Three Reasons I Would Not Want to Be 10 Years Younger

Lately, whenever I think of my forthcoming birthday there is a certain shudder at the prospect of being thirty-six. Mostly because thirty-six sounds old, and matronly, but let’s face it, this vagina has delivered two children, matronly suits me. But I really don’t care, because even though technically I am at the cusp of thirty-six, my brain is that of a twelve year old, a twelve year old boy. That being said, I was thinking, what if I was ten years younger, twenty-five instead of thirty-five. And you know what, no freaking way. My reasoning is illustrated below:

Every girl in their twenties borders on psychotic when dealing with relationships, a psychosis that can technically last into your thirties (but shouldn’t). Every man reading this right now is shaking his head yes, because let’s face it, a twenty something girl is just a fraction away from being institutionalized. I have no idea in this day and age how anyone dates. There is just too much stalker friendly technology. Facebook, Twitter, Blogs, Texting. Did he write about me? He is going where? He defriended me. What does this text mean? It is enough to make my head explode just from thinking about it. No thank you. I will take my husband, my children, and the sad fact that my twenties were spent in the 1990s.

Which brings me to my second reason, if I were twenty-five today, I would fall into the hipster category of life. Because I am an alternative band whore, although I bet the kids today don’t call it “alternative” music, but my 1990s sensibilities say it is. Anyway, this would lead me being surrounded by the bearded alternative gent. As there seems to be this god forsaken trend among the 20s male of growing beards. I am sorry, but the last thing I want to do when drunk at a show is make out with Jesus. I would have a no-beard policy, because in addition to the fact I lack a Christ fetish, I have very sensitive skin. I could see myself waking up hung over on a Saturday morning, my entire mouth area flaming red because I engaged in an ill advised make out session with Moses. No thank you hipster bearded men.

And finally, I would not like to be in my 20s because I could not handle fashion. Skinny jeans? These tops that make one look pregnant? I have a big rack, a small waist and hips. Nothing youth oriented in fashion would flatter me unless I became an anorexic, another seemingly very popular trend among those in their 20s. Eat something already.

To sum up, thank goodness I was born in 1973 instead of 1983 because I got to miss stalker dating, the bearded man and a foray into bulimia. So bring on thirty-six, hopefully with gimlets.

Tales of Muni . . .

Yesterday while sitting on the N Judah making my way home, I looked across the aisle and saw a homeless man sitting down. I was about to begin reading when it suddenly occurred to me that said homeless man was good looking. Looking again, I confirmed he was handsome. I had stumbled upon the ever elusive Homeless Stud. I began to wonder if homeless life was easier for him with his carefree boyish looks, whether all the homeless ladies in town spoke of him in girlish giggles and if being good looking in the downtrodden clique was a bonus - like high school. But then he opened his mouth to reveal tarred and yellowed teeth, three of which were missing. And I stopped thinking, because I had suddenly become ill.

Placenta Encapsulation

As luck would have it I stumbled upon an article by Joel Stein. Yeah, you read that correctly, EATING YOUR PLACENTA. But fear not, dear readers, this is America, it is not as if someone would actually take the placenta and eat it “as is”. No, no, no. It has to be steamed, dehydrated, ground and then put in capsules. Proponents state that some of the benefits of doing this are to ward of depression and to increase milk supply. In fact, one reviewer said “I pumped 1.6 oz of milk and my lactation consultant was amazed so much came from one boob.” Sure, she was. Please note that I pumped one of my boobs three days after Maggie’s birth and pumped 7 oz. It is amazing to me that people actually believe this, and no one even thinks that the entire process of cooking and dehydrating probably kills everything that could potentially be useful. Never mind the studies showing animals that do not eat their placentas do not become depressed. You know what a dog does after birth also? Lick its vagina clean. Let’s see you do that one. I guess these days we live in a world that wherein “natural” means better. One only has to look at the Zicam fiasco to see that just because something promises to be all natural and beneficial, does not necessarily mean it is. Sure, that cold totally went away, but you no longer have the sense of smell. People forget that this stuff is unregulated, that any goofball with a strong stomach and a dehydrated can do this for a premium. In fact, the people Mr. Stein’s wife used have a certification program ($300 bux), start-up kit ($250 bux) and referral membership ($300 bux). Can anyone else say scam? It seems to me anything that has to do with pregnancy, birth and/or parenting these days are targets for a good old fashion shakedown. My father once told me that if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is. I think those are words to live by.

And Just Like That

Today I did it, I ran to the ball park and back and I did not stop to vomit, walk or curse. I actually jogged the entire way. Day 10 of the Goal of Thirty proved the one. It makes me hope that when Day 30 comes around, I will be rounding around the ball park happy as a jogging clam. The good news is that I am losing weight, even without dieting on the weekends, which is what we of the diets consider an added bonus. I feel good. I feel accomplished. I tasted the runner’s high. And it goes, my friends. It goes. In other news, my son, Owen Patrick McCall, is a bit of a ham. When asking him “Owen, can you say ‘Happy Fourth of July”. He said “Yeah.” Okay then. Ask a stupid question.

