Kay Jewelers "First Christmas" - A Reaction

Owen turned four years old and there are all sorts of how the heck does time go so slow and so fast associated with that, but I like to instead focus on a commercial that is running the rounds this Christmas. Perhaps you have seen it, the romantic image of a new family. Father, mother and baby happily cloistered around a tree. The baby is very young, seemingly just born. The mother is bushy eyed at what is indicated to be the wee hours of the morning. The father is gleaming at his son. Now while most watch this with hearts warming, I have a much different reaction. This is because I had a baby on December 19, 2006. When Christmas rolled around, Owen was a mere six days old. I can tell you the first holiday with Owen was not so idyllic. I was battling mastitis, a breast infection. Because Owen latched improperly created a cut in which bacteria grew that resulted in a fever of 104 degrees and hallucinations. This was easily remedied with antibiotics, but I was not the only one suffering that evening. On Christmas Eve, John “felt something” on the top of his ass. What was it? An ass boil. I know this because a few weeks when we finally emerged for the daze of having a kid I looked it up. It was stress related boil (because John was pretty much under the assumption that birth for me meant death). On that Christmas Eve, I sat with a pin over a burning flame in order to disinfect it so that I could pierce the boil atop my husband’s ass. What came out was a river of pus along with a smell that only can be described as what Lance Armstrong’s balls must smell like after the Tour de France. Gut wrenching waves of a most inhumane scent. So screw you Kay Jewelers and your “First Christmas”, because I don’t remember getting a freaking diamond necklace, but instead one boob as hard as a rock and a husband whose anxiousness and stress manifested itself as a boil on his ass that under the terms of “for better or worse” I got to pop. Happy Holidays everyone!

Goodreads

The Hour I First Believed by Wally Lamb

My rating: 3 of 5 stars


She's Come Undone is a great book, and I was excited to learn that Wally Lamb had wrote another, because I had forgot the other book at my mother-in-law's and still don't have it back. And I was almost done, which is a headache for another day. The Hour I First Believe is a fine book. The beginning can be off putting with the Columbine references and the personal history of Caelum and Maureen. But I love off putting. Its a good book, evidenced by the fact I spent the entire last 100 pages transfixed and unable to put down. I need Mr. Lamb to right more books, they always seem to speak to me.



View all my reviews

Five Things.

1. This morning Maggie managed to stuff the mother of all raisins up her nose which was removed with tweezers. However, she seems only to favor her left nostril, which I am pretty sure means she is right handed.

2. Owen got pushed off a slide yesterday and I came home to this:



But fear not, as Owen has repeatedly told me, “Its okay Mama. Its only paint.”

3. Cirque de Soleil’s new show Cavalia has the tagline - A Magical Encounter between Human and Horse. Really? It never crossed anyone’s mind that the slogan could possibly have other meaning? Like those related to bestiality. This is reason #1034 I will never see a Cirque de Soleil performance. I know that everyone says they are awesomely amazing so much so you won’t believe your eyes, but my eyes do not care to take part in a “magical encounter” between man and mare.

4. Having kids is really putting a damper on my pseudo alcoholism. How is possible to drink and pass out when your 20 month old daughter has decided to go bat shit crazy. For the past two nights Maggie has been a tad angry about not having a full sippy cup of water. The fact is the cup is brimming with water. In response, to her uninformed cries, you firmly state, “It is full. It is not empty.” “More, MamaDaddy. More.” “Dude, its freaking filled already.” Attempting to reason with utter insanity, you take off the top to display the water filled cup. She looks at the water, then at you, blinks and then screams “MOOORREEE.” Because you will not do this 500 times like the night before, you shut off the light and close the door. To which Maggie proceeds go absolutely bonkers - crying, hysterical, not being reasonable AT ALL. (Side Note: I now know what every man experiences during a woman’s time of the month. John, I apologize.). And now this text John sent me: “Holy shit. Mags is off the rails crazy right now.”

5. I miss snow.

Happy Thanksgiving To You

Thanksgiving was had at a relative’s house (Thanks Sue!), so I did not get to indulge in best of Thanksgiving traditions - leftovers. Also there no Green Giant corn niblets in butter sauce, which is just fucking nuts. And San Francisco, it is called a Rutabaga. I am Irish and if I spend another god forsaken Thanksgiving without sweet creamy stick of butter in it amazement that is mashed yellow turnips, I might have a breakdown. On Friday morning, in a mission for leftovers, I purchased a nineteen pound butterball turkey for half price. On Saturday, the beast was cooked and my somewhat immediate family dined upon the carcass. Maggie who never eats a ton of anything was shoving corn niblets in butter sauce and turkey down her gullet like a Nathan’s Hot Dog contestant. A very impressive display of gluttony for a girl who maybe eats every three days. Later that evening the kids were bathed and dressed for bed. The usual fall asleep in 20 seconds at 6:30 p.m. Maggie McCall did not. Instead she cried, then cried some more, then had a hissy fit, then decided just to shriek. My mind, incapable of dealing with her wails, did the only thing it could. It sent the appropriate message along synapses to drink repeated shots of whiskey. Finally at 8:30 p.m., after two hours of delirium inducing screeching, I took her in our room where she promptly fell asleep and I promptly passed out. The next morning, she seemed better. We figured she was either over stimulated, teething or possessed by the devil (my vote). Later that morning, John took her to be changed. Wherein I heard, “Cass, I think there is something up Maggie’s nose.” “WHAT?”. “I think there is something up her nose.” “Let me see.” As I tilted her head back to peer into her nostrils, there was something. “What the hell is that?” “I don’t know.” “Get the tweezers.” John holding her hands and me armed with the tweezers, we removed one, two, three, four, five, six, SEVEN pieces of turkey. Out of her nose. She had not eaten like a champ, but instead put various sized turkey pieces up her nose. And all that crying the night before was probably related to the fact that 2 pounds of that 19 pound bird were up her left nostril. And this, my friends, is my daughter: a person who puts bits of food up her nose for fun. Help me.

Its Owen Time

Having an almost four year old is a bumpy life lesson in psychology. A tiny manic depressive who goes from happily excited for all things awesome to a whiny crazed person afraid “of everything”. But all in all, for the most part, and this is not the wine speaking, it is pretty fun. Today I bring a few “Owenisms”:

1. Owen - The Easy to Please. At bedtime, Owen and I indulge in Little Boy Stories wherein he picks the subject and I tell the tale. Although never spoken, it is understood that the “Little Boy” is Owen. These stories usually involve life lessons - the little boy who did not hit his sister, the little boy who stayed in bed even though he was scared, the little boy who learned how to make vodka from potatoes. Again, useful life lessons. Because his preschool class was going to the Boat Park today, that was the story’s focus. I began, “Once upon a time, there was a little boy, whose was going to the Boat Park with his classmates. They lined up, held hands and walked to the park - one block, two blocks, three blocks, four blocks, five blocks. Finally, they were at the Boat Park.” At this point, Owen turned to me and said “Mama, THAT IS UNBELIEVABLE.” Not really, but I like the enthusiasm.

