The Birth

The last time you heard from me, I was late and there was talk of induction. Well that induction was talked about and scheduled for March 19, 2009. We were told to call in that morning at 6:00 a.m. Basically the night before I did not sleep very well because I WAS GOING TO HAVE A BABY THE NEXT DAY. I called at 5:50 a.m. and was told they were too busy and to call back at 9:00 a.m. I called at 9:00 a.m. only to be told they would call me back because they were too busy. I then cried on the toilet. Seriously. I wanted the baby out, O-U-T. And here it was dangled before me, and then ripped away because some people actually go into labor. I called my doctor and was scheduled for induction again on Monday, March 23, 2009. Which was four days away. At this point it should be told that I was almost 4 cm dilated and 100% effaced. It is amazing the baby was even still up there, so I was told to have sex, walk around and it was likely I would go before Monday. Yeah right. I did what I was told, and let me say something – having sex for the sake of getting a baby out of you is not exactly a good time, but rather a chore, and a disgusting one at that. You try feeling sexy when your belly has a 7 pound kid in it and you are a week overdue. I even had possibly the hottest chicken tikka masala known to man. My eyes watered, and it was a torture to even consume, but I did, because I wanted to go into labor. I really, really, really did. Needless to say, I was calling at 6:00 a.m. on Monday, to be told the glorious words “Come in.” What did you say? Come in? Come in? I can get this freaking baby out of my womb? OMG.

We get the hospital where I am told they will be breaking my water, and I should go into labor because I am 4 cm dilated and 100% effaced. Any wages on how that went? Before this I am given the option of an epidural. My last epidural was not pleasant in the sense that they got into my spinal fluid and I got the worst headache of my entire life. Actually it could not even be described as a headache, rather a head bashing mind numbing absolute horror of a continuous ache. But you know what, that only occurs in 1% of people who get epidurals and I did not want to be subjected to having my placenta ripped out of me without pain meds if it was to detach again. So, doctor epidural me. The doctor came in and began the epidural. Do you know an epidural under normal instances takes about 5 minutes to do? I only know this because after to close to an hour of the doctor pricking me continuously with needles he decided to move up one notch wherein it was finished in five minutes. He then told me that I have an elusive space between my L4 and L5 and that all my future epidurals should be done in the L4/L3 space. So in addition to this fatty lipoma on my left shoulder that is the size of a softball and my allergy to yellow peppers, lets add weird epidural space to the list of freaking things that make me unique.

Next they break my water. Baby come on out! But no, nothing happened. There were no contractions. So after about two hours of waiting they move to pitocin. Yeah, finally something that gives me results. It is obvious to me now that even though I have a short cervix, and bed rest was prescribed in both my pregnancies, I also did not go into labor with either. Life is cruel. They start the pitocin, and although I feel contractions they do not see them on the monitor. Because my uterus is also a bit off it seems. I am not sure what my mother was drinking when she was pregnant with me, but it had to be bad. Although the uterus thing could be contributed to my brother kicking me in the stomach after seeing this wrestling move. It was always my belief that this kick would cause me not to even have kids, but it seems it only served to whack my uterus off kilter so that a fetal monitor could not detect contractions. Thanks Michael. I am then told the baby’s heart rate is going down, which means there are contractions and they are going to have to monitor her internally since I was between 4 and 5 cm and had a way to go. So a half hour later, the doctor comes in to put these monitors in and lo and behold I am fully dilated. WHAT! Yeah Maggie. Basically this is 45 minutes since I felt a contraction and I am about to push. They set up the necessary, and then we have a practice push to see how I push. Well let me tell you, I push awesome because the nurse was all – Stop! I need to call your doctor now. So we wait, and my doctor comes in and I give another push and boom baby. I pushed for 2 sets of pushes, about 9 minutes, which included a 5 minute break for the Lofquist to make an appearance. From first contraction to baby – less than 90 minutes. I would like at this time to say, “SECOND BABIES RULE!” And also, I did not poop on the table. Win, win all around.

They then put Maggie on my belly, but I am only viewing the back of her head. Which is full of dark hair. I remember sitting saying to myself, holy crap. Once again everyone sees this baby but me because John and his mom are like – she is beautiful, beautiful. Oh really? I don’t know that because her god damn back of the head is facing me. I only housed this kid for 9 months, and 9 days, which included 8 weeks of bed rest. And me eating possibly the spiciest food known to man, and did I mention the constipation? But no, don’t let me see her face or anything, I mean the back of the head is fine by me, really – who needs to see a face? Not me. Why am I even here? My job is done, someone hand me a vodka and we can call it a day. So yeah, a tad frustrated. But I did finally get to see her face, and she was beautiful.

Baby had, yeah me. Maggie Nicole McCall, 6 pounds, 15 oz., 20 inches long. This marks the official end to my pregnant life. I am bronzing my ovaries, hanging them up to dry, and retiring from breeding. I thank all who helped me in these efforts, but especially John McCall without whom I would have never housed life within my womb.

Tomorrow . . . what the hell have I done?

BABY!

Sorry about the lack of posting, but I had the baby. I will detail the joy in a post, but let it be know that Maggie Nicole McCall was born on 3/23/09, weighted 6 pounds, 15 oz and is pretty darn awesome.

4 Days and Counting

At the doctor yesterday, I had my membranes stripped. For those of you not in the know, that is the process in which via vaginal exam, your OB/GYN separates your amniotic sac from your cervix with her fingers. I know! I mean she can't buy me dinner and a drink beforehand. Way to woo, doc. All of this was witnessed before John, and all of it was not told to me prior. I was like, hey! OUCH! God what the hell are you doing to me you bitch! Wherein our Dr. Lofquist just said, “Sorry, I am being mean today.” But these are the things you suffer through when you make no progress in a week, and you want your baby out. But dear Maggie viewed this stripping of the membranes as a pathetic attempt to lure her out. “Me, fall for that.” “Oh my god, LOSERS.” So on it goes, this Thursday I have an ultrasound to check my fluid as Owen was induced due to low fluid, then if there is no appearance by Monday, March 16, two days after my due date we will begin to think of induction. So that basically means there is a possibility that both my children will be handed the eviction notice via a dosing of pitocin. Obviously I have a womb that thrills, it must be like candy canes, lollipops and unicorns in there. I mean really, no one wants to leave.

8 Days and Counting

Dear Maggie McCall,

You are eight days away from your due date, but that means nothing because I think something like on 10% of babies are actually born on their due date. You do what you want though, no complaints from me. Your father and I think you are going to come every day, because last night as I lay in bed, I screamed "ouch" three times in a row from pains. But then they disappeared. I don't know if you know what the term "tease" means, but I am thinking that you might be very familiar with it someday. And then this morning, you dad said "moving or just pain" and I was like "moving with pain". Which is an appropriate album title and description for the last couple of days. I guess there is nothing to do but wait. But it is so boring. I have reached the max of television I can watch, I am actually enjoying the Today Show and laugh like they are my friends and we are on this secret mission of happiness and fun together. Its sad, really sad, but that is slow descent into madness. My mother thinks that you are going to look like her with dark hair and dark eyes. Your Nana is so modest. She does not want you to have red hair, but since your Nonni has auburn here and my Nana McInnis also had auburn hair there is a good chance you can go red. So, when you are older and reading over this you can understand why Nana never thought that much of you. I kid. Maybe. Anyway, your brother Owen is insane, and if you can be half as insane as him, I will be happy. Also he was eleven days overdue. So again, I stress to you arriving early or on time, might win you votes in our future estate planning.

