My Apologies

Obviously my life of a blogger is haphazard in its entries, which plays to the fact that I am a procrastinator. The blog in my head is full of entries that would make your sides ache, your eyes widen and your mind excited. But alas, the procrastinator in me has set up camp with no intent to leave - a renter in the rent controlled apartment of my brain. But enough about my inner turmoil, and let me catch you up on all the joy that has occurred in my life, it should be short given my boring parental (but extremely happy) life of the moment.

1. Weight Watchers Works. I have lost 14 pounds on the Weight Watchers plan, which is great considering on weekends I eat whatever the hell I want. I feel like a prisoner given a conjugal visit, except my romp is with the heavenly bliss that is pizza, ice cream and more importantly beer which leads me to another milestone.

2. Hello Beer, My Old Friend. After a 7 plus hour drive home from the cabin (pictured above), I had an itch. And this itch had only one cure, booze. So, after almost 8 months of leading a somewhat sober life save the occasional glass of wine or bottle of beer, I dived wholeheartedly into a pool of Heineken (of course this pool was kiddie in size as four Heinekens delivered in me an inner peace that was usually the product of 2 shots, 4 jack and cokes and a beer). Now, I can firmly state that nursing the boy shall end December 19 (Owen’s first birthday), as Momma needs her cocktail. Originally my thought was that this cocktail would be a Maker’s Mark Manhattan (as in MMMmmmmmmm), but now I fear due to my lightweight status (both literally and figuratively) I may have to have something more simple, like a Vodka Cranberry. However, I am still leaning towards the MMM, which probably means after the consumption of one I will be of the stumbling but super silly sort.

And that is pretty much it. Not really but I have 15 minutes left before work ends for the long weekend. I plan on going to the new haunt that is the backyard space of the Park Chalet with Owen and John where we will sit outside, eat and drink beer in a sea of parents, kids, dogs and other refugees of the usually banned from restaurants camp. We have found true joy! Happy weekend, and I will try to write more, but that fat balding guy with the short sleeve dress shirt and the procrastinator title on his desk really does create an obstacle.

This morning while walking a large boobied lady made her way across me in all of her plastic surgery enhanced beauty. I shook my head. There are two things in this world that I don’t get - (1) Fake Boobs and (2) Tattoos. Perhaps because I am well endowed, I can’t possibly understand why a woman would choose to go out and pay money for things that basically cause dents in your shoulders and make the wearing of some v-neck shirts outright obscene. I also am hard pressed to understand how any heterosexual man could enjoy the feeling of said boobies which I imagine feel like a gallon size Ziploc bag filled with sandwich size water filled bag that continually moves as you grab it. Sorta like, oh wait a second, I know why men would like it - it feels like their balls! It all makes sense now. But why a girl would want larger melons is beyond me, but then I am never one to intentionally seek out attention from the masses. This brings to another thing that causes in me the immediate tisk, tisk and that is the tattoo. How could you like something so much that you choose to get it inked permanently on your body? A friend of mine in the mid-1990s got two tattoos - the infinity symbol on her foot and Dionysis’s staff on her belly. Although I could appreciate her journey to be different, I never really got it. Also, I think in 2007 both of these tattoos are dated. Especially since her Dionysis’ staff (see photo above) basically got the following from people who viewed - “Is that a rosebud?” “Ah no (disgust), it is the staff of the Greek God of wine and intoxication. Geesh. (rolling eyes)” Yep, that is right - the staff of a Greek God who stood for wine and intoxication. Ah, being in your 20s. So, I don’t know maybe for all my liberal intentions I am quite conservative in my views of boobies and tatts - one should be real and the other strictly reserved for sailors.

For the Love of Verily. Those unfamiliar with high rise office buildings are missing out on one of my favorite inventions over the past five years - right behind the Nintendo Wii and Grey Goose L’Orange - and that is Captivate TV which is found in the elevator. Captivate TV is a television that informs the rider of general, entertainment and sports news as well as odd and educational tidbits. I love Captivate TV for many reasons, but mainly it has to do with its name. Is it actually Captivating TV or is it because you are in an elevator and basically a captive. Hmmmmmm. Today I learned of my new favorite word ever. The word is “verily”, an adjective meaning “in truth”. The sentence use was “I verily believe that wearing white should be reserved for after Memorial Day.” This appealed to me for two reasons:

1. I too believe the wearing of white should only be used during the days between Memorial Day and Labor Day or by virgins offered for sacrifice.

2. When said out loud “verily” sorta sounds like really, but in a fucked up retarded tongue like when you are drunk. I am all for words that make me appear stupid and/or intoxicated but in fact play up my intelligence. I verily do.

Other things that I verily believe in are as follows: I verily believe the Manhattan will be my first liquor drink after the baby. I verily believe that it will be made with Maker’s Mark. I verily believe I will become drunk. I verily believe that this will cause exuberance in me bordering on mania. I verily believe during this Manhattaned induced exuberance I will more than likely fall and meet an untimely death. I verily believe at the gates of heaven St. Peter will ask me if it was worth it. To which I will reply “Well, St. Peter, I know lots of people would be pressed to say no, but I disagree, for I verily believe it was.”

Why I Am a Dork. I think that this may be a continuing series because the list is very long. First I would like to report that I have gotten an A in Big Brain Academy on my Nintendo DS Lite. Although I am satisfied with this grade, I still want an A+. Also in the realm of gaming goofiness, John and I just moved the Wii into the bedroom so that we can play Mario Party 8. I will let you chew on that for a bit. I allowed a gaming system be moved into my bedroom so that I can play Nintendo with my husband before bed. I think that violates total girl code, but whatever, I love the Wii. I am officially on Day 2 of my Weight Watchers diet. So far, so good. Of course my in-laws came over last night with boxes of See’s Candies. Curses! However, I only ate 2 pieces, which is an improvement over grabbing the box running to a corner and growling at any passerby. And you probably think I am kidding. I will like to state as a nursing mom, I get 10 extra points a day for a total of 35 points. 10 extra points? That is basically a big slice of pizza a day because I breastfeed. Finally my ravenous hunger makes sense.

I just made a purchase of a Jonathan Weiner print entitled “Flower Offering” that makes me so happy that I would hop, skip, dance, sing and whistle all at the same time if it would not cause me to fall flat on my face in a heap of twisted leg and tongue. As luck would have it, I stumbled upon his site from my numerous searches for art for Owen’s room, and fell instantly in love. The print is above. Of course, I am still looking for art for Owen’s room as well as pondering whether to buy Flor tiles. I am seriously insane when it comes to anything in that room - the crib and bedding purchase alone was a two month adventure in internet searches. But I got the Dick crib and the ABC Dwell Baby sheets and crib skirt and the room itself is a cold steel blue with white curtains. The color scheme being brown, blue and white. I have to say that I am rather impressed with how it came out, but I still must get the art and the rug which causes numerous headaches. I have this great Interpol print by Tara McPherson that is what the colors are based on, but still need to get some other things. I should seriously just get an entire wall of mirrors given Owen’s love of himself, but alas, I guess this is normal. I hope. Otherwise, I just gave birth to reincarnation of Narcissis.

So to sum up, I am a dork for the following reasons:

1. My grade on Big Brain Academy bothers me.
2. I have a Nintendo Wii in my bedroom.
3. Weight Watchers.
4. A piece of art has made me as giddy as when the Red Sox won the World Series.
5. I equate my son to a Greek god who fell in love with his reflection.

Don’t worry; this list is in no way complete.

Boston Betrays, Infant Flying and Competitve Trickery. Remember how I said there are things in Boston I miss? Like scali bread, Wellfleet Oysters and Famous Roast Beef. Well, there is one thing I don’t miss and that is humidity. After 3 years of only visiting in the winter, I returned in June to find the welt in swelter. Holy crap. The next day however it was 50 and rainy. My dad repeated the phrase “If you hate the weather in Boston, just wait a day.” Well, I have another saying “If you hate the weather in Boston, fucking come to your senses and move already.” Needless to say, I am glad I moved for the weather in San Francisco although foggy on occasion, is never ever hell-like in its heat. Well except for the day I got married and it was 112 in the shade. In other news, I shan’t ever go on a plane again with Owen until he is at least 18 years old (maybe). The plane ride out was not bad, but the one back was six and half hours of pure torture. The poor guy got a head cold 10 hours before our flight, and was indeed Woe-wen. Thankfully, it is all a distant memory (photo of Owen in Boston above). The wedding was great though as was seeing my family. But from now on relatives and friends - you visit me.

This Monday will be my first Weight Watchers meeting, which is horrendous to type, but alas the 10 weeks of bed rest, the fanatical addiction to ice cream and my inability to stay on track has caused me to make the move. However, I have to say there is only one motivation for me joining the WW, and that is the fact that I am ultra competitive and need to join in order to put others to shame with my dramatic weight loss. Yep, I am this pathetic. At my old office we used to have something called Fat Track in which we all put in 20 bux and whoever lost the most percentage weight over a specific period of time, was named winner. And guess who was named winner and co-winner on every occasion? Me. And you wanna know how? The last weeks I would be running on my treadmill in garbage bags in order to eliminate any water from my system as well as eating hardly anything but tuna in a can and water. All this suffering for a mere 200 dollars, but it was worth it. Because I won! I won! I won! So, in order to trick myself into getting focused I have joined weight watchers. Even though there is a total crazy lady running this thing who annoys the hell out of me. Her name is Gwen, and she is a vocally high pitched cheerleader. But it must be done, for the boy is 6 months old, and I have exactly 6 months before we try for baby number two (who will never see the inside of an aircraft).

