Deep is Your Love, The Bee Gees

You know Andy Gibb, asking me how deep my love is, yet you outright refuse to tell me.  Obviously, the Bee Gees have no idea about “hand” in a relationship.  The person who says “I love you” first, has no hand, in other words, powerless.  Also, I am not sure how one actually comes to you on a summer breeze.  But now I guess I’ll have to swim in the ocean, roll around in sand, get a fucking drilling license to accurately describe the depth of my love and then by doing so, lose hand?

Biggest Part of Me, Ambrosia

I am not sure if this is so much a love song, as it is an outright declaration of calling your lady friend “fat.”  “You are the biggest part of me” a/k/a you whale, it is called a diet.

Steal Away, Robbie Dupree

“Don’t tease me, why don’t you please me, then show me, what you came here for,” said every rapist ever.

And that concludes your Friday afternoon of soft rock.  There are many lessons to be learned here, but most important of them all is that there are no lady soft rockers, because guys would never fall for this shit.  That being said, love in all its incarnations is here to stay, and as such there will never be an end to proclamations of undying love or horrible heartbreaks (after all, what the hell would teenagers do?).  Soft Rock, even when you do have a 3 minute sax solo which is just so wrong, I do love you too.

Happy Birthday Mr. O

Owen, today you turn six years old. You are a kindergartener and you are growing up too fast. While at the park on Sunday, you made friends with a two year old boy. You played by placing your cars on the slide and letting them go to see who went furthest. After, you told the little boy that he could have your Lightening McQueen because “that is for little kids”. The Dad said thank you, but followed with: “Maybe you want to take this home with you, I know you said he can have it, but maybe you will want it back”. To which you responded, “Ahhh, maybe not.” Then you said bye and walked away, your Dad and I laughing.


You are so funny, sweet and kind. That is not to say that you don’t have your moments, you do, but they are so few and far between these days. You are growing emotionally, mentally and physically. Serious, dude, you are a giant. There is no way your father and I will be able to feed you as a teenager. No freaking way. And aside from your gargantuan build, I love the person you are becoming. This past weekend in a very tough and scary situation, see ambulance trip, you were brave, patient, polite, funny and so, so smart. It blew me away. I was proud to be your parent.

I think now that you are in grammar school it is hitting me exactly how much you have grown, how you are no longer my baby but this handsome, bright and sparkling little boy. You are the world to me and I love you very much. Happy Birthday Owesie.

P.S. I know you are gung ho about Catholic school, but maybe you should think twice about meeting a person and launch immediately into “Bless us o lord, for these are gifts”, it is just a little weird.

P.P.S. Even though your Dad hates it, the fact that you are putting ornaments, lights and snowflakes everywhere around the house in order for it to “be so very Christmassy” is super awesome.  Your Dad doesn't know what he is talking about. 

Babycenter Helps Me Determine Owen's Giftedness

I get e-mails from babycenter.com extolling such gems like, “Your 3 year old - Ms. Bossy.” Oh really, Babycenter, I think mini-tyrant may be a better title since we share living space. Also, you people out there with kids that have not reached three - leave, just leave, actually run, for your life. Today, I got the following - “Signs of Giftedness in a 5 to 8 year-old. I have a 5 year old! Immediately, after clicking on the link, I realized this was not a tutorial on how to wrap up child up in shiny paper with twisted curls in order to give him away. Assholes! Instead I read a list of bulleted pointed items that would help me deduce if my 5 year old was gifted which means smart, I guess. So, shall we:


Your child may be gifted if he:

Thinks abstractly; that is, he grasps advanced mathematical and linguistic concepts and can talk about such complex issues as ethics, morality, and religion.

Yep. On Saturday, I asked Owen how long he wanted to remain swimming, and he said to me 100 minutes, NOT an hour and 40 minutes. Also, before we eat, he is always quick to say “Thank you Jesus (pronounced “Cheezits”) for this meal. And he told me I did something mean, when I DID DO SOMETHING MEAN.

Is able to intensely concentrate and focus on one activity for long periods.

Absolutely, he can sit focused on the TV for hours.

Has a large vocabulary and understands words not typically used by peers.

Yes, most of his friends do not know of the New England Patriots and Boston Red Sox.

Is confident in his accomplishments and ideas.

There is never a person quicker to show me his poops. Also, the other day he suggested we get married. Again. And I told him (again), “Get an effin job already.”

Is sensitive to other people's feelings.

Whenever I am crying over an empty bottle of wine, Owen is there with a hug.

Well,  I think we know our answer, don't we?

Also, check out who can swim -

Four For You Friday

1.  Last week Owen was the unfortunate recipient of a stomach bug. This virus gave him, as my mom likes to say, “the shits.” There is nothing worst than the word diarrhea. I mean look at it. That being said, on Saturday after his three epic bathroom stints, I asked Owen how his stomach was feeling. To which he replied, “It is not absolutely great.” “Not absolutely great” instantly becoming my favorite saying of all time. Kids, you have to love them.

2.  Tomorrow is The Kentucky Derby and there is a horse named Sabercat. First, what the hell is a Sabercat? This is what I think:

You know, I think Sabercat is the only cat I could ever like - CAUSE HE’S AWESOME.