2. Owen - The Ladies Man. Last Saturday while at the mall, Owen took the opportunity to greet every female mannequin with the following - “Pleased to me you. My name is Owen. What’s your name?” He did this twenty-two times. Not to actual people, or male mannequins, but mannequins of the female persuasion, meaning the ones with boobies. Yep. Obviously, his year of nursing proved quite impactful.

3. Owen - The Vocabulary Expert. While at Target, Owen come upon his Holy Grail: a Toy Story matchbox racing track. His two great loves (not sports related) combined. “I want Daddy.” “No, Owen.” “Why?”. “It is too expensive.” Flash forward to later in the evening where Owen on the toilet has finished pooping (parenthood is awesome!), and he reaches behind him for his toddler wipes taking about ten. John, living under my frugal ruling hand says to Owen “Owen, those are expensive, do you know what that means?” “Yes, Daddy. That means I don’t get that toy.” Ba Dam Dam.

4. Owen - The Ipad Dancer. Whenever he hears this song, this is what happens:

DST Is Not For Me.

There comes a day in the realm of parenthood that ever parent dreads. They look to their calendars in November to see it blatantly bolded and italicized on the first Saturday of November: the words, “Daylight Savings Time.” As a parent of young children, there is one thing to which I hold an almost maniacal fervor, the early bedtime complete with routine. This soothes the crazed toddler/preschooler. It sets the stage for you and your husband to gaze adoringly at each other not in the presence of someone asking “Why?” a thousand times or the obsession of a 19 month old to that bold dickhead, Caillou. But then Daylight Savings Time arrives to fuck it all up. There is only one thing to do, extend bedtimes by an hour and pray after a few days things even out. But this weekend, not so easy.

To back track, last Thursday John picked up Maggie from daycare bringing her home. She proceeded to vomit in the car, then on John (repeatedly), then on the floor, then on the couch. Later on it was her crib. But by morning, she was absolutely fine. We figured it was something she ate due to the quick onslaught and violence of attack. However, in the early hours of Saturday morning, I awoke to a funny feeling in my stomach. It continued for a while as I become more and more nauseated. So much so, that at 3:30 a.m. I bolted upright for the bathroom to hurl out the contents of my stomach.

Owen decided this would be the perfect time to wake up. “Owen, you can’t wake up. You need to go to sleep. You will be exhausted.” Its daylight savings day asshole, and you need to be awake until 8:30 (at the least). But my vomiting obviously excited the little guy, since he decided that 4:00 a.m. would be the perfect time to awake for the day. Due to the fact I was a blubbering idiot incapable of doing anything but lying in bed wailing, John did the solid and took the boy. Maggie McCall hearing her brother decided to wake up at 5:30 a.m. This was also the time after making another stomach turning approach to the bathroom, I fell to the kitchen floor crying for a quick and immediate death.

As the morning progressed, my trips to the bathroom lessened. By 2:00 p.m. I was able to hold down some water, then toast, and finally soup. At 4:30 p.m, it was as though a switch was flipped. I was completely better and absolutely starving. Owen then looked at me, and proceeded to vomit the metric ton of buttered pasta and carrots he had for lunch, and the two pieces of toast, and the Hershey’s bar. Not once, not twice, but three times. Covered in his submission to the McCall Stomach Virus Abstract Art Show 2010, we proceeded to the shower. As the evening passed, I was the recipient of Owen’s stomach contents an astounding six times. This just goes to show you the level of a mother’s love. Holding his vomit in my hands after he puked like a Eucharistic offering at church because I did not want it to hit the sheets. Or maybe that was just laziness. Whatever. The point is the kid was passed out into a feeble state at 6:15, on muther effin Turn the Clocks Back Night. Which means he would be up again sometime around 4:30 a.m.

But by some miracle, he was able to sleep until 6:00 a.m., and by some further miracle, this dastardly disease bypassed John. We were able to go to the Academy of Arts and Sciences, watch football and enjoy the rainy day. The kids went to bed immediately last night and both slept until 6:00 a.m. this morning. So DST, I still hate you. Why do we even have it? Seriously. Also, I need a drink.

Putting the Oh in October

Remember a while back I spoke of a haircut that was to resemble a ponytail without the actual ponytail a/k/a worst idea ever. Back then every fiber in my being was willing it to be October. Hey guys, its October! I can happily report my hair is growing. It can be brought into a ponytail, albeit a weak impersonation of one. Finally, after that day in a fit of insanity I went into the bathroom with a rusty pair of red Ikea scissors to chop the mullet and wings on my head, the hair gods are smiling. Also good is the Neutrogena Clinical Experiment. This week the purchase of the night version was made. My skin is looking softer, radiant and more youthful. Not so good was the fact that Owen had the flu and a fever for five days. He is better now, thank god. He was one day from going to the doctors to see if he had a UTI because he is uncircumcised. Really foreskin? But alas, the fever broke. Even in his pathetic sick state, the boy made the world a tad more bright when handed a lime popsicle, he said a few minutes later “Mummy, Daddy. I don’t like this. It’s too spicy.” Lime popsicles are too spicy for my son, but extra hot salsa and chicken tikki masala are not. Go figure. Maggie had her 18 month appointment last week wherein she finally broke 20 pounds. 20.05 bitches. She is also 31.5 inches tall registering her 50% in height and 3% in weight. But this was before she discovered Pirate’s Booty. Baby crack. Pretty sure she can take down a big bag in 3.5 seconds. We give her some; she eats it, and then yells “Mooooree, Moooreeee”. John is just happy that the first time in a year and a half he is eating for him at night. However, it is pirate’s booty which may not rank high in the nutrient factor, but this is the same girl who at her one year appointment was prescribed ice cream by her pediatrician. My dream prescription. “Cassie, yeah, I think the only thing we can do here is have you eat ice cream, and bunch of it.” “Really, doctor? You are the medical expert. Will do.” But the reality is this girl will take after my mother. Who for the majority of her life was 5’11, weight maybe 120 pounds. Genetically destined to be tall and skinny cannot be a bad thing, can it? Well yes, for John when he is fending off potential teenager suitors with baseball bats. But we have a plan for this and that plan is “Giant Nerd.” Her brother already on this path will lead his sister accordingly. Then there are braces, glasses and Catholic all girl high schools. So take that genetics.