Tetris, Wedding Lady, Boston. My Mother’s Day Gift Kicked Ass. Some mothers get breakfast in bed, some mothers get flowers and some mothers, such as myself, get Nintendo DS Lites. Oh joy of joys! And today marks the first time in my entire life that I actually beat Tetris. I cleared those 200 lines and was in the zone, even with the lady next to me involved in heavy wedding preparations. Mind you she was about 40. I am sorry, but you 40 year old bride, do not need a big white dress or a huge ceremony. I understand that at long last after years of missing the bouquets, it is your turn, but at 40 you need not to wear white or command the attention of 200 guests. She was actually showing three different versions of her wedding invitations - each ornate and intricately bowed. I wanted to shake her and say “Lady, are you insane? Do you really think your invitees care?” But that is the wedding minded woman. In other news, I am going to Boston next week for the wedding of my dear friend Diane. So that should be exciting, not the trip back and forth across country with an infant, but still fun. It is at times when I am going back to Boston I realize how much I miss - mainly all of it having to do with food, in particular the Wellfleet Oyster and the Famous Roast Beef. I admit that I would often make fun of the “famous” attached to the roast beef, but then you move to San Francisco and you are PMSed, and the only food you want is a roast beef with sauce and cheese on an onion roll. But nothing similar is found because every god damn sandwich made in this city has avocado on it, not that I hate that, but my god. When a girl ranging with hormones wants a roast beef sandwich she either gets that sandwich or ends up crying in the tub at night pondering the decisions of her move, all because of a sandwich. As for the oyster situation, I like oysters of all kinds, but my favorites are Wellfleets. I love the saltiness of the juice, the plumpness of the body, the absolute tingly feeling that they create within. And I miss that feeling, since I use to indulge at least once a month. But now I am in a haven of west coast oyster faire, which is also good, but lacking to fulfill my Wellfleet need. So I am going to Boston with a few needs to be met, so if you see me on the street with oyster shells all around and my face streaked with roast beef sauce, back off - you never want to interrupt an animal as it eats.

File It Under TMI. First things first, I did in fact get a big ole pimple upon my chin on Saturday morning. This would be god punishing me. Those not familiar with God Punishing You must not be Catholic or raised by my mother - who would often say, “Well that is what you get, God punished you.” Personally, I can’t believe that God has the time, but he often goes out of his way to make my life so much more interesting. Today I have to discuss the fact that since I gave birth, my va-j-jay is prone to make noises. In fact, I think mostly what it is trying to convey is “God damn woman, what the hell was that 19 weeks ago?” The first few weeks after Owen was born, I was pretty sure I had the new star of American Idol between my legs. I can hear Randy now “Well Cassie’s Vag, you were a tad pitchy in parts, but dawg, I gotta say, I loved it.” Although it is less common now due to the implementation of the Kegel, its sweet song is still sometimes heard, usually at such moments when the train goes blissfully quiet. Hmmm, maybe this all is just a new punishment by God. What a jerk.

I Feel Pretty, Oh So Pretty. Yesterday was the first day in about 7 months (aside from that one day when 8 months pregnant) that I have felt pretty. I recently read somewhere that over 60% of new moms admit to have letting themselves go, especially in the first year. And although my beauty routine is far from extensive, I understand the need to cut corners with getting ready. So yesterday while walking to the N Judah with the air full of a sea breeze, and the sun glorious, I felt very, very pretty. It was almost skip worthy. And what do I attribute this shameless self loving? Well the answer is two-fold:

1. Dr. Dennis Grossman and his Alpha Hydroxy Pads. When I was about 19 years old I read in some female magazine that if a girl did not take care of her skin beginning at a young age she would be saddled with wrinkles by 40. For some reason this shook me to the very core. I still don’t know why, but I immediately went out to Woolworth’s in Downtown Boston and began what is now a 14 year obsession with washing and moisturizing my face. I don’t believe in the last 14 years there has been one night wherein I have not washed and moisturized. Even when under the influence and my face is suddenly three fold with distorted drunken eyes, it is washed. Even when under the strain of childhood, it was washed. And truth be told, I am a rather frugal person, not spending much money on anything, but when it comes to skin care penny pinching be banished. Currently my favorites are Skincare MD’s tinted moisturizer in light, Clarins Daycream, and those amazing Alpha Hydroxy Pads, which promise a facelift in a package. And they do deliver girls. So, enough about my obsessive compulsive skin care regimen, and on to factor two of why I felt pretty.

2. The Beasts Have Been Tamed. I love my father dearly, but what I do not love is the eyebrows that he has genetically bestowed upon me. I became an avid plucker after I bought Cindy Crawford’s guide to make-up circa 1993 when I finally decided to wear make-up and needed a tutorial. I plucked and plucked and plucked (cleared the debris from the sink) and plucked some more until my bushy little caterpillars became acceptably arched and angled. Looking back on photos of me prior to my 20th birthday, the question of “Why I never dated?” could be found clearly upon my face. However, now that I live in San Francisco, I get my eyebrows waxed. For a very ungirly girl, this is a very girly girl thing to do. But I accept it since it seems these days if you don’t get your eyebrows waxed you are banished to some sort of bohemian subset that reeks of hippie. And hippie, I am not.

So with my face crystal clear and glowing, my hair long and flowing and my eyebrows non-bushy and groomed, I stepped outside of my house, the air improved by the ocean breeze and the sun shining, feeling incredibly happy and pretty. It was a feeling long overdue. Of course tomorrow due to this boost I will probably be saddled with the pimple equivalent of Mt. Fuji. Ah, thanks again Sully!

The Battle of the Pregnancy Bulge Begins. When I first got pregnant, I was cautious of weight gain. Come Month 8 when I was eating a pint of Ben & Jerry’s a day, this caution was obviously thrown to the wind. Now that Owen has hit the 18th week of life, it is fast becoming clear to me that calorie reduction is a priority. After moving, I had the opportunity to unpack my pre-maternity clothing which now sit in my closet mocking me with such comments as “Hey fattie, remember me, your favorite gray pants? Remember how good you felt when you wore me with that black cardigan and white camisole with the black maryjanes?” And I collapse in tears and say, “I do remember gray pants, and I do love you. I want to be reunited with you so that we can dance the favorite girl outfit dance.” Needless to say, that unpacking and closet organization leveled me with Stage 5 depression (only to be followed by Stage 6 - Jump Out the Window). Now that some time has past and I am adjusted to my working schedule, I can finally focus on myself and the whittling away of the pregnancy pounds. Honestly, I would have to say that I was under the assumption that after I gave birth, I would be breastfeeding, and breastfeeding with its 500 calories burned a day would make for fast weight loss. What no one told me was that when you breastfeed you become a ravenous chocoholic sweet seeking fiend. Before when I ate a piece of dark chocolate I would say “Oh my, was that good. Yummers.” And this would occur maybe once a month. Now in my breastfeeding psychosis I seek out chocolate with planning bordering on stalking. A typical day in the mind of one breastfeeding mother: the setting, after lunch:

“Hmmmm, I’m still hungry. Why the hell am I always hungry? What do I want? Oh you know what you want, don’t try to fool me. Okay, chocolate. Let’s go to See’s. Oh yes, let us go to the magical land of dark chocolate and tasty goodness. (Skipping, I arrive). Jesus, why is this line so long? (Tapping feet). God, this lady is going to take forever, I hate her. Fucking bitch. Why yes, you can help me chocolate giving girl - I would like one dark chocolate chip truffle. And yes I know it cost 58 cents, I only get it every freaking day - here is the exact change. And yes I will take that free sample. Oh heavenly goodness, sweet chocolate truffle melt upon my tongue and satisfy the part of my brain screaming for you with the desparation of 40 year old with no kids. I love you, I love you, I love you. I need to cry in happiness.”

Needless to say, eating chocolate is not going to help anyone lose the thunder in their thighs or that rocking double chin. But it must be done. And I know I have said this before, but I am employing a never fail mental tactic that will allow me the loss of some weight, and that my friends is the “Maggot Materialization Method”.

Although I am a fan of all things insect, there is one thing that I cannot stand due to an unfortunate event in the 15th year of life, and that thing is maggots. I warn that this is not for the faint of stomach. It was summer of 1989. I sat on my dad’s recliner watching Bob Barker on the Price is Right. I was chilly, even though it was summer and the temperature was probably in the 70s. I ran down to the basement and procured a blanket, running back upstairs so as not to miss the always exciting game of Plinko. About 5 minutes in, I got really itching. I then realized that I was not itching, but that there was movement under the blanket. Horrified, it was at this point, I had what they in the psychiatry profession call a dissociative break. I took off the blanket only to discover about 100 maggots on me, the blanket, and the chair. I screamed ripping off my clothes, brushing off the larva and running to the shower. Eventually I recovered, but never again was I the same. Even typing these words creates in me a sense of utter dread that may lead to ultimate vomiting. I hate maggots, I despise them. The name alone makes me queasy. So, in an effort to banish the pounds from my frame, whenever I see something bad for me, I will picture 1,000 creepy crawling maggots on said food. And I will not eat it, believe me. In fact, I may not be able to eat for a good 3 hours after. But it is a proven way for me to attain the goal of my gray pants and I having a day at the park complete with twirling and a possible somersault. We can only hope.

The World Presses On. I have this theory that as one ages at some point they decide on a decade. You see it around you all the time, the 45 year old with the big permed and teased hair looking like a groupie from an 80s metal band or the mid-30 year old black leggings, flannel shirt and clunky shoe escapee from a Nirvana concert, or the old lady with the beehive and cat's eye glasses. I don't think any of us can escape the decade trap; it is just a matter of when you are going to settle and become trapped. However, as I age, there is no escaping the fact that the world is trucking on without me, sorta like how my dad when moving a computer mouse moves his entire arm 3 feet in each direction. And that my dear friends is initialing in replace of typing what you actually want to say. Sure, it took me a while but I now know that LOL means Laugh Out Loud, but recently I joined the Pumping Moms Group at yahoo. I will pause for you to laugh. And my god, I can't understand what half these bitches are saying. I think I have figured out that MM is mother’s milk, DS is darling son, DD is darling daughter, and DH is darling husband. What I don’t understand is why the hell do you need to place “darling” in front of these. Maybe it does not mean darling, but that is all I can figure out. And why the hell is darling what they are using? I don’t get it. I am so tempted to write - my BS (bastard son) is BMNO (biting my nipples off) and my SOBH (son of a bitch husband) LOL (laughs out loud). Does this irritate others as much as me? For the life of me, I still don’t know what hell “HUTH” stands for. As used here “did something like this when I was trying to reduce my supply a month before HUTH”. I think it has to do with going to work. I am not sure though. I need help or a time machine so that I can be born in 1980.

