6.5 - Goal of Thirty

About two months into my move to San Francisco, my eyes began to get this white filmy crust on them. Going to the ophthalmologist revealed that my eyes were not losing sight, but just caking over due to wearing my contacts, possibly allergy related. So I continued on to the allergist and had my very fist allergy test. My back was pricked with various allergens. Fifteen minutes later, the doctor returned asking "If I was itchy?" My response was "Nope." Dr. Allergy said, "Great, you are probably not allergic to much." Flash to him uncovering my back while whispering "Good Lord", so I knew that was not the case. It seems San Francisco provides my immune system with an opportunity to go freaking bonkers all year long, save October/November. Aside from having to wear my eyeglasses (hello geek chic), it is not a big deal. But Spring has sprung and with it itching eyes and runny nose. I combat with Nasonex, which helps immensely. But with the Goal of Thirty, I have discovered something - "My name is Cassie, and I am a spitter." Today alone, seven times. I ran thirty minutes meaning approximately every four and a half minutes I spat. Obviously running clears your lungs, and I am with constant allergic phlegm, so the spitting is necessary or else I die choking on my on spittum. The funny thing is at first I was like - oh my I have to spit; I hope no one sees me - patooey. Now I am like, ten bucks I take out the kid in the stroller with this one. So, yeah, I like spitting, and considering entering some competitions. Who knew?

Five Dollar Books

Stumbled into the five dollar book store today after lunch. I did not run today because well I did not want to. I wanted to read and eat clam chowder and a half of turkey and harvati sandwich on sourdough (note to people visiting San Francisco - I hope you like sourdough bread, cause it is everywhere, luckily I lurve it). Not much in the way of fun, but two that caught my eye.

Who would have thought a book of photographs of professional athletes and their kids would not do well:


Perhaps the reason was this:



This could be the scariest baby I have ever witnessed. The Farve Baby Frightens. There goes my no-nightmare stretch. Jesus.

The Goal of Thirty

Two weekends ago, I embarked on the Goal of Thirty. I respond well to goals - some in the past have included The Goal of Only Drinking Tequila Shots and Water (ended badly), the Goal of Watching Every Pats Game (can you say success!), the Goal of Sleeping until Noon (still working on that one, thank you very much Owen Patrick McCall). My most recent goal is the promise to myself that I will run thirty times and then reevaluate (read eat pizza, drink beer and consider what ice cream pint I want to devour, Chunky Monkey or Oatmeal Cookie). I am currently on 5.5, as this past Sunday I tried to run with Owen in his jogging stroller only to be accosted fifteen minutes in with "oh my god, was that my stomach? I am going to poop my pants. Holy Jesus." So that counts as a half because I think walking eight blocks with your butt cheeks firmly clenched so that you don't poop yourself due to an onslaught of something you ate is a workout. I would have admitted this sooner Dear Blog, but let us easily sum up my first three days of running: Cassie runs, Cassie walks, Cassie runs, Cassie walks, Cassie considers death. Oh my goodness it was hard, and the level of soreness that followed was in the high ache zone of almost crippled. But I continued for The Goal of Thirty does not end at 3, shook it off and although slightly sore, things are not bad, and I am beginning to like it. In fact today, 25 minutes of straight running (and hardly any cursing). The best part, I am running at lunch on the Embarcadero (see photo), it is complete me time. I love it. Also, do not fret for my work has showers, so I am not going back to my desk stinking of sweat. However, my love of Subway has increased three-fold because oh my goodness the sweet deliciousness after jogging at lunch for your lunch. And so it begins, 5.5 down, 24.5 to go.

Oh Really Williams Sonoma

I just got an e-mail that stated the following:

Mother's Day is May 11. For a one-of-a-kind gift, our Personalized Apron arrives embroidered with her name or initials. It's easily adjustable for a comfortable, flattering fit and available in your choice of solid or striped cotton. It's just one of our personalized gift ideas.

A personalized apron? Can it be embroidered with Bitch, Slave or better yet, House Elf. I rather have a bottle of tequila, thank you very much. Patron Silver if you are buying.

Return of the Blunt Bob

Can you say sassy? Sophisticated? Classic? Timeless? Pure Awesomeness. Well I can, watch me now - Blunt Bob. Yes friends, the blunt bob has returned upon my head, thus ridding me of the Crack Ho #2 look I have been sporting since the WHE. Oh looky at me and my purty head of hair. The best part of the hair shearing was the following:

Marcus: So, what kind of finishing product do you use?

Me: What?

Marcus: What do you put in your hair after you dry it?

Me: Oh man, do you think I am an actual girl? Hahahahahah. Finishing product. Hahahahaha. Don't let the boobies fool you dude, I am lucky to get a brush in my hair after the blowdry.

Marcus: You're funny.

So there it is I love my hair. And the next time some lady comes at me with a razor to cut my hair, I am going to go all matrix on her, fling myself out of the chair, go airborne for 30 seconds, land behind her, grab the razor and then put it up to her neck and say - no way bitch, not this time! The hostility of a poor hair cut never really leaves you.

Finally!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Its on San Franciso 49ers, thank goodness our bye week falls Week 4 so that Bill Belichek has two full weeks to prepare for your onslaught. I shall cheer and drink beer, while possibly do irreparable harm to my marriage, because John is a 9ers fan, and well just let us say that all of our arguments (aside from that time I took a flight from sanity) have been about sports. The gauntlet, she has been thrown. I can't freaking wait for the season to start. Drooling on the floor.

The Scare and The Agony

Dear Reader, I will not lie. This past week, I thought maybe I could be pregnant. Luckily, yesterday the curse arrived. And by curse I mean a mind-altering barrage of crampiness that requires steady dosing of Advil and quiet whimpering. I see now that the constant breast pain, the bloating, the headaches did not mean pregnant but rather PMS to the 18th power. Holy Jesus. Also, before discovering I was not knocked up (thank you First Response Pregnancy Test), I was pretty pissed off at my egg. Usually before my egg ovulates, it receives the following instructions, "Okay, listen up here missy, you are not to make any contact with those squiggly godforsaken hooligans you may meet on your journey. First, I have only been drinking again for four months, and that is too short a time. Second, do you know how expensive infant care is? Third, spring is here, meaning sun, meaning the Park Chalet, and if I have to be there not drinking beer while everyone else is well just say I will not be happy. I will be angry. Very angry. So stick to your guns and do not under any circumstance listen to the sweet words of any spermatozoa. They have nothing good for you. NOTHING." So, imagine my dismay that my ova perhaps did not listen to my instructions. But happily, I am without child but under attack in the form of gut twisting agony. I fucking hate my period. But I do love vodka. So I guess I can suffer for my art.

J.Crew, Why you hating?

For Christmas I asked my mother to buy me some pant from J.Crew, trouser style corduroy pants to be exact. Surprisingly, instead of saying "Oh my God Cassie, I'm not paying that much money for a pair of pants", she bought them. They are very lovely except for one glaring design flaw. Those of you not in the know (a/k/a equipped with penises), trouser style is code for a wide leg (see example). So that basically with every step I take, the fabric comes into contact creating the tell tale corduroy swoosh. I walk, swoosh sounds. Most of the time when one is of an even keel mind this is no biggie, but quite another when you just got your "friend" and am so bloated you are considering entry in the Macy's Day Thanksgiving Parade. In order to combat this, I have been walking around the office with a stride that has my legs jetting out at 45 degree angles. Now I don't know what is worse - having someone think my thighs are rubbing together about to start a three alarm blaze or the sight of me rounding the corner as if I had just pooped my pants? Thoughts.

I Got a Dirty Mind and Sleep!

So, I was reading an entree from Top Chef Season One's winner Harold restaurant and the first entree was the following:

Roasted Poussin
rainbow swiss chard, white turnips, prunes & chicken sausage 22

Does anyone else think someone has got to get himself a girlfriend? Also, can't wait for Top Chef tonight, which I get to watch at 7:00 p.m. because DirectTV tapes it at that time. Not that I will really watch it at that time because I have a kid, who requires dinner, then a bath, and stories such as The Hungry Little Caterpiller, All About Me, Counting Kisses, The Rainbow Fish, Good Night Baby, Good Night Moon, The Good Night Book, and Good Night San Francisco. Sense a theme here? Actually, it is funny - pretty much every kid's book ends with someone going to sleep. You can be taking about cats, shapes, numbers and then all of a sudden the number five is under the moon taking a siesta. Awesome.