Your Mummy

10 Days Until the Blessed Arrival of the Beast

There is nothing worse than getting to the final few weeks of your pregnancy, where every cramp gives you the promise of hope that something might be getting started. That something might lead to your legs up in stirrups as a human head exits from your womanhood. And you sit and wait, and you wait some more, and then you curse, and then you say, well I can sleep. But then you say, I don’t want to sleep, I just want her out of the belly. But then you are like, but sleep is pretty awesome. Yeah, maybe this thing was a bad idea from the get go. Too late to rethink it? So basically I am descending into a slow insanity. Trying to busy myself, but having no pure thought into what to do, because my mind is pregnant. And pregnant brain has one thing on its mind – baby. So it tends to wander to you know the baby, and then you are at square one, but you made brownies to comfort you. On my doctor’s appointment on Monday it was revealed that I am now 80% effaced, and almost 2 cm dilated. Which one would think actually means something, but then you read on the great Google that it means absolutely nothing. Pretty much babies come when they are damn well ready to come. The frustrating part for me is the entire bed ridden status. One would think that if one is put on bed rest it is to stop impending labor, so that when one is off of bed rest, one would have said labor. Not that I truly expected this to happen considering after a ten week stint with Owen, he arrived eleven days late. So basically, John and I have determined that I have the strongest short cervix known to man. Although slight in size, it is able to carry the burden of baby. Its wrestling name will be The Wee Warrior. But I thank my cervix for a job well done, but it can stop already. Because cervix, I am laying you off. Times are tough, and I am going nutty. You are being let go, so please let go yourself and let this kid arrive already. Actually I think this is all stemming from my first trimester and second trimester desire to have this baby on St. Patrick’s Day. Those trimesters are full of magic, and not reality. It is then when you are like – how fun would it be to have a baby on St. Patty’s Day named Maggie McCall? But Third Trimester Cassie is all – Baby get the hell out of me, seriously, your time has come. Do you see that, no seriously, look right there by the light. Its another pink outfit, for you! Don’t you want to wear it? Your mother would really like to walk four steps without her pants falling down and her ass being exposed. Do me this solid, and I swear to God, you can totally stay up late on New Year’s 2015. But nope, I continue to wait, and wait, and wait. What will the next few days bring aside from me analyzing every cramp like a Lost fan on Benjamin Linus’s raised eyebrow, nothing. I know this, but still I cling.

Where Have I Been?

I have been on bed rest for the past eight weeks. My time in bed ends this Friday. There will be yodeling, and happiness, and of course, an attempt to get my leg functions back to an appropriate level before the arrival of one Ms. Margaret Nicole McCall. I wish I could say that I spent this time working on the great short story, or reading dozens of books, or engaging in anything other than the semi rot of my already pregnancy mushy brain. But nope, I am proud to admit here I did what I normally do – pick one show for a semi addiction and then watch all the baby shows I possibly can. Bringing Home Baby, yes. Deliver Me Home, yep. Birth Day, Baby Story, Amazing Births, Pregnancy for Dummies. Yes, fine people. Yes. I don’t know why I do this because during most of the birth parts, I sit there fascinated, and say to myself, “Holy crap. What the hell did I do to myself?” I think by doing this I am preparing myself for the day. I am a geek by nature, so I take this as my studying. But also I think I like to scare the bejesus out of myself so that nothing that truly happens can be that bad, because that one lady had her baby in the toilet. So as long as Maggie is not being dried off from a blue tidy bowl hue, I figure I did good. My show addiction this time has been Law and Order, SVU. Or those not in the know Law and Order, Special Victims Unit. The SVU deals with rapes, pedophiles, and the elderly – you know, special victims. I now think that everyone is a pedophile and am considering homeschooling. But then I quickly flash to those home schooled kids from the Scripps Spelling Bee, and think “I will take my chances.” So basically for the past 56 days I have scared myself witless with victim and vaginal abuses. Who said I can’t have fun?

The Rundown

Dear Internet, please forgive my slacker ways and my unwillingness to blog. But remember, that I am pregnant and hormonal and sometimes prone to long staring spells. So, in a nutshell:

Yesterday I pretty much passed out on the way to work. Everything is fine, and the baby is great. But it seems that I need to eat more. I was prescribed to eat more, people. This is pretty much the best diagnosis I ever received. Bring on the feast.

This will probably label me as weird, but come on, I have been wearing that sash and crown for about 35 years now haven’t I? Last Thursday night, I was chatting with John and the subject of me being in a coma came up, wherein I said “You know, if it is like two years, you should probably divorce me and get a new wife.” So the next morning, John says “So, I had this dream.” So basically he says that he and I are in this hospital room, and I am dying. And we are crying and I say to him, “John, you should totally find someone else when I die.” Whereupon he says, “Sweetie, I’d like you to meet someone.” Hah! Now, I might be a tad off. But is that not the best thing ever? He made me laugh on my deathbed. How can I love this man more?

Also, not sure if I ever told this story, but I am the same girl who during her final push of Owen out of her vagina - instead of holding in my breath, breathe it out. So basically it sounded like a big raspberry, and you know what I did at that moment - the moment wherein there was a baby head lodged in my private eden? I full out started to laugh. Needless to say when my doctor and the nurse started to scream - PUSH!!! PUSH!! PUSH!! I shut down the comedy hour and continued the delivery. But really, I laughed during the labor nitty gritty. Me thinks this speaks volumes.

So anyway, yeah, I have a license to get freaking huge, and I love my husband even more for a joke on my deathbed. So to my parents, thank you for dropping me on my head repeatedly as an infant. It can be the only explanation.
>

What a Sweet Beer Gut.

Black and Blue by Anna Quindlen

My review

rating: 1 of 5 stars
This is what happens when you wander into a subpar bookstore looking for anything to read because you just finished a book and the prospect of being on MUNI bookless is something that you would rather not attempt, because people smell and are sweaty and you need something to take your attention from that. So I got this book, Black and Blue, which was an Oprah Book Club nominee in 1999. Oprah, obviously your tastes are grown, because five pages in I was like - Holy Cow, I am reading a Lifetime movie. This is the story of a nurse wife who flees with her child from her abusive cop husband. Again, LIFETIME!!! I don’t know why I even bothered to finish it, but I blame the fact that sometimes you are pulled into chickdom with a current so strong that any attempt to fight it would result in drowning. So with the flow I went, and jeez, this book is such bad fluff. I don’t recommend it to anyone, and I advise all to enter a bookstore with a plan, or you will find yourself reading 1999 Oprah nominee Lifetime Movie Channel crap.


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Bah Humbug

Oh December, you have come once again bringing with you Owen’s second birthday (what!) and Christmas (I am Catholic). However you also bring with you the most painful of all experience, and that is present shopping. Not to sound like a Scrooge or anything, because I really am not, but I hate holiday shopping. Buying gifts for people is to me pure torture. Also, opening gifts is kind of torture too, unless it is called Patron, Grey Goose or Maker’s Mark. But I am pregnant, so no White Russians will be able to rescue me this year, as I once again forage through the catacombs of the internet for gifts. Every time I got into Peet’s Coffee, I want to get gift cards, but not to actually put money in them, just to take them and perhaps give them to people who would use them, and then be all flustered when they were empty, and I would laugh to myself, because don’t you think that is funny? I do. I am not sure why it is I hate to receive or give presents, I think it may have to do with the fact that I hate to be told what to do, and buying presents for the sake of buying them seems really stupid. I mean, shouldn’t there be a 1,000 word essay on why I should buy you a gift? And vice versa? And holy cow if I have no clue what I would actually want anyway. When I want something, I do this thing that may sound a tad extreme - I pay for it myself. I know, right! Anyway, to you December, I will try not to look at the gift giving as a necessary chore, but something I should relish and be gleeful over and enjoy. Right after I make that appointment with a lobotomist. However, at least one good thing comes from all of this. Yep, TWENTY FOUR HOURS OF THE AWESOMENESS THAT IS A CHRISTMAS STORY. Ralphie!

Random Musings

I am making a blueberry pie for Thanksgiving because apparently blueberry pies in California are something elusive. Try to find one! People don’t know what they are missing. Also, I am pretty sure I am going to make this blueberry pie, and hate anyone who has a piece. It will be like my third child that I alone get to eat and devour. Just like my brother’s hamster Michael. Yes, my brother named his hamster after himself. Well maybe John and Owen can have some, BUT NO ONE ELSE!

You would not believe the freaking thing on my left cheek. I would call it a pimple, but that is too simple of a term for the beast sprouting upon my cheek. It is more like a growth that continues to get bigger without a white head end. It’s a total hormonal creation. I can only hope it dissipates before Thanksgiving, or the children will be scared of the lady with red pulsing flesh growing from her face.

Seriously, the constipation that is involved in pregnancy is so freaking ridiculous. I will not elaborate further.

I think there really is a connection between good and bad shampoo, because I have been using Herbal Essence, and my hair has been okay, but then I used Aveda Rosemary Mint and my hair is about 10 times better looking. Just saying.

I think I might wear tights on Thanksgiving with this purple dress. That should be fun. Let’s put something really tight on the pregnant lady’s belly, and see how fast she dissolves into a blubbering mess. I wager 52.65 minutes.

Owen projectile vomited the other night before bed and I am pretty sure that is the smell that comes from dead bodies. If I turn fast, I still smell it. I maybe scared.

I am pretty sure I made the playoffs in all of my fantasy football leagues. And that includes the loss of first round pick Tom Brady in two of them. Hooray for me (and John, my FFB partner).

Maggie kicks all the freaking time, it is like she is already starting to get the mother and daughter relationship on the wrong foot.