3.  You don’t know what hell is until your husband gets an incline trainer treadmill. I am obsessed with incline treadmill training. And my “training” I mean holding on for dear life while cursing and huffing as if my lungs might just combust from overuse. It is awful, but awesome. I just said exercise was awesome. Who am I?

4.  On my bike ride to work the other day (because I am a fucking hippie now), I saw this guy smoking while riding a bike. As in smoking a cigarette, while riding a bicycle. Because you know, smoking and biking are the new big thing. I am happy because I was able to pass him. Finally, someone.

Also, May the 4th be with you is stupid.

Maggers Turns Three

Happy Birthday Maggie! Typing this today I am overwhelmed by the fact that you are three. It seems impossible that three years ago I was in a hospital bed, 5 cm dilated, 100% effaced with broken water and still not in labor. Thank god for pitocin, because once I got that, you were born in less than 40 minutes. One Push McCall should have really stuck more than it did. Oh well.

You are very proud of the fact that you are now “a big girl”. “I not a little girl Mama, I a big girl.” However, last weekend, after your repeated pleas to go into the bottom bunk of Owen’s bed and abandon your crib, this fact was put to the test. As you lay down in the bed and looked around, you eyes grew wide. You jumped out of bed, saying “Mama, I not a big girl. Look at me, I still little. I still very, very, very little. I go downstairs.” It was impossibly cute, and the best thing was when Owen was tearful that you would not be sharing a room, you said “Owen, I just not ready. I’ll be ready soon. I give you a kiss.” I don’t think anyone can argue that for a just turned three year old, you have a very good sense of yourself. You know what you want, when you want it. And this a very good quality, even if at times it borders on bossy, and, believe me, it does.


Recently, you were moved from the 2 year old class to the 2/3 class at preschool. There were some concerns that you might have a bit of difficulty, emotionally and academically. But you did extremely well, took it in stride like “a big girl” and caught up no problem. You are so smart. I try to stress this often since you also get a lot of “she is so pretty” comments. You are both, and I want you always to know that. And somehow, I don’t think you will forget.


Yesterday, I looked up famous birthdays and you share yours with Joan Crawford. And nope, I am totally not going to sugar coat it. You have a temper. Maybe not wire hangers in the closet temper, but close. Your Dad and I are thankful that you were second, I fear that if we had not had Owen first, we would cater to these episodes and make you a mini-megalomaniac. But unfortunately for you, we have been “through the shit” and we know when to walk away when a crazy eyed semi-psychotic toddler has a fixed idea. You will wail, howl, cry. All of this will not even cause us to raise an eyebrow, and when you realize this, which is often quick, you pick yourself up, huff on over and say, “I sorry. I need a hug.” Oh, by the way, you give the best hugs. They are full body in, arms tight across the neck, head firmly pressed against the chest awesomeness. And I am Boston Irish Catholic, we don’t ever like to be touched (except, when intoxicated), so yeah, best hugs.


Also, you just happen to have this older brother that you adore. I know at some point you will be reading this and say, “Oh my god, Mom. I SO did not like Owen.” But guess what? You did, and you do, you idolize him. You imitate what he does constantly, you demand his attention, which he thankfully gives (see temper). You love your brother, so, so much. And he you.


Maggie, you make me so happy. You make your Dad so happy. I can’t imagine my life without you and have a hard time remembering it without you. I feel so lucky, so blessed, and so overly emotional right now so I am going to stop before the waterworks come. My baby girl, my monkey, my little spitfire full of piss and vinegar I am sure to regret 10 years from now, I love you. Thanks for making my life so much better than it ever could be without you.

Love, Mama

P.S. Your singing is just sort of rad.

Why Some Day I Will Be Committed - A Continuing Series

Like no one else on the planet, my resolution for the New Year was a healthier me: to eat better, to go the gym more, to workout on weekends. As we near the end of February, I can say my commitment has been solid. In fact, this past Monday was the first day since February 4 that I did not work out. Who exercises on President’s Day? Fifteen consecutive days of working my ass off (literally). As someone who needs distant goals to keep my will strong, I signed up for my office building’s Beach Body Challenge, a weigh-off with a grand prize of a trip for two to Hawaii. I know! However, in the back of my mind lay the following - “Too bad this was not in January because I have SO lost weight. I mean, whatever, it is still motivation.”

Imagine my surprise, when after body measurements were taken, I got on the scale to peer down and see the exact same number that was revealed the beginning of December. I don’t usually weight myself as it tends to piss me off, which is a good rule of thumb, since I was instantaneously fucking pissed off upon reading said number. “Seething” would be more appropriate. Why so mad? I have been killing myself at the gym. I have been killing myself at home. In fact, last weekend after completing an advanced 45 minute workout from the Nike Training app, John asked me if I had been gang raped. I think that right there details my level of exertion and commitment.

Oh yes, I know the entire muscle weighs more than fat bullshit, and that my clothes do fit better, blah, blah, blah, blah. I know this. But that number! I am pretty sure God hates me. Or my boobs weigh 30 pounds. And honestly, both of these things could be true. This now means I have gone from “No way I will win this thing” to “It is on, assholes. I am going to Hawaii.” Let’s be absolutely clear, I am competitive to the point of psychosis. And my psycho switch has just been turned on. So if you don’t hear from me, I will be at the gym not drinking beer (OMFG), not eating carbs and cursing scales everywhere.

Yes, I am crazy.