Teething, the 9th Circle of Hell

Fifteen and a half months ago when I gave birth to Owen many thoughts went through my head - thank you Jesus for him not having his father's head, goodbye sleep, or on second thought maybe I should have taken the nurse up on the narcotics offer. But not a single thought as to teething. Owen was an early teether, his first two appearing around three and a half months, just like me says my mom. And even though breastfeeding, I took this as a good sign considering I never had braces while his father required ten years of metal correcting caging. And well I'm very cheap. Now after suffering through his first molars, one would think there would be the eye of the storm calm. But nope, his Dracula teeth are now making their debut - all four at the exact same time poking, prodding, and punishing his soft baby gums. Last night from 11:30 to 12:30, Owen rolled and screamed in pain while I cursed myself for falling asleep before administering his savior dose of Motrin. His shirts are constantly wet from the drool and his hand is becoming something of chewed meat. I finally have come to an understanding as to the concept of the Tooth Fairy. It is not a cute fantasy in order to give your child a few bucks for the arrival of his adult teeth, but the reminder of the torture that your son or daughter went through so you best make the appropriate restitution. At this point, we are hovering about a hundred dollars for pain and suffering associated with teething, there goes being cheap.

Owen Eats Pasta

I got nothing for you today - no funny books, no tales of my slamming into walls, nothing more than this video of Owen eating dinner last night. Please note the delicate way in which he eats. What a guy!


Owen Eating Pasta from Cassandra McCall on Vimeo.

The Five Dollar Bookstore

First I would like you all to bear witness to the scene of the crime. This is the wall that I walked into. Ponder that for a while while thinking "what a clumsy bitch."



Now for the humor. Yesterday at lunch, I walked into Crown Books which is one of those bookstores who sell cheap books that no one wants to read. What a treasure trove of fun. Check out the following:



You know when I think authority on cocktails, my mind wanders to hemingway, my dad, and other raging alcholics, not Chrissy from Three's Company. Sure they loved the Regal Beagle, but does that necessarily make one an expert?



I never have to be alone? Really. Man God is awesome. I love me some God (who obviously is a rainbow lit dove). Speaking of which, no one is buying religious books, as evidenced by the following:





I don't know who this Zacchaeus is, but if Jesus is visiting him he must be important for a man in a tree. Wait a second, is Jesus like Firemen with a cat? The second one is something I think we all have thought at one point or another. I actually like the sequels, "Lord, please don't let this pregnancy test be positive" and "Lord, please don't let this be last call." Jesus Visits Zacchaeus is actually a children's book - nothing like corrupting minds when they are young! Here is another:



Obviously "Growing Up in Crawfish Country" is code for kneeling with your dog at a bog with a kerchief on your head. It truly is a hard knock life. And finally the piece de resistance:



I don't know what Ms. Millet was smoking, but I want some.

Ms. Clumsy 2008

This morning while searching for some change in order to purchase some coffee, I walked full speed into a concrete wall. With my head down, I did not negotiate properly the turn and slammed my face into the wall. Now my forehead (complete with red spot), neck, nose, teeth and left big toe are throbbing. I am pretty sure this ranks me in the upper echelon of carnival freaky clumsy. I am actually quite surprised I did not knock myself out. I walk pretty fast, and took a turn into a concrete fucking wall. I still can't believe it. I am stunned. I have a headache and wondering if it is possible that I gave myself a concussion. So, Ms. McCall how exactly did you give yourself a concussion? Well doctor, I was walking and was taking a turn while looking for change and slammed my face and left foot into a concrete wall. I think this is certain proof of my winning of a Darwin Award. I mean really.

Now in other news that does not involve my complete and utter lack of grace, last night while walking home (this time without slamming my face into walls), I stumbled upon some dog poop. Most would just step aside, and continue on. But what did I do? I said, holy crap (get it?), that poop looks like a butterfly! So I took a photo. Please don't judge me. This dog is obviously Picasso reincarnated.

Captivate TV

In the elevator today, the question of the day was the following:

What was the best office prank that you ever participated in?

The answer from a Mr. D. Barrick of NYC stated "I once switched the M and N keys of my office mate's keyboard".

Wow D. Barrick, don't you just walk the edge of sanity. The M and N keys!!! I guess the prank of this attorney I once knew who took a fish and placed it in another person's car which remained there for 3 weeks just pales in comparison. You are one Hellraiser D. Barrick. Surely you is.

In other news, today is the April Fool's and I just told John over IM that "my boobs feel really weird." Which in case you don't know is girl code for "Me thinks your spermatozoa doust made zee connection with my egg. Baby in nine". John's response was "oh dood". Mine was "Happy April Fools". Hah. I really love when I get to make a grown man cry at 10:00 in the morning.

I leave you with this photo of Owen taken in Hawaii after he got his black eye. I don't think he is too happy. Do you?

The End of the Sickness Road

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

From the Funny Farm

Last night I stumbled upon this little gem. You can thank me in the comments section.

Confessions of the Sick Mind

My brain in encased in a fleshy sinus induced cloudlike shell. Behind my eyes are the stabbing pains of a dull knife. My nose is faucet of clear snot on one side, and cakey green snot on the other. They battle, switching sides every 15 minutes. My throat is scratchy and pained. Obviously, I am still sick. Last night after Robitussining, I sat upright in bed coughing unable to sleep. When I finally did fall asleep I had a dream in which I had another baby, a son. I could not figure out a name for him but was debating between Thomas and Christopher. Also, somebody at the dinner party my in-laws were having tried to kidnap him and Owen. I knew this because I found their sippy cups in the front of their car. My mother-in-law served a salad that contained yellow peppers. I said "Are these yellow peppers?" And she said yes, I and looked a John and said "Did they just forget I was allergic?" "I mean I only passed out in Kauai." As my throat closed and dizziness ensued, I tried to breast feed my new baby only to repeatedly dose him with a spraying boob. Needless to say, the weary, sick and heavily medicated mind does make for nighttime drama. Also, I don't like those names for a baby boy at all. Tommy McCall sounds like some drunk at the end of a bar who just got out of jail. And I am pretty sure in my dream I said Chris McCall - oh goody, just like Chris March from Project Runway. Lord help me.

Parenting Ideas 101

I do not think it is evil of me to be considering that I think I want to place my son in a hermetically sealed bubble. He has been sick for a week, and thankfully, on the mend. His fever lasted five days and now John and I are suffering from this evil and vile disease. What is it about baby germs? I can't figure it out. It is like a normal virus enters a baby and suddenly it becomes this machine of madness that will infiltrate the best of immune systems with the precision of a ninja. I do not want to brag or anything, but prior to having a kid, I did not really get sick. I was healthy - although in hindsight, I think perhaps this was more to do with the fact that my blood alcohol level never really got below .08. Instantly pickled! However, I can't take the illness, I can't take Owen being sick, and I can't take John being sick. Welcome to the McCall House of Disease 2008. Enter at your own risk. So, this weekend, I am buying some Ziploc bags and configuring a bubble for the boy. It has to be done.