I will be 25 weeks pregnant on Sunday, and am beginning to think of the birthing process. But then suddenly my mind wanders away from the topic entirely - sort of like an abuse victim forgetting the experience.

And that is all, except that my blueberry pie recipe called for vodka in the pie crust. VODKA. I am that cool. Okay then, Happy Thanksgiving. Enjoy the day, and stay away from my pie!

The Abstinence Teacher by Tom Perrotta

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars
I love Tom Perrotta's books, and this one was no different. Something about his writing just reminds me of how one things to themselves, or ponders the world from their own perspective. Or maybe he just has a line on my train of thought. But either way, the O. Henry of Suburbia did not disappoint.


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Bloomingdale's

I was just on the maternity site of Bloomingdale's for some laughter, as if I would pay $200 for a pair of maternity jeans. I know there are some out there who would, and for that you should be beat, but while perusing, I stumbled upon the following:



Holy cow. I thougth the game mousetrap was an exercise in engineering, but this, this wins.

He Takes After His Mother

John IMed me yesterday with the phrasing “Our son is weird.” To which I immediately shook my head in agreement and asked “What did he do now?” Seems Owen when returning to the house, ran into the living room climbed upon the coffee table and started screaming. Why? Because under said coffee table was the remnants of his Cinnamon Raisin English Muffin had in the morning. John moved the table, and Owen swooped upon the leftovers eating them. This is funny because I once knew another being to do this - my dog Buddy. Buddy and my dog Ebony would receive treats. Ebony being a fifty pound cocker spaniel was voracious in appetite, so when Buddy got his fill he would kick his Bonza under the oven. A week of so later when the urge struck, Buddy would go to the oven and start barking until it was moved and his treat was found. It seems my son now does this. I guess I should be happy he has a good memory, because finding food you left eight hours previously is a real skill. However, I am worried he spent the entire day thinking about the last remaining nugget of that tasty English muffin. This is entirely possible, because he is just a tab bit anal. What do you expect from a child born from the girl who would ate her food for an entire year in reverse alphabetical order? I kid you not.

Sorry by Gail Jones

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars
A stunningly written novel. The language is beautiful and lyrical and so happy to have read it. The story set in Austrailia is about the unwanted daughter of Nicholas and Stella, and the an event that changes all around them. A good read.


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The Unnecessary

While perusing the MOMA Gift Store, I can upon the following. Really, the Banana Bunker? And what was the basis for your idea. Holy god!

A Lunch Time Visit to Safeway

Purchased:

Sara Lee Honey Turkey
Harvati Cheese
Tim’s Potato Chips (which promised to be super duper good)
Sandwich Rolls
Sour Jelly Belly Beans
Regular Jelly Belly Beans

I do not think anything screams pregnant than going to a grocery store to get turkey and cheese for a sandwich because you can’t stand another moment before that delectable concoction hits your taste buds. I had to get chips as well because well I love chips and sandwiches. Tim’s kettle-cooked promised “Many feel this is the best chip they ever had”. And thank you Tim, it is darn tasty. However the true pregnancy moment came when out of the corner of my eyes I spied the jelly beans. AND IN SOUR TOO!! I am now eating two sour lemons and two sour strawberrys for the recipe for a pink lemonade, and so good. Maggie is kicking up a storm. And I just had a sour watermelon. Orgasmic. I love cravings!

Who You Gonna Call . . .

Ghostbusters - Owen Dancing on Halloween from Cassandra McCall on Vimeo.

New Moon by Stephenie Meyer

My review

rating: 3 of 5 stars
I learned that with vampires come werewolves, as if they can ever be separate. I did not like this as much as Twilight, much more predictible. This book felt more of a set up for the upcoming books, but still a good read. I think I will take a break from vampires, only because I ordered the Spanish version of Book 3. I tell you.


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Mike Singletary - I Love You

Tales of Muni . . .

To the man standing to me on MUNI this morning: I am unsure if taking a shower this morning in Drakar Noir was a good idea. As a pregnant lady with super sensitive smell it took all of my energy not to scream why it was necessary for you spray your cologne 8,000 times this morning. Did you drop it in your bathroom? I did that once with my perfume, and it smelled like a brothel for about two weeks. And because of this, I decided to smell through my hand and imagine a life in which I did not have to take the train to work, because I would not be working, because I won the lottery. And now my days consisted of throwing darts at a world map to see where John, the kids and I would end up next. Looks like Australia. Also, seriously men folk, cologne is just stupid. No man needs to smell like burnt beechwood and sand. Unless they had been trapped on a desert island for the last 1,000 days, then that would be acceptable. But barely.

Lost!!!!

After washing my hands after a bathroom trip, I was leaving when I noticed something very peculiar in the full length mirror. It seems, my ass has gone bye-bye. Upon further investigation, it seems that my pants, which are in no way too big for me, are in fact big in the badonkadonk. Peculiar. Not that I ever had a J-Lo type bootie, as my friend Diane once said to me “Cassie, you have the flattest ass I have ever seen.” Which I scoff at, but today, in the mirror, perhaps she is right. So to you Maggie McCall, I would like to say - thank you for stealing my bum. Hopefully it returns. There is nothing worse than sitting on MUNI with no cushioning.

And The Verdict is . . . .

Labia. Yep, that is exactly what the ultrasound tech said, "I see labia." Well now. So, the beast within is a girl. We are very happy, I have to say that I am a tad shocked I was having a girl, only because I was playing the odds of probabilities within my friends and people I know and it seems that another boy/girl combo was not going to be had. And this girl will probably be the girlest girl on the Planet Girl. But according to my father, I was a very girly girl. Obsessed with red and barbies, I can't believe it either. And after much going back and forth, I love the name Maggie, and I don't care if Maggie McCall sounds like an Irish bar, that is the name - but maybe I like it because it sounds like an Irish bar. We will never know. So, Margaret (Middle Name to be determined by John with my right of first refusal) McCall, see you in 20 weeks. Love, Mama.

A Letter to My Unborn Child

Dear product of the successful union between sperm and egg,

When I became pregnant, I remember thinking to myself, I can’t wait to feel this baby. Because it is well known that we of the second pregnancy often find ourselves feeling baby movement much sooner than the first - because our uteruses are stretched out and we are familiar with the sensation. But you young miss or lad are awe inspiring in your movement, that or spastic. At this age it is said that you are almost 6 inches long, and about 7 oz. However, your kicks within are little jabs of thunder. Last night when your brother woke up at the ungodly hour of 4:30 a.m. and I tried to soothe him, you were all “Mom, you know what I would do with Owen right now? Kick him. Like this and that, and this!” (We think alike!) So in addition to have todzilla screech his 4:30 a.m. wail, I had you kicking me with abandon - needless to say, Mama is tired today. On the train, at work, at home, at 4:30 a.m. - it does not stop. Not that I want it to because then your Mom would freak the hell out. It is evident to me now, that in the womb you are insanely active, I can only imagine the power of your kicks come Month 8 but do envision entire infant legs protruding from my gut at warp speed. Oh, and I am thinking this is not going to bode well to a quick full night’s sleep when you arrive. But I will say this to you, your brother Owen, did not sleep through the night until about 10 months. So, if you want to get over that entire second child not loved as much as the first, well that would be a sure fire way into your parents’ hearts. No pressure or anything, but think about it.

Love,
Mummy

Hungry Like the Wolf

In no particular order, the following are a list of cravings that come into my head at the oddest times. I think about said food in a way that I can only equate with the word “graphic”:

1. Pears. I would like to eat 1,000 Barlett pears. They are so deliciously good, I take a bite and finish a pear and then am like - hello, MORE PEARS!! MORE PEARS!!

2. Truffles. Lemon Truffles, chocolate truffles, I don’t care. Just feed them to me non-stop. Let me be at the end of conveyor of truffles, and then let me die happy.

3. Potato Chips. Actually this can include anything crispy. I just want to eat them all - sour cream an onion, thai chili, salt and pepper, honey Dijon, new york cheddar. Just let them crisp in my mouth. Oh sweet heaven.

4. Grilled Chicken Sandwiches With Cheddar Cheese. No matter what I do, I can’t get these things out of my head, or out of mouth it seems. I don’t even want anything on them. Just the chicken, just the cheese, and just the bun.

5. French Fries. Specifically I want these fries I used to get in Beverly at the Goat Hill Grill. Steak fries. Big heaping fried pieces of potato dipped in catsup.

6. Sour Candy. I want to eat sour patch kids, sour patch watermelons, sour patch baby fingers. The funniest about this, is that I have not given into this temptation like the others. Mainly because I see them at See’s Candies, while in line for Truffles, but the price for a bag is $4.95, for Sour Patch Candies. It seems in the cheapness versus cravings war, cheapness wins, for now.