Back to Work. I think there is no better illustration of my first day back to work, than the following: Sunday night I go to sleep antsy because of my reintroduction to the working world. I wake up, confident in my ability. I step into a steaming hot shower and while scrubbing my head with Aveda rosemary and mint shampoo a wave of emotion overwhelms me so that I begin to sob. And this cry is not mere weepy, it is wrenching, full guttural sobbing. So much so I wake John from a slumber with my woeful shower howl. Somehow I managed to get it together to take Owen to daycare and say a happy goodbye. But the sad just keep nagging me until finally on Wednesday evening I had an emotional episode where a straightjacket would have been welcomed. But since then I have accepted all, and have nary a worry. I do believe a good cry however crazy will often direct one to a more peaceful acceptance. That and the fact that I truly believe someday I will win the lottery. Go ahead and scoff, but someday I tell you. So during these past two weeks, there are some tidbits I have realized:

1. I am a social retard. Like all bedridden folks, I did not get out much. And with the introduction of an infant, my social life did not take a turn for the better. So after six months of myself, Owen, John and the television, the concept of adult conversation is perplexing. For some reason of late when people are talking to me, I find myself watching them. I have to force myself to actively participate and listen, because my mind wanders. On my first day back, while my boss told me of her impending retirement, and new house, and plans for the rest of her life, I just sat there smiling, watching and thinking “is this bitch every going to shut up.” I would so turn the station on her.

2. I love riding public transportation. Sure, public transportation has its bad - the delays, the smell, the crowding, but there is so much good on it too. And yes, I am talking about the weirdos. I don't think there is a person more fond of the freak than me. And they say circus freaks have no home now-a-days. As of yet, the train rides have been pretty mundane, aside from this one guy who sat, pulled out a calculator, and calculated nothing for approximately 20 minutes. Yep, good times. But I am waiting for the gold that will surely come. I cannot wait.

So that is pretty much it, and since I am at work I will be sure to post more. Because well it is work, and I now have the time. Funny isn't?

Could It Be? For the past week and a half I have been suffering what I believe to be the demon woe of womankind – PMS. However, since I have not engaged with the beast since mid-March 2006, I do not know if it is truly a sign that my period is going to spoil my white pants wearing wiles. (Please note that I actually do not wear white pants, well not until Memorial Day, and only if I can somehow manage to lose the baby weight that is plaguing my existence). But back to the PMS:

Symptom One: One day last week I left my house to forage for food. I was gone for 45 minutes. I went to nine different places, 2 of which I waited in line only to bolt right before ordering because I was unsure of what to order. My mental process during the Subway line wait: “Oh, Subway. Okay, I can do that. Hmmm, do they have that Meatball special on Wednesdays? Do I want meatballs. Oh, with cheese would be good. But meatballs aren’t exactly figure flattering, what about turkey? What turkey and cheese on wheat? Hmmm, that sounds okay, but they give you like a slice of cheese, which they say is 2 pieces because they fold it in half in a diagonal. Whatever Subway, you tart.” Finally I gave up, got Vitamin Water and wondered if I was going nuts. Then it dawned on me that this nuttitude is exactly my MO when PMSed - going from food locale to food locale, having inane conversations in my head, and basically driving myself mad.

Symptom Two: On Tuesday night I saw a commercial for Kellogg’s Raisin Bran Crunch. On Wednesday morning, I loaded Owen in the Bjorn and we made a beeline to Safeway under the pretense I needed a few things. But the only thing I truly needed was that cereal. So when I got home, I immediately had a bowl and good lord it was good. The flavors danced upon my tongue like a Jackson Five Era Michael. It was heavenly. I resisted another bowl until 9:30 p.m. However, this morning, I have already have had two bowls and the box is reaching an empty state that is causing worry. So again, craving a particular food to obsession is classic PMS.

However, other than being a tad irritable that I associated to our moving to the new house, I have no other symptoms. I could be bloated, but I could also be hiding Jimmy Hoffa in my belly, so I really don’t know. Supposedly breastfeeding is a natural birth control, but I think do believe these mental breakdowns could be the beginnings of my foray into Advil purchasing and cramping bliss. Which leads me to another concern – will the fact of me giving birth relieve my agonizing cramps as promised by my mother. We shall see . . .

He Liked My Frames. I have issues, which I like to refer to politely as quirks. Quirks are the bizarre idiosyncrasies that define who we are. For example, for a long time I had an irrational fear of going into a Gap store. The reason? The hardwood floors. It was impossible for me to walk into The Gap without my shoes making a clicking clack upon the floor. Which would bring the attention of a salesperson, who in turn would ask me if I needed help. To which I would respond “No, thank you.” The entire process aggravated me, so I avoided The Gap until I discovered headphones equals no salesperson harassment. You as a reader will surely be saying to yourself “Bitch be crazy.” But nope, that is just one of my many quirks. Another quirk of mine is the fact that I hate the attempt by some to turn the mundane into cool. Starbucks has been doing this for years with their Tall, Grande and Vente shenanigans. I outright refuse to use those terms. A typical Starbucks Order:

Me: Could I please have a Medium Non-Fat Latte? (Defiantly).
Clerk: So, a Grande? (Trying to convert me to Starbuckian).
Me: Yep, a Medium. (Hahahahaha bitch!).

I have never used the term Grande, and will continue to refuse until the day I die, when I will probably be buried in a Grande Coffin. Well that is my hope given my new exercise and diet regime, we are still floating around piano box at the moment. But I digress. So, last week while getting my hair cut (not styled), my hairdresser (not stylist) said to me “I like your Frames.” My five-second thought process before uttering a weak “Thanks” was:

Frames? What the hell are Frames? Frames . . . Oh, my glasses. What the hell? Frames? That is stupid. Stupid hairdressers with their stupid salon and their stupid cooler than thou attitude. Yeah, so what I have not got my haircut in 7 months and you are looking at me like I just murdered someone. I was on bed rest. And no I will not be buying any of the 15 products you will put in my hair and drill in my head I need. I don’t need them . . . AND THEY ARE EYEGLASSES, DORK.

Anyway, is it wrong of me to hate the hipster attitude of turning the mundane into something brilliantly different? I think not. But I do like my glasses. Don’t you agree?

My Boob Revolts Against Exercise. Today marks nine weeks since I gave birth to The Head, which would be a great nickname for Owen, given his genetic predisposition for a monster noggin, but alas, his head is normal. Darn it, for I had visions of him joining a modern day freak show and being called the Human Lollipop. Dreams for your kids, I tell ya. Anyway, at the moment I am in complete agony, well not so much to the degree of tears, but give me a few hours. It seems my right boob is suffering from the breastfeeding woe of a plugged milk duct. The blame is solely my own. Last week, disgusted with myself and tired of the jiggly state of my body, I began to exercise with an obsessive compulsiveness bordering on crazy. More specifically I began to squat, lunge, and lift weights all to the most annoying bitch on the planet. Thank you Comcast On Demand. Sunday I began to notice that my right breast felt a bit sore, which was initially attributed to normal breastfeeding pain. However, last night it became quite clear that a duct is plugged. The cause – a sports bra. Well more specifically, my pre-pregnancy sports bras that I have used even though the process of getting into them is a contortionist impressing display of acrobatic maneuvering. But the result was my boobs compressly packaged and immobile which is exactly what a 9 week post-pregnancy mildly insane exercising gal wants. However, it seems the breastfeeding boobie needs not to be confined. It like a bird, desires freedom from the prison of a too tight sports bra. So, my boobie revolted and now a continuous, sharp and progressively worsening ache courses outward from it. The only cure of which is continued feeding, massage and heat. Although it is painful, it will be cured within the next few days. A more painful prospect is figuring out how to adequately support my swollen mammary. A trip to Old Navy today was futile. My only hope is that my night nursing bras will be able to support me when I began my newly purchased “Buff Moms” DVD. And yes, it is equally embarrassing to type that, as it was to purchase it. Ah well, the road to fitness continues. Wish me well.

Oh looky what I made. Yes, after months of not posting, I have returned and hopefully with a vengeance. But more than likely with tales of baby poop and my slow descent into insanity. My life of the past five months since that joyful announcement of BRAS ARE HERE can be summed in ten parts.

Part I. Dr. Mucci Scares the Bejesus Out of Me. Mid-September at a routine ultrasound at almost 27 weeks it was discovered that my cervix was funneling and that I was possibly contracting. A trip to the hospital confirmed that although I was feeling nothing, my uterus was indeed contracting. So after 2 days in the hospital and visits from doctors about such wonderful things as brain bleeding with the premature birth, I was sent home and ordered to bed rest for 10 weeks. Needless to say I did not post because regaling you with tales of my bed ridden life which consisted of (1) ER repeats, (2) trips to the bathroom, (3) 5 minute showers and (4) absolute terror and worry did not seem appropriate to the blog. However, I do think a post would have been the following “I think that my new friends of pillow one and pillow two are mad at me, I think perhaps my greasy non-showered head is offending them. Selfish bastards.”

Part II. 36 Weeks, Where the F*uck is this Kid? After making it through my 10 weeks of joy, my jellified body was able to move again, however, slow. So at this point one would gather that with movement at any moment my “dynamic cervix” (the technical term) would open up and the process would begin. However, this was not the case. After each day nothing happened, except my growing addiction to ice cream. I truly believe that I am solely responsible for quarterly sales of Ben and Jerry’s and Dryers to have skyrocketed.