The Hawaiian Adventure

Well I have officially returned to Hawaii. It is official because Owen has a 101 degree fever. It seems the young child is incapable of plane travel without succumbing to the airborne attack of various viruses. Which is entirely understandable given the developing immune system, but still a pain of the ass when you realize you might have to call in sick from a job that you have been absent from for over a week. But luckily for me, and not so much for him, John was able to work from home - which translates to suffer immensely at home while balancing job and sick child. And that would be the post-vacation you are back to working hell homecoming. Yeah! Also yesterday was St. Patrick's Day, and I would like to state that I began my beer at 6:30 p.m. to finish it at 8:20 p.m. During that time I (a) drank first sip, (b) bathed Owen, (c) read to Owen, (d) put Owen to sleep, (e) started dinner, (f) cleaned the kitchen, (g) finished dinner and (h) had last sip. Which is quite the departure from my usual St. Patty's routine of (a) drink a shot, (b) drink a beer and (c) repeat until pass out and drooling. So, back to Hawaii, it was in a word fanfreakingfabulatastic. We swam, we snorkeled, we sunned. It was a most relaxing vacation to have experienced and a true horror to have left. But even the best of times when you are me (and cursed) have their downs. A few weeks before our vacation, the San Francisco Chronicle did an article on the Poipu area of Kauii, the exact location where we were staying. They listed many things to do and see, and in particular, told of a must eat experience, that of the Shrimp Truck. It was said the coconut and garlic shrimp were out of the world, and had to be tasted. So basically John and I salivated for 3 weeks, dying to eat the shrimp. The first full day, we went to the truck, ordered accordingly and headed home to eat. As I devoured my coconut shrimp and he his garlic, we were happy - happy in the sun, happy with our food, and happy that the boy was about to nap translating to an escape to the beach for boogie boarding. John, his Dad and I all headed to the beach and had much fun in the sun. The waves were great, the water refreshing, the boarding a blast. Reluctantly, we headed home walking the path to our condo. It was then I began to feel a tad off. Pretty dizzy, but I sucked it up and continued to walk. We got to the water spout to wash our feet, and it is here all went bad. I remember saying "I don't feel so good, I think I am going to faint." And well, that is exactly what I did - out cold, three times it happened. I remember waking up and having no clue where I was just John and his father standing over me. It is this point that John's Dad runs back to get some water as he is of the belief I am dehydrated. I drink and nothing is getting better, the illness coming in waves. I can't focus, pass out a few times, and sometimes slur my speech. An ambulance is called, and I am rushed to the hospital as my blood pressure is all over the place and my heart is racing and slowing down. I get the hospital, where they undress me and take notice of about 1,000 hives on my body. Seems my lead ambulance guy was color blind and could not see them. Now, I would think that as an EMT, you might want to be able to see the hives that could possibly indicate a severe allergic reaction. Just saying. It is determined at the hospital, I am suffering from anaphylaxis. Also known as an allergic reaction to something I ate. That something, the highly touted (and highly delicious) coconut shrimp. I think if I could punch that Chronicle writer, I would. Because honestly, do you think I would have eaten there if not for that article? After an IV of benedryl, a coma like sleep, a test of my blood pressure, 6 hours later I am released with the strict instructions never to consume shrimp, yellow pepper or mango - all three of which could have been the ingredient responsible. Although I truly do not believe it was the shrimp, am I going to risk it? Well maybe for Burma Superstar's salt and pepper shrimp - good god that stuff is yummy. But nope, I can't. I am officially shrimp free, which is okay since I often them of them as the cockroach of the sea. I guess the only thing of this entire experience I am grateful for is the fact that John's father now truly believes I am allergic to yellow peppers. Something, I am pretty sure he thought I was making up. Oh, and the fact that it was an allergic reaction, and not dehydration, which I think would have been brought up for years after the fact. Go me and my hyper sensitive immune system! Wooooo.

Doh! and Owen

I am a stupidhead. It is true; do not try to argue with me. I do some really stupid things at times. Like the time I put a FedEx label holder on my head as a hat wherein the sticky part rolled back and attached to my hair so I had to run to the bathroom with a FedEx label on my head. Yeah. Or the time when I was about 10 years old and told the deli guy I wanted eight Make Believe Hot Dogs. Make Believe Hot Dogs!! Ah, how about Maple Leaf Hot Dogs? There is nothing better than being 10 and being laugh at by the throngs of deli folk waiting for their number to be called. My latest bonehead, well two weeks ago I ordered a bathing suit from Victoria's Secret, as well some underwear. I tried on my bathing suit, and surprisingly did not want to kill myself. So I put all the bathing suit back in the package. Flash forward to last evening when I am looking for my new bathing suit, when it hit me. Last Thursday a/k/a Trash Night, I took said Victoria's Secret package thinking it was trash and threw it away. Yep, I threw away my brand new bathing suit, and 3 pairs of underwear (one of which was striped orange - which happens to be my favorite color). I might as well taken a 100 dollar bill and set it on fire. And although stuff like this happens, it is hard not to berate yourself as being an idiot. Really hard. So now I have to get a new bathing suit at lunch. Sully, I hate you!!!!! Anyway, some photos of Owen - which always makes me happy.

The Evil Beneath
















The Blank Stare (a/k/a farting or pooping)















The Holy Crap The Kid Looks Five

The Hustle, The Mistake, The Mad Piss

As the clock approaches 5:00 p.m., I do as many a San Francisco working fool does, log into nextmuni.com to find the status of my train. Well imagine my surprise yesterday at 4:56 p.m. that the next trains would be in 4, 8 and 27 minutes. So, I high tailed it out of the office in a running attempt to get the 8 minute train. However, with luck and a gazelle like pace, I ran down the escalator onto the N-Judah. I immediately texted John gloating of my hustle to catch the seemingly impossible 4 minute N-Judah. Well, not so much. I did not catch the 4 minute N-Judah, but rather the M-Ocean View. This is the second time this has occurred. I would like to point out for the record that my eye sight without glasses is 20/450. So you as a person with good vision see at 450 feet what I see (without contacts or glasses) at 20 feet. Yeah, I don't know where my walking cane is either. I would also like to point out, in my defense, that the M goes to Ocean View and the N goes to Ocean Beach and if you look quickly at the digital M/N they are similar, very similar. And honestly, I don't even get why the N-Judah - a train that basically goes down Judah Street is called the N, shouldn't it be called the J? But nope, not here, the J is the train that goes to the Castro. And then there is the L-Taraval that goes down Taraval Street. We just got a T Line that goes down Third Street. What the hell? Commonsense prevails? So I got off the train, and then got onto the L - the train that goes down Taraval and requires a 15 minute walk home. I got on the train, got a seat and noticed a skunky smell. I looked up to see across from me a teenage hoodlum rolling a blunt (and I had no idea I knew what that was called either, but I thank Snoop Dog and Dr. Dre). So as I sat reading, smelling the odor of weed, and listening to the friend of the rolling hoodlum speaking of the "mad piss" he had to take, I thought how lucky I truly was at that moment, but not as lucky as the poor owner of the house wherein the bladder buoyed boy let a stream of urine out with a shriek of happiness. Ah, Muni Madness.

She puts the Oh! in Wino

I would like to first state that my battle against the bulge has been going swimmingly well. I have taken up running, as well as walking lots due to my pedometer (although this week has been fraught with rain, so the walking has been kept to a minimum). In addition to a lunch of Subway and a breakfast of toast and Laughing Cow cheese, I do believe I am getting slimmer. At least that is how it feels when I put on my clothing. It is funny how pregnancy changes your body, or should I say 10 weeks of bed rest and a dire lack of physical activity in the year that followed. But I feel good, and the motivation of Hawaii and a bathing suit did the trick. That being said, I have finally come to terms with the fact that a year of breastfeeding has changed my boobies. I really thought that I would just fit into my old bras the minute the milk stopped gushing, but I do not think that is the case. So this weekend I shall be molested by the lady at Nordstrom's and buy new bras (more than likely at a hefty price tag), but my boobs need support and cups that fit. In two short weeks, I will be in Hawaii - Kauai specifically. On the beach I shall sun myself and try to put all thoughts of tsunamis out of my head. I will eat coconut shrimp, and drink fruity rum drinks, and slather the palest kid in the world with a metric ton of sunscreen. It will be joyful, it will be triumphant. It will be just the thing to snap me out of this Sunday footballess depression. Oh, and last night I had an entire bottle of wine. I don't know what happened. I feel fine today, which is great - but my god. I poured a big glass to consume while viewing the joy that is Lost, and then I had another when that was finished, and then I was like - okay, a little bit more, and then in a blissfully buzzed state, I finished the bottle while John slept and I continued the torture that is Nip/Tuck. And although I should feel like drinking a bottle of wine in two hours was a tad much, I don't care - it was one of those evenings where it just made sense, producing a giddily warm inside. There was no stopping. And yes, this will be first story in my desperate spirally tumble into alcoholism that I tell at AA. But until then, tonight is Rock Band Beer Friday - yeah, be jealous.

A Moment of Reflection

I miss football. I miss it so much that when Sunday rolls around and I open my eyes to greet the day, I feel empty and sad. Why is it that I cannot sit around all day drinking beer and watching my fantasy stats automatically update on Direct TV (I love you by the way Direct TV). This period (the one between Football and Baseball) is hard trying time. It is especially difficult because I do not have the basking glow of a Superbowl win by the Pats. I got nothing but a bitter lost which leaves an even bitter taste that no amount of liquor seems to wash away. Why can't football be on every Sunday? Why am I forced to live a life that is only truly meaningful between the months of September and January? I guess I can try to think of the positives - the fact that the Pats are playing the 9ers in San Francisco, a game in which I will attend with wild abandon (unless knocked up that is). But even this does not help. Football, I love you. I miss you. I want some more of you. Boo hoo. Boo freaking hoo.