Cassie v. Age

Part I: Neutrogena Clinical

In forty-four days I will entering a territory known as “my late thirties” otherwise known as Happy 37th Birthday. As a side note, how the hell did this happen? Wasn’t it just yesterday that I was turning twenty-one at Axis and dancing to alternative music while declining numerous offers of Zima with Chambord? It was. But now, my vagina has expelled two life forms, I am what Oprah would classify as “perimenopausal” and bangs a/k/a forehead wrinkle covers are about two minutes from my future. However, I resolve to go down fighting. And by fighting, I mean spending large sums of money on products that promise antiwrinkling age defiance. Truthfully due to a combination of genetics, not much sun exposure, the heavy consumption of water and almost maniacal moisturizing since the age of eighteen, I think I have done good thus far. But I will not be lax in this fight, this is where it gets dirty. Almost forty demands action.

Yesterday in Walgreens, I once again passed the Neutrogena Clinical Day Moisturizing combination promising a firmer more youthful look. I have read the reviews on this stuff, and was impressed, but the $39.99 price tag was what I would say was a bit “heavy”. Then I remembered the time where spending $75.00 each on Clarins Day and Night Cream was nothing. The magical time prior to kids and a mortgage, where money went to clothes, shoes, booze and skincare. I miss you so! So I forked over the money for my ION2 complex fountain of youth.

Today after my run of 6.1 miles - I would like to say that again because it makes me happy - AFTER MY 6.1 MILE RUN and shower, I stood under the harsh fluorescent lamps of the office showers. Those lights suck. I applied the quoted “dime size” amount of the gel serum covering my face and neck. It is gray and goes on like liquid silk. Then the application of the “dime size” activating cream. Oh la la. I can say after one attempt that I have not felt softness like this since the rubbing of Owen’s ass after his horrifying meconium poop. My face feels like a baby’s ass people. In case you don’t have a baby, that is soft. Very soft. Like the kind of soft you think clouds must feel like. My face feels like clouds.

Day One of the Neutrogena Clinical Day Cream Test has gone well. We shall see what the next days shall bring. But I am hoping pregnancy glow skin. Cause that shit was the best.

Football, Football, Football

Ah football. It is the season that allows the slow descent into insanity because of an overflow of fantasy football knowledge. If you have not figured it out, I can be a tad competitive. So much so, my family once accused me of memorizing Wheel Of Fortune (The Home Game) answers. This was not true, because in order to do that I would have to memorize over 300 phrases that paired with the sheet number visible on the board. Total idiot savant abilities that I unfortunately do not possess. But because of uber competitive spirit (problem), they totally believed I spent hours upon hours memorizing phrases with numbers so that I could win - at Wheel of Fortune. This gives you a slight glimpse into my competitive nature. The point is that for the last month there has been the steady consumption of fantasy football statistics, advice, magazine and websites (none of which I will share because they are my little secrets, and fucking find your own). The only thoughts this week have been fantasy football related as my drafts are tomorrow and Friday. Yesterday I came home with a tiered IDP cheat sheet as well as a tiered position cheat sheet with average draft position that John could look over so that we can discuss our plan of attack tonight. Couple time bitches! There was even the nightmare last evening about not drafting an IDP until the 10th round. A dream that woke me up, and kept me up because then I started to think of drafting strategy from the front end, middle and end draft spots. All because I am dorky. Or insane. Or competitive. But at least I have a hobby other than knitting on the train. So there!

An Open Letter

Dear PMS,

I hate you. For the past few nights I have been tossing and turning, incapable of any firm grasp on sleep. Usually my sleep is reminiscent of the dead, dead bed hogs, sure, but still - THE DEAD. Because of you and this ridiculous San Francisco heat wave, I lay in bed doing my best impression of a hot flashed fifty-five year old menopausal women while thoughts of who to draft in my fantasy football leagues bounce around in my head. Seemingly, the boy part and the girl parts of me have thrown down the gauntlet to battle. And since there will be no future use of my female parts due to fact that having another kid will inevitably make me a homeless insane drunkard, I would like to state with the most emphatic of all voices - leave me the fuck alone. I served my time through years of horrible cramps, moodiness, acne and that one time there was an unfortunate leak in high school pointed out to me by a girl in the presence of what seemed to be 1,000 boys. So yeah, cut me a break. Leave me and my mostly male mind alone. There are two fantasy drafts next week that need absolute focus. I can’t be drafting players with this girl brain of psychosis. For all I know, I will end up drafting Ochocinco because he is cute and was on the Dancing with the Stars. Shudder.

Yours truly,

Cassie McCall

Things I Learned On My Summer Vacation

1. When thinking about taking a 16 month old across county on a plane why don’t you just stab your eye out with a fork, it will be less painful.

2. Humidity is an evil vile thing that one does not have to suffer from. You hear that New England?

3. Fenway installed more restrooms for the ladies. No longer need to miss three and a half innings when all those consumed beers make it known.

4. What the hell happened to Lansdowne Street? The Cask and Flagon no longer a dive bar and some place called “Game On”? Tainted, I say. Tainted.

5. Crane’s Beach is entirely too gorgeous.

6. If you want to see utter glee on your 3.5 year old son's face, take him to Water Country. Never has a kid been so happy as Owen was when in that water park. Insane giddy people.

7. The Dunkin Donuts strong arm on Massachusetts is iron clad (and almost mafia like in its tactics). How many Dunkin Donuts can one state have? I don’t think the people even enjoy the DD, but they have no other choice in the matter.

8. Drinking half of bottle of grey goose on a Friday night in order reclaim your drinking youth is not exactly fun the next morning. But when waking up that morning deciding with still drunk mind and eyes to run five miles is bordering on masochistic.

9. The antipasto appetizer at Massimino’s in the North End made my belly cry out in delight.

10. Although the pull of family and friends is great, I am now a San Francisco girl. I like my summers foggy cold so that my whiskey can gently warm.

Travel Thoughts

In less just about 23 hours I will be in the first hour of a five and half hour flight (SF to Boston) with my husband, 3.5 year old son and 16 month old daughter. This I wish happen on the plane:

1. That he purple glow of the Virgin American plane creates an almost spa like effect in my children lulling them into incapacity (sans drool).

2. That there are other children on the plane, so that when I look up and meet the eyes of another parent, we can via our eyes say “Holy god, I am getting so drunk after this flight.”

3. That toddler headphones work miracles.

4. That my daughter naps.

5. That I don’t run screaming to the exit in a fit of insanity because some asshole just bumped the chair and Maggie woke up 10 minutes into her usual two hour nap (this happened before, that flight is what in which hell is loosely based).

6. That crayons occupy tiny minds, and if not occupy, I really don’t care if they eat them, because an entire twenty pack will be what, 45 minutes of gastronomical delight?

7. That there is no divorce after we land.

8. That there are no explosive poops.

9. That I can hold myself back if someone rolls their eyes at me, because I might snap. And by snap, I mean place my kid on their lap and say “Okay, Dr. Sears have at it.”