Part III. Overdue and Pretty Pissed Off. Again, here is where my demonic guardian angel Sully entertains his bar buddies. After 10 weeks of bed rest and 4 weeks of Price Is Right “Come on Down” expectation, nothing happened. My due date came and went and I was left searching the Internet about how to get labor started. I tried all the old wives tales to no avail and began to suspect that having a dynamic cervix was code for “lets drive the pregnant lady crazy.”

Part IV. Relief in the Form of Low Fluid. Oh, I forget to mention, also at the appointment of premature horrors, it was discovered that my umbilical chord had two vessels instead of the normal three which occurs in 1 out of every 1,000 pregnancies. Again, who has the best luck ever? In response to this, it was ordered that each week I have a non-stress test which basically is a measure of the baby’s heart rate and amniotic fluid. On the December 18, 2006 appointment, it was discovered that my fluid was indeed low and I would be sent to the hospital to be induced. Yeah, induction! Even though I was 2 cm dilated and almost completely effaced, my dynamic cervix was still holding on and induction was necessary. By the way, I hate my cervix.

Part V. Never Get An Epidural From a Doctor Who Just Awoke From A Deep Slumber (a/k/a DUH!). Prior to actually having the baby, I had considered the possibility of a natural childbirth. I was going to see how it was, and make my decision. At 1:00 a.m. with contractions one minute apart, I made my decision – EPIDURAL. So Dr. McSleepy arrives and accidentally drives the needle into my spinal fluid. The result of which he said was a possible headache that would require re-entry and a blood block. Yeah, big deal I think. Just stop this agonizing pain. By the way, do you know that I have an abnormally long back? Yep, not one but two anesthesiologists commented upon its freakish length. And yes, I am thinking of painting myself a nice mahogany, learning yoga, and doubling as a coffee table during parties.

Part VI. My Dynamic Cervix, Abnormally Long Back and I Give Birth. Not much to tell here, I push and push and push. Baby arrives. I see Owen for all of 2.5 seconds because he is whisked away due to the fact he has pooped on himself. He is fine, but I am not. Seems my placenta has detached from the chord. When you OB/GYN says to the nurse – “Ah, she has an epidural right? Yeah, can you push that button a few times.” it is never good. So as Dr. Fingers is rooting around my uterus for my placenta like keys in a purse, I am planning my own funeral. John and his mother are with the baby I have only glimpsed, while I have a hand and forearm up my love canal. Finally a discovery of placental gold is made, and I do not expire although it looks like a murder scene. I again ponder what I have done to be so cursed.

Part VII. Owen and Back to Work, Bitch. Finally I am given Owen and I look at him anticipating that instant love that moms all over exclaim about. I gaze and wait. Then the nurse tells me to feed him. So, after 10 weeks of bed rest, 4 weeks of waiting, 1 week of absolute frustration, 6 hours of labor and 1 and a half hour of pushing (he was back labor) I am given the new task of breastfeeding him. No rest for the weary it seems. Also it seems it is amazing to me that any mother can instantly love a creature that has parasitically lived in them for 9 months, requires exit from an orifice that is quite small and then immediately needs nourishment in the form of latching on to your once prized boobs. Or maybe I was just resentful since a moment before I had the arm of a woman flossing my teeth internally for 20 minutes.

Part VIII. Leaking Spinal Fluid Causes Your Brain to Drop. At the time I felt that having a headache due to the mistake of Dr. McSleepy was no big deal. How bad could a headache be? However, flash two days later when up at 7:00 a.m. feeding Owen, my head is pounding. It aches and aches, throbs and throbs, I am crying. And guess what? Outside are jackhammers. Yep, jackhammers. Construction. It is at this point I decide to get the blood block, actually it was the time I decided to end it all by jumping off a roof, but I decided to try the 60% success rate torture session. So in comes Dr. McSavior. She is very nice and awake! She comments on my long board back, and after five attempts due to my poor veins, blood is drawn and injected into my back. I am an absolute mess at this point. Crying due to hormones and pain and the fact that it seems my back is a science experiment gone wrong. However, the block works and my head no longer pounds, and I actually feel really great. I attempt to skip, but fall down.

Part IX. The Baby. Owen is an absolute treasure, completely healthy, quite handsome, and very good and John and I are extremely lucky. Not much to tell here except that I am so unbelievably happy and only once wanted to throw him out the window when he did not shut up.

Part X. The Biggest Mistake. Two weeks ago I decided to free myself from the elastic waist prison that is maternity wear. I figured that I would have to go a size or so up, but whatever; I would be able zip my pants and button a button. I would be somewhat normal. However, as I put on my first pair of pants, I realized that having a 7 pound, 7 oz baby does free you of weight as does breastfeeding, but ice cream binges, being immobile for 70 days and having a post-partum chest size of 38G is another story. So, I left the store with the only thing that fit, a pair of shoes. And no delusions of the state of my body. But fear not, this Tuesday marks 6 weeks since the birth and my return to the gym. An epic story in the making, of which I will be sure to keep you posted. Promise.

Last week my ordered bras from Fig Leaves arrived. John sent me an IM notification of BRAS ARE HERE. Obviously due to his bolding and use of all caps, I don’t need to describe to you the joy in my heart that leapt as I read those words. So after skipping home in absolute glee, I opened the box, ripped off my shirt and unsnapped my too small bra calling it incompetent as I flung it across the room and tried on my new purchases. Happiness quickly ebbed, as my bras were ill fitting and not able to adequately hold the monstrosities my pregnancy has created. I think it is possible at this moment I had a minor conniption fit. Just a slight one. Sometimes I truly believe that my guardian angel is a drunken fat man named Sully with a mean streak. I can see him up there with his barroom mates, telling them all about me.

Bar Pal: So Sully, who you got to watch over?
Sully (wiping drool off his lower lip): Me? I gots this girl. Cassandra. She is nice and all but I like to toy with her for my own amusement. Like, poor kid is pregnant and her boobs are just enormous. And well, she order bras last week and well, just to fuck with her I made sure these bras won’t fit. She is getting them today, come over and we can watch together. Should be fun. Oh god, see her face. Hah. Poor kid, I don’t know why I like doing it but I do. Bartender, whiskey shots for all. The girl's gonna cry.

Anyway, I knew drastic action had to be taken. So on Friday evening after work I walked to Nordstroms to the lingerie department. Where I summoned a clerk and stated that I was pregnant, and I needed to be fitted for a new bra. Into the room we went wherein she stood with tape measurer, and I took off my jacket. She looked at me for a moment before saying, “You must take off your sweater and shirt as well.” Okay then. So, I stood in bra and pregnant belly being measured wherein she said - you are a 36. So I was right on that front. As for the boobs, she said you could be a DD or a DDD, let us check. I waited in the room when she came back with about 7 bras. She then asked the question, “May I assist you?” I have always had issue with being naked in front of other women. I hate it, and if necessary I can in fact get changed in about 3.2 seconds. But I was in a situation that required immediacy. MY NEW BRA MUST BE BOUGHT. So I said yes, and stripped off my bra and tried on bra, after bra, after bra, after bra. And when the Nordstrom’s lingerie sales clerk says assist. Well, they actually mean molest. Just an FYI. But I suffered through, and found a bra. The sales person saying to me - "This bra is perfect. As you are bit top heavy." Really? I am bit top heavy? Do you think? Considering my boobs are Triple DDDs at the moment and I could provide a shelter for a midget family and their dog in a hurricane? Thanks lady, I would have never guessed. But I have to say, she did a fantastic job and I am quite perky in my new purchases. Which is pretty great, since perky and I departed ways in 1999.

Well the answer to the phrase "What the fuck comes after Double Ds anyway" on Google seems to render no answer. However, I did find out by measuring myself that I am currently a 36F. Now this does not mean much really - just that I grew a cup size because I guess in the bra world 36F, 36DDD and 36E are pretty much the same thing. So basically my boobs have expanded an inch. No, an inch does not seem like much. But remember, I started out as a 36D. I have grown two cup sizes in 22 weeks of pregnancy bliss. And I can expect another cup size growth after the birth of Owen. I believe the next size up is G. As in God Damn. Actually I am thinking that the entire A, B, C, D naming of bras is long overdue for change, to which I submit the following:

A - Almost.
B - Boobs.
C - Ca-ching.
D - Damn.
DD - Dynamic Duo.
DDD - The Ds are for Delightful.
F - Freakshow.
G - God Damn.
H - Holy Hell.
I - I'd Consider Surgery.
J - Jerry Springer?
K - Kill Me.
L - Life Sucks.

I can't even imagine the prospect of M through Z. But if there is a poor soul out there, please let me know if you get a discount on wheelbarrows in order to cart those suckers around.

I don't know what is more disturbing, the fact my belly is finally growing, or the fact that each of my boobs suddenly has a jealous streak and want to compete for the prize of biggest round object on my person. My head easily has been beating out the competition for years now; however, Irish head your throne is in jeopardy. Honestly, delving into circus freakdom does not bother me. It happens. However, Victoria Secret stops making bras at Double D, and this for me is a huge problem. By nature, I am a creature of habit. I find something that works and I stick to it. My bra purchases over the years can be summed in 4 parts:

Stage One - Looky Me, I have Boobs. When I finally developed, I was given my mother's B cups. Basically I went flat to B cup in a span of 48 hours. Obviously, making up for the apparent development girls do gradually from 7th grade to sophomore year in high school. I did not mind the hand-me down bras, I really don't know why - probably the fact that I was painfully shy and going with my mother to purchase bras was a torture in which I'd rather not participate. But to my dismay and much gawking by men later, the b-cup and I were not meant to be, thus leading to . . .