An Open Letter to Arlen Specter

Dear Stupidhead,

Please leave the New England Patriots, Bill Belichick and the NFL alone. You my sir are an idiot. I don't know what your motivation is, but I believe it is something to do with the fact that you are unloved and need attention - maybe because you have cheek jowls or a stupid first name. I do not know. Were you picked on by football players in high school? I was reading on ESPN this morning that you are particularly concerned with your state's loss to the Patriots. Well boo hoo. First, as all Philly fans know - they are cursed. Second, the Steelers' themselves stand behind Goodell. So what the hell are you doing? I'll let you in on a not so little secret, Bill Belichick is crazy competitive. If possible, I think he would tape an opposing team going poop so that he could examine the bowl to see if there is some sort of secret football language released from their anuses. The man is ultra competitive (something I heart him for, and appreciate being somewhat the same way). He is a nutter, yes. But a nutter with an amazing football mind and obviously a person who holds a grudge - read the almost perfect season. Do not besmirch him, Arlen. Leave him alone, leave the Pats alone and more importantly leave the freaking NFL alone. Spygate is not the MLB steroid mess, it never will - so stop trying to make it that way. Why don't you focus on something else, like the war, or the fact Katrina homeless are in toxic trailers, or even better why there is a shooting every three weeks at a school.

Sincerely,
Cassandra M. McCall

Pre-Haircut Emotions and Obama Barack

So this is the day my hair (I hope) returns to the land of the normal and not the land of the pseudo hipster. I am a mom, I don't need to be looking all crazy and young and hipsterish. Thank you very much. I am feeling a bit antsy because I don't know what Marcus the Hair Cutting guy is going to say to me. My one fear is he says - what the hell are you talking about, your hair is fine. But hopefully he pities me and makes sense of what lies upon my head. Not even sure I want to share this, but what the hell. This morning while laying in bed between the not sleeping and not quite awake limbo I started thinking about Barack Obama. The following is a trace of my thought process (it ain't pretty).

Wow, Barack Obama had the initials of "OB".
Hah, that is funny. My tampon is called an OB.
And I took my virginity with it.
Hah, Barack Obama took my virginity.
Wait a second. His initials are BO, not OB.
What a fucking retard I am. Is that Owen?

Yeah. So, I don't know what the hell that was all about. I could blame dyslexia, but I am not dyslexic, so chalk it up to mental deficiency due to major hair trauma. And you know why I am only sort of worried about this haircut, because I could have sworn that this morning (given my Guardian Angel Sully's disposition of distain) that it would be the perfect hair day. But nope, I got nothing but the crack ho. So shear away Marcus. Shear away.

Blah, Blah, Blah - PMS Ramblings

I do believe that a sufficient time has passed with regards to the Patriots loss in the Superbowl that I can now blog again. That evening at around 2:00 a.m. I woke up and just shook my head trying to figure out how it happened. And the worse part of it all? John repeatedly saying the following "At least Joe Montana never lost a Superbowl." Yeah, kill me.

And moving on, it has been three weeks and I still hate my hair. I am remedying this tomorrow with a hair cut. Alternatively I thought this morning I would just wear barrettes for the next 3 months, but whatever, to the hair cutter I go. I don't know if they will be able to fix the razor ravage mess that was once my flowing mane, but I surely hope so. At this point, I don't really care - I just don't want to look into a mirror and cringe saying "I fucking hate my fucking hair; I look like a crack addict." Mind you, I don't really, but that is the level of hate I have - similar to my hatred of the New York Yankees and now the New York Giants. I could go on about this, and I am sure John can attest, endlessly, but lessoned learned - if someone comes at me with a razor and states they are going "to give it a go." Well I am going to spit in their face, stomp on their feet, and hightail it out of there.

And moving on (again), this Thursday is the blessed day of St. Valentine. Not that I am celebrating, as I have a child who is just about 14 months with green snot flowing out of his nose, and that is the day I am suppose to be visited with the women's curse. Nothing says Happy Valentines, like cramps, Advil popping and the craving of pasta. I have been torturing John about it though to comedic results. The other evening when telling him that February 14 means he has to woo me, he responded with the following "Wooooooooooo." "Woooooooooooo." (ghost effect, please). And there I had it, my present.

And moving on (for the last time), I have been fighting against the scourge of fat. I attribute this to the motivation of Hawaii in 4 weeks. Which is great, but also, I got a pedometer. Nothing will tell you how sorry and inactive your fat ass is than this miracle of an invention. My goal of 10,000 steps a day has been going well - combined with running (which I started this weekend), Subway, and staying within my weight watchers points, I can say that when trying on my old size today at the Gap I was thisclosetohappiness. However, I really need to get new bras. I am still wearing my use as a parachute in case of airplane emergency ones because I am cheap and don't want to dole out the money for a new bra if my old bras may fit again. Why pay for interim bras? Why people? Oh wait, maybe because my boobs are like oranges in a cantaloupe size containers that shift and move causing great humiliation in the form of off kilter nipples. So to Nordstrom's this weekend I will go to be molested.

So to sum up - (1) the Patriots lost the Superbowl, (2) tomorrow hopefully the hell that is my hair will end, (3) Valentines Day is for suckers, (4) weight loss is going well and (5) my boobs should be contestants on Dance Wars with Carrie and Bruno. That is all.

Taming of the Beasts and The WHE

At 12:45 p.m. this afternoon I partook in a very girlie endeavor, the brow wax. As a girl who is not very girlie (beer and football anyone?), I do make this one foray down girlstreet. Why? Because they do look kick ass after the wax. But honestly, I really don't think guys when speaking of girls comment on their eyebrows. Fat ass? Sure. Ability in the sheets? Definitely. Eyebrows like hairy salamis? Not so much. It is a complete girl (and metrosexual) phenomenon. The troubling thought is that I can't even trace back its appearance in popular culture. I started doing it about 3 years ago which means it probably gained popularity six years ago as I lag at pretty much twice the normal rate. I figure I will be wearing leggings and bangle bracelets sometime in 2012, after the frontal lobe lobotomy of common sense. Anyhoo, the last time I got a brow wax was a little over 8 weeks ago. I missed my next appointment 3 weeks later and vowed to make another all the while not tweezing, because I feel it is important to give the waxer a challenge. I mean, why the hell tweeze when I am paying someone to do it for me? So week after week it slipped my mind until suddenly on Monday I looked at my reflection to find that two brown caterpillars had taken residency upon my face. So an online appointment later I find myself this afternoon in Susie waxer's torture chair. It had occurred to me that 8 weeks of not plucking would provide a challenge for Susie, but what did not occur to me was that my face was the one taking the beating. Wax, rip, pluck. Repeat 30 times. As I exited the salon with my face now sporting an inflamed red reactionary batman like mask, I swore I was going to throw up from the aching. And almost four hours later, I find myself still sore and red, but with quite lovely eyebrows. Was it all worth it? Well I would have to say yes. Only because it is the first time since I have gotten worse haircut ever ("WHE"), I feel okay about it. I know I have neglected to mention WHE, but basically I got my hair razored, colored, and I don't likey. Everyone else likeys. But I don't, which has lead me to conclude that I will grow out this haircut until the razored snippets are capable of rejoining at a length in which my old hairdresser can cut a blunt bob. Then I will say a big fuck you to the hair cutting industry for a year, until I turn 35 and need bangs to hide my wrinkled forehead. The things I look forward to.

Origin of The Hairy Eyeball

Well first things first, I have been really busy at work. I can't believe it either, but I am in a closing book gathering nightmare that seemingly has no end. Are you still reading? But today I resolved to begin my day not with paper cuts from piles of stupid closing documents, but rather with a blog entry. Hooray for me. So, John and I have become fans of the Travel Channel show "Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations." On his visit to Ireland we sat watching and learned that the Irish do in fact have culinary magic, especially in the form of seafood - which you would think since they inhabit an island. Now the funny, the Irish do not like the fish. This news surprises me little considering growing up I only ate it on Fridays during Lent, either fried as in fish and chips or baked as in fish stick. Something like 80% of the seafood is exported. Well, wouldn't you know it, but John suddenly makes a startling connecting observation. How the hell did the Irish starve during the potato famine if they were surrounded by seafood? So, yeah, I come from potato loving drunkards who would rather starve than gut and eat a fish. That stubborn streak of mine is suddenly becoming clear as to its origins.

