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.)

She Bangs, She Bangs

The other evening in an effort to not let strawberry jello fall to the floor thus making a mess, I leaped forward to the sink whereby my second toe slammed into the child’s gate. This gate that protects Owen and Maggie from certain kitchen death often leads me to swift pain in the form of a stub. “Fuck! FUCK!!! Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Mutherfucking FUUCCCKKKKK.” I feel to the floor in a heap, clutching my foot and crying. I don’t normally cry after injury, I cuss like a sailor and then shake it off. This is something I usually tell Owen and Maggie when hurt, “Shake it off.” (Not swear). Owen usually responds with his ass shimmying; Maggie, her hands. But there I lay on the floor, my toe again the victim of a viscous stub. The pain was so bad that I could not uncover my hand at fear of what I might see. And when I did, it was bad, a bruise already forming and skin dangling. Thankfully, it was not the toe-decapitation imagined. My toes, if you have not been privy to see, are a tad long. My 2nd and 3rd in line are longer than my big toe. This is a trait from my mother that luckily has not been passed to my children. For years, I have suspected this was the source of my totally clumsiness. My big toe in its diminutive state is incapable of providing the stability necessary to a support body. I submit to you, Evidence A - my toes (pardon the state of my feet - I run and could care less about pedicures).


As you can see by the above photo, my big toe is woefully deficient. It should be at least an inch longer. Thankfully, it is not. Because that would mean size 11 shoes, and have you seen size 11 shoes? Neither have I, maybe once on a carnival clown. Although my big toe is awful in its ability to keep me from toe banging excruciating pain, it is thoughtful enough in its small stature to provide me with an assortment of shoes that do no scream circus. Thank you, big toe.

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!

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.

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.

OMG

As I was stepping onto the Embarcadero to begin my run up flies a scared pigeon who proceeds to slap its body into the left side of my head. I kid you not. Do you know that pigeons are flying rats? They are. Also did you know that you always think they are going to hit you in the head and you move awkwardly to avoid them, but the don't hit you and you look like a complete jack ass. But my pigeon obviously a lover of the drink, flies and hits me in the god forsaken head. So what did I do? I continued to run while cursing how gross it was and thinking of the bird lice now hatching eggs in my hair. Good lord I hate pigeons. Hate, hate, hate, hate. So now in addition to pooping on me twice a year, they have added "bitch slapping upside the head" to the mix. I need a protective helmet.