7. Oranges. Whether Orange Juice, or orange fruit, or orange tic tacs. I want them. And I want them bad.

8. Chocolate Milk. Bring it on. I will drink it until my blood is replaced by it. I would really like a fountain of it, so that I can swim in it with a extra long straw.

9. Pasta. Whether it be in pesto form, butter and cheese form, or baked ziti form, let me eat it, and let me shout from the rooftops - carbs, carbs, carbs, carbs.

10. Peanut Butter, Extra Chunky. On toast, on a spoon, in the jar where I gaze at it lovingly, Cassie and PBEC 4-eva.

By the way, after all is said and done after this pregnancy, I am sure that will be my new code name - extra chunky. But that is what Weight Watchers, running and breastfeeding are for.

Twilight by Stephenie Meyer

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars
Teenage love, but this time between a teenager and a vampire. Hmm, what is it about vampires? Between this book, and the HBO series True Blood - I gotta bad case of the vampires. I liked this book, and enjoyed reading it. It is YA, but I am pregnant, and my brain cells loose from hormones. Quick, fun, easy - and 3 more books to read in the series. Happy Vampire Time is upon me.


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A Rant

Dear State of California and the MLB, I am from Boston, and as such, I am a Red Sox fan. Today is Columbus Day, a day if I lived in Boston, I would have had off from work. But I live in California, and am at work. So imagine my surprise this morning to find out that Game 3 of the ALCS was taking place at 1:37 PST. WTF MLB? I should have feigned illness and watched from home. But no, I sit at the office with ESPN Gamecast on. Do you know what watching a game on Gamecast is like? Well imagine Pong combined with Combat combined with a frontal lobe lobotomy and you may have the picture. I now have a headache, and not only because the Sox with Lester pitching are down five, but because I have to stare at the computer with near anxiety hoping for a yellow ball to fly into the air and the caption “in play” to occur. Then I have to sit with my breath caught in my throat until “flied out”, or “grounded out”, or “pop up” to appear on my screen. Then I silently (at least I hope so) curse to myself. Where are you David Ortiz? WHERE??

Oh Sweet Jesus

When checking google analytics, a popular search team that comes up about 4 times a week is “Cassandra Hairy” or “Hairy Cassandra”. Yeah. This search always directs the person to my site. I may be many things, an oversweater, a football fan, a crazed pregnant lady, but I am not apelike by any means. I have a Venus, and I know how to use it. Yet, this search has probably been made about 1000 times. Upon further investigation, it seems that all those searching for hairy Cassandra are from Italy. Which explains much, because if one delves into generalizations - the Irish drunks, the Poles stupid, the Italians hairy - this fits perfectly. But now I am left wondering that somewhere in Italy resides psuedo-celebrity Cassandra, covered in a hair, ala Cousin Itt. Can it be true? Someone, please let me know!

The Things You Hear . . .

This afternoon after lunch I journeyed to See’s Candies for a Dark Chocolate Chip Truffle, otherwise known as heavenly bliss. As I stood in line waiting for my chocolate, two ladies walked in chatting back and forth. It is then I heard the most frightening of words: “Oh, did you know I collect Barbies? I do. I love Barbies.” Immediately, I wanted to snap my head back with a look of horror at this person who well over the age of twelve collected Barbies, but I did not in fear of what my eyes would see. There I stood waiting in line listening to the Barbie Freak talk about how she has “Barbies from around the world. I have fifteen countries. They come in their country costumes, very ornate. But I don’t have room in my house to put them out.” (Thank God.) “I also have some Franklin Mint. Scarlett O’Hara, Princess Di.” (Are you single?) “I wanted the See’s Candies Barbie, but she got sold out.” (The shame!) I stood flabbergasted, behind me was a woman heartbroken over her lost chance of a See’s Candies Barbie doll. Me, I would be heartbroken if See’s Candies ran out of dark chocolate chip truffles, not Barbies, because you know why - I AM NOT TEN YEARS OLD. Her coworker, because I can only assume this woman has no friends, said “Barbies? Really.” Where Insano said “Oh, do you collect them?” As if. “No. But I had them when I was little”, hard not to suppress a chuckle there. Finally I get my chocolate and am able to look at Ms. Barbie, and unsurprisingly, she was middle-aged, a bit dour and kind of sad. I guess it is Barbies or cats. Maybe she is not entirely bad.

Oh Pregnancy . . .

I am sure you are all “Geez, can this lady please shut up about being pregnant already?” But I am the writer of this blog, and I am pregnant, and need to vent the seemingly mundane aspects of my life because well that is what I do. I use to drink, doing it quite well. But now, I am sober and pregnant. So deal people, onto the belly.

The past few days have been marked by an extreme tired state. Which is funny because when I journey home, I am all - as soon as that kid into bed, I am plunging into my bed for the sleep of the dead. But then I come home, and do this, and then that, and pretty soon my window of sleep passes on by. I then find myself at 10:30 p.m. randomly searching the television for something that will aid in sleep. That thirty minute biography last night about Jackson Pollack did not help in the effort. As a side note, screw all you people who have made the name “Jackson” popular. I hate you. Finally sleep comes, but in what feels like five minutes, morning arrives and caked upon my face is about a metric ton of drool. Curse you daylight. I guess this is the beginnings of the super tired phase. It is also the beginning of the how many zits will pop on my face in a 24 hour period phase, at last count seven. Honestly, I get up to go to the bathroom, and look at myself and another pimple is there. There is no way to stop this it. I think I may have had two days of clear skin since this pregnancy, which is funny because with Owen, I did in fact GLOW. This pregnancy, I give off the quiet hum of a halogen energy efficient 15 watter. Actually thank god for the pimples, they give me some glow. Sure, they are in carefully dotted places, but still.

I have no clue what the hell I am talking about because in addition to being sleep deprived, hormonal, one can add mentally challenged to the list. For example, after lunch today I asked the following, “What time is it?” I took out my iphone, clicked the button, got the time, and then said to myself not 30 seconds later. “What did that say?” So I checked again, then ten seconds later confused, was it 12:59 p.m.. But that was impossible, because my lunch was in no way fifteen minutes. So I checked again, 1:17 p.m. Hello doofus, you just checked you phone three times for the time in a span of two minutes. Which brings me to another point, I should not be working. I am writing down everything and giving myself outlook reminders. But for someone a mind of mush, it is had to remember ten seconds ago what I meant to do. And is there nothing worse, than standing by your desk, mumbling to yourself, and trying to trace back what the hell you were going to do. Instead I am bedazzled by the bright fluorescent lights above? Oh pretty lights. So Obama, why don’t you add to your healthcare plan, the allowance of the stupidly pregnant to take off of work so they can stare into space and try to come up with some baby names because Jackson are taken by yuppies, and Maggie McCall sounds like an Irish bar I got drunk and threw up in circa St. Patty’s Day 1997. Thanks.

Secrets of the Baby Whisperer for Toddlers by Tracy Hogg

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars
From this book I learned that Owen will be a demon at some times, and a happy go lucky man about town the next. It is up to me to deal with the crank so that it is put in a little box and neatly packaged away. I think this book gives good techniques on discipline, that puts the child first, but also does not allow one to give into their prima donna ways. I like the advice of just stepping back and taking in the situation before acting (unless it has to do with hitting or biting), and how to calm the situations and not give in to tantrums. I know this will be a long battle with Owen as he develops into his self, but happy that I have some tools to deal with the occassional meltdowns. I especially like the information on future additions to the family - advice I will use very soon. I need to reread the Baby Whisperer as well, so review to come.


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So Sleepy

There is a distinct possibility that my head will come crashing into my keyboard and I will delve into a coma like sleep that will last this entire pregnancy. Well, I hope at least. After dining upon a roasted turkey sandwich, I have both pregnancy tired and tryptophan sleepy combining into a whirling hurricane of shut eye. Work ends in two hours or 120 minutes or 7,200 seconds. A freaking lifetime. The problem with pregnancy is that you are very tired - your body is making a baby for Christ’s sake. With my first, I would sleep a ton. My entire weekends would be devoted to the art of sleep. I would go to bed Friday evening at 8:30 p.m., wake up at 8:30 a.m., pee, fall back to sleep until 12:00, eat, and then take afternoon nappy, shower, then lookey there, bed time approaches. Now I have Owen. And second baby sleep is way less. I close my eyes at night only to open them seemingly five seconds later to learn that it is time to get up. This is not good. And now this tired, combined with that turkey sandwich, have produced the zombie state. I am yawning every 10 seconds. My eyelids are impossibly heavy, as if two carnival fat ladies have taken residence upon the real estate. My face is slack, my attitude shaky, my vision blurred. I lust after my bed like a rowdy sailor on shore leave. Oh sweet heavenly, blissful bed. I want you madly.