10. That by some miracle of god, they are actually a-okay, behave, and people cheer and high five me upon my exit. And then unicorns, fairies and rainbows greet me at Logan (with vodka).

The Attack of the Yellow Pepper, Plane Rides and Boston Gimlets

What you see before you may appear to be a yellow pepper. But for me, it is a killer. Today at the allergist I happened to mention what happened to me in Hawaii a few years back when I had unknowingly consumed my allergic nemesis, the yellow pepper. After the doctor stared at me, he said “This is very serious Ms. McCall. What you experienced was anaphylaxis.” Yeah. “You will need to come in for further food testing and carry around an epipen. As well as get a medical alert bracelet.” Uh-huh. “You could die Ms. McCall.” All righty. Then I was instructed on how to save myself via the epipin and watched a movie about anaphylactic shock. And now for the rest of my life I will carry around an epipin and wear a medical alert bracelet because I am allergic to god darn yellow peppers. However, this is pretty exciting in the sense my nerd status has risen to “Stephen J. Hawking” levels. Also, I was told "never to eat alone." So I better not get divorced.

Two days from now John and I embark on our adventure east. We are both a tad bit fearful on this completely booked plane that our kids are going to go ape shit and make us the hated McCalls of Row 5. I am going to look positively towards this trip and negate all memories of the trip back home with Maggie in March. The one in which I think hell is loosely based, because positivity gets positive results right? Right? Anyone with me? Help me.

Anyway, see you soon Beantown! If you are in Boston and would like to get together for a drink, remember, I like gimlets.

Happy Anniversary

Today is my fourth anniversary with one Mr. John Preston McCall Jr. I would like to stress the junior part there, because I just kind of vomited in my mouth a little. No offense John’s Dad. Five years ago today we went to a Giants game (they won!), then to a bar (shocker!) and then we made out (whores!). Exactly one year later, we got married. Did I plan that? Oh hell no, total coincidence, what do I look like, an actual girl? But I did plan the pregnancy that forced him to marry me. Kidding - he got me drunk, bought an ovulation calculator and trapped me. Duh! But yeah, four years of babies and wine and laughter and beer and sports and vodka. And even though he once tried to steal Chris Carpenter from me in fantasy baseball (first official fight) and once watched Lost without me when I was a raging hormonal weaning mess (second official fight), I have forgiven him and love him very, very much. These past five years have been my absolute happiness (okay I am a girl, gosh darn it).

P.S. Still waiting on that third fight, but guessing it will probably involve not wanting to take Patrick Willis in the 5th round in our IDP League. (He is a total fourth rounder).

P.P.S. And we just happened to make these guys.

Update on My Life - Yada, Yada, Yada

What a bad blogger. Not updating the 2.5 people who actually read this thing. Well fear not loyal reader(s), I am back. And as such, here are a few of the things that have occurred in the past few weeks.

1. Lumpy was Excised. My surgery with Lumpy went pretty well. I was awake (but heavily drugged) for the entire thing. I asked to see my lumpy. Which in some circles would be weird, but the people in that room thought it was awesome. Lumpy looked like the fat part you cut off on chicken, but baseball sized and bloody. Totally gross, and totally awesome. Also, for a surgery that was “no big deal” I got a prescription for forty vicodin. The bad news is that a tiny piece of Lumpy survived - hello surgery circa 2022. The good part is that the scar on my shoulder looks like I was in a knife fight. Meaning, if ever imprisoned, no one can make me their bitch. Holla! (Side Note: I watched Reform School Girls way too many times).

2. Vacation. We headed up to the cabin last week with Owen and Maggie and our sanity. We left three days later with Owen and Maggie and shreds of that sanity. A not childproofed propane, rustic cabin is no place for a fifteen old month girl with what may be intelligence of Einstein combined with the definate personality of an insane Viking warrior. Girls are easy my ass.

3. Happy Anniversary. June was the one year anniversary of the start of my running. I have been exercising consistently for an entire year. Pigs are not flying, but it has to be soon.

4. Vacation Part Duex. We leave for Boston at the end of the month for two weeks of humidity. If you are a praying person, pray for me. Those kids on a plane for nearly 6 hours may be the death of me.

5. Happy Anniversary Part Duex. July 22 is the fourth anniversary of The Debastardization of Owen Patrick McCall. How can I have been married for four years? How can I have had two kids? How is it that I have not run out for a pack of cigarettes and never returned? Oh yeah, because I got to marry one Mr. John McCall, who all in all is a wonderful guy that I am lucky to have met (and trapped).

There you go. A summary of event of the past, and events of the future. There is a number of things I want to do in Boston. All of which start with beach and end in oyster. But that is another story.

So Long Lumpy

Thirteen years ago, while watching television, probably 90210 or Melrose Place, I felt something on my shoulder. My thoughts ran immediately to cancer and death at the tender age of twenty-three. This was before the days of instant internet access wherein one could spend obsessive amounts to time googling “shoulder lump”, “cancer at 23” and “alternative funeral music.” I called my doctor, got an appointment and was told my “lump” was actually a “lipoma”. Li-what? “Li-po-ma,” said the doctor. A benign tumor of fat cells with slow growth that does not have to be removed. Every twenty-three year old girl loves to be told a growing tumor of fat cells was her new best friend. Thus began the phase most appropriately titled “Me and My Lipoma: Growing a Second Head.” As time passed, pea sized Lumpy grew to what it is now: an almost baseball size lump of fat residing prominently on my shoulder. I am Lumpy, Hear Me Roar, In A Size Too Big to Ignore. In fact, the other day Owen grabbed my shoulder and said “Mummy’s ball. Mummy’s ball. Daddy, Mummy has a ball.” After wiping away the tears, I realized that my decision to have Lumpy excised by a surgeon was the right decision. Because even though a head rest at the age of seventy would be incredibly awesome and the envy of Noel Gallagher’s Oasis For the Old, it would be even nicer to wear a tank top without small children pointing. Tomorrow, Lumpy is being removed. The doctor informs “there will be a scar.” Which maybe I am to care about, but do realize (a) I think scars are cool and (b) a scar is much better than my son thinking I have a god damn ball smuggled under the skin of my shoulder. So Lumpy, I wish you well in your extraction. It has been fun. Remember that time I got really, really drunk and tried to take you out myself? Me either, but honestly, surprised it did not happen. But now the real question. How do I ask the surgeon that I need to see removed Lumpy without seeming insane? After all, he is really my firstborn.

