Let's Dance

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

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



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

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

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

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

Placenta Encapsulation

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

The Risque Walgreens

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

Maybe Lasik Is Not So Bad Afterall . . .

In case you did not know, I wear glasses, and am pretty much blind without them. As evidence of this psuedoblindness, I just received the following IM from John:

...so i just got out of the shower. while taking my shower, i noticed something strange in the tub. it turned out to be a poop. so that means that either owen pooped in there last night and it's been sitting in there this whole time (and you showered in there with it...ummm....ewww...) or you pooped in there this morning. which is it cassie? enquiring minds want to know.

Let me just blame this on my eyes, Mr. Bubble and not my incontinence.

A Fun Game

Ever wonder what your band name, first album title and album cover would be? Well wouldn't you know, the internet can assist you in such a search.

1. Journey to Wikipedia's random articles. Whatever the title of the first article is, that's your band name.

2. Next, travel to random quotations. The last four words of the last quote on the page are the title of your debut album.

3. Finally, go to Flickr's "Explore the Last Seven Days." The third photo is your cover album art.

My band name is: 10-Spine Grouper
My debut album is entitled: You Just Take It
And the cover art is this.

Awesome! I think I am a heavy metal band.

Liars, You are Liars

Seedless watermelons have got to be the biggest lie ever committed upon the American people. I think instead of seedless they should just say flimsy white but digestible seeded watermelon. Just because they did not develop into black hard seeds, does not make them seedless. Okay? This is the biggest thing going since the leprechaun sighting:

Google Analytics

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

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

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

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

"Poop my pants". Okay then.

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

Bacon Smell Allergy. Seriously?

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

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

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

Why Don't He Have Any Brudders?

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

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

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

Five Dollar Books

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

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


Perhaps the reason was this:



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

The Five Dollar Bookstore

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



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



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



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





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



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



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