Nerd Time

CLICK HERE. The Periodic Table of Elements - WITH VIDEOS!!!!!!! Hello, my name is Cassie, and I am a nerd.

Holy Hormones

Well it seems that I have entered the hormonal stage of my pregnancy, wherein my mind usually fun loving and carefree decides to become bi-polar. I reside in one of two states, pissed off wanting to punch someone in the head or overly emotional prone to crying jags. This past weekend, I give you two examples of my bi-polar nature:

Overly Emotional. Saturday afternoon after Owen has descended into nap and John has decided to join him in the endeavor, I sit on the couch flipping the remote while consuming a chunky peanut butter smothered sourdough English muffin. I stumble across Deep Impact. In the summer of 1998 there were two movies about the planet being destroyed by outer space - Armageddon had a big ole asteroid and Deep Impact had a big ole comet. Where Armageddon had Bruce Willis, Ben Affleck, and Liv Tyler, Deep Impact had Tea Leoni, Morgan Freeman and Elijah Wood. Yeah. So as I sat there watching Tea Leoni as an MSNBC anchor describing how the rescue ship Messiah is about to drill into the comet to insert nuclear bombs in order to blow up the comet so that it veers from its course of Deep Impact, I began to cry. At first I shook it off, this was Deep Impact, a movie, and as far as I knew, no comet was currently hurtling to destroy me. But as the music swelled, and Astronaut Gus (played by Jon Favreau) was blown into deep space, my chest began to heave, my eyes watered, and I began a soft wail. OH NO, DEEP IMPACT. You will not Brokeback Mountain me!! That is when I decided to get up and build Owen’s toddler bed, because it is one thing to meltdown after Brokeback when pregnant, another to cry at Spiderman and Independence Day while not pregnant, but obviously PMSed, but not Deep Impact. No way, no how.

Overly Psychotic. Before the football games yesterday John and I rushed to the park with Owen to give him some fresh air time before his parents hunkered down for their Sunday fix of football and fun. Although in hindsight, given the performance of a certain New England football team, I think we should have stayed at the park. At this park, there are often children’s parties, so you will see parents early in the morning setting up for their kid’s birthdays. We arrived at the park at 9:30 to see two guys decorating one side of the park in balloons, red ribbons, and a piñata. That is when this lady came and said - “Excuse me, but where else can you set up.” Now these gentlemen had obviously claimed that area, and told her other areas with tables were claimed by another. “But I have 40 people coming.” cried Mommy Dearest. It was at this point, the hormonal anger in me surged. So you have 40 people coming to a park for a birthday, and you decide to show up to claim tables at 9:30. Stupid bitch. Normally, I could care less - I really don’t plan on having any birthday party for Owen until his 21st. So, there is that. But the lack of planning by this woman was so infuriating. Because if it was me, I would have been up at 5:30 a.m. claiming spots, because you know 40 people (adults included), love to hang out in the middle of the park on the two benches that you now are forced to claim. I think the best part is when she said “Okay, well I guess we will have to have a person up there to direct people over to us.” This is not Yellowstone lady, it’s a kid’s park, that I could probably crawl the length of in a minute. But you get your director of traffic. Geesh. John had no idea why I was so angry, but I was, and I guess still am. Furious Anger!

So yes, be prepared from some fun with my new bipolar mind. Yesterday, as I was cleaning up from football, I spilled a half full beer off the counter, and I swear to God, if I did not want to punch a wall and kick a kitten. Then cry, of course.

For the Love of God . . .

I recently got invited to a birthday party for a two year old. Please hold back your screams of jealousy. It was an Evite. I love these things because you get to read things like the following “Sorry we can’t make it, but our babymoon is scheduled for that weekend.” Are you faithful reader not aware of the babymoon? Well, urban dictionary describes it as:

Mandatory vacation for both parents before the live birth of a child. Maybe a weekend, maybe a week. Requires the male end of conception to pay for all expenses out of his pocket. Travel, lodging, preferably at a seaside hotel, and gifts (to the mother to be, not the baby,) are an absolute necessity. Eases away the stress and woe of pregnancy.

Oh really? You know what I define it as - stupid. You know what else is stupid - push prizes. The only thing I wanted after pushing Owen into the world was him. And maybe a new vagina. But babymoons and push prizes? When did men get so pansy assed to put up with this utter nonsense. I mean isn’t it enough that they are forced into the delivery room instead of drinking and smoking at a bar telling the other drunks that they are about to have a baby. Also, how awkward would the following conversation be:

Person: Oh Cassie, what a lovely necklace. Where did you get it?
Me: John, he got it for me.
Person: Birthday? Anniversary?
Me: Ah, no.
Person: Just because?
Me: Well, if you have to know if was for squeezing Owen out of my vagina. It’s called a push prize. I also pushed out a poop, but I think this is just for the baby. But maybe not.
Person: Nice, I am going to leave now.
Me: Okay!

So maybe I am betraying another secret girl code that I was not privy too because of my tomboy nature, but let me say I am not partaking even if it would mean diamonds and beach vacations. Wait a second, can I retract everything I just said.

Maybe Lasik Is Not So Bad Afterall . . .

In case you did not know, I wear glasses, and am pretty much blind without them. As evidence of this psuedoblindness, I just received the following IM from John:

...so i just got out of the shower. while taking my shower, i noticed something strange in the tub. it turned out to be a poop. so that means that either owen pooped in there last night and it's been sitting in there this whole time (and you showered in there with it...ummm....ewww...) or you pooped in there this morning. which is it cassie? enquiring minds want to know.

Let me just blame this on my eyes, Mr. Bubble and not my incontinence.

Maternity Clothing - My True Dilemma

I do not think there is anything more depressing than maternity clothes shopping. Well maybe attending a funeral, but if it is my family that usually involves drink and food and laughs. So again, maybe it is maternity clothes shopping. And I don’t really find it depressing in the sense of “Wow, I can’t wait to put this on so that I can look like a gigantic peach.” But rather depressing in the sense that I repeatedly said to myself, “Wow. I really hope I can still wear this after the baby is born, super cute!” Also, I said it before, and I will say it again. I love elastic waists. Who needs zippers and buttons and potential muffin tops, when there is cute maternity wear? I ask you this?

Pregnancy Is A Funny Thing

There you are with an itty bitty person growing inside you. You are the vessel controlled by surging hormones and too tight pants. You are the victim of morning sickness and cravings. You are no longer are alone. Things about being pregnant that I have recognized this week:

What is it about meat? I have had two meatball sandwiches in the past three days, one from Toaster Oven and one from Gambinos New York Style Subs, because someone told me that they were much better. A normal person would say, I will get that meatball sandwich next time I crave it - say in 3 months. A pregnant person says. You don’t say, Gambino’s, eh? And then proceeds to think about said sandwich for the next 20 hours. How big are the balls? Is the sauce good? Is the cheese provolone or mozzarella? Is the bread super soft? Conclusion - I like the Toaster Oven better. I am unsure if this actual due to the meatballs or the fact that I in general hate anything associated with New York.

Someone in the office, who knows I am with beastie, said the following to me. “Cassie, have you lost weight? Your face is thinner.” Needless to say, after I dove upon this woman in flurry or kisses, hugs, and inappropriate office touching, I felt blissfully good. I do not think it is often the pregnant are given praise for their weight loss, but hallelujah I was. And do not think this is not going upon my gravestone:

Here Lies Cassandra Michelle Catherine McCall
Born October 30, 1973
Died TBD
Was once told during her second pregnancy, her face looked thinner. Also, loved the Pats. Considers the day Matt Cassel hoisted the MVP Superbowl trophy a day of pure awesomeness. Hopes she gets to haunt people.

I think I need to retire my button and zipper pants, because right now I am wearing a pair that castrating my mid-section. Is my face purple? Because I think it is. I must unleash the belly. I must!