I am not really sure if this qualifies as an addiction, but I am mad with the lust for Lagunitas Hairy Eyeball (see label), but it like gin before it, seems to have an ill will towards my undying infatuation. I have had this beer 3 nights last week. On Tuesday I consume three and woke up to a screaming headache. On Friday, after a strong vodka and apple juice (which is not that bad), I had two and woke up to what I believe was a hangover. Then on Saturday while playing Rock Band (holy crap it is AWESOME), like any rock star, I consumed five in quick succession the result being Sunday morning feeling like torture. Now I am sure you are sitting there saying, what a lightweight, but these beers have 8% alcohol. Of course, I think when a brewer names his beer "The Hairy Eyeball"; one might be smart enough to figure that there may be a connection to waking up with eyes bloodshot. But as referenced above, I come from a long line of stupid drunks. So midday Sunday, I promised that no Lagunitas Hairy Eyeball will touch these lips again, which totally sucks because they are so delicious, like cartwheel after and smiles all around delicious. I don't know if I can promise to be faithful to this resolution. The catch phrase on the bottle is "Here's Looking Atcha", and in my drunken and conversant state I would say back to the bottle "And here is looking at you Hairy Eyeball, you tasty little minx." How does one stop drinking a beer that gets you buzzed in 15 minutes and compliments? I don't know. I really don't.

My Celebrity Look Alikes

I do believe when wrestling with the devil of PMS, I will refer to this post for a self esteem boost. And now, a not so great photo.



Wow, I guess they know a good face. I LOOK LIKE SEAN LENNON!!!

And now one of Owen:



Oh my goodness, it seems I gave birth to an Asian female or mass murderer. Also how is it that a photo of a kid with no hair but a whisper produces 80s hair wannabees?

A Patriots Poem

Well, as promised, here is my poem that is an ode to the New England Patriots who will face the Chargers in the AFC Championship Game. My God, how awesome were the football games yesterday? Two of the best games of the year. Playoff Football!!! I love it. And here is my inner dork revealed . . .

The 2007 New England Patriots
A Tale Told In Rhyme

This season began with a draft day surprise,
The Pats traded for Moss, can't believe my eyes!
A 3 million contract and a 3rd round pick?
If you're not a Pats fan, this must make you sick.

Game One a win against the Mangina Jets.
Belichick cheating? Shall we discuss, oh lets!
Did nothing too bad, but fined and dismissed.
Now all say together: Bill Belichick's pissed!!

Next up the Chargers, in a playoff rematch,
Is every Brady throw a touchdown catch?
The defense was outstanding in halting LT,
How was that on your Visio HDTV?

Next to come were the Bills, Bengals and Browns
But nothing could stop the Patriots touchdowns.
Ocho Cinco manhandled, Lee Evans too,
And Romeo, oh Romeo, what could you do?

The next game was against the Cowboys and Romo,
Could the Patriots stop the menace named TO?
Of course they did, a fan always believes
Brady was hot and threw for five TDs.

AFC East rival the Dolphins then Skins
Forgive me father, for these football sins
Decimation is the only word to describe
Combined score: 101 to 35.

Next was the test of the Indianapolis Colts
The Pats losing at the half, oh my it revolts.
A comeback with win, the Pats don't disgrace,
Whoopee, look at that, it’s the Manning face.

A match with the Buffalo Bills yet again,
Destruction the result - 56 to 10.
The Eagles with Freeley surprise us all.
The game was close, but Pats do not fall.

The Ravens, the Steelers, the Jets and Miami
If this were a game show, then bring on the whammy.
Undefeated with only one game to win
Here come's New York, and Tom Coughlin's G-men.

The game was closer than anyone thought
Eli Manning will win? Oh god, I think not.
Moss and Brady combine for the records and win,
Is that quiet I hear, 72 Dolphin?

A perfect season had, but three more to go.
Welcome to the Belichick Tom Brady show.
So in conclusion, let us remove our hats,
God bless the game of football and of course the Pats.

I read this during halftime, and I do have to say that it went over well. Now if only I can get a job writing rhymes about things. I don't know who to sacrifice for this, but I am willing. Dr. Cassandra Suess has a ring, does it not?

Why is it . . .

that a Subway sandwich in all its brilliant glory ends rather too quickly for my poor lust filled heart, err stomach? And yes, before you ask I am becoming the female version of Jared - who if you don't know had a porn video operation in college. This information did not surprise me in the least, because honestly, that guy looks a little bit molesterish, does he not? Also, this weekend is the Pats first game of the playoffs and in honor of them I will be composing a poem to be read at halftime in my living room. Be there or be the sorta of person who does not draft a poem in honor of her favorite sports in her favorite sport a/k/a not a geek. Since I have yet to compose said poem, I don't have a title, but I am thinking that it will be in the vein of Ulysses or The Odyssey. Yeah, you heard me. Go Pahwts!

She Puts the Craze in Crazy

I can't really explain what happened to me last night, other than to say I had a momentarily separation from sanity and traveled down the harrowing road of the crazy. When finishing a Lost episode entitled "The Man From Tallahassee" I asked John "What happened to Locke's Dad, I can't remember?" Now John being John refused to tell me. Normally, I would sulk over to the computer, feign hatred and do a quick search to find the answer. However, this was not the case. Instead I was hijacked by lunancy and stormed off to the bedroom. As I drank my beer (Lagunitas Hairy Eyeball Ale, which I highly recommend) and watched the last DVRed episode of Nip/Tuck (which totally sucks ass this season and I can't believe I even waste my time watching it), I suddenly became quite mad. Note to readers - this was a question about Lost that could easily be answered by a 10 second Google inquiry. After Nip/Tuck was over, fueled by the Hairy Eyeball I made my way to John (who continued to watch Lost - which had me even more angry) and asked "Are you ready to tell me now." His response, "No." Under normal Cassie this would have elicited a laugh. Under psychosis Cassie this elicited my stomping back to the bedroom with a slammed door and bedtime. Long story short - as I closed my eyes, my anger grew, I made a scene, left the house for 5 minutes and had a crying fit. Again people, OVER LOST!!!! Now that I have reconnected with the sane, I am befuddled as to what happened last evening. I think that it could be hormones, but that is the excuse every girl makes but also one that is valid. But honestly, I think it was the following - sometimes as a girl you just need to cry and something as stupid as your husband jokingly not answering a question of yours can set you off onto that path. Which is what I think happened - hormones and hunger can often make a sane girl crazy. All is back to normal, but I do have a slight headache and feel like a complete ass. But I suck it up to the 1000 crazy things I get to do in this life with a free pass. Only 23 more to go, my 20s took up a lot.

Confessions of a Fantasizer

Its 11:51 a.m., and for the last 30 minutes I have been having these fantasies. I can't believe I am actually going to admit to this in blog format, but here it goes. You wanna know what of? Okay, prepare yourself -















Yep, there is my man! A Subway sandwich. Get your head out of the gutter people. I'll fully admit that I am dreaming in a somewhat erotic way of a 6 inch wheat turkey and cheese with lettuce, pickles, green peppers, olives and onions, toasted. Now that I am back in the saddle of weight gain, with a Hawaii adventure a mere 2 months away, I have reigned in my eating. Actually I could probably eat more, like at breakfast, but I’d rather have my two glasses of wine at night. Thank you very much alcoholic gene pool. My only morning indulgence is 3 points towards a non-fat latte. I could get coffee for no points, but I like the latte, and more importantly, I need to get milk somewhere, so why not deliciously heated and foamed commingling with espresso? However, around 11:00 I begin to lust after the sandwich (total points 6!). I think of nothing else. It is really quite embarrassing as I imagine him talking sweet nothings in my ear that go somewhat like this - Cassie, you know I am hot and good for you. I could make you warm inside and full and satisfied. You know you want me. And, egad, I do Mr. Subway 6 inch toasted turkey. I do!

And So It Begins . . .

My two new year's resolutions are as follows: (1) lose 20 pounds and (2) drink more seabreezes in the seabreeze. I think I can accomplish on of these quite easily; however, the other will take some work - mixing vodka with equal parts orange and cranberry juices adding enough but not too much ice, then finding a beach. Tough work! Luckily, I live near one. But wait a minute; I thought that you would say losing weight? Yeah, me too. But in all honestly the formula for losing weight is quite simple - eating right plus exercise equals weight loss. Abracadabra ladies and gents. Although I did go on Weight Watcher's post baby and lost a fair amount of weight - 20 pounds, I have been lax of late and the jelly in my belly is making a comeback. So it begins anew, given I am no longer breastfeeding thus 24/7 ravenously hungry, I am confident that by March 7 (the day I go to Hawaii for the first time ever) I will have attained that goal, or at least come close to it. Wish me luck.

