Hello November.

Hello there people who read this blog, i.e. John. There are no specific reasons (lazy and too much wine) to explain my absence of late. Perhaps it is that the very minutia of my life these past weeks begins with “B” and ends with an “oring”. Not that it can ever be that, for life is never boring when you have an Owen and a Maggie.

The other evening, while reading stories to Owen and in a blatant attempt get him to behave better, I asked him what he wanted for Christmas from Santa. Now that Halloween is over, I can ask this question ever single freaking day until December 24 and quickly follow it with: “You know, Owen, Santa keeps a list of everything you do and if there are more bads than goods you don’t get any presents. I don’t say you get coal, because then Owen would say, “Mama, what is coal?” Thinking it something extremely cool and something he must possess. This would lead him to purposefully choose the “wrong” thing to do in order to achieve this fated and glorious coal of which I speak. That is how he is, curious (and insane). I just enforce that he will receive nothing since nothing in the eyes of a child is something huge - nothing! Oh hells to the no.

So I asked him what he wanted from Santa. He then proceeded to say, “A new Cars 2 blanket”, (officially ousting Toy Story 3 as his Pixar movie of choice). He also said wanted the “Fresh Beats.” If you are not familiar with Fresh Beat, I give you this:


I could have linked a video, but the viewing of such a travesty would cause the immediate mush of your central cortex, followed by leaking out of your left ear to be forever gone and you forever changed for the worse. You can thank me later. But then he said he wanted a guitar, drums, and keyboard. So I think I will get him this:


One man bad bitches!

I proceeded to ask him what he thought Maggie would like for Christmas, keeping with the theme of good behavior for a bounty of goods. He looked at me and said, “Mama, Maggie would like a Barbie, a car and (dramatic pause) poop.” “Owen, are you saying that Maggie wants poop?” “Yes, Mama, she told me.” “She told you she wanted poop?” “Yep, today. She wants poop. Maggie is really funny. She’s crazy.” Okay then.

And there you have it, not the most exciting of daily adventures, but certainly not boring.

Just Shoot Me

Yesterday I got a crown for a back tooth and today I got my period complete with cramps. It is like a bonus of awesome over here at Cassie Central. I don’t really mind my period too much even with the cramps because it means I am not pregnant. So torture away uterus, I care not. But you back tooth that cracked into four without me knowing, you are an asshole. Although I am sure this is my punishment for having a slight addiction a few weeks back to Runts. Which are really, really good, but they require you to bite them using said back teeth. Runts 1, Cassie 0.

This was my first major dental work visit, up until this point it has only been the occasional cavity. Most of which I had when I was a wee lass of childhood age. I should have known there would be more pain involved in this procedure when the biggest needle ever filled with numbing solution was repeatedly injected into my lower left gum-line. I have come to the conclusion that I have super powers when it comes to anesthesia. My back is incapable of getting an epidural in the proper location and even with same I still felt the "oh so" large newborn head of Owen exiting my va-jay-jay. After 15 minutes, I was asked how my mouth felt. I said “tingling”, not right, as the hugest needle ever started its third series of injections in the soft flesh of my gums. Finally I was numb (or blacked out from pain). I sat back watching Its Complicated (my movie choice because doesn’t dental work scream Meryl Streep), as my tooth was whittled down to burning smells and screeching sounds, to be finally capped with a “temp.” Because guess what, I get to go back to get my "permanent" crown put on. What a bunch of bullshit. Maybe this appointment will be for the morning on the first day of my next period. And I will bring vodka.

Things I now know because of this temporary crown:

1. Chewing on only one side of your mouth is quite challenging and also requires you to eat slowly. I think this is the bonus of the crown because I am eating much less due to the fact I am not stuffing food at breakneck pace into my gullet because I am famished (which is pretty much all the time).

2. Crowns are fake teeth. I thought they were little hats that would just sit atop my tooth sparkling away. But nope, a quick look to Wikipedia informed how your real tooth is shaped down to a nugget so that your fake tooth can be glued upon that bone. Crowns are gross.

3. I never want a root canal.

4. Lots of food is “crunchy”, a bit difficult to avoid - as I take a bite of celery dipped in humus. I am eating on the one side, so don’t worry. This is me being a rogue. Fear me.

5. Vodka Gimlets help with pain. (I already knew this but any chance to justify my pseudo alcoholism is a-okay).

I am feeling better now and have come to terms with the fact that I am pretty sure I bought this all upon myself by stumbling on a box of Runts in Walgreens three months ago, and then eating them like the candy they are for a month straight. Now I get to pay $750 bux for this mistake. Oh, the dentist also told me I need Invisalign because as you age your teeth move forward and start turning and bending. Screw you old age.



(Disclaimer - these are not my actual teeth, jackass.)

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.

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?

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.

The Beast Within

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

When Boobs Attack

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


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

She's Back . . .

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

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

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

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

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

Three Reasons I Would Not Want to Be 10 Years Younger

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

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

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

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

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

Love, Exciting and New

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

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

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

Random Musings

I am making a blueberry pie for Thanksgiving because apparently blueberry pies in California are something elusive. Try to find one! People don’t know what they are missing. Also, I am pretty sure I am going to make this blueberry pie, and hate anyone who has a piece. It will be like my third child that I alone get to eat and devour. Just like my brother’s hamster Michael. Yes, my brother named his hamster after himself. Well maybe John and Owen can have some, BUT NO ONE ELSE!

You would not believe the freaking thing on my left cheek. I would call it a pimple, but that is too simple of a term for the beast sprouting upon my cheek. It is more like a growth that continues to get bigger without a white head end. It’s a total hormonal creation. I can only hope it dissipates before Thanksgiving, or the children will be scared of the lady with red pulsing flesh growing from her face.

Seriously, the constipation that is involved in pregnancy is so freaking ridiculous. I will not elaborate further.

I think there really is a connection between good and bad shampoo, because I have been using Herbal Essence, and my hair has been okay, but then I used Aveda Rosemary Mint and my hair is about 10 times better looking. Just saying.

I think I might wear tights on Thanksgiving with this purple dress. That should be fun. Let’s put something really tight on the pregnant lady’s belly, and see how fast she dissolves into a blubbering mess. I wager 52.65 minutes.

Owen projectile vomited the other night before bed and I am pretty sure that is the smell that comes from dead bodies. If I turn fast, I still smell it. I maybe scared.

I am pretty sure I made the playoffs in all of my fantasy football leagues. And that includes the loss of first round pick Tom Brady in two of them. Hooray for me (and John, my FFB partner).

Maggie kicks all the freaking time, it is like she is already starting to get the mother and daughter relationship on the wrong foot.

I will be 25 weeks pregnant on Sunday, and am beginning to think of the birthing process. But then suddenly my mind wanders away from the topic entirely - sort of like an abuse victim forgetting the experience.

And that is all, except that my blueberry pie recipe called for vodka in the pie crust. VODKA. I am that cool. Okay then, Happy Thanksgiving. Enjoy the day, and stay away from my pie!