Stage Two - It is 1950 All Over Again. One day while shopping with my mother at Caldor I ventured into the woman's underwear section to audition alternatives to the now strangling hand-me downs. My girls, they needed a new home. I looked, and found nothing that offered the obvious support and comfort I desired until I found the Playtex underwire bra in size 36C. This bra was not for the dainty. It was huge. The back strap was 2 inches in width, the hooks and closures sinister, and the cups almost pointy. And the only color it was available in was stark white. Basically, it was a 1950-styled bra, purposeful and not pretty. But I loved it. It supported me, made me perky, the shoulder straps bearable and not digging grooves. And for four years or so, the Playtex "This is perfect for Nuns" Bra and I were happy. Until I started dating, which leads me to . . .

Stage Three - So Sassy, So Sexy. Every girl at some point in their lives has spent way too much on underwear that they consider sexy, and I was not immune. I figured no boy was going to be impressed with my Playtex Boob Prison in white, so I bought things that were pretty, lacy and 36 C. It should be noted however, that pretty 36C and 1950 36C are quite different, and none of these pretty bras ever fit me correctly. I had a lot of boob pop out - which I guess in hindsight was a great date conversation breaker. "Ooops, there goes my boob again, silly me. Let me just put that back in, did you want another drink?" Also it should be noted that no man cares about what the hell is covering your fat sacks of pleasure. And if they do, get out of bed immediately, because you are obviously not the right sex for him. So after a few years of this, I was fed-up and sensible, journeying into . . .

Stage Four - Victoria's Secret, Happiness Found. Eager to find a balance between ugly and too much money/ill-fitting, I bravely walked into Victoria's Secret. I explained my issues to the salesperson, was fitted and discovered the Body by Victoria Secret bra. A match made, and for the last 7 years, my sole destination for bras and underwear. Success, finally.

But, as we all know, my boobs victimized by pregnancy and hormones have grown to epic proportions, laying waste to the Victoria's Secret boob holders, and I am left with a frightening prospect - the hunt for new bras. With the pain in my shoulders massing, and the strain on my rib cage almost unbearable, again, my girls, need a new home. So, today, the hunt begins. I wonder if typing into Google "What the fuck comes after Double D Anyway?" will work. We shall see.

The other day on Muni a family of three comes on board. A teenager, a mom and a dad. The mother was dressed in a filmy tank top, and what looked like pajama bottoms. The dad has a huge pink fanny pack, and the teenager was well listening to her Ipod and looking otherwise depressed (typical teen). San Francisco is not warm in the summer and the Mom's outfit was probably too cool for Mexico. And I did not get it at all. Until of course I was getting off at the same stop, and heard that they had English accents. Oh, they are English, they don't know better. Amazing how a cockney accent cures all.

As for my boobs, you will have to wait until tomorrow. Sorry, I am such a bitch, I know.

Pregnancy is evil. No doubt about it. I mean, sure it is really good in the sense you get to mold a person (evil laugh), but in some ways it has to be one of the most devilish beings ever. I am beginning to think the old wives tale of how bad you treated your parents is what you can expect from your kid is a bunch of hooey. Instead, I believe how bad you treated your parents is directly proportional to the amount of hell that you will have to endure while knocked up. Luckily for me, I was good to my parents and my pregnancy has proven relatively easy. However, there are a few things that are darn right manipulative of the pregnant mind. Today after eating a rather healthful lunch of low fat spicy black bean chicken chili, I craved ice cream.

Ice cream and I have a long historic relationship which I think stems from my father's outright addiction. At any given time in my parents' house, if one looks in the freezer, there will be no less than two gallons of ice cream, and probably a few Ben and Jerry's pints for good measure sandwiched between pretty much an entire supermarket candy isle. Guess whose parents have a sweet tooth? Not that I am complaining, one of my favorites memories of my father are the ice cream sundaes that he made for my brother and me during episodes of Buck Rogers. Twiggy, Dr. Theopolis and ice cream sundaes basically equaled childhood bliss. And since being pregnant, my one craving other than jellybeans has been ice cream. So after my lunch, and being harassed by do-gooder teenagers about immigration rights - sorry guys, i don't need volunteer work for my college application - I decided to walk to Tully's and indulge in a vanilla and Oreo cookie frappe (milkshake for those reading not from Massachusetts). And when I was offered whip cream, I greedily accepted. Afterall, how could I have refused?

The first sip was incredible, as was the second to last. I cannot describe the joy received from a satisfied craving, but it is utter mouthwatering heaven. Mmmm, mmmmm, so freaking good. However, 90 minutes later, I am in hell - probably the 10th level of Pregnancy Backlash. My stomach is sick. It is pretty much the same nausea that I have had with eating pineapple. A lingering I am going to throw up, someone please kill me feeling. It pains me. But even more disturbing is the fact that I now believe that ice cream and its creamery goodness is banished as consumable food. So together with pineapple, I am forgoing ice cream for the remainder of this pregnancy. Of course, we all know this is a lie, for I will try it again, and probably be sick again and repledging my abstinence of it. But this, my friends, is the first plight of pregnancy that I am truly, and deeply sad about. Tonight I will bury a pint of vanilla and play Taps, and hopefully I can move past this horrid event.

Tomorrow, be prepared for "Boob Overhang in My Double Ds. What is next for the Breastzillas?"

Bitches is Crazy. First things first, John and I got married this weekend in what we like to refer to as The Debastardization of Owen Patrick McCall. That is right, we are having a boy of which we are very excited. I am a guy's girl, a true tomboy. I like getting dirty, I like sports, I even have a bug collection that I still like to show on occasion, so yes, and a boy for me is exciting. I can't wait to teach it order names for insects as well as why the Red Sox are the greatest baseball team ever and the New England Patriots the greatest football team. And yes, there will be a battle with John in this regard. Attached is a photo from the wedding (courtesy of my friend Amanda Clifford - whose website is linked to the right as madbproductions). Pregnancy hormones I thank you for the glowing skin.

Getting back to the title of this blog entry, evidenced by my tomboy aspects, girls and especially friendships with women have always been a bit of a mystery to me. In the sense, that I seem to apologize for things a lot, not understanding the delicate eccentricities of the female mind - which is quite shameful given my XX chromosomal status. But a fight yesterday with a friend, that has thankfully become resolved, brought up memories of another friend whose behavior was always a bit off kilter odd, but in an endearing and very appealing way.

The story: One day this girl and I were at our favorite bar, catching up as we saw each other about once every two months. It was just after the holidays. A few weeks back she had begun dating a friend of hers and professed her undying love and devotion so I was surprised to hear that things had quickly soured between the two - the reason being, his Christmas gift to her. Which was artistic and simple, but to her qualified a slap to the face as she had given him a few things, many of them expensive and thought filled. She went on and on about how awful his present was, and how amazing her gifts were. I never really could understand this, so I just sipped my drink and listened - which was becoming more and more our standard. So, they broke up. A few months later I was sitting across the table from this guy drinking Jack and Cokes, when he brought up the very situation. Basically stating he knew she broke up with him over the gift, even though she denied it. And how one day he came home to everything he ever gave her on his front porch. We both saw this as dramatic, but entirely in the nature of this girl. Now it was quite easy to see that he wanted me to fill in the blanks for him, which out of loyalty to her, I did not. But it was sorta heartbreaking to see in his eyes his love for her and his wanting a complete do-over. I have come to find out that the two are now together and married with a kid. Which is great. But I can't help to think about them when birthdays, anniversaries or holidays approach, and whether there is a pressure that he has to fulfill. A nervous sweaty brow as she opens his gifts, wondering if this will be okay and a fight will not be had. Just sorta makes me laugh in a way as it seems so polluted and tainted, but definitely confirms that bitches are indeed crazy.

Today is my 20th week of pregnancy, which means I have 20 more thrilling weeks left. Wish me luck. And I promise to post more, just have been a tad busy - with getting married to an incredible guy and finding out my baby is a boy and well, kicking total ass at fantasy baseball. Any guess as to my favorite? Priorities, I know.

Last night was my first attempt of my new sleeping position - Side Sleeping. My perfect sleeping position basically involves me with my head on my hands and elbows bent, the pillow just touching my forehead, my body at a nice 45 degree angle with my legs completely outstretched. Please refer to my illustration above. Obviously, the move from stomach sleeper to side sleeper is hard, super hard. I feel as if I have had little to no sleep. I slept with a pillow between my legs, and was so conscious of the position, that if I got out of it, I would wake up. The things I do for this kid. No booze, no stomach sleeping, no oysters, no brie. Seriously, if he or she does not say, "I'm sorry Mummy" upon exit via the birth canal. It's over, off to ebay. Just kidding, maybe. I guess it is not good to sleep on your back or your stomach after 16 weeks, and since today is my first foray into my 5th month of pregnancy, I have begun the impossible. I truly wish I had theme music. Ah well.

I have always been gifted in the rack department. In fact, I always felt the C cup a tad too small, while the D cup a tad too big. And upon getting measured once at Victoria's Secret, I heard the results of 37 C ½. So basically I can go 36C to 38D with nary a problem. Which is actually really surprising considering that fact that I did not "blossom" until the summer between Sophomore and Junior years in high school where I went straight into my mother's B cups. Yep, hand me down bras. In eighth grade when it seemed all the other girls went from t-shirts to training bras during gym class, in an effort to fit in I pleaded with my mother to purchase me a bra, only to hear "What for?" Of course, she was right, but changing in front of all the other bra wearing girls while still wearing a t-shirt was sort of horrible. But 8th grade, 9th grade, 10th grade passed and I was still without rack, without period, without any signs of womanhood. And being a tomboy did not help. But the summer of 89 brought with it about 5 inches in height, boobs, and my period. In fact, I got my period at Salisbury Beach in Massachusetts when there one day with my mom and grandmother. As I exited the bathroom a woman, my grandmother quickly told me that she got her last period at Salisbury Beach - and that I found what she lost. Lucky me. So my boobs continued to grow, leveling out at an ample 37 C ½. Sure, sometimes dresses don't fit quite right, but I learned to love my boobs. Not too big, not too small - exactly goldi-breast right. That was until they delved into Double D pregnancy size. And the good news, they will continue to grow. Maybe it is the coral colored sweater I am wearing, but seriously, it looks like two infant's heads are currently breastfeeding, or should I say toddlers heads, because that is a more appropriate size. I am afraid. I am afraid for my back, my already dented shoulders, my reputation as it is about to venture into pseudo porn star status. But there is nothing I can do, so I shall embrace my breastzillas, and keep midgets safe from the rain.