So today I went to Subway and got a turkey on wheat with veggies. Usually when I go to Subway, it follows a certain path:

Me: Turkey on Wheat, with American Cheese and Yellow Mustard. That's it.
Veggie Doler: What? No Lettuce?
Me: No. Just Plain.
VD: No pickles? No onions?
Me: Nope, just yellow mustard. Thanks.
VD: Shaking head.

Why is it so horrible to go into Subway and ask for the just the basic of all sandwiches? I did not just whip out my penis (if I had one) and peed on you lady (and I use that tern loosely because said Veggie Doler is actually a man, in ladies clothing - San Francisco is awesome). Sure I am possibly paying a premium for all the veggies I want, but I don't want them. However, today I ordered a turkey on wheat with american cheese, yellow mustard, lettuce, pickles, black olives, green peppers and onions. And holy crap, it was good. And filling. And under the Weight Watcher's Point System, only 6 points. So the total pointage, thus far for today is 9 points, 3 in the form of a latte and 6 in the form of a delicious veggie filled Subway sandwich. Okay, Veggie Doler, I get the entire thing now. Sorry. If I remember correctly, my points should be around 22 now that Owen is boob free, so I got a bunch to blow tonight - hello chocolate. I keed, I keed. Is it just me, or is the entire Weight Watcher's Points System somewhat akin to gambling? Do I blow my wad or do I play every game in the house, spreading it around a bit? Not too sure, but I am sure of one thing. Hawaii is 63 days which roughly averages to 0.317 pounds of weight loss a day. The journey, she will be tough, but I get to console myself with lush greenery, mai tais, swimming and hopefully not Tsunamis (because I got an irrational fear of those which I will save for another time).

Happy, Happy

You know what the best part of New Year's Eve is? It is when you hear the following "Happy New Years." (Please extend the "years" as follows - "yeeeeerrrrrrsssssss." Perhaps I am the only person on the planet who finds this funny - sorta like my belief that Daniel Day Lewis' suicide attempt in My Left Foot is on par with Laurel and Hardy's Who's On First. If you hear the dreaded Happy New Years (not, Happy New Year), and you look quick enough you will see that often that person using such phrasing falls into a certain category - older, balding and overweight. It is scientifically proven in the Theory of Cass Category. So, what am I going to do for my Happy New Years, well let me tell you . . .

First up, I am working. But we get out at 3:00 p.m. and are having a pizza party. I have noticed a few things about working on holidays. The company feels bad, and instead of just saying listen there is nothing going on, just have the day off, they instead let you out early and feed you pizza. Pizza and being let out early is the corporate world's bitch slap to your face.

After I leave the confines of work, with a little more weight to lose in the upcoming year, thank you pizza, I will be traveling to my OB/GYN who will be giving me a pap smear so that we can check out if my cervical cells are back in line. A little history - my cervix and I are constantly at battle it seems. My cells go a bit wonky, I get another test, all is okay until they go wonky again and we repeat the process. If my OB/GYN is the paparazzi, my cervix is Britney Spears. It loves the attention.

Third up on the NYE agenda is home wherein John and I will follow the routine of getting Owen to sleep and then we will be making Greyhounds with a gallon tub of Grey Goose Vodka that was on sale for 50 bux at Safeway. I don't know how you define love, but your husband calling you at 10:30 a.m. in order to inform you that he just save 30 bux on a tank size bottle of Goose, is better than all the hearts and roses you other saps receive. I love you John McCall, I really do.

As John and I wander down the road of Grey Goose and Grapefruit Juice, we will also be engaging in the play of our Nintendo Wii. I will say this, I have lost my chops. Last night I was defeated by what my brother-in-law now refers to as "The Shark". John smelled blood in the water, and I was his victim. My bowling pro status tumbled 120 points in 3 games. This, to some, is nothing, but to me and my ultra-competitive you will lose attitude, it hurts worse than the seemingly horrid ending to this "What's Grosser than Gross?" joke - sliding down a banister of razor blades into a pool of rubbing alcohol. That's pain people.

Speaking of rubbing alcohol and stories of my unfortunate past, when I was in 10th grade our school newspaper "The Blue and Gold" had a theme at Christmas in which the students would answer the question "What I Wanted For Christmas". It was the early 1990s, and in Boston it was just revealed that Kitty Dukakis, wife of Michael "Presidential Candidate 1988" Dukakis was an alcoholic. And her addiction was so severe that there was a time she pilfered her medicine cabinet to drink rubbing alcohol. So as I sat thinking about what I wanted for Christmas, I wrote the following "All I want for Christmas, is a bottle of rubbing alcohol. Signed, Kitty Dukakis." I know, absolute hilarity. However, I was told later by Mr. Hines that such a wish would not be published because it was not funny, and as a young lady, I should act more ladylike. Well, well Mr. Hines, little do you realize that was pure comedic gold. I still stand by it. I was the David Letterman of Malden High, only to be bullied into silence, by what I do believe was pure jealousy. So on this NYE, I wish you the very best - be it rubbing alcohol, or gallon size bottles of Grey Goose, for we all have our poisons.

Ring Around The Collar

This morning I was ironing my shirt and came across a thought. I know, what mother with a child turning one irons her clothing for work. Me. Why? Because of my mother, a woman that to this day still irons jeans, ingrained it into my psyche. I have tried to go to work with semi-wrinkled clothing. The result being feelings I can only equate to those who have committed the crime of murder. I feel dirty, lonely and guilty - ravaged with the knowledge of wrinkled pants and shirt. But I digress. So as I was ironing the collar of my button down, I had the following thought - is that ring around the collar? Which lead to another thought - what the hell happened to the horror that was "ring around the collar"? Remember commercials like these:



Yeah, I do too. But here it is 2007, and I have heard not a whisper of the evil menace that was ring around the collar. After a quick google search, it seems that ring around the collar does still exists. It is the grime and dirt that collects as one's neck rubs into the fabric of the collar. Basically dead skin combined with sweat pooling. Good lord that is gross. However, it seems that society today is not fearful as it once was. How did this happen? Did lobbyists and supporters of ring around the collar make Wisk abandon its movement to abolish same? I mean with all the freaking guys out there wearing stupid striped collared button down shirts, one would think there would be some sort of crisis concerning the Ring. But nope, it seems this scourge has been swept under the rug. And I am here to rectify this. The ring must be combatted. Forget global warming and the war in Iraq. Down with the ring!!! Down!!!!!!! Please join me in my campaign. Donations gladly accepted.

Introducing . . . THEORY TUESDAYS

This blog needs a gimmick, so henceforth let Tuesdays be known as (drum roll please) . . . Theory Tuesdays. What pray tell do Theory Tuesdays consist of? Well, simply put, Tuesdays will be the day to detail a theory which I have come to believe in as the years pass. Who knows, perhaps Theory Tuesdays will take off and readers will submit their own unique theories, making millions flock to this webpage so that I can quit my job, get rich from ad space sales and begin living the life I was meant to lead - that of an eccentric drunk. We shall devote this first post to my theory of "The Gracefully Clumsy". If you know me well, you will know that at any given time I am covered with at least 3 different bruises. It is not a secret that I am clumsy. My trials of this weekend include the following:

1. On my right upper thigh there currently resides a bruise the size of a grapefruit. This bruise was the result of me walking into a fire hydrant. Now, I would like to state that (a) fire hydrants are stationary and (b) are often painted a bright red, yellow or white. I just walked into it. Enough said.

2. My left big toe is a bloody bruised mess with the top half of its nail missing. This injury was the result of me walking from my bedroom to the bathroom whereupon I slammed my foot into the vacuum, the same vacuum that I moved not 30 minutes earlier. I should have realized at the time that by moving this vacuum I was giving way to the clumsy demons that haunt me. It is as if they got together and said "Holy crap, that stupid bitch just moved the vacuum right outside her bedroom door. And she knows without her glasses she is blinder than blind. She is so in for it. It is almost too easy."

So as the years have progressed I do believe that my constant clumsiness has somehow created in me an absolute gracefulness. For example, the non-clumsy when slipping will often fall flat on their faces. For me, I recognize the first slippage in a nanosecond, contorting my body in such a way that often negates mishap, therefore proving the grace in my clumsy movements. I think anyone given years of abuse will somehow find a way to thwart the first inclinations towards destruction. So the completely and pitifully clumsy, like me, do in fact over time evolve a grace to avoid utter disaster. How do I know this? Well if not, I surely would have been dead 1,000 times over. And that concludes our first installment of "Theory Tuesdays". Please feel free to share your own unique theories. After all, there are only two avenues to becoming my very own Miss Havisham - this blog and the lottery.