Ham, A Love Story

Today is a great day. Not only has my seven month separation from my true love ended (hello NFL) but I have finally, after six weeks of obsessing, decided to make a baked ham. I desire ham crazily, pretty sure it has to do with this life growing in my belly. Please note that my last foray into haminess probably occurred circa 1998. It is in my thoughts at least three times a day. Dreamingly, I ponder the heavenly taste of it dipped into buttery mashed potatoes and then driven into my hungry wanting mouth, over and over again. I imagine there is no greater joy to me at this time than that of a freshly baked ham with cloves and pineapple. Saturday I have a date with destiny, until then I will drool and daydream. At the supermarket, after a careful and probably fraught filled selection process of the bone-in ham, I will pick up my love and dance a disco of delight. Shall I crochet a cozie for its journey home? Perhaps. Will it mind me peeping at it through the oven while it cooks in its juices and coca-cola (my mother swears by it)? Of course not. Will Owen or John get a single bite? I don’t know. Will I change my name to Hamzilla? It does have a ring to it. Will I eat it all in fit of ravenous desire? Most assuredly. Oh ham, I love you so. I can't wait until Saturday. Ham, sweet precious ham.

A Pregnant Pause . . .

That is my title because I am pregnant and have had an awfully long blog pause. Oh my goodness, aren’t I just the most witty thing ever. Anyway, yeah so I am knocked up, and just about to enter my second trimester. Also known as the glory trimester because you are no longer sick all the time, but not yet able to be harpooned by fisherman due to your large girth.

Things about pregnancy this time around I have noticed:

1. When you tell your husband, you know this might take like six months to a year, so we better start trying now. Please be prepared to be pregnant right away, and put away your flask.

2. When pregnant with Owen, I had often said due to some issues at the beginning “Please God, just let me be sick.” As this was suppose to be the sign of a healthy pregnancy. Well let me tell you, God is very funny, and very mean spirited. Only recently has the nausea subsided, but for the past seven weeks I have been hit with waves of pukiness. But I never puke, because you know that would mean relief, I just sit there thinking of puking, for hours on end. But you know what, I don’t care, because “it is a sign of a healthy pregnancy.” This to me know falls under the “a bird shitting on you is good luck” category. Absolute crap, but the unfortunate sufferers need a bright side.

3. The other day, I looked in the mirror and said to myself (or out loud, as I tend to do unknowingly): “Wow, Cass, you are getting chunky.” But then I was all like - I AM PREGNANT. THANK GOD, I AM PREGNANT. So the entire allowance of being a fat ass is a pretty sweet perk.

4. Forget bloodhounds, just let me track that missing hiker lost in the woods because my sense of smell is superhero extraordinary. Is this a good thing? Hell no. There is nothing worse than being the victim of morning, late morning, noonish, afternoon, dusk, evening, nighttime sickness and be met everywhere you go with the smells of the world. You ever change a 20 month old’s poop laden diaper when battling throwing up with the smell of a nasal ninja? And don’t get me started on MUNI. I am sorry man next to me, but your burps of Chinese food every 30 seconds might just cause me to punch you in the face repeatedly, and is that a beer you had with that lunch? Because I think it is, and I hate you!

5. You don’t know true happiness in your husband, until you look to his face when uttering these words “Its only one baby.”

So, yeah, pregnant again, meaning that my next hard alcohol cocktail will more than likely be for the celebration of the year 2010. Hello, my name is Cassie McCall, and I have been sober for 8 weeks. Our baby is due March 14, 2009. We can’t wait.

Things I Know Now . . .

I know what you are thinking, what a sweet and innocent boy (also, dude has hair!). Please remember, however, that said boy is captured forever still in this photograph. For if it was action, then you would see this boy jump left, jump right, put his right hand in, put his right hand out, put his right hand in and shake it all about while uttering a guttering wailing that can only be surmised as a cross between a Planet of the Apes bellowing and the sound I imagine victims of x-ray guns utter before vanishing into the great unknown. Last night, we visited relatives in an unchild proofed house. No biggie you say. But with Owen, Curious of All and Destroyer of Much it was hell on wheels. They say a toddler has an attention span of five minutes. And if one was to track his or her moments over a specific time frame, it would resemble the product of an intense session of spirographing. I left the apartment two hours later with a pounding headache. I remember the day before thinking - Yeah, I don’t have to cook dinner! But in all honesty, I would have made an eight course meal complete with crème brulee instead, because you know why? My house has gates, which contain the roaming beast. And it also has a bunch of toys, which pacifies the wondering beast. Oh, and there is this wonderful Cable TV station called Sprout, which soothes the beast with its Goodnight Show. So in a continuing list of resolutions with child, in addition to not smoke crack or invite hobos in for coffee, goes NEVER GO OUT ON THE WEEKNIGHT WHEN THE BOY HAS TO GO TO BED AT 7:00 P.M. I always hated tattoos, but thinking this one on my forehead might stop invitations.

Oh Really Vitamin Water?

And so it begins . . . .

I know that it has been a while since I have taken finger to key to type the wonder that is my life, but honestly, I have not even thought of this blog of late. I know! What a bitch. But I am back, because it must be said that my son has been taken over by the Terrible Twos. And in no particular order, the joys so far:

The Wind-Up Toddler. When picking up a frustrated and angry Owen Patrick, be careful of the full kicking of his feet back and forth. Like a demented gazelle, my son will scissor his legs at such a rapid pace, one would not be surprised if placed in water, he would cross the Atlantic in 2.5 days. Although locked in my arms, and incapable of escape, his legs do not get the message. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Furious feet do you magic! I am afraid to put him in corduroys for fear of fire.

I Shall Slaughter You All. I imagine that being the youngest kid and only boy in daycare has its moments of “Holy cow, I really wish I could take those girls down. Dolls, dolls, dolls, stupid dolls.” And it seems that Owen has finally had enough as he has begun hitting the other kids, I believe the phrase “threw her to the ground” was used this morning, which as a football fan makes me proud, but as a woman makes me call domestic violence hotlines. But I guess this is all “normal toddler behavior”. Seriously, I was wondering if having a hissy fit, and punching some one at work out could be qualified “as normal adult behavior.” Because, that would be awesome.

Although a Bruiser, I Ain’t Stupid. John informs me that at the park Owen will only knock down and push kids that are smaller than him, while he leaves the big kids alone. Smart boy.

You Are an Obsession, You're My Obsession. Owen has two obsessions of late. The first is brushing his teeth. Never has there been a child on this green earth who has loved the tooth brushing so much. We brush his teeth in the bath, first thing. Don’t break out of the order, or you will have deal with the wrath of Owen. “Teeettttt. Teeeetttt. Teeeeetttttttttttt. Teeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeettttttttttttttttttttt.” Okay, dude, I got it. So I brush his teeth and there is such joy and happiness in his eyes. The second thing, and I am pretty sure this might prove out to be beneficial, is his new fangled love of the potty. “Pppppooooddddyyy. Pooooddddyyy. Poooddddyyyy”. For now all he does is sit on it, with a proud look upon his face. So proud, this morning I asked if he wanted any reading material. He yells poddy, sits down, gets up and repeats 10,000 times. John and I are actually considering this may be the start of a diaper free existence. Can you imagine not wiping the ass of someone else 3 to 6 times a day? Well I can too. And it is glorious.

So there you have it, the first of what I am sure will be many stories of the joys of my son entering his “first adolescence.” Heaven help us.

Movie Review: Wanted

Let it be known that as a mother of an 18 month old, my trips to the movie theater have taken a horrid tumble. Last Saturday due to the blessing of babysitting grandparents, John and I took ourselves to the movies. Our choices were: Get Smart, Wanted and Wall-E. Now Wall-E is a kid’s movie, and since I have a kid, I figured, let’s be adult. So that left Get Smart and Wanted. Now, I loved the old Get Smart, and I love Steve Carrell, but those two shan’t be together in my mind. The only Maxwell Smart is Don Adams, and the only Agent 99 is Barbara Feldon. Nuff said. So that left Wanted. Did you know that Wanted has gotten really good reviews? Well it has. Honestly, I had no clue what it was about. So imagine my surprise when before the movie began the following appeared on the screen in written text:

1000 years ago, a Secret Society of Weavers created a group of assassins called the Fraternity.

A fucking secret society of WEAVERS. WEAVERS!!!! Now, when I think of assassin I think of ninjas, the CIA and Lee Harvey Oswald, I do not think of a group of weavers. I decided to forget about this stupid weaver thing and enjoy the film. And I did, until the following occurred: Morgan Freeman informs James McAvoy how it is that they receive the names of people to assassinate. Okay then. Morgan leads him into a room, and there they stand among a loom. But this is not any loom people, it is THE LOOM OF FATE. Yeah, Morgan Freeman just seriously uttered the words “The Loom of Fate.” You see folks, The Loom of Fate weaves and at some point it will have a double stitch - so if the stitch is on top, it is a zero, on the bottom a one. This binary code yields the name of the person to be assassinated. Again, why don’t we all say it together “The Loom of Fate.” Needless to say, John and I were laughing. You know who else was laughing? No one. You know why, because well the rest of the audience actually must have thought that a loom of fate was a plausible storyline. It would have been better if a secret society of dog walkers had a talking dog. That I would have easily accepted, as opposed to this secret society of weavers protecting The Loom of Fate that gives binary code of people to assassinate.