Hormone Hell: One Woman's Lament

In an effort never to be pregnant again, and fearful of the 20% typical use failure rate of the diaphram, I talked to my doctor and was prescribed birth control pills. Birth control pills, in general, take three months of use before hormonal shifts settle. Things to expect are acne, weight gain, mood swings and your uncontrolled wine consumption. I was prepping for the battle, but my low dose Loestrin 24fe proved pretty awesome. I felt none of these ills, and was happy that my eggs were locked up prison style. Until now. This week is the last of the pack week, otherwise known as you become the devil and ride the crimson wave week. The last two days have been brutal. Tuesday I awoke with a pimpled chin and bloated belly. Last night involved night sweats and fitful sleep. This morning another pimple sprouted on the tip of my nose. Then I cried in my closet for ten minutes because every look to the mirror created disgust for hair, body and the Rudolph the Reindeer impersonation. But, I got over it. A hug from John, the knowledge that this is typical, my period arriving and a three mile run all proved vital to my sanity. Now at the end of the day, I am improved, none of the intense cramps that are typical of my first menses day are present. This is great news to everyone except the makers of Advil. One month down, two to go. Wish me luck.

Equal Footing: The Problem with Sex and The City

Having a vagina at times can be difficult, case in point, the Sex and The City 2 premiere. SATC2 is basically one giant honing device for vaginas making all females powerless in its estrogen fueled aura. Even I as a beer swigging, sports crazed tomboy whose greatest joys are often fantasy football related want to see this movie. When getting coffee this morning, I gazed upon the West Portal Cinema Marquee seeing “Sex and the City 2”. My heart instantaneously leapt, some thing that is usually reserved for Patrick Willis tackles or Tom Brady touchdowns. Why this draw? Why this magnetism? WHY? Fear not, I have finally figured it out. The Sex and the City franchise to women is what Lethal Weapon and Road House is to men. Don’t believe me? Turn on either of those movies in the presence of a heterosexual man and watch as his body and brain furiously focus on the magic of Mel Gibson’s Martin Riggs or rugged awesome of Patrick Swayze’s Dalton. Absolutely helpless are their testosterone riddled minds. This has amazed me for years since there was no female equivalent, until now. Now ladies, we have the Sex and the City franchise. We have our kryptonite in the form of Manalo Blahniks, Cosmopolitans and girl talk. And we are all defeated.

My Name Is Maggie, And I Am A Bagelholic.

Because of a work meeting, while John got coffee at Peet’s, I took Maggie into Noahs for bagels. As soon as she had a look at the bagel display window she began to point while simultaneously humping my hip and repeating “baaayyylllll”, “baaaayyylllll”. A few weeks ago Maggie received her first taste of boiled and baked doughy goodness instantaneously falling in love. I ordered her a plain cinnamon raisin with John's toasted pumpernickel with butter and plain blueberry. Usually plain bagels are handed you immediately while you walk down to pay. But today some lady starts asking questions about the cased salads. Because who doesn’t want lettuce at 8:00 a.m. The Noah’s assembly line only prepared for toasting, cream cheesing and buttering came to a halt. Maggie did not take kindly to this, looking around and becoming increasingly agitated. She looked to me with fright pointing and saying “Bayyyylll, Mamba. Bayyylll.” while we moved to pay. "BAAYYYLLLL!!!!" Dude, I get it, you want a bagel. I ordered okay, it’s not my fault some fifty year old woman started going on and on about whether she gets a free bagel with her chicken caesar. Finally bagel man realizing the error of his ways, as my Tasmanian bagelholic reached higher and higher pitch, handed over the bag. Placated, Maggie smiled and said “tank you.” At least she is a polite bitch.

A New Love

This past weekend after seeing the maniacs of Bay to Breakers, we headed to the Park Chalet. When one surrounds themselves with public drunkenness, it is only rational to achieve similar status. It being Bay to Breakers, there were a few special treats at the ole Chalet, namely, Leblon Cachaca. Which is like rum in that it comes from cane juice, but not rum, but Cachaca, the liquor of Brazil - DON’T CALL IT RUM (even though it is classified as same by the US because Cachaca is not recognized). I armed with strawberry and John pineapple we sipped. We sipped some more. Then we smiled at each other like that time the kids slept until 8:00 a.m., that one glorious time in over 400 attempts. But do I care? Nope, I have Leblon. So suck it sleeper inners with your non-baggy eyes, and your no kids, and your need for alarm clocks. I have my muddled pineapple Leblon Cachaca splendor.

The Law of One More Time

Last night John had a work dinner which meant I had both kids myself. Aside from Owen asking every ten minutes or so “Where’s my Daddy?” it went well. By the way, the answer to that was “He is working Owen." and not "He left dude, because you are annoying with your incessant Where My Daddys? Also, he is Maggie’s Daddy too (I think).” After reading him Trees, The Counting Book, Charlie Harper’s ABCs, Curious George Goes to the Library (and wrecks havoc), Good Night San Francisco and tucking him in thirty-three times. Not an exaggeration, each night Owen requires that he is put to bed with his four blankets. All which are from his baby days, three being large swaddling blankets of the same variety and the other a super soft baby blue blanket that he rubs with fervor of a teenage boy.

Owen: One More Time.
Me: Okay.
Owen: One More Time.
Me: Okay.
Owen: Three More Times. (Smart Ass).
Me: Okay, last time.
Owen: One More Time.
Me: Last time.
Owen: One More Time.
Me: Last time, Owen.
Owen: Okay, Mommy. I miss you.

Finally out of blanket tucking hell, I escaped to the kitchen to finish dinner for tomorrow (Baked Ziti). There was an intention to make something to eat. Instead due to the heavenly quiet, I went the single girl route and poured myself a giant glass of wine. Then another. “One More Time”, indeed.

The Long and the Short of It.

Friday was spent in a salon chair where I was given exactly what was asked for, “Shorter. Like a ponytail, but not the actual pony tail. Not a bob.” Famous last words, for Rihanna I am not. Although repeatedly told it looks great, cute and modern, every look to the mirror elicits the same response: cringe, scowl and what the hell was I thinking. This immediately followed by the googled factoid that “human hair grows 1/2 inch per month” and October is totally right around the corner. In five short days I have purchased clips, barrettes, bobby pins and headbands. Simply put, this hair cut is not me. I am a bob, not a longish pixie. I tried the pants on and guess what? I HAVE A FUCKING MUFFIN TOP. But I resolve not to cry, not to bitch, not to tackle a long haired girl with scissors for cheap extensions, I will wait this out, one half inch month at a time. And that is the long of it, the short of it is obviously my hair.

The Killer Whale Roll

Bay Shabu Sushi Sake is a restaurant in San Francisco that has a food challenge. You devour the Killer Whale Roll in thirty minutes or less. The $29.95 Killer Whale Roll is four pounds of sushi comprising shrimp, crab, eel, spicy tuna, vegetables, avocado, and tobiko. No one can help you in the endeavor, it is just you and this:



Egads! That thing looks like a post nuclear attack apocolyptic slug. When stopping by the front door today, I saw this posted:




That right there my friends is the Killer Whale Challenge World Champion. "He eat it in 14 minutes, 20 seconds." (That's what she said.) Now my question, you think that guy is really on the Track Team?