Strikes Suck

You want to know something? I really like TV. I won't lie, I may be addicted. It is the crack to my Ho, the vodka to my alky, the entire pizza pie to my bulimic. I love it. So it should come to no surprise that the current writer's strike is causing me great pain. Of all the TV shows that I love, and there are quite a few, there is one that rises above with a form of addiction nearing hysteria, and that dear friends is Lost, Or as I like to say LLLOOOOOOSSSSSSSSTTTT (high pitched in a rambling up and down voice). Call me; I can give an impromptu version. When Lost decided to have its season run in order with no repeats, I was a happy camper. When realizing this meant Lost would not return until mid-January 2008, not so happy. But like many others in denial, it quickly was put of my mind. There were others to occupy my time, like AMC's Mad Men (which is awesome!), HBO's Tell Me You Love Me (which for some reason I like - must be the ass shots), and many more that I care not to list in fear that you will call an intervention on my TV watching arse. In all fairness, I would like to state that my TV watching is much less given the arrival of Owen - which totally and completely sucks balls. I kid, I kid. Actually the term "sucking balls" is pretty awesome, don't you think? I wonder who came up with it. I mean, in order to originate a term, you must have actually done it, right? I can see it now, a pair of guys standing there pushing a brick to the pyramid debating on how much the job just totally stinks, until one of them finally says "You know what Amenhotep? This job sucks balls, just take my word for it." And so I would like to ask whatever God is up there, to please end this writer's strike so that I can sit my bum in front of the TV and rot my brain. Thank you very much.

Back In The Saddle

In a little more than six weeks Owen will be having his first birthday. There are many thoughts racing around my mind but most pressing is the following - I have forty-seven days to lose the last of my pregnancy weight. I think 15 pounds will give me the leeway to gain five with no issue. I have to admit, that the past few weeks I have not been the poster child of weight watching. I have given into my desires of non-diet food specifically red meat and chocolate (a/k/a the Dynamic Delicious Duo). Thankfully, this has not resulted in weight gain, merely a steady maintaining. However, this Monday marks my return to yogurt, fruit, oatmeal as well as silent curses. Also, the return to the treadmill. Watch out San Francisco, another 5.6 is coming your way! (Does this joke every get old?) The month before I got pregnant I was an exercising fool. Even in the worse hangover, I walked my way to the gym to run like an interval training fool. It was awesome, I was awesome. But then I got knocked up. So, the last battle in this weight war is to be waged. Because if I don't lose this weight, it is said that it will remain with me for life as a girl has one year to lose the weight pregnancy begets or else.

As a side note, my stomach just made the strangest gurgling sound - it sounded like a banshee wailing while be strangled. Good lord that Clam Chowder I had for lunch better not turn into a bad idea. Oh sweet Jesus, guess my weight loss may have just gotten a swift kick to the arse. Help!

Holy Apples Batman!

I believe that I just had the most perfect apple ever created in this entire universe. It was like eating apple cider, but crunchier. I consider myself an apple connoisseur, pretty much eating one every day (thereby keeping the doctor away). As I stood in the fruit section of Safeway, there next to the Braeburns was the Honey Crisp. Intrigued, I bought one - impressed by its large size and pretty coloring. Holy crap this apple is good. It could possibly be the heroin of the apple world - you will be addicted with the first taste. After doing some research, I discovered the following:

Honey Crisp is the new sensation in the apple world, a large, sweet apple with crisp "to-die-for" texture! Believed to be an offspring of Macoun and Honey Gold, Honey Crisp was introduced in 1991 by the University of Minnesota breeders at Excelsior, MN. Both its parents were noted for having excellent flavor, moderate sized fruit, and "ok" texture. Honey Crisp's flavor is perhaps not as dramatic as Macoun at its peak, but is first rate. The Kicker in Honey Crisp is its crisp texture -- no other apple matches its crispness.

So true. So true.

My Pumpkin

This is the pumpkin that I carved for Halloween which I think is best summed up by the little girl who after getting her trick and treat goods said "Look Daddy, the pumpkin, its funny." That little girl, she totally got me.

Happy Halloween

Well the day of the devil is upon us. And I shall give you my Top Ten Favorite All Hallow's Eve moments:

10. When my Granddad baked for me a pumpkin birthday cake. He was a baker, and the thing looked exactly like a pumpkin. I think I cried when they cut it.

9. When at age 16 I took two girls I babysat for Trick or Treating, and I dressed up as a flenser (who loved Judy Blume?). Which was perfect because it was pouring out and it the costume involved a rain jacket. I am not telling what flenser is, look it up.

8. The fact that my brother dressed up as Dracula for about 7 years straight. Conversations usually went like this: "Hey, Michael Jaymie, what do you want to be for Halloween this year? Dracula? Really? Wow."

7. The fact that after a while my brother and I got smart in the ways of Halloween and used not the Halloween themed plastic small bags (which would always rip from the weight), but king sized pillow cases, and as for those pumpkin carriers - pure amateur hour.

6. The Great Candy Trade. Nothing beats free candy, but trading with your inept sugar frenzied cousin 3 Smarties and a Rollo for a full size snickers bar might even be better.

5. The fact that I never went berserk on Halloween - egging, shaving creaming, or toilet papering anything because I believed in the sanctity of the tradition. And before you ask, I was a loner in high school.

4. My pillowcase clown outfit that my mom made. It was fantastic. She sew pillow cases together, painted my face, put my hair in pig tails, and gave me a red bulbous nose. It was a phenomenal costume, and handmade.

3. Trick or treating in the projects. I grew up in Charlestown in the projects, which meant that each building had about 20 doors to knock on, and the candy was incredible and this one guy gave dollar bills out. I remember at the time thinking he was the best person I ever met in my entire life. Makes me almost want to give out money - but I just spent $17,000 on a new sewer pipe, so I don't think so.

2. My garbage can outfit. Which remains the best costume I ever came up with - basically I bought a plastic trash can, cut out the bottom, put shoulder straps on it and then wore the cover as a hat. I completed the look with these nasty brown and black tights and a garbage bag for my candy. Aside from people throwing my candy into the actual barrel I was wearing, it was the best. So basically, I loved being trash and I think my life all makes sense now.

1. Owen's First Halloween, which is today. He's a skeleton and so cute - photo above. I love that I get to do this all over again. Yeah!

Happy Halloween everyone.

Happy Birthday To Me

I have officially entered my mid-30s. Hello thirty-four. Did you know that is 17,870,400 minutes of being alive? You dwell on that. So in honor of this momentous occasion, let it be known, that I Cassandra Michele Catherine McCall, have added another moisturizer into the routine. I don't think marking another year of your life is better expressed than with a new moisturizer. So in addition to my alpha hydroxy peels, my Clarins moisturizer, and my tinted MD Skincare moisturizer I have now added MD Skincare's Hydra-Puree Antioxidant Firming Serum. Yep, nothing says Happy Birthday than the fight against wrinkles. Not that I am deluding myself. I understand that as I age, my skin will lose its elasticity and droop. I have a degree in biology after all, but I am thinking with good genetics, moisturizing, and the drinking of plenty of water, I can ward off the potential ill effects of aging upon my skin. There are two things I have learned from talk shows (well two things that I think are most important). The first was when I was 15 when I saw Bill Cosby on Oprah wherein he stated that water and drinking lots of it was the key to healthy skin. Needless to say as a 15 year old who just got 3rd degree burns on my face from combining Noxzema and Clearasil as an overnight mask, it had impact. The second thing I learned from talk shows, and it has nothing to do with beauty routines, was Jackson Pollack. Phil Donahue did a show about him - showing some of his art, him painting, and basically I fell in love. I can't remember how old I was, but I loved it. And after reading a biography of Mr. Pollack, I have wanted to see Blue Poles Number 11 in person. It is currently on exhibit in Australia. Someday I hope to visit. So, I guess that is my birthday wish, because I have already been blessed with a lovely son, wonderful husband and great friends. Sorry for the sentimentality, but sometimes the inner dork comes out. Speaking of inner dorks and Alice in Wonderland lovers, to all those not celebrating their birth today - Happy Unbirthday!

