The Social Etiquette of Running

Tomorrow is my two year anniversary of running at work. I feel happy that I have continued on the path of the Embarcadero to relative health and fitness. And while I like running as much as anyone can like an activity that is very solitude in nature and often painful in effort, there is a seemingly social etiquette aspect that I am learning.

1. Men runners like to waive “hi” to me when running.
2. Women runners like to just stare.
3. Men runners talk to you sometimes.
4. Women runners check out your thighs.
5. Men runners get really pissed off when you pass them.

I don’t really get the “hi” or “great jobs” I sometimes receive from male runners. Once there was a wink, but I am pretty sure that might have been an insect that had flown into this guy’s eye because the last thing I would imagine anyone would want to do when gasping for air down the Embarcadero is flirt. But then this guy today waved at me and I was all - holy shit, maybe I need a new sports bra to contain this bounce. So, someone, tell me - is it just a friendly thing one does to acknowledge your comrade in breathing hell, or are these fools unaware that I can’t even comprehend the concept of flirting anymore. I am a mom for god’s sake. Gross.

Running and Kids Update

This afternoon for strength training, I decided that the best course of action was to run one mile to the front part of AT&T Park in order to do the exercises, because the likelihood of anyone seeing me from the office was minimal. And it is pretty.


On that grassy field I proceeded to do pushups, triceps dips, step ups, lunges, and sit up after sit up. I also had the audacity to see some guy working out with a kettle ball and thinking him strange. Ah, yeah. I killed myself and was virtual jelly, but still had to run the one mile back to my office. This just goes to show you that the pain of embarrassment from your co-workers looking at you while working out maybe less than that of running a mile after “toning” up. Anyway, I truly doubt I will be able to walk tomorrow.

This weekend we headed to Point Reyes Drake’s Beach which is very lovely, and the kids got their Clam Chowder fix. Of course, Owen napped on the way back home. This is not good for me, because usually on the weekend he does not nap. Meaning 7:15 p.m. bedtime and no yogup (his term for yoga) or talking about our day or me reading to him from my Kindle. Which he now likes me to do as he rests into oblivion. Does reading aloud Wuthering Heights to your child qualify as child abuse? Anyhoo, in an attempt to get him tired we allowed him to ride his bike to the Park Chalet - about 2.5 miles back and forth. He was very excited. Someone not so excited, Maggie. To their credit, Owen and Maggie share pretty well. They take turns picking out what to watch on TV, sharing their toys, etc. But Owen’s bike is Owen’s bike. She can’t use it because she is smaller than him. So the entire time Owen is riding his bike, Maggie is in the stroller screaming “Owen no share the bike!!” “I want the bike!!” “BIIIKKKKEEEEEEEEEE.” There is no reasoning with the two year old in tantrum mode. There is drinking though, thank you Park Chalet. When we finally arrived, Owen got off his bike and Maggie proceeded to grab his helmet, climb on top and stay there pretty much the entire 90 minute visit. Trying to peddle, but not able to because she does not fit on the thing, but that did not stop her happily sitting atop the seat. And then when it was time to go home, Little Miss Crazy threw another tantrum because “Owen no share.”, even though she was on the bike for 90 minutes. I told John to just go with Owen and I would walk her in the stroller another way back. This way she would not be tortured by the sight of a happily riding Owen. But Maggie is a girl that does not give in easily to her Mom’s attempts to distract. Bubbles? “BIKEEEE”. Raisins? “BIIKKEEEE”. She clawed, shook and moved her body so that she was able to get out of her five point harnessed BOB stroller. Houdini has nothing on this kid. She refused to get back into the stroller. So, I got to carry her in my arms all the way home while pushing the BOB and hearing her whispers of bike, bike, bike until one block from the house. Because that is when she decided to go into the stroller with her bubbles. She is insane.