Uh Oh, it’s the Monster Cookie

There is an insanely gratifying feeling when your children begin to speak. Awe mixed with love mixed with complete adoration. Maggie has begun her Uh Oh phase. Dropped a sippy cup? Uh Oh. See Daddy? Uh Oh. Eat your one thousandth strawberry of the day? Uh Oh. Mommy’s glass of wine is empty? Uh Oh. Okay fine, the last one I said. The Uh Ohhhing toddler is incredibly cute. She also says Daddy, Mama, thank you, hiyeee, waffle and a few others I am forgetting because she is my second kid, and who cares, right? My first born on the other hand was very select with his words and did not really say too much. Now the kid is a yammering fool. From his “Mama, I miss you” when saying goodnight to the holy cow you are awesome “Monster Cookie” in reference to the cookie monster. Who is that Owen? Mama, that the Monster Cookie. Who could correct that? He is speaking so well these days and becoming this little person. They are no longer babies, they are an almost 3 and a half year old monster cookie loving kid and a 13 month old uh ohhing toddler. Both whom I love exceedingly.

The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger


My rating: 5 of 5 stars
After Mr. Salinger's death, it was an absolute must to reread this book. What amounts to maybe my tenth reading, I can firmly state that this book still resonates and is a masterpiece. You feel as if you are in the mind of a person, in the room with him as the tale unfolds. Your heart breaks as his does, and you take from it the simple fact that life is hard, and things happen, but there are small things that “kill” you with joy. I love this book, but still would never name my kid Holden, because good god.

View all my reviews >>

Tales of MUNI

I have been taking public transportation since birth. I do believe Mary Jane had to hobble onto the green line to Mass General after her water broke when opening the fridge. This should be a lesson to all pregnant women, stop eating already. My entire life I have been getting on and off of trains and buses as a way to get from here to there. My mind is programmed to think bus rather than car, which now makes me “green” when it use to just make me “poor”. Yes, public commuting can be an exercise in exasperation with its delays and overly close sweaty scabies guy. But it also provides a bounty of entertainment, especially in the form of people running to a train that they are about to miss.

The See Saw. A person usually of advancing age saddled with too many grocery bags of what smells to be rotting vegetables. The run to the train is a quick duck waddle with the bags of one side going down and the bags of the other going up. This person will always miss the train, and possibly break a hip.

The Bitch Slap. This person sees the train and makes a mad dash, only to stop because they realize the journey is impossible. But then the train remains with heckling open doors. They run fooled by promise only to reach closing doors with a departing train. This will always end with cursing usually of the muther fucker variety.

The Savior. There will be times when you are running towards a train, another passenger sees your effort. Perhaps a Bitch Slap fresh in his mind, he holds the door open while you enter the train. You will say “thank you” and he will “smile”, the rest of the train will glare at the both of you for making them late.

The Jabberwocky. This is the person for some reason or another when running for a train starts to talk in almost hysterical excitement. There is usually some sort of skip run combined with an “Ohhh, Ohhh, Ohhh. Wait, Wait, Wait.” Perhaps invoking a Savior response in another passenger, but usually just ending with them on the platform huffing and puffing with a significant amount of eye rolling.

And there you have it, just a few of the pleasures of public transportation to witness and adore while you Purell your hands obsessively while tri-folding your newspaper. How do those guys do it?

My Weekend

Wake up. Coffee. Little Bill. Karate. Running. Koret’s Children Park. Running. Supercuts for Owen. Knocking about twenty bottles of Paul Mitchell to the ground while there. Swim Lessons. Swim coach basically calling me awesome. Lunch. Naps. Cleaning and organizing. Shower. Park Chalet. Beer. Dinner. Baths. Books. Bed. The Pizza Place. Wings. Bed.

Wake up. Coffee. Curious George. Farmers Market. Park. Food Shopping. Lunch. Naps. More cleaning and more organizing. No Shower. I smell. Park Chalet. Beer. Soccer. Football. Fun. Mac and Cheese for the kids. Baths. Books. Bed. Porterhouse Steaks and Baked Potatoes for us. Bed.

It amazes me the amount of things that can fit into a forty-eight hour period that for years before basically consisted of vodka, TV and sleep. God I miss it.

Murphy's Law - The Pregnancy Test

Let it be know that after a person takes a pregnancy with a negative result, that person will finally get their period usually within twenty-four hours. There will be massive crippling cramps just to punctuate the fact that you actually begged for this. You might cry.

Scared Out Of My Mutha Effin Gourd

The trouble with weaning is that for about three months you are in hormonal hell. You soak through your sheets, you can’t find anything to wear, and your face is seemingly one gigantic pimple. Basically so giddy, you want to punch babies. After all, they are the reason you are in this situation in the first place. Due to child abuse laws, you instead take in a steady stream of vodka and Advil while watching The Real Housewives of New York and other shows that make your husband cringe due to the vagina-ness of it all. Did I mention The Hills premiere is in five days? In the midst of all this feminine woe, there is another fact that is cause for extreme duress: the irregular period. I am clockwork when it comes to surfing the crimson wave, every twenty-eight days for four days I am out of my godforsaken mind, but luckily crippled by debilitating cramps as to not cause mayhem. I got my period the day after the complete wean (thanks God!), dutifully marking on my calendar twenty-eight days later with “Period?” Last week that popped up on my calendar reminder. Suddenly, the pimple on the side of my face taking up my entire chin made sense. There were cramps and trips to the bathroom. But nothing. Eight days later, in absolute fear of the unknown, I bought a pregnancy test. You are probably thinking how the hell could it be a pregnancy? You have two kids, you have sex? I know, stupid me. The fear of taking a pregnancy test when you have absolutely no desire whatsoever to be pregnant is a traumatic anxiety riddled event. Because of my Catholic programming, “Please God, do not let me be pregnant. Please, please, please. I can’t be pregnant, I can’t be pregnant. I can’t be pregnant.” was repeated about one hundred times. The pee and the excruciating wait later, no plus meaning no pregnancy meaning no me falling down a flight of stairs “by accident.” Happiness, it has a name - EPT Negative.