Happy Almost Halloween

Well it is Halloween, or almost. I love Halloween, probably because my birthday is tomorrow and I have had a host of Halloween themed birthday parties. This photo is from a party 3 years ago - which happened to fall on my birthday. It is my good friend Amanda. I don't think there is anything better than photographic evidence of your drunken misadventures, especially when they involve putting a carved pumpkin on your head. So in spirit (boo!) of the season, I do believe that this week of blogging with be in keeping with Halloween. Wait until you see the pumpkin I carved yesterday.

A Baseball Story

Although this photo is a tad old, it is in keeping with the spirit of the moment and that is a loud and proud: Go Sox! I just finished reading an anthology in which women writers talk about raising sons. For the most part it was great, although there were a few ladies who told the story of crying when they found out they were having a boy, and these were not tears of joy, but with time they came to love the idea of a son. Some people I tell you. I guess being a tomboy; I had no qualms with having a boy, and perhaps in a certain respect have preferred it. Although I am sure that if I was blessed with a girl, it would be equally fulfilling. How could it not? Another theme in this book was the assigning of gender roles to children. As in it is okay for boys to cry, not like sports and wear pink. All of which is fine and dandy, but these women planned on outright defiance of the gender roles set by society. Most of them met an acceptance that even though they may force the doll, most of their sons preferred trucks. One writer prided herself on her son's lack of the male love of sports. Which is fine, I guess. I have come to age in a generation of feminist son-raising women, and I have found that some boys my age indeed do not like sports and some given the alternative tide of the 1990s found it a selling point. I can't even recall the number of guys who would say "I am sensitive, and I don't like sports." Which I am sure would make many a girl giddy, but always in me it would produce a smirk and then the immediate thought of "Oh jesus, what a pansy". I was raised on football, and horrid football at that - the 1980s New England Patriots. I remember sitting with my father and praying the game would not be blacked out although often, it was. I love playing tackle football at daycare, and thought maybe I could make it a career. Also I was one of two girls in Babe Ruth Baseball (age range 13 to 15). I was an excellent second baseman, but my male coaches would always regale me to right field - a/k/a home to the losers. Of course, due to my super competitive nature, I decided to remedy this. I practiced constantly with my brother, my swing, my catch, my throw, all in order to prove that I did not belong in right field for 4 innings, but rather on the infield for the entire game. So one game, I did amazingly. I hit a triple, a double, and caught every fly ball that came to me in my isle of loserdom. And as the game ended, my coaches gathered the team around, I felt happy that finally I would get the recognition I deserved, only to be met with the following "What the hell guys, even the girl is doing better than you." So there it was a bitch slap with words. Needless to say, I continued in right field for the next two years hoping for justice and receiving none. However, I did learn the life lesson that some people are complete assholes no matter what you do, but this is not a reason to stop trying. So, to the weekend and to the Sox!

Overheard on Muni

Yesterday while riding Muni home (don't I sound just like a San Franciscan?), I overheard the following conversation:

Twenty Year Old 1: Ah, did you ever see that movie Risky Business?
Twenty Year Old 2&3: Nope.
Twenty Year Old 1: Well there's this scene where he eats a girl out on a train.

I think that is all I have to say here. First I was astonished that someone had not seen Risky Business and second I was immediately grossed out that someone would use that term with a high octave voice on crowded public transportation. In fact, I don't think I was alone in this as it seemed the entire train just stopped for those brief moments of shock. I think that phrase just will always in me cause a tad bit of nausea because eating out should be referencing a meal not at your home that includes tip, not a buried face in a female's genitals. And I swear, I am not a prude.

Delayed Backache

While watching the Red Sox whoop ass on Sunday evening, a commercial for one of the ever present ways a man can get the bone back in boner came on the air. One of the many possible side effects stated was the following: "Delayed Backache." Oh really? You mean to tell me that some guy over 50 who has not had sex in a few months is going to pop a pill and go at it like there is no tomorrow may have a delayed backache? Wow. Shocking.

Closet Discovery and Menarche Morn

A few weeks ago I was looking at some old photos and saw one of me in a maroon cardigan. At that moment I said "Whatever happen to that sweater? I must have lost it." So this morning, imagine my joy when I discovered said sweater. Of course, I immediately called myself an idiot as the sweater had been in my closet for almost a year. This happens to me a lot. I guess I don't pay attention to the particulars. Or more likely, the fact that I attended Catholic school ingrained a love of the uniform, which at my age has translated to pants, t-shirt, cardigan, flats. Repeat in assorted colors. So because said cardigan was not in my routine, it was neglected. Poor cardigan. However, welcome back to the fold. Speaking of maroon things, I have fully returned to womanhood. Yesterday morning I woke up to my period. My last period occurred March 4, 2006, so needless to say it has been a while. Of course, my sheets required immediate washing, and my pajama bottoms were destroyed but once again I am among the bleeders. I feel special. And no cramps! Not sure if this is going to be a continuing trend, but my mother always told me that my cramps would be less with the birth of a child. And egads, I think the lady is right. We can only hope since my consumption of 15 advil a day to ease the pulsating pain was a bit unbearable. However, my phrase of "It feels like a posse of drunken monkeys is in my belly fighting for the last beer!" might have to be retired. Such a shame. So to the monthly curse I say to you - welcome back. Of course, this means I am also fertile again. Yikes. Also, I am unsure of this, perhaps 80%, but I do believe some kid shouted at me from his car, "MILF". I felt both pride and disgust as obviously he thought I was cute, but although with the birth of Owen this is a club I have joined, my membership I care not to flaunt. Thank you very much.

The Ballad of Night Man

Not sure if you are familiar with the FX Its Always Sunny in Philadelphia, but the above produced in me hysterics not matched in over a year. I have seen this over 20 times and each time it is continues to be funny, which one would think impossible, but no.

The Dreaded Baby Germ

Well it seems that my fight with baby germs is almost concluded as is evidenced by the never ending supply of green snot in my nose. It seems no matter how hard or how much I blow, what escapes is replaced in about 2.5 seconds. I don't get it. Although I did some research today on green snot, and it seems that this is evidence that my immune system is waging a war it is winning. You go T cells. I'll be honest, when hearing that baby having equals getting sick a bunch, I scoffed. Why? Well, my immune system has been fighting off viruses, bacteria and other sickly woes with a cunning and agility not unlike that of the ninja. Its mastery of killing disease has basically rendered me healthy with nary a sniffle for a good 8 years. However, now that I have Owen Harborer of Health Horrors, my immune system has been riddled with disease, overpowered by The Dreaded Baby Germ (there should really be some music here - preferably of the 1940s gumshoe style). One would hope that The Dreaded Baby Germ would easily succumb to an adult's immune defense, but no - not unlike the baby itself those bloody germs get into everything causing headache, anxiety and fear. I don't think there has been a more miserable time in recent years for me than this Saturday when John woke me to feed Owen and put him to bed. As I sat reading Ten Little Ladybugs and Goodnight Gorilla, tears formed, and I thought death was imminent. Thankfully Owen went to sleep without issue, and I returned to bed with a box of tissues and hatred of the fact that when sick and nursing - there is no Nyquil heavenly bliss. There is nothing but chicken soup, water and lozenges. I can deal with being sick if given the opportunity to consume a half bottle of Nyquil and retire into a den of deep sleep and delirious thought, but it is quite another thing to be ill, nursing and taking care of a baby. Damn you baby germs!!! I hate you. It has also come to my attention that perhaps my conquering of illness in years past is not at all related to the super ability of my immune system, but rather the fact that my daily blood alcohol level hovered around 0.10 thereby pickling any invader into my bloodstream - deep thoughts indeed. Thankfully this illness is passing, and I am now 20 years old in Big Brain Academy. That is the youngest your brain can be. Yes, applaud me. (Sorry for the Nintendo DS Lite reference, but a girl in times of sickness, must find happiness in other arenas).

Obsession

I love, love, love this song, this video, this band. I can only say that I hope some day to see them live. I even turned off the new Radiohead for a listen - now that is saying something. Anyway, to Animal Collective, Peacebone and love amongst the aliens. Also, look how cool I am posting a video to the blog. Yeah me.

I am a 12 year old boy . . . .

Because I find this funny (and was the block composer of words). Also because I went to the movies to see Reign of Fire - you might remember this movie from years past. It was about dragons and starred Christian Bale and Matthew McConaughey. I went because it was about dragons. The sole reason - although it did have the requisite male eye candy. The movie was terrible, but as I sat in the theatre and I took a look around at the other viewers, there was no one over the age of 12 or female. So, yep, I am a 12 year old boy.