Oh Dear Lord

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

Guess What I Did?

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

And Just Like That

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

Update of the Exercise

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

And So It Goes

Oh Jesus, please let this running at lunch thing get better. Each day I feel as if I will die and fall to the concrete thinking this was the last thing I did? Run!! Not drink myself into alcohol induced oblivion? But it continues. I know with time this desperation at the difficulty of said running will be laughed at, but it’s so hard this time around. Yes, likely due to the thirty pounds of baby weight still to lose and the fact that my legs had an eight week hiatus from any sort of meaningful work. But dear God, let this get better. I don’t’ want to be that fat lady eating bon bons on the MUNI and taking up two seats with my ass. Of course, if that was me, I would have to change my name. Because in my fat person fantasy world, her name is Devereaux Jane Dawson, DJ to her friends. Which she has over often because she needs help scrubbing between her many flesh rolls, luring them with her homemade goodies of tarts and fried chicken. She has a southern accent, of course. Okay, I guess I did watch too much Paula Deen on my maternity leave, but can’t you all just see it? DJ Dawson, her bon bons, her hair polished and coifed, her dimpled chins laughing with delight. Not this Cassie McCall, huffing and heaving her way up the Embarcadero with a forehead scarlet from perspiration and an overwhelming need to vomit. But I can do it!! I will survive, and not go the bon bon way of happiness. Hopefully these running high endorphins, which have been elusive thus far, will emerge and I will be giddy with exercising excitement. I just hope it is soon.

The Little Bonuses

Ah the working life, the return is sweet. No longer talking to an infant about the color of her breastfeed poops or how she needs to take a napinsky or how Mommy really thinks Al Roker is pretty god darn funny. I am back making conversation with actual people capable of returning my questions with actual worded answers. But the best part of returning to the working life is that of the commuting life. I have been on public transportation probably since the day I was born. In fact, I have never commuted to work via motor vehicle, because I am a city girl. And city girls don’t drive, they sit on a crowded train with a book, a walkman (now Iphone) and a patented don’t talk to me glare. Sure it is a pain in the butt when your train is late, or if you are unfortunate enough to have to ride the N-Judah which seemingly breaks down every 3.5 seconds, but the rewards of same are sweet. In the past few days I have been witness to a myriad of city folk. The crazy older guy singing at the top of his lungs while everyone else just ignores. Drunken homeless woman cursing the many love pains in her life with slurred speech. Older Asian lady so adamant about getting a seat she sits in a pool of water only seconds later to jump up with a wet behind. There is a reason that seat was empty on a crowded train lady. Public transportation, you make it all worth while.

In other news, day two of the Goal of Thirty proved to be tough. The front part of my thighs achy from yesterday made today’s run difficult. I am pretty sure that if they could talk, they would be saying “You bitch. You bitch. You crazy bitch.”. But two down, twenty-eight to go.

Back In the Saddle

My husband has requested a moratorium on the vagina talk, so I will just say the following - I have to get surgery to remove my IUD out of my pelvis. Anyone want to rub this belly for bad luck? I am the anti-buddha. Yesterday I returned back to work, and honestly it was not that bad. Since I am a second time around mom, the entire ripping out of my heart via waves of guilt was absent. I did feel the tinge of bad mommy, but in all actuality the chances of me weighing 400 pounds and becoming an alcoholic are quite high if I were to stay at home. I like to balance that with the guilt, well adjusted child versus child of fat alcoholic. Guess which wins? Speaking of fat, guess what today is? Yes, that is right, The Goal of Thirty returns. Those not in the know, last year I gave myself an edict of running at lunch thirty times. When I reached that goal, a determination as to the continuation of exercise would be decided. I never made the decision because I was under the influence of endorphins from averaging 18 miles a week. Today will probably involve lots of stopping, starting and suppressing the urge to vomit, but I am looking forward to the challenge, not to mention the entire wardrobe of my former pregnant self. There is only so much breast milk-stained, baby spit up covered clothing a person can take, and wear without people pitying her.

Over the Hump

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

The Weekly Wrap

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

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

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

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

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

Its Hot and My Body Tricks Me (Almost)

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

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

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

Day 12.5

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

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

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

6.5 - Goal of Thirty

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

The Goal of Thirty

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