Owen the Terrible

Oh good lord. No one tells you, no one tells you about three years old because you are dealing with a bi-polar three foot tall asshole. Most parents are comfortable saying “terrible twos”, but not many are comfortable calling their three year olds an asshole, lucky for you, I am. Last night Owen decided that he did not want to take his bath, but watch “TB”. TB being television and not tuber nodule lung disease making a come back. “I want TB Daddy”. “No Owen. You can take a bath or go to bed.” We often give Owen two options to choose from - the one we want him to do and the one there is no way he will do. It has worked gang busters. Until now. Owen has discovered his free will. No longer is it the simple choice of the thing Mama and Daddy want and the horrible alternative. He realizes that there is a third option - WHAT HE WANTS. Freaking cognitive development We posed a “bath” versus “go to sleep” with Owen responding “No Daddy, I watch TB. I watch George.” “No, Owen, take a bath.” While yelling “No!!!”, he takes the cords to the TV pulls them all out. Since electrocution is something we in the McCall household frown upon, he was sent to his room for immediate three minute lockdown. You have not lived until your ears hear the symphony of the wailing angst of a three year old denied his Curious George. Punishment served, Owen leaves his room to apologize and take his bath. While getting undressed, it is clear Owen is pissed off. He is mumbling about George, TB and starting to blow spit bubbles. He knows this is something we hate. “Owen, if I see one bubble of spit, you are going into your room, to bed, without stories.” Owen adores his books. The threat of taking away his stories is akin to taking away my wine after a tough day. There will be tears, screams maybe the occasional punch. But within his demon raddled toddler brain, it was decided that tonight would be a pushing buttons kind of evening. He blew spit bubbles I could not see. I ignored this because the kid was totally right. I did said “If I saw one spit bubble.” Smart ass. He climbs into the tub, looks right at me and bites Maggie’s finger. That was it. “You are going to bed. Without stories.” You could immediately see that this was not his intention, as his face went to “WTF.” John took him out of the tub, put his PJs on said good night and closed the door. No stories. We listened to him scream as he recognized his poor choice. I went in and asked him if he would “Like to read stories to Maggie?” “I take bath.” “No bath, Owen, you bit Maggie.” “I sorry.” “I don’t care Owen, no bath, you can go to bed or you can read stories to Maggie.” “I read stories.” As we read stories to Maggie, he would look at me with the eyes of a puppy and then sort of glare - the bipolar toddler mind raging. John came in and I said, “What do you say to Daddy.” “No spitting, no pulling cords, no biting. I sorry.” Apology accepted, we read stories as a family. Then there were laughs and kisses, and love. He gave Maggie her bunny, tucked her in and then read stories with Daddy and feel asleep. The asshole contained, for now.

TS Eliot Was Right

Sometimes I joke about being cursed and having a guardian angel named Sully who is nothing but a mean spirited drunk with a penchant for causing misery. However, it is becoming quite clear that this is no mere exaggeration, it is fact. Case in point the last ten days, which have been sort of like hell, if hell involved children and vomit and whiskey and no sleep, so yeah, hell.

1. Maggie Becomes Ill, Monday, April 5, 2010. When receiving the call that Maggie “was throwing up,” I immediately left work and wondered if she was okay. Not worried at all because throwing up happens, and this kid is my second. First time mommy nerves are for wusses. But then she proceeded to projectile vomit every fifteen minutes for five hours. Oh that smell, holy god. It was pretty much scarring, in a years of therapy kind of way.

2. Maggie Is Better, Tuesday, April 6, 2010. Woah! That was a quick hitter wasn’t it? Maggie is back in the game. Had to be something she ate. Why did John even stay home? Stupid, stupid.

3. Maggie is Not Okay; Owen Joins the Fun, April 7, 2010. We drop Maggie off at daycare with instructions of a bland diet and Gatorade, saying “we think it was just something she ate.” Then after my run I receive a call “Owen threw up. Twice.” Awesome. I call John to get Owen and settle back to work. Another call, this time “Maggie, threw up everywhere. AGAIN.” Really? Really Satan? Nothing like two vomiting kids to brighten your day. The McCall House of Vomit is officially in business.

4. Owen and Maggie on the Mend; Cassie Vomits At Work, April 8, 2010. The kids are better, Owen totally fine. My stomach however is in an uneasy state of queasy. Nausea flowing at a steady clip so much so that twenty minutes after my run there is a rush to the ladies room. After which it is certain that everyone now thinks my weight loss had nothing to do with diet and exercise and everything to do with my now blossoming bulimia.

5. Maggie Throws Up On Me, AGAIN; April 9, 2010. Feeling better in all respects and thankful that the misery is behind us, Maggie awakes. I take her into the living room and sit her down wherein she projectile vomits all over me. Completely enveloped by that smell, I slither into the fetal position shaking. We finally go to the doctor where we are told that it is just a bug going around taking from two days to two weeks to remedy.

6. The McCalls Are Feeling Better; April 10, 2010. Everyone is on the mend. Things are going well aside from the fact that the kids think that 5:00/5:30 a.m. is an appropriate time to wake up. We have Saturday fun inclusive of park visits, swim lesson procurements and a Park Chalet visit. Tingly while walking home from my two Chalet beers, I ask John to “buy some Jameson.” After all, the week was tough.

7. I Did What? Owen’s Finger; April 11, 2010. When your husband turns to you in the morning and says “You don’t remember, do you?” Just tell him at that point “No, I don’t. And shut up.” Don’t ask “What do you mean?” Because then you will here this tale about how he woke up to you sitting on the side of the bed pinching him all over mumbling incoherent words. You will then go to the kitchen discovering an empty glass next to equally empty bottle of Jameson. So in addition to sleep walking, sleep talking, and sleep pinching, you also engage in sleep drinking. A rare breed indeed, and by rare breed, I mean completely nuts. Suddenly, that searing headache of yours has an answer, and its answer is - YOU ARE A SLEEP DRINKER (Trademark Pending). One who gets up in the middle of the night, and goes to the kitchen, gets a glass, pours a decent size whiskey drink, gulps same to wander into the bedroom to torment your husband with pinching fingers and words of the wacky.

Later in the morning, say 6:30 a.m. since your kids He-Devil and She-Devil wake up at 5:15, you notice that your son’s right hand middle fingertip is swollen and puss filled. (As a side note, although you can say “pus-sy” as in something that is filled with pus, you can never write that. NEVER.) You make a call, have a clinic appointment where they tell you it is “pus-sy” and needs antibiotics. Because Walgreens decides to have lunch that exact time, you kill an hour by getting your son shoes, a hot chocolate and a visit to the bookstore. It is there, Owen says “Mama, you can go now. I live in the bookstore.” So you do, have fun with the words weirdo.

8. 4:45 Is No Time To Wake Up; April 12, 2010 - But 3:30 a.m. is Worst; April 13, 2010. When I was in my 20s and slept until noon on a beautiful day and spent the rest of it in bed in front of a TV, the thought of doing something other than watching reruns of Gilligan’s Island would prop up. Now, no sir re, happy for every single second wasted. That type of rest will not be attainaible again until they lock me up in the ole Senior Center for Sleep Drinkers. You know why people who are old just all of a sudden doze off, because they had kids.

And there it is, my last few days. So to echo T.S. Eliot - April is the cruelest month. Especially since I no longer live in Boston which means no Monday holiday off, no morning Red Sox and no beer while cheering marathoners. April you suck. And the best part being: it is only half over.