The Friday Rundown

I want to state that this blog will no longer will be featuring recaps of the epic saga Game of Thrones, mainly because I am sick of people visiting my site but typing the words “boy sucking tit game of thrones” into Google. Call me crazy.

This week marked my first week of Half Marathon training. Those not in the know a Half Marathon is wherein I will run 13.1 miles. I told you to call me crazy. Because I felt that two years of continuous running warranted something, so immediately my mind ran to self-torture in the form of running 13 plus miles. Although truth be told, I was getting a bit bored with my runs and needed something to shake them up - an attainable goal. This week has involved 50 minutes of yoga, three 3 mile runs one of which was interval training. Today, thank god, is my only rest day of the week before another 3 miler tomorrow and my initial Sunday long run of 5 miles. Holy cow, exercise. This is the intermediate training program, not the beginner as I felt that too easy. I think I might regret this decision. I feel strong, and hopefully I can accomplish this goal with minimal cursing.

The world of parenting continues and always fraught with adventure. Owen is obsessed with turning five lately, even though that will not happen for another six months. “I want to turn 5 tomorrow, mama.” “I want a piñata at my birthday.” The last statement took me about 3 minutes to figure out as he began with “I want an Ngata.” And I am all, “Like the defensive tackle on the Ravens?” But nope, it was not Haloti Ngata but a Piñata. This is awesome as his birthday is in December, and it is usually cold and rainy then. But if he wants a piñata, a piñata he will get. I am a cool Mom like that.

In Maggie news, we are firmly entrenched it Tantrum City. I suggest you never visit Tantrum City because it is fully of crazy people who want everything and when they don’t get it they throw themselves on the ground for 20 minutes wailing like they are being water boarded only in some instant to forget it all, get up and start playing like nothing ever happened. This repeats every two hours. Maggie is also very fond of the words “No.” and “Go Away.” She has also developed an almost crazed addiction to popsicles and Mike and Ikes. Every morning she asks for “opposickle.” Its morning, no. “Cannddyyyyyyy, Mama.” Not until we leave. I give my children 2 Mike and Ikes each morning so they will get the hell out of the house so that I can travel on the N Judah. Bribery works. It works well. And they are losing those teeth anyway, so whatever.

Our weekend is going to be filled with such exciting adventures as swim class, the Park Chalet and a journey to Drake’s Beach in Point Reyes. I am sure there will be fish and chips and clam chowder involved because that is the thing my kids like right now - fish and clams. I know, they are weird - or you can inherit Bostonianisms. Go Bruins!



Don't let their cheerful demeanor fool you.

Two Stories

Story One - Out of the Mouth of Babes

Owen was home sick on Tuesday from some mystery fever that lasted all of the 2.5 seconds his preschool was able to take it and call us for the 24 hour mandatory stay away. Owen was not sick, but he had to stay home. John who has the fortune (not really if you have a sick kid) of working from home, watched him. About to be on an important telephone conference, John told Owen that he had to be very quiet and if anything came up, he needed to go to him and pull on his shirt and whisper what he wanted. Ten minutes or so, there was a gentle pull on John’s shirt, “Daddy. Daddy.”, Owen whispered (amazingly!). “What?”, asked John. “Daddy. Can I have my drums?”. “No.” “I’ll be quiet. I promise.” Then John laughed for 22 minutes.

Story Two - My Running Pants Raped Me.

Since the end of January, I have been running a ton. I have upped my distance, upped my speed and become one of those people who only use stairs. Hate me, I don’t care. Yesterday, on my 5.5 mile Fort Mason Up that Awful Hill Run something occurred. Granted, my running clothes are loose of late. Running clothes should never be loose because you will be like a gazelle down the Embarcadero - sweating and spitting and swearing - all the while, unbeknownst to you, because you are all hopped up on endorphins, your pants will be moving up and down repeatedly. Because you are cheap and prefer to by factory deficient running clothes from Ross, these cotton pants will begin to chaff you. The rough fabric and fantastic running speed no match for the smooth skin of your backside. So not only has the so-called healthy sport of running brought me exercised induced asthma, it now has given intimate knowledge of anal sodomy. Thank you exercise. Thank you.