This movie sucked total balls. I would say it even sucked Donkey Balls. It was like Fight Club for the recipients of frontal lobotomies. I should have seen Wall-E.

The Shipping News

The Shipping News : A Novel by E. Annie Proulx

My review

rating: 3 of 5 stars
The Shipping News was good for one thing, I know a bunch about knots. Not sure if the entire knot thing at the beginning of each chapter threw me for a loop (hah!), but I would spent a few minutes following the course of the knot to figure it out. Which probably did not help the flow of this book. The Shipping News is beautifully written, and has a few lines that are just awesome, like "Quolye had the big man's love of a petite woman." But I never really got into the characters or the story, although I must say the last 40 pages did enthrall me, but was it worth the preceding 280 pages? I guess the answer is yes. Its an odd story of an island community, sorta reminded me of Northern Exposure a tad. Or my visits to Martha's Vineyard. Oh Islanders, you crazies.


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Tales of MUNI

Let it be known that yesterday was a day of MUNI reckoning that was headache producing in nature. First let me begin by saying that in the morning, I like my coffee. I like it on the N-Judah, whilst reading and listening to music. So if the train is stationed and not yet going, I go to Java Beach, and order a medium black. Yesterday morning, I entered Java Beach and was happy - the train was parked and there was but one customer before me. However, Mr. Skinny Non-Fat, Non-Dairy, Bagel Toasted Dark, With Oatmeal And Bananas, you made me tap my feet in a fury of activity as I nervously eyed the train. After his seemingly 10 hour order was complete I quickly rattled off my order, received cup, pour coffee, got lid, and don't burn your hand cover, ran to the train as it sat parked and pushed the button. I pushed again. Door open!!! No, it did not. I ran to the next car as its doors closed. Muther fucka. As the Muni took off, I quickly followed. Let me say this, running with coffee is not an easy task. I ran at a good clip finally giving up because "No way will I catch that train." Flash forward to 10 seconds later, "Good lord, I can get that train, look at that line of fools waiting to pay." So I hoofed it again, like a half paralyzed animal due to coffee and my bag, only to be once again greeted by closing doors. Muther Fucka Part Deux. I know the pain of running for a train, only to miss it. But to run for the same train twice, with the same hurt feelings of failure and incompetence is a true horror.

So as the day progressed, and the 5:00 o'clock whistle blew, and I made my way to the Embarcadero Station for my train. Little did I know that June 30, 2008 was the day Cassie McCall would be driven to insanity by the good folks at the Bay Area Transit Authority. It began simply enough, a two car N entered the station. But the second car said "No Passengers". Muther Fucka Part Tres. I made my way to the other car with gaggle of others. Push, push, slam, bam, is that person touching me? Oh my god. So I got out my book, got a decent standing spot, and tried to forget all the body heat circling me like bees buzzing in my ear. The next stop added to the crush of people. At this time, a woman about 55 years old with wild white hair, a 6'0" foot frame and man hands stood behind me. It was at this time, I knew I was in trouble She repeatedly said, "Move in everybody, move in. We can all get in the car." Sorry, lady but currently my ass is being rubbed by the man behind me, my whole left half is sandwiched into the girl beside me like we are Siamese Twins, and you are getting a little too close for comfort. We continued onward, trying to lose myself into my book. Gargantuan woman makes her way beside me and gets out her USA Today paper. She beings to read, while touching my hand. I kid you not. She rested her hand on mine. I moved, she moved, I moved, she moved. Is this really happening? Her paper is on my head. My head! We get to the next stop and another rush of persons onto the train. Ms. Charitable Commuter actually says to the person trying to get on "Come on sir, you can get on too." Bitch, please. So now this guy is on after about two minutes of twister like contortions by the other passengers. We get to the Duboce Park stop, and before me the seated passenger is leaving. Hail Thee Jesus. I sit down, but who else sits down? Yep, Ms. MUNI United. As she sits, her cat hair strewn sweater is on my hand, this does not surprise me. If the was ever a poster child for the Crazy Ole Cat Woman, this lady was it. It is at this time, that the passenger who we let on at the previous stop shouts the following "Hey Man, don't let your frustration out on me, because I AM PRIME TO GO. PRIME!!" Great, now there is a going to be a fist fight. Thanks lady, soooooo happy he got on board. But peace reigns supreme.

Finally it seems that the world of MUNI had gotten off its crazy axis as the cat lady has left, and a young girl sits next to me. I was happy. But a minute into this bliss, came the following "Do you have twenty-five cents?" "No, sorry." Then there came the moaning. The guttural wailing of an insane homeless person and then the talk of purple potatoes. Ah, I don't hear you. Seriously, God, why me? I try to concentrate on my book while the girl next to me chatters, moans and speaks in demon tongue. And then it happens, a seat opens up, I make a beeline and plop down. Finally on my own within the confines of N-Judah ride of crazy. My head is aching, my nerves fried, only to hear "Sorry folks, but this will be our last stop." Oh the humanity. I make my exit, I make my entrance, and finally arrive at my stop. Needless to say, that evening, wine was had. MUNI, you may have won the battle, but I will win the war.

If It Is Yellow . . .

At nineteen years old I went up to New Hampshire with my friend Valerie, whose family had a cabin. Upon going to the bathroom, I was greeted with the following embroidered and framed sign:

If It Is Yellow, Let it Mellow
If It Is Brown, Flush It Down


As if. Please note that said sign was done in browns and yellows on an ivory background with flowers and butterflies. It still haunts me. Upon explanation by Valerie I was told that they had a septic system, so you did not really want to flush anything but poop, so there would be no overflows. Okay then. I will let you know that I flushed every time, I had to. I could not let the yellow just mellow. Flash forward 15 years, and what am I currently doing due to the water restrictions? Yep, letting my yellow mellow. And good lord it is hard, try reversing years of programming of flushing. It is ridiculous. I often go into the bathroom thinking "What the hell man? Who didn't flush?" Only to immediately think, "Cassie, it is mellowing, that yellow is mellowing." So I guess I am being green, or disgusting, I have yet to decide. Speaking of disgusting, I kid you not when I say that on Monday's N-Judah ride the old lady next to me was ravaging her nostril with her finger at a break neck pace. I just sat thinking, this is not happening. Does this woman think she alone, or in her car? I get entire wisdom when older, but it must stop when you are happily picking and then flicking, FLICKING, your found treasure into the air on public transportation. Is this a total giving up on life, or just further proof that you just don't give a damn when old? I don't know.

Not that I am Mad or Anything

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

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

George Carlin

I think I owe a great deal of my sense of humor to George Carlin, especially since I listened to Take Offs and Put Ons for only about three years straight when 7 to 10. Hi, this is the Hippie Dippy Weatherman, doing the Hippie Dippy Weather, Man! And my favorite of all time has to be Wwwwwwww, Iiiiiiiiiii, Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn, Oooooooooooooooooooo, Wonderful WINO Radio. So, to George Carlin, I repeat the best song of the lot, the love song:

I sent my sinuses to Arizona,
My liver to Peru,
My lungs and my kidneys,
For the summer to Sydney,
But I am sending my heart to you.

You will be missed.

Oh No He Didn't

This morning around 4:25 a.m., I woke to the sound of one Mr. Owen Patrick McCall. For the past two weeks, Owen has been waking between 4:00 a.m. and 6:00 a.m. Usually I can get him into bed with us for at least another hour of sleep. I do not know what is going on with him, but have read about this 18 month old sleep regression that comes on suddenly and then disappears, so I think it is this or teething. Basically whatever is wrong with your kid, you can attribute it to teething. Crying? Teething. Drooling? Teething. Horns? Teething. I knew we were in trouble this morning, when I got him and he started chatting. Seriously, this kid is one motor mouth of a McCall. I have never seen anything like it, he never shuts up. It is amazing. And as he lay in bed with us, aside from the flipping over and constant moving, it seemed as if he had achieved sleep once more. Hoorah! That is until John tooted a wee bit of a fart, and I kid you not, but 15 milliseconds later, Owen said "Koooooooooooollllllllll." Obviously in the midst of our laughter, there was no going back to sleep. And I don't think I would trade it for anything, seems my son is officially a man. One that loves brushing his hair, I mean if it took you 17 months to grow hair, you'd love it too.