This Saturday evening I had the distinct pleasure of seeing Radiohead at the Greek Theater in Berkeley - as evidenced in the high quality photo above. Believe me, it is Radiohead. Miracles of all miracles, I was actually able to stay up until 12:30 a.m. Thanks to a nap mid-day and sleeping in until 11:00 on Sunday, and pretty much being tired all day - but all in all worth the sleep deprivation for Black Star was played. The Bends will always be my favorite.

In other news, my pants, they are tight. Not camel toe creating or my god, that woman looks like real life sausage link, but truly uncomfortable. Especially given it is towards the end of working day. I just love going home, undoing my pants and seeing all the lines and wrinkles in my belly created by the tight fabric around my waist. Talk about fun. Today is the day I see a Las Vegas Elvis in my marked flesh. I know it! I think it has come to the point in my pregnancy that I must forgo my pants of the old and make the leap to elastic waistbands and roll panels. In fact, I have to say, the few things I have bought and worn are actually not that bad, in fact, I keep on thinking that all woman might be happier with an elastic waist, especially when PMSed and bloated. So, girls, shop maternity and be happy.

P.S. The battle of my bowels has been won, and I am back on a regular schedule. I thank all of those who made prayers and virgin sacrifices on my behalf.

Hello Bowel Movement, My Old Friend. When Will You Come To Me Again? I have not pooped in almost 65 hours. Correction, I actually did just poop, but I don't think poop resembling hamster waste in size and amount qualifies. Especially after being on the toilet for fifteen minutes willing everything in my body to make it occur, which included breathing steadily with a rocking motion all the while praying to God asking why he has forsaken me. However, I don't think God listens to the pregnant and constipated, so my battle continues. This morning I was reading about my upcoming 15th week of pregnancy, which forewarned of the following: "Let’s talk about constipation. Or not. But it’s a fact of life for many pregnant women." Nothing like being in a state only to have it reinforced by the fine folks at Babyzone. Bitches. In an effort to get things moving on the advice of my mother, I have consumed about 30 sugar free jelly beans which have the warning "consumption my produce stomach discomfort and/or laxative effect." Please pray for me. But please not to God, because obviously he is not of kind ear. Perhaps a pray to Poopzilla, Banshee of the Bum or KakaLaka, Goddess of Going, maybe even a sacrifice. Please people, I need help.

I don't know what to say about this photo, except that man is not riding a big penis with hairy balls that is leaking poop. Rather, it is the mascot of a locally made BBQ that came across the television. On the unintentionally comedy scale, it ranked a high 9.8. In addition to this image, the mascot flew around to various weiner eating barbequers squirting his sauce. So many phallic symbols to endure in 45 seconds. The best part was at the end - it is to be continued! I don't know what this chicken leg riding man has in store for me next, but I do wait with bbq baited breath.

In pregnancy news - well my IQ continues to dip. I used to be quite bright; in fact, some in Boston would venture to say "wicked samhart". But now my once high 170 or so IQ is hovering around mentally challenged with food coming out of mouth when eating. Proof evident being this Sunday evening. At 9:15 p.m. the craving of chocolate chip cookies struck. So I made 3 frozen ones to curb the beast inside, but only eating two saving the other for Monday. After I finished my ice-cold milk and two delicious chocolate chip cookies, I headed to bed. Only to be awoken by John at 2:30 a.m. I gather he went downstairs after waking up in sauna chamber heat, only to find the entire loft smelling of gas. Seems I never turned off the oven, and in fact left the door half open. So it seems now my inner subconscious pregnant being is not the sweet capable mom-to-be, but rather a Jonestown's Massacre Mass Suicidal type.

Ah, exercise. Because of some early issues with my pregnancy, I had to discontinue my exercise routine. Which actually was a pretty good one, I was six weeks into this great running program - 45 minutes, various inclines, speeds and massive sweating. I was getting F-I-T. Until of course my egg made acquaintance with certain squiggly genetic material. My first notions that I could be pregnant actually happened the Saturday my period was due. While running, my boobs hurt something awful. Not the usual I am suffering PMS and look at me, I could be a stand in for Orca. But more like wow, my boobs really feel weird, and I have yet to have my clockwork period, well, better drink at this wedding tonight like it is your last time, because well, it might be. Its funny how the mind works. Anyhoo, 3 days later and one positive EPT pregnancy test, things had changed. And two weeks after that, there was a doctor imposed "no-no" on exercise. So I rested my uterus and avoided the gym for the past two months. Not that this was a great test of will for me, that had me crying to everyone about the lack of gym time, but there are some benefits to exercise usually involving a better disposition and firmer thighs. But on Tuesday, I returned to the casa de sweat and decided that swimming would be the answer for the next couple of months. I have always love swimming, starting at a very young age, having a pool at my house, swimming a lake in Kennebunkport and actually being asked to join my college swim team when I took a gym requirement. However, being 20-year-old girl, the idea of sauntering around in a bathing suit in front of people was akin to walking naked. Not going to happen. But since I am now older and about to rival Devine in waist expansion, I decided that swimming was low impact and agreeable to my pregnant state for the duration. So with a purchase of googles and flip-flops I was set to go, and go I did. Swimming Tuesday was heavenly. I forgot how much I enjoyed it. And yesterday was more of the same, pure love of the swim. Until of course 10:30 at night came and I discovered water deep within my ear that after 60 minutes of trying did not come out. I even check the internet for at home remedies to no avail. Crazed and with the left side of my neck hurting from repeated attempts to remove the water, I finally passed out. At lunch today purchased earplugs and eardrops to dry the ear canal. As you see, due to the Ear Paper Experiment, I am especially susceptible to swimmer's ear. I can even get it from showering, thus my patented Steve Wonder ear block neck sway. And Swimmer's Ear, if you have not had it, is very painful and something to be avoided. So hopefully this all works out and I can continue to swim so that my arms don't look like two logs of uncased sausage in the sleeveless dress I need to buy for my wedding. Light a candle for me. I think a prayer to St. Anthony of the sagging underarm might be in order as well. Thanks.

In other news, this morning I encountered this man. He is what I refer to as a costumer. These are people who although it is not Halloween, dress up in ways that cause the stares of other people. I will never understand these people. Probably because I went to Catholic School for eight years and the only discernable difference between anyone were their shoes. Oh, my eight grade light blue moccasins with the silver beading were awesome. Bringing attention to yourself is the antithesis of my more reserved quiet and watching everything approach to life. But in no particular order this guy had:

1. Bald head.
2. Requisite facial hair. Where in the mantra of man does it say - bald head must be accentuated with the following, goatee, soul patch, moustache, or other carefully designed facial man hair. I get it you can grow hair! But just not on your head.
3. Two tattoos on each arm above the elbow and below the bicep.
4. Short sleeve shirt to show adequately the bicep and tattoos. I don't get tattoos personally, but to each their own. But I will always remember the 80 year old man whose chest I was shaving when I was a nuclear medicine technology intern, who said to me "See these tattoos, I hate them. I got them when I was 17. Never get a tattoo." Also, let me tell you, the skin sags. And it sags a lot.
5. Jeans with metal studded belt.
6. And the piece of resistance - big ass headphones that scream, I just got off my job as a lander of airplanes at SFO.

Brokeback Mountain was not a good choice of movies for the pregnant, with its aching soundtrack and sad longing love story. Since becoming pregnant I have cried during two Lost episodes and Armageddon, however I did not think this highly unusual because have also cried during Spiderman I (Peter and Mary Jane not being together), the last X-Men (Dr. Jean Gray dying) and during Independence Day (the President's speech). A sap am I, this I know. However, I first watched Brokeback Mountain this summer while in Brooklyn, and it did move me to the point of tears, but if I was to gage it on weepy to full out bawl - it would have ranked a 5. So, I figured I'd have myself a nice little cry, and be a-okay. But last night, the tears started with Jack Twist dying, and ended 20 minutes after I shut the movie off. Full out bawl times 1000. It was that sort of cry that leaves you wasted, wherein your entire body shakes and you can't catch your breath, and you start coughing and throwing up phlegm because you have the worst allergies this side of nerd. I have learned now that under no circumstances am I to watch any movie that will move the normal to tears. For with me it will be doubly effective and cause great emotional upheaval. So no Terms of Endearment, no Champ, no Gone with the Wind, no Milo and Otis, for my heart (and hormones) just can't take it.

So I can finally unveil the reason my postings of late have been haphazard and neglectful. Drum roll please . . . I am eleven weeks knocked up. In fact, today is the day in which the little bean within my belly is officially a fetus. Those familiar with my exercises in alcoholism should be pleased to know that I am also almost three months sober. So yes, it could be done. However, I fear that my sailor level of tolerance will be whittled to teenage girl at a kegger by the time I get reacquainted with the demon. I can't wait until 2008! So, I think in this blog, I would like to focus on the daily happenings of my pregnant life. And today I would like to discuss with the masses (all three of them) morning sickness. Luckily, I have seen little of this curse, but when we do meet, it makes for an occasion. My only comparison, not surprisingly, is when you are deathly hung-over, and you have that bile taste in your mouth with no ability to vomit. You just keep on swallowing praying for it to pass. Except in my case I have nary a drop to drink and it hits at odd times - but mostly 10:30 to 11:30 a.m., or 45 minutes after a meal, or when I eat pineapple. And yes, I don't eat pineapple anymore since discovering this. But other than that, all is well, other than finding substitutes for booze - for we all know, it makes the good times better and the bad times bearable. Cheers.

