A New Love

This past weekend after seeing the maniacs of Bay to Breakers, we headed to the Park Chalet. When one surrounds themselves with public drunkenness, it is only rational to achieve similar status. It being Bay to Breakers, there were a few special treats at the ole Chalet, namely, Leblon Cachaca. Which is like rum in that it comes from cane juice, but not rum, but Cachaca, the liquor of Brazil - DON’T CALL IT RUM (even though it is classified as same by the US because Cachaca is not recognized). I armed with strawberry and John pineapple we sipped. We sipped some more. Then we smiled at each other like that time the kids slept until 8:00 a.m., that one glorious time in over 400 attempts. But do I care? Nope, I have Leblon. So suck it sleeper inners with your non-baggy eyes, and your no kids, and your need for alarm clocks. I have my muddled pineapple Leblon Cachaca splendor.

My Kind of Math

Maggie will be sixteen weeks old this Monday. And now for some quick math - 52 - 16 equals 36. 36 x 7 equals 252 . 252 x 24 equals 6048. 6048 x 60 equals 362,880. That is 362,880 seconds until I can drink a grey goose gimlet. The Triple G!!! I now know what prison feels like. One would think that an Irish girl going through nine long months (plus 2 weeks) of pregnancy would come out of the hospital with a swaddled liquor bottle. Not this girl. This girl needs to breastfeed for a year so there is no hard stuff consumption because your milk is tainted with awesomeness (just not awesome for the baby, unless a slow half witted child is your thing). Pump and Dump my ass. That being said, I think it is only 362,725 now. Thank God. Check it out.

The End of the Sickness Road

I honestly do not know what is worse when it comes to illness - when you are in the weeds marginally demented by lack of coherent thought or towards the end when you a few rungs from the top of the health ladder. Sure it sucks to be sick, but it is made better by the joys of Nyquil, Dayquil and your confused somewhat delirious being. Did I just say and not think you are a fucking asshole mutherfucker? Sorry, I'm sick. Whoopsie. Being almost healthy is a horrid state, easily tired; prone to coughing fits and whenever a nose is blown a mini Jackson Pollack remains in the wrinkled Kleenex. Not to brag, but if I was running a supply store for witches, let us just say the ingredient of mucusey snot would be well stocked. Perhaps it is the scientist in me, or my love of all things gruesome, but I am almost to the point of collecting it to gauge how much freaking yellow discharge my nose is producing. We are talking Guinness Records, people. I guess I should be happy that this latest duel of baby germs is almost completed. However, tomorrow Owen is in back-up child care which is often a petri dish of pediatric phlegm producing possibilities. (Good god, I love alliteration). So stay tuned. In other news, the other night I threw away the last half of my madras (vodka, OJ and cranberry), which was significant as it was then the realization that the illness had handily defeated me hit. One Cassandra Michele Catherine McCall does not throw away booze; she sucks it up, downs the remainder and continues onward. I think any unfinished adult beverage is akin to a leaving a child on a doorstep. In other words, a tragedy. This in certain realms would be considered "a problem." But whatever, there are few things in this life I view as sacred, and the drink is one of them. So to you half filled pint glass of vodka, I am sorry. I wish I could have loved you better, but alas, I could not. For this, I apologize.