As an aside: special thanks to John who had to work while taking care of Maggie, whose favorite activity these days is falling to the ground in a fit of frustration crying her banshee wail while kicking her feet every ten minutes or so (that and eat strawberries by the bushel). He is the best. Kinda. You know when you are drunk, from sleep drinking.

Historic Day

When getting dressed after my run today, I looked upon the tag on my way too big bra. Seriously, my boobs look like pin balls entangled in frilly laced machine: nipples cockeyed and gravity a cruel mistress. But this is your reward after two babies who each nursed a year. And let us not forget the sixty pounds I lost this year. The tag on the bra said 38DDD. Which meant that I had to be 36DD? Which meant Victoria’s Secret carried that size. Which meant fleeing my office giddy with the prospect that my days of playing knee soccer with my flesh were numbered.

I tried on every single 36DD bra that they had in the store. Thank you understanding sales associate who just gave me the 36DD bins to have at it after the words “just finished nursing”, “need support” and “I used to have really nice boobs, really.” Fifteen contenders later, I settled on the Victoria’s Bio Fit Bra and an uplifting demi underwire. Uplifting key as it refers to both spirit (mine) and the manual act of lifting, heavy lifting. Again, gravity plus pregnancy plus breastfeeding equals shield yee eyes children from ancient time honored horrors. But due to the advances in bra engineering, this girl once again possesses cleavage. C-L-E-A-V-A-G-E, bring on the free drinks sort of cleavage. My four year breast journey is best summed, as follows:

1. The starting point of 36 D.
2. The frightening heights of 38G.
3. The still need to lose the baby weight 38DDD.
4. The holy god not another pregnancy 38Fs.
5. The I don’t care if they are ugly and horrible and made by Playtex nursing I give up on life 38E.
6. The I lost 60 pounds, and stopped nursing, and need a bra capable of heroic feats 36DD.

Thank you Victoria’s Secret for saving me thousands in breast surgery. You are the best.

Did He Just Call Me Fat?

Last night Owen was resisting putting on his very cool outer space themed pajamas. A proven technique to get a toddler to do what you and not he wants is to pretend that you desire what he does not like. It is helpful to be overly animated and a tad bit psychotic. Something that is right up my alley.

“Oh Owen. What awesome alien PJs. I love those PJs. My PJs. Mmmmmmiiinnneeee.”
“No, no, these mine PJS.”
“No way Owen, mine, mine, mine. I want to wear them now.”
“No Mama, you too big.”

And just like that, I now have one child.

For Maggie On Her First Birthday.

Unlike your brother, I did not photo document your first year. You my find out someday that having one kid is easy, having a new baby with a two year old requires you to organize your time in such a way that you are not insane by 8:00 p.m. Today you turn a year, an entire year of your existence in our lives.

When taking the pregnancy test and getting a positive result, my immediate thought went to - it’s a boy. It’s a boy. I can’t wait, the mother of two boys, awesome. But this was all for show, I really, really, really wanted a girl. I wanted to be a mother to a daughter, and just thought boy in an effort to prevent disappointment. But then I got sick. Gut wrenching morning sickness every single morning for almost the entire nine months. I never got sick with your brother. I also got acne that would make a teenager happy not to be me. I was craving healthy things like pears, turkey sandwiches and salads. With Owen, it was a steady stream of ice cream, chocolate and glowing skin. When the 16 week ultrasound to reveal your sex arrived, I thought maybe, maybe it will be a girl. The ultrasound tech said immediately, “I know what it is.” Dad and I in unison said, “Boy.” At this moment, all the images of a dress clad, chin length brown haired girl gabbing a flowers in a grassy field vanished and was replaced with the horrifying image of me wiping clean the toilet of which three men made use. I still shudder at the image. But the tech said, “No, it’s a girl. A girl. I see labia.” LABIA! Never has something so disgusting in sound made me so ecstatic in thought. A baby girl. My girl. My daughter.

Months flew by. We survived bed rest and you being nine days late (please note that this is probably not the first time you have heard this - NINE DAYS LATE MAGGIE, NINE PAINFULLY LONG DAYS). Your dad likes to say that you came out, looked around and then went bananas, as if to say “no freaking way people.” You were beautiful even if you were totally pissed. You took to me immediately, settling into a nurse locking your eyes with mine. This is where my heart grew about twice its original size. The love was so immediate and so intense; I had to catch my breath. Although that might have been the entire giving birth vaginally part, but let’s just go with the love.

Maggie, you were an incredibly easy baby. I count myself extremely lucky to have had you. Within two days, at night you only woke up to eat, falling quickly back to sleep belly filled and content. Owen would smack you in the head, your response being only a blink as if to say “Bring it on, First Born.” Of course, for every blessing we had, there had to be that one thing. That is your cry. Never has a wail been so ear piercing and soul shocking. You want what you want, when you want it. Truthfully, this is something that makes me fearful of events in the next year. Especially since you already throw tantrums when you do not get your way, pretty much eight months early. However, this is not surprising, because you have done everything early: smiling at one month, rolling over at two, first teeth at three, sitting up at four, crawling at five, pulling up at six, cruising at seven and walking at eight. Dad and I like to say thank goodness we had Owen first. Or we would have thought he was tad slow, I mean he only walked at 10.5 months. Idiot.

So on this your first birthday, I can tell you that your gifts are the bright twinkle in your eyes at the realization of finally figuring something out, your contagiously happy smile that showcases your slightly cute dimples and your feisty spirited nature. Our gift is that you so effortlessly entered our family making it wholly complete. Maggie Nicole McCall, I cannot wait to see your path into the absolutely lovely and intelligent woman you will eventually become. As Owen said this morning, “Appy Birdday Mags. I wuve you.”

Proof I Am Cursed - A Continuing Series

I am currently about fifty-four hours into what some call “weaning”, but I like to lovingly refer to as my official return to alcoholism. Let’s face it, you cannot be a drunkard on wine and beer. For the distinction of alcoholic, you need vodka. Or whiskey. Which after an almost two year hiatus, this tongue had a taste of last night. Glorious. Even with the suffering of rock hard, pressure filled and horribly aching boobs. You want to know what the pain of the end of nursing is like. Imagine a balloon being filled with water. Keep on filling it. Keep going. Now what happens? Yes, it breaks. It bursts because it cannot take the amount of liquid that is bubbling inside. Now imagine that pressure being kept inside your boobs. Imagine the hot burn, the pain in every turn, the slow descent into insanity. Then punch yourself in the stomach repeatedly and often, because guess what? Your period, that thing you last saw around June 2008, has picked this week, of all weeks to return. Because searing breast pain is not enough, you must also be saddled with Advil resistant cyborg cramps. So yes, I am cursed. Is there any other feasible explanation?

Pretty

I took this photo getting off the NJudah the other night.

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?