In Celebration of Owen

Tomorrow Owen will be a year and a half, which is so very scary and so very awesome. So very scary because I can not believe that 18 months have passed since this little guy came into our life. Kid is going to be in college and playing beer pong in a blink of an eye (on that football scholarship god praying). It is very awesome because I no longer have to say months now to denote his age. I can say he's a year and a half, a little older than a year and a half, almost two, and then finally two. I can't tell you how much of a pain in the ass it is to say months when describing age. It is something you do, because well you have to, because it is all about developmental gains. Like when Owen walked at 10 months and people would be like - ten months? And I would be like - yeah, ten months bitch! He's the bee's knees. But no longer, months is being banished from my vocabulary, just like curse words because you know who dropped his first F-bomb? Owen. When did he drop it, after his mother screamed at the TV during a viewing of the Celtics Game 5 loss. Honestly it sounded more like "Buck". Can I help it if the kid has a deer fetish? I have to stop swearing. I really fucking do, assholes.

Father of the Year

This morning while walking up the stairs I heard the following conversation:

Guy: So Rebecca threw up last night.
Girl: Oh really? Is she okay?
Guy: Not sure, I think she is just vomits to get attention.
Guy: That or she really is sick.

Oh my god, father of the year anyone? Seriously, when you think your kid is vomiting to get attention before actually thinking that she is or may be sick, please just hang up your testicles and call an end to procreation. What an asshole.

Oh Really?

I am just about finished with Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love. This book was purchased months and months ago, but recently read after picking it up maybe ten times and saying, "Yeah, no." I finally gave it a go, liking it very much. It details a year in the life of the author traveling through Italy, India and Indonesia as she searches for pleasure after a terrible heartbreak. It is very spiritual, but I did not mind it, as she does not force feed it down your throat, but merely opines any avenue to God is a good one. The woman spent four months in India in an ashram, waking at 3:00 a.m. for four hours of mediation before breakfast, and then more chanting, and yoga, and studying under her guru. So, when reading her biography today, imagine my surprise with the following:

Much of her writing has been optioned by Hollywood. Her GQ memoir about her bartending years became the Disney movie "Coyote Ugly."

Coyote Ugly? The movie where the bartenders dance on the bar, with Piper Perabo and a whole slew of bad that is almost comical in its heights.

I do not know about you yoga lady touting spirtuality, but that is one little tidbit I would removed from my biography. Just saying.

And another thing . . . .

Go Celtics.

The God Punishment Theory

When little, I first came in contact with the phrase "Well that is God punishing you." It would usually happen after I talked back to my mother, and then promptly stub my toe. She would say "See, that is God punishing you." Now, how does God overseeing six billion plus people possible take the time to punish me? I mean come on already? No way, Jose. Well, you know what, he totally does. They don't call him omnipotent for nothing. This is not Catholic guilt speaking, this is a true and tried fact. God will punish yee, especially when you are doing something that is completely and utterly laughable. It is the slap in the face that wakes you up from the fog of your own stupidity. A perfect example was this past Saturday. After indulging in the joys of the Park Chalet, namely beers and oysters, John and I walked home with Owen. It must have been something about the beer, or the fact that I have lost weight, but these beers hit me. And they hit me hard. As we were walking home, the following occurred:

John: Cass, why don't I get the boy fed, bathed and to bed.
Me: No John, I can do it. Really.
John: Sweetie, you're drunk. I will do it.
Me: I am not that drunk.

0.00000002 seconds later, I am sprawled on the ground with skinned knee. In a fall that John said was of "comic proportions." God had punished me. I imagine him saying the following: "Oh look, I really hope she admits that she is drunk and incapable of taking care of her son." "Ah yep, nope, she failed. It must be done." Zing, Zam, Zoon. And there I lay on the concrete with the realization that no matter what, God will always punish me for being stupid. And leave little reminders not to do it again, like the current state of me knee (if you are squeamish turn away):



So yeah, lesson learned.

A Fun Game

Ever wonder what your band name, first album title and album cover would be? Well wouldn't you know, the internet can assist you in such a search.

1. Journey to Wikipedia's random articles. Whatever the title of the first article is, that's your band name.

2. Next, travel to random quotations. The last four words of the last quote on the page are the title of your debut album.

3. Finally, go to Flickr's "Explore the Last Seven Days." The third photo is your cover album art.

My band name is: 10-Spine Grouper
My debut album is entitled: You Just Take It
And the cover art is this.

Awesome! I think I am a heavy metal band.

Sex and The City - A Review

Forewarning - spoilers ahead.

Last night I indulged in the seemingly new girl right of passage, a viewing of the Sex and The City movie. Holy estrogen. Scientifically speaking, if one was able to harness the estrogenic energy radiating throughout the theater, menopause would be no longer. Eighty year old women would be having kids, buying Tampax and asking their elderly mates if their ass looked fat in their pants. Since birthing The O, my weeknight evenings have consistently involved me drooling dreamingly on my pillow by 10:00 p.m., not going out to see an 8:35 p.m. movie. In fact, the night before I forced myself to stay awake until 11:15 p.m. for practice. The sacrifices I make for being a girl. Was it worth it? I guess.

I am a big fan of movie previews. Huge. I like little glimpses into upcoming theatrical events. Dividing them accordingly, "cable", "DVD", "must see" and "what the hell were they thinking". Last night was an onslaught of chick flickedness that would have turned the most debase of all men into a pedicure getting, highlight hair having metrosexual of the pink shirt wearing degree. There was Meg Ryan flanked by three other women trying to overcome her mate cheating on her with Eva Mendes (can you blame the guy?). Then the Richard Gere and Diane Lane vehicle "Nights in Rodanthe" described as "two unhappy people's lives become entwined when they have a life changing romance." Oh my god, what the hell have I done to myself?

I am still asking myself that question today. It is not that I didn't like the movie, I did, especially the first half. But I do think the movie was a rehash of the last two seasons only spun in a different way. There was nothing new. You basically end up with what was given during the television finale. Mr. Big and Carrie after torturous heartbreak find a way to forgive in the most dramatic of loving forms (last time his journey to Paris, this time e-mails of famous love letters) so that in the end they end up together. As if there was any doubt, and now a few thoughts on the movie.

When Mr. Big decided he can't do the big fancy wedding thing, and gets nervous, and leaves Carrie at the alter, was I the only one thinking "Karma anyone?" Hello Aiden. I still don't understand how that woman gave up on Aiden. Stoopid. Team Aiden all the way. Mr. Big, Aiden. Mr. Big, Aiden. Is there any doubt? When this happened in the TV series, I wanted to throw my television out of the window. Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch was all I could yell for 10 straight minutes.

Charlotte (miraculously pregnant) and her husband have a baby, a girl. God forbid there is any form of wiener or testosterone in the film. They name the baby "Rose", after the bald husband's grandmother. He states "A Lily (their first daughter) and a Rose." Someone please pass the barf bag. Also, seriously, the asian adopted girl does not get the family name - only the genetically pure? Someone's a favorite.

Carrie and Miranda go out on Valentine's Day, and the waitress says "What would you and your girlfriend like?" And there is this smirk. And I am all like - "So funny, right, because Miranda in real life left her husband for a gal and is now a lesbian." Inside joke!

Also, HBO Films, please do not show me the future in the form of forty year old skin sag. There is this one scene where Carrie enters the bed with Mr. Big in her trademark man undies and camisole. My eyes!!! Gravity is a force to be reckoned with, an ugly force. There is a lot of nakedness in this movie, and a bush shot. And a red headed bush shot at that. I guess the carpet does indeed match the rug.

I would just like to state that if I was left at an altar, there would be death. Not the death of love, but the death of that person in the form of me willing ever fiber of my body for them to live a horrible sickly life full of woe, and misery and STDs. I mean way to teach the gals of today Carrie Bradshaw. Be a doormat, end up with a rich husband.

In conclusion, I would like to thank HBO Films for getting me out of the house on a weeknight, I really did enjoy those two Ketel Ones with lime pre-show, and the movie was okay too. I laughed, I cried (but not as much as Independence Day) and now know what a red beaver looks like. But please do me the favor of making your next movie a little more appealing to the masses, as in FREAKING DEADWOOD. Gather up your monies HBO and find me Calamity Jane, McSweargin and a fabulously exotic stream of swear words that will make my little heart dance. I thank you.

Liars, You are Liars

Seedless watermelons have got to be the biggest lie ever committed upon the American people. I think instead of seedless they should just say flimsy white but digestible seeded watermelon. Just because they did not develop into black hard seeds, does not make them seedless. Okay? This is the biggest thing going since the leprechaun sighting:

Comedy of Errors

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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