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?

Pooping Boots

Yesterday it was a pigeon flying into my head, and today it was an accidental pooping. Yes, you read that right. In God’s effort to humiliate me into being a lard ass, yesterday he summoned a pigeon with the flying experience of a blind man to smack me upside my head, and today he summoned my stomach into a state of rumbling that only creates fear. No motivation to increase speed is bigger than that of a potential pooptastic accident on the Embarcadero. I made it, thank god. This week has also marked not one, not two but six different people telling me how much weight I have lost. An insanely great accomplishment considering I thought that my five months of running was for the caloric intake consumed this past Thanksgiving weekend. Blueberry pie bitches! That being said, yesterday my jcrew boots came (see below) and today I will be venturing to The Gap in order to try on skinny and straight leg jeans so that I can tuck them into said boots. I know people, the fashion! Hopefully I will not chicken out as this once again seems a very “costumey” way to dress, but these boots are quite lovely and I have seen many a gal about town with a largesse more than me do same. And so it continues, my slow crawl out of the coma of pregnancy and baby having into the sunlight of being myself with a new pair of kick ass boots.

My Imagination

When I started running, it never occurred to me that seventeen weeks later there would be this amount of pain. A pain that is completely and utterly isolated in my triceps. It hurts to type, which I do believe is an indication of one hell of a sore. Logically all I can come up with is that my body is attacking the last true bastion of fat laden cells. When thinking of losing weight, I imagine little beasts consuming the fat stores that lay upon my body. Which scientifically is pretty fact based; however, I don’t believe most people believe it looks like this:



Eat em up my little purple monster. Eat em up.

Eff You Great Britain

I just finished ordering possible outfit number three for a wedding I am attending in November.

Outfit No. 1 was from J.Crew and tragically incapable of holding my ginormous nursing boobs. I actually ordered the dress a size up in an attempt to house said monstrosities. Unfortunately the size up meant that my chest area was still sausaged while the bottom of the dress could smuggle a family of five across the Mexican border. It was at the point I realized that I either had to do a wrap or a two piece. No dress without tons of alterations would do, and since I am not nursing forever (although it seems like it at times), there is no way Cheapskate McCall would spend money on something so unnecessary.

Outfit No. 2 is a simple black wrap dress with 3/4 sleeves that I got at Macy’s for the absolute low, low price of $64.00 bux. This is a great dress, and perfectly acceptable for the wedding, even though it cries boring. But in a fix, it will do. And every girl should have a black wrap in her wardrobe.

Today I got an e-mail from Boden declaring “new winter outfits.” And on perusal, I instantaneously feel in love with a 50s styled beaded cardigan and sateen skirt. A two piece wedding appropriate outfit that when paired with my black suede Mary Janes would make a girl skip. In my head, Cheapskate McCall was all “you have a dress, it fits, why bother?” But I was all shut up, I am acting on impulse, and I still get 10% off and free shipping, so quite down you ole bat. (Again, isn’t it is amazing I am let among the people?).

However, fine folks, do you know that Boden has UK sizing. I looked at the UK Sizing Charts to discover that even though I have lost forty-five pounds since having Maggie, and am finally in my old size (even though I still have 15 pounds to go), I still had to order a size up because it said “if you are a larger size then please order up for the UK equivalent.” Uh-huh. Talk about a fashion bitch slap. I will not be moving to London, EVER!

The Tides Have Turned

When returning to work ten weeks ago, I never believed during the huffs and gasps of my luncheon run there would come a time when running would again be pleasurable. However, over this past week, my brain clicked, my legs strode and it all seemed so right. Today is Friday, marking the fifth time I have run this week. Every day of this week I have gotten out there and spent twenty-five minutes enjoying the views of the Embarcadero, concentrating on my breathing and feeling absolutely amazing. The thing about exercise is that it totally and completely sucks donkey balls, but it totally and completely also makes you feel wonderful. So even if some strange lady walks up to you with advice on a sports bra able to contain your behemouth breastfeeding boobies, it is all worth it since your pants fit again and your mind runs ecstatic with endorphins.