Last Friday I went to the Giants/Dodgers game. Which is the West Coast equivalent to the Sox/Yanks rivalry. At least that is what is contended. And although there were boos, and heckles of the fans in blue and white, the following taunt is what differs the East Coast from the West Coast. Said by a Giants fan to a Dodgers fan - "Well, our weed is much better than your dank chronic." Yep, California.

The other evening, I entered Safeway to make a few grocery store purchases - a bottle of wine, and 2 pints of ice cream. And as I waited in line gazing upon my items, I realized that I had the very things that screamed female, single and doomed - ice cream and white wine. I wanted to scream that someone did in fact like me, and at the age of 32 I had not given into the magnetism of alcohol combined with cold creamery crack. But alas, I fear the cashier Juan was not fooled as he looked at me with a pitiful gaze. Ah well, time to invest in a fake wedding band.

This week has been a whirlwind, thus the lack of posts. But fear not, I shall begin again next week with a renewed diligence. Right now I crave a pillow, but 4 more hours of work must be completed. 4 hours, or 240 minutes, or 14,400 seconds. Does anyone else do this? I have been doing it since I was little, and can't see to stop. Ah, well. Actually I do have a story that popped in my head on the way to see Charlie Murphy last Thursday while my boyfriend's brother was telling of how he got an extreme pain in his ear. Only to find out it was about an inch of sand buried in his ear the cause being his falling asleep on the beach while with his dog Otto. As he told about the pain, I remembered my paper experiment circa Fifth Grade. I had a problem with water in my ears. No matter what, I got water in my ears, and it drove me bonkers. Still does, but with age, I have a tried and true method. Basically, whenever I put my head under the shower, I block my ears. This is especially fun to witness when I am washing the shampoo soap out. Ears blocked, head swaying from the left to the right to the left to the right, pure Steven Wonder. Sometimes I even sing "I Just Called To Say I Love You." So one day in science class, I could take no more, so I took some notebook paper, rolled it in a ball, and put it in my ear. I figured that the paper would absorb the moisture in time, so later that evening I took the paper out. And I did this for a number of weeks; progressively getting increasingly bold. More paper, longer stays, both ears now involved, ear wax ratio on the paper documented. And yes this is completely disgusting, but also completely true. However, one day, I got the sharpest ache in my left ear. And as the day progressed it got only sharper until I could take no more. I ran screaming to my mother about my ear and the pain. She rushed me to the emergency room and there I sat waiting for the doctor. At no time during this wait, did it occur to me that the cause was the experiment. So the doctor asked questions, with my Mom there. I told him how the pain started in the morning and only got worse, and it hurt badly. He then took the ear probe out and stuck it in my ear where I just remember the following "Ah, there is something in here." "There is definitely something in here." So the doctor gets a tool and removes 7 balls of paper from my left ear, and 4 from my right. My mother looked stupefied and the doctor went on to say that it was obvious they were placed there at different times due to the different sorts of paper and wax. If looks could kill, there is no way I could be writing this. Of course, I tried to explain that I did it because I had water in my ear and I figured it would be a good way to get the water out, and I took the paper out at night, but I must have missed some. After the doctor informed me of Q-tips, and the fact I could have caused permanent and severe damage to my ears, my mother and I left the emergency room. My ear better, and my mother utterly embarrassed. And that is my notebook paper ear absorption experiment. And believe me, it was a success.

Because I am leaving work early, and have been a tad busy, I submit the beginnings of a children's story I started about 3 years back. I had to stop because I was becoming insane with the use of 9 syllables in every line. Although it is my intention to go back to it, hopefully by next week. Of course, I am thinking of illustrating this as well. That should be fun.

The Lonely Spider: A Tale Woven Especially for You

A spider lonely? How could it be?
By reading this tale you just might see.
First, lets begin a long time ago,
So I can relay all that I know.

While walking along a path one day,
my ears heard the whisper “Want to play?”
“Of course,” I said turning around,
But search as I might, nothing was found.

How curious. I thought to myself.
Could it be an invisible elf?
“Hello” I said, “I will play with you.”
Please don’t hide. “What would you like to do?”

But there was no response, nothing said
I waited, listened and then just pled
“Answer now or off to home I’ll go.”
And then came a voice, afraid and low.

“I am here, down here, just by your knee.”
“You are where?” I said with utmost glee.
So look down I did and with surprise,
I found a spider before my eyes.

“You’re a spider, I can’t play with you.”
“Whatever could we possibly do?”
You can’t swim or run or even bat,
We’re different, its as simple as that.”

“Before you saw me, you would have played.”
“You said so yourself, and even stayed.”
“Why has that changed upon seeing me?
“Just be my friend,” the spider did plea.

And so I stood and looked in his eyes.
They were blotchy and then came his cries.
“We are different, but that could be good,
Please be my friend. Do you think you could?”

I love San Francisco. I adore its weather, its beauty and its plethora of comedic relief in the form of the hippy. However, there is one tidbit about this fair city that I can't freaking stand. And that is simply, the lack of public transportation etiquette. I lived in Boston for 31 years before moving, and there were "Rules of the T." No, they were not written down, nor was there a class taught about the basic ground rules. But you know what, we waited until the people got off the bus or train before entering. Yep, it is true. And you know why? Because it is really fucking hard to get off the train when a sea of people are coming aboard. Also, we used the word "excuse me" when say brushing against someone on our way off. Yep, crazy Bostonians. Here though, I don't get it. Basically when the door opens it is akin to a football being snapped. Offensive (people coming on) and Defensive (people getting off). I have pushed, clawed and hip checked people on my way out at times. Also, I have this thing about strange people touching me, even the slightest contact sort of makes my skin crawl. Especially if they are sweaty. Thus my Frodo like tendency to "find the solo seat." Today, the bus was crowded - luckily I found a seat between two people who did not look like they would give me Ebola. I sat down, happy. Until the next stop brought a wave of person. Crowds crushed in, and I got a bit sick in my stomach. This woman before me stopped and sort of straddled my legs, and I could not help to think that she was trying to get off as she kept leaning forward invading my personal space until finally I moved my legs out of her bowlegged masturbatory grip. Repulsed and counting to 20 slowly as to calm myself from screaming bloody murder, I was happy in the fact that it is March 30. As I have moved, I did not renew my Muni pass for April. My only trip on the bus being a night trip to the gym, and at night, I don't fear my leg being molested by 70 year old poontang. So getting up 15 minutes early in order to walk to work will be well worth the effort, and the escape from the sick touch fest that defines a morning commute.

This morning I overhead the following conversation between two boys ages 7 or 8.

Glasses Boy: Do you know that it takes 100 people to kill an elephant.
Other Boy: No.
Glasses Boy: Yeah, its true.
Other Boy: Really? I would think 1,000 people.
Glasses Boy: Maybe. Maybe with a boy elephant.
Other Boy: Yeah, definitely a boy elephant.

I sat there stunned. First, when did elephants become so popular with today's youth that tales of how many people it takes to slay them is appropriate morning conversation and why the heck does it take 900 more people to take down a boy elephant. What was the girl elephant PMSed and they threw her some dark chocolate or better yet did they call her fat and she crumbled to a heap in tears easily caught. Boys.

Two stories about my mother and her often wacky sense of perception. One day in the mid to late 80s, my mother and I were driving in our lovely AMC Concord. The cars of my youth were a baby blue pinto, a brown pinto, the AMC Concord, a red Hyundai and a grey Hyundai. As you can see, we were lovers of the cheap. Truthfully I am surprised that a Yugo was not purchased. My Dad's car at the moment is a Ford Focus, so yes, the madness continues. The first car he got for me was a 1984 Ford LTD. Nothing says cool like a 10 foot long car with a door length capable of tripping passerbys on the opposite side of the street. Anyway, as we progressed down the street my mother happily chirping away, out of no where runs a squirrel who was immediately greeted with the wheel of the tire, his fate obviously sealed. My mother, in this instant, turns to me unfazed and says "Did you see that? That squirrel had suicide in his eyes." Ah, my mom. I do love her.

The second story is a bit more personal as it involves a momentous occasion in a young girl's life, but I will share. One morning during my junior year, crippled with the joy of being a girl, I had run out of maxi pads. I went downstairs to inquire of my mother if she had any I could use. She stated, no, but that she had tampons. I was a bit hesitant, but she informed me that it was no big deal and got the box, and handed me the instructions. So upstairs I went and read how the tampons were created by a woman gynecologist, and how they were specially formulated to adjust accordingly to the unique shape of a woman. Thankfully I had finished health class so I knowingly nodded. Confident, I took a tampon, unwrapped its plastic wrapper, and took the string and flared the bottom so as to insert it with my finger as instructed. Always a nerd when it comes to directions. I then stood up, and as suggested, put my left foot up on the toilet, squatted a bit, took a deep breath and inserted. As I pushed up I felt a tear and a terrible pain hit my gut immediately so much so I let out a yelp. But within a few minutes I was fine, so I got dressed and met my mother in the kitchen. "How was it?" she asked. "Good, although I felt this sorta tear that really hurt." "Don't worry, it won't happen again. You'll be fine." It was then that I realized that I had taken my virginity in my bathroom at 7:45 a.m. with the assistance of my mother. And nope, no amount of therapy can help that.

If I were a male midget wrestler, my name would be the Wee Warrior. I would wear a metal studded black leather wrestling pant, with matching boots - the laces would gleam as they were dipped in titanium. I would date a tall and attractive woman who would refer to me as her human tripod. I would enter the ring to the sounds of Tiny Dancer, a testimate to my size as well as my most aerobic wrestling moves. My signature move would be the Tazmanian Twist, which would involve hurling myself off the top ropes onto my opponent, swirling and clawing my way around them like a demented devil all while screaming a high pitch wail of the banshee. Children would cry, women would swoon and men would envy, all if I were a male midget wrestler.

Drunk Bus Lady I Love You. I recently got a new mobile phone, with all the bells and whistles - polyphonic ring, color display, camera. Basically a complete waste of money as I hate talking on the phone and receive about 3.2 calls a year. However, it was free with rebates, so the purchase. If curious, it is the Sony Ericsson S710a, Stars Wars edition. And no, I did not know that when I purchased the phone - but honestly a ring tone that echos CP30's "the probability of getting hit by a meteor is approximately 1,578,042" is annoyingly cool (and anyone considering e-mailing me about that number being inaccurate - this is probably why you don't date). One day I was previewing the games, and low and behold the number one downloaded game was Tetris Deluxe. As a huge Tetris fan whose free time for an entire year consisted of nothing more than my Nintendo Game Boy, Tetris and dreams of interlocking blocks, I decided there would be no way in hell that this game would be purchased. EVER. Until the fateful day when I got locked out and had nothing to do for a good half hour. The download was made, and addiction renewed. Since I am older and a lot more susceptible to thumb cramps, I tend to relegate myself to play on the bus to the gym and the rare evening before bed. Last night I got the new high record of 42,895, Level 10, 193 lines with a 23% efficiency. Actually Star Trek guys, why don't you leave your number or something, I fear I might need it. This past Wednesday, play began when waiting for the bus, and discontinued as I situated myself to the rear single seats whose inhabitants would be leaving on the next stop. And yes, I do this every day. I have it to almost a science. Unfortunately, a single seat was not procured, and my arse planted itself in an empty three seater. Tetris resumed. The next stop brought Mr. and Mrs. Drunkard 2006 aboard, who as luck would have it sat right next to me. Tetris Me, Drunken Gal and Drunk Man, a happy trio. As they entered the bus with boisterous laughs, you noticed the smell immediately - a sublime mixture of whiskey, cigarettes and urine. Enraptured in my game with the only possibilities of standing and stopping or sitting and playing, like any addict, I made due. They pretty much ignored me and laughed the insane laughter of those drinking for 3 years straight, although there was an argument about how there was no way that the last beer in her fridge would be sipped. I believe the exact words were "Uh uh. I drink my beer, but need myself a beer in the morning. Damn, waking up without a morning fix. Uh uh." After that was settled, she focused her attention on me with the following "Damn girl, you got some Matrix shit happening there." "What you doing?". Stifling laughter, I ignored and continued play. Luckily for me, as we drove by the water she was mesmerized with the site of ships wherein she sang loudly "The Love Boat, Exciting and New. Come aboard, we have been expecting you." I exited for the gym the next stop and quite honestly sad to leave a woman who (a) needed a morning beer fix, (b) referenced Matrix to my Tetris playing and (3) sang the Love Boat Theme song, all without a care to the world (except the morning fix part). I do love riding the bus.

Gin - My Evil Nemesis Part II. Since Stair Crawl Vomit Fest Circa 1994, I avoided gin with the gusto of a scorned woman. Occasionally we'd meet at parties, I see him, then run the other way or enjoy myself a little too much with a vodka cranberry or jack and coke. Yep, gin was snubbed and this continued with near a thought in my head until moving to San Francisco in November 2004. It seems that my one good friend in the town, Grant, was a lover of the gin and tonic. Not one to dwell on past relationship disasters, I stayed the path of the righteous - tequila, whiskey, vodka and beer (oh my!). However, one evening at Grant's apartment, with no other liquor to be consumed, I had my first gin and tonic after a 10 year absence. It was good, not the same of course, but old familiar feelings were there. I perhaps enjoyed his company three or five times after that, with nary an ill feeling. Friends again! But just friends. There would be no more consumption to drunkenness - I learned my lesson, or so I thought. This brings me last Friday, St. Patrick's Day. I had to work, but that evening I went out for my St. Patty's Day meal, chicken tikki masala. Personally I feel the eating of a boiled dinner or the wearing of green on St. Patty's is pretty much amateur hour. You are not to eat and wear green, you are to be blurry eyed on whiskey and beer. My first drink of the evening was a Heineken. In hindsight, this was my first misstep. As a girl of Irish descent, and one who likes the cocktail, there is a mantra set in stone - liquor beer, never fear; beer, liquor never sicker. And on a day like St. Patty's where drinks would be consumed like virgins at a sacrifice, I should have had liquor to begin. I blame the Polish in me. So, after dinner and my one beer there was a journey to a bar - 2 shots of jameson, 3 beers (bud) and then to a party that was touted as a St. Patty's Day Homewarming Birthday Bash. And yes, it was as gay as it sounds, almost as much the two guys swallowing each other's tonsils on the couch to the left of where I sat in distain drinking beer - 1 redtail, 3 pabst - while touting the day as worst St. Patty's eva. Contemplating how it was that I could even see straight on this day of debauchery when the hour was approaching 1:00 a.m., relief was found in the form of Grant wanting to leave. So off to the Irish bar Finnegan's Wake. Finally among my own - the drunk, slurring and incapable of cohesive thought, home. I had another shot of Jameson and 2 more beers. For those keeping tabs: 3 shots Jameson and 7 beers. Then last call came, and not one to stop the madness of the snake master's day - nightcap! I sat on Grant's couch waiting for my drink where I was offered the choice of brandy or tanqueray. For those not alcoholically inclined, Tanqueray is gin. Since I am neither 65 nor a man, I choose the gin without any worry in my head, for we were friends once again. Two gins and tonics and drunkenly conversed out, I headed home. This is where my recollection is a tad bit foggy. I took a taxi home, entered the apartment, and from evidence gathered in the morning (clothes strewn, facial wash out), went to the bathroom. Then upstairs not sure if there was any stair clutching, because like all drunks with a foggy memory, it is best not to question the person who loves you and show them how close to rock bottom you truly are, but I was told drunkest ever. And truth be told, I was sort of disappointed there was no sash, beer case crown and ceremony the next day, but this woe I will suffer. What I do remember, is the visit to the bathroom, and I fondly remember the tikki chicken masala. Oh, how I remember it, especially the next day when my pillow was a lovely yellowy orange. And who do I blame for all of this? Gin. Oh sure, you could say 7 beers, 3 shots of Jameson, but I am not one who pukes the joys of an evening had, I am one to just float away to sleep in a haze so this leaves Gin. Evil, vile, son of a bitch, Gin. I equate this entire experience to the Revenge Fuck. Gin fucked me over, and fucked me over good. He gave me a taste of the normal, and then tricked me into bed again. And once again I laid strewn on the bathroom floor, my head on the cool porcelain, my insides being roller coastered 100 mph through my mouth. So the lesson learned is quite simple, never be friends with an old flame. It only leads to misery.

Since being threatened with homelessness by my boyfriend for not updating, I pledge on this day renewed diligence. So . . . . Gin - My Evil Nemesis Part I. Back in the early 1990s, I first encountered the liquor with the moniker gin. Like all alcohols before it (and since it), I greedily ingested same with vigor. In fact, gin and I engaged in a love affair of sorts - mainly because a good friend, Jess, and I had created "The Canadian Bomb" - which was gin and Schweppes Ginger Ale with a touch of Chambord. We would sit drinking this tasty concoction and regaling pride upon ourselves for our cocktail generating genius. At the bar, like the true dorks, we would ask for the "The Bomb". It was a failed attempt to bring recognition to our creation, and like many of these ventures - it failed stupendously. Bartenders basically looked at us with scorn asking for the ingredients. Also at the same time, I tried to bring renewed interest in the word "higgledy piggledy" which means in an utter disorder or confusion, but that is another story. So, gin and I were friends, good friends. Many a laugh was had under its influence. And like all relationships built on lies, we came to a disastrous end. One evening at the Piano Factory in Jess's apartment, my love and I were engaged. I sipped, and he gently warmed my insides. I am unsure of the total of the beverages consumed - Jess was known for her doubles. But as the evening progressed, I felt the change. Something had happened. It occurred suddenly on the couch, when I could not focus and felt violently ill. I left the apartment at 10:00 p.m. and arrived at my door at 10:30. It should be known at this point, I lived exactly 2 floors up. The details are distorted but this is what I know is true - I clutched the stairs crawling up all the way murmuring repeatedly to God to help me and that such pollutants would never touch my lips again (since he didn't, I revoked the offer). When finally stumbling into my apartment, the only location proved helpful was the floor of my bathroom. You can imagine the rest. Tomorrow - Gin is My Nemesis Part II - St. Patty's 2006.

After watching last night's season premiere of America's Next Top Model, I had a few ideas in which I would like to share:

With her departure from the runway of Victoria's Secret and her TV talk show doing well, I think that our dear Tyra "Fierce" Banks has in fact decided to go the Oprah route. Not in terms of wild and all encompassing success, but rather - Fat Oprah. Did anyone else notice the size of her upper arms last night? Or the junk in her trunk? And let us not forget the repeated stories of starving herself in order to become a Top Model. I think it is time the food beast in Tyra is unleashed. No more modeling contracts, just her, a bucket of KFC and an appearance on Celebrity Fit Club in 2010.

Why can't we have more America's Tops anythings. For instance, would you tune in to watch the following - America's Next Top Crack Whore, hosted by Whitney Houston and Bobby Brown? Ah yeah fear not, I am right on the couch beside you. Can you imagine this genius of combination, maybe the ladies from Flavor Flav's House of Love can get involved, because this has all the makings for television history. For this week's challenge, our 13 crack whores are sent to a crack den wherein they must score crack. The catch, no cash!

Whitney: "Hi Girls."
Girls: "Hello Ms. Houston."
Bobby: "On today's challenge, you will be driven to a crack den."
Girls: "uh huh."
Whitney: "You must score crack. The catch being you will have no cash, just the clothes on your back."
Bobby: (snickering) "Not for long."

Oh the fun!

And finally, I am very much looking forward to more of the Jade and Furonda Exercises in Narcissism and High Self Esteem Workshops.