Not that I am Mad or Anything

I was thinking the other day that if I was ten years younger, running as much as I do, there would not be an ounce of heft on my frame. It is not that the running isn't going well, it is. Last week I ran six out of seven days, and this week every day so far. I even ran on the treadmill this weekend while Owen napped because "might as well. I got the time." Guessing those happy little endorphins do provide you with the crazy. My clothing is fitting better, my muffin top is mini in size, and my legs, dare I say it, are getting quite svelte. But the fact of the matter is at 34 years old running approximately 12 to 18 miles a week provides you with the slow weight loss which I suppose may be the best kind. At 24, I would be wearing size six pants and flaunting my body like a crack ho in need of a fix. When younger, you could skip a meal and lose five pounds, now it a battle of epic proportions. I can't even imagine what it will be like in my 40s. But I am pretty sure by then I will give into a life of Bon Bons, big girl sizes and QVC.

Speaking of big, guess whose little monster weighed in at 27.1 pounds and 33 1/2 inches in height - otherwise known as the 75% percentile for both height and weight? Yep, Owen. He is officially living up to the linebacker title that no less than 50 people given him. Initially when they said it I was all "no way, he actually his is just 20% percentile in height and weight." But now, I am trying to figure out which colleges will provide him the best opportunity to join the Patriots in 2027. Also, the kid received 3 shots and cried for a solid 2.2 seconds. He shook it off to climb on a chair, to get up the examination table, where he tried to jump off. Owen is a year and a half old monster in the making, with no fear, and a high pain threshold. Help us Jesus.

Comedy of Errors

This is a complete list of things that happened to me during my run at lunch.

1. No socks. Somehow when I placed my socks by the bed with the rest of my running attire, they decided to go missing so that in the bathroom while getting changed there was the inevitable question "To run or not to run?" I decided run. Stinky feet, stinky feet, someone has stinky feet.

2. Wrong shirt. Instead of grabbing my Nikey dry-fit shirt, I grabbed a Gap stretchy T of the same color. Let me say that its sweat wick factor - NON-FREAKING EXISTENT.

3. Boob Shrinkage. Well it seems my knockers are getting smaller, because while running my boobs repeatedly fell out of my jog bra. Yeah weight loss, but heavens to Betsy, sticking your hands down your bra while jogging. Stupid.

4. Fleece Running Outfit. Speaking of stupid, hello Cassandra McCall you no longer live in Boston, Massachusetts but sunny (today) San Francisco, California. Fleece jogging wear, not conducive to a low sweat factor, especially when running sockless with no drifit. Seriously, today I was the evil villainess of sweat - fear her salty sweaty stench.

5. Towels, Who Needs Towels. While finishing my labor intensive record long shower, I realized I forgot the towels. I am shy, so unlike many others, I can't saunter across a room naked and not wish a swift death. Besides, our work showers are also the Promenade's women's bathroom. I ran across the room to the other bathroom (where the towels are located) and then skedaddled back in about 3.2 seconds as on the return trip I slide across the tiled floor almost falling. Unfortunately these towels are tiny and incapable of hiding the goods, so I had to make the quick dash back to safety. Thank you Jesus for allowing me some grace so that I was not laying spread eagle for a bathroom visiting co-worker, because that could have been just slightly awkward.

6. No Hair Brush. I forgot my hairbrush resulting in me having to finger comb my hair while drying, which in all honestly looks exactly the same as if I had a brush. Thank you fine hair.

So there you have it. Next time when I forget my socks, you will be damn sure I will take it as the first sign of the apocalypse of running.

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.

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.