Oh No They Didn’t

There is a something in the corporate world, called the day before a holiday. Usually one is let go early on such a day so that they can embark on whatever three day weekend is before them. This makes all happy, because let’s face it, half days in the working world are non-existent, and if you can get out a few hours early, you are totally and completely loving it. In Boston, we would be let known of the intentions the day off, because I worked in small law firm. Usually around noon and e-mail would go around announcing the office closing at 3:00 p.m., and didn’t I just jump at joy at the prospect of heading to a bar for a Grey Goose Gimlet. However, now that I am at a larger firm there is no announcement day of because we have a time tracking program so they usually inform us in an e-mail a few days prior. Starting Monday the office was all in a tizzy awaiting the letting go early e-mail, because our office has been very good about doing this lately. Monday passed, and no e-mail. But we had hope, I mean it was only Monday; it will have to be tomorrow. Tuesday will produce the unleashing. It had too. There was nothing in the morning, but then Tuesday afternoon it happened. THE E-MAIL. The blessed e-mail has arrived. I quickly opened it and to my horror and utmost dismay, there it said “Come Celebrate the 4th of July, with an ice cream social at 3:30 p.m., July 2.” Oh no they didn’t. I think I was just corporately bitch slapped. Tempted to immediately reply with a “Sorry, but I am on diet, could I just go home early?,” I refrained. But seriously, I mean come on dude. What the hell? Perhaps I am just spoiled, but an ice cream sundae social does make not up for the fact that you purposefully took away my 2.15 hours of freedom. It’s July 4th for Christ sake, do I really need to start a revolution, again?

For the Owes

This morning we took Owen to his two and a half year wellness pediatrician appointment. His percentile ranks were 75% in height and 80% in weight. Needless to say all of those “he is built like a linebacker” comments since Day 2 of his life did not go to waste. He did great. He made his patented “show me your eyes” face when Dr. Langston directed light into his pupils. The face evidenced here:



We are fortunate he is the picture of health, and a great kid to boot. He is getting older, and bigger, and more talkative. And that is sad in lots of ways, but totally amazingly awesome in much more. I feel blessed to know the person he is becoming. Hooray for Owen.



And that person is a complete goofball, or as I like to say “Goofball McCall”. But look at his parents, was there another way? So to Owen, Happy 2.5. I love you very much.

Update of the Exercise

Today made eight days of running, the results of which are evident but not in the way I would like. Basically it is like my lower half and my upper half slowly are progressing to my middle in an effort to say - TA DA, body back. Except for my boobs, my boobs have remained massive in their girth. Sometimes I catch myself in the mirror and say - holy jesus, look at those things - their largess more evident with the rediscovery of my waist. However, this time around the pregnancy merry-go-fat ass, I am way ahead of the game. With Owen I was in denial until I went to a weight watchers meeting, step on the scale and was scared straight. Mainly because of those assholes who say that breastfeeding helps you lose weight really fast, well you know what, breast feeding does not do that until about six months into the process. Yep, read the fine print. It is right after the insatiable hunger of a circus fat lady clause and right before the clause about how you will leak boob milk at your office at least once causing people to pity you. But I digress, the good news is that it is happening. I am doing it. And sure it totally sucks, and I hate it, and I wish there was a way to cut off my extra thigh meat and serve it for dinner, but I can’t do that, so I run. I run, and run, and run some more.

Love, Exciting and New

This weekend while checking Facebook, the following came up in the news feed as commentary to a photograph of a couple:

R: Not sure if I like this....I look really tired, maybe because I WAS.
J: I think you look adorable my darling.
R: Thank you my love.

My immediate reaction: BARF. Which I repeatedly tried to comment, but was denied. Obviously, God does not like me to be snarky. But it got me to thinking, when is this appropriate? I mean sure if you want to be a candy ass loser in the privacy of your own home, by all means, but please do not subject me to it. I have never been really big on the entire lovey dovey, hand holding, unicorns, rainbows and fairies romance, because to me it is unrealistic. Maybe I was raised in an Irish American unloving household, but thank god I was. There is a general pussification of the American Male that is epidemic in its proportions. I don’t know how it happened, or why it happened, or how term “metrosexual” used by any man as description of himself not the immediate cause for a belt beating. And I am sorry, but never should the term “soulmates” be used to describe a relationship. I once had a friend who was on Soulmate #22, or was it 23. And it’s the immediate jinx of death. I would never use the term “soulmate” to describe anything other than a bottle of vodka, tequila or whiskey. Or would I use Facebook as a way to declare my love - I do that by farting in bed and saying the Fartatollah So Many has arrived. Enough said.

A Few Things Friday

Because I have no real story to tell, I think I will just rattle off “A Few Things”, which I think will make for a lovely series. So I present to you the very first “A Few Things Friday”.

Holy Fucking Jesus does breastfeeding make you thirsty. I am a big water drinker anyway, but currently I must down about 200 ounces a day if not more. And the funny thing I don’t pee that often, so you know my body is using it. I am an endless pit it seems. I wake up in the middle of the night my mouth caked with dust and down my entire Kleen Kanteen 40 ouncer.

Which brings me to another thing, I really thought the Kleen Kanteen was super stupid, because you can’t really see in the bottle to clean it. And who knows what myriad of grimey bacteria has taken harbor, but what you don’t see, don’t hurt.

My son last weekend was singing as song. That song was the following, “Blue, Blue, Blue, Blue Balls. Blue Balls. Blue Balls. Blllllllllllllllllluuuuuuuuueeeeeeeeeee Ballllllllllllllllls.” I am not lying.

Every time I tell people or even think that Maggie is a really good baby, and how lucky I am. I feel I am cursing myself into the misery of sleepless nights and a future biting toddler. Can we say altogether, “catholic guilt.”

I have to make brownies tonight for 75 people for Owen’s preschool picnic. I am not buying them, but making them, because I am stupid.

The Risque Walgreens

Because an IUD now exists in my pelvis and not in my uterus, and the fact that the diaphram I was prescribed is discontinued, I had to make a purchase at Walgreens of condoms. As a married lady with two kids, I feel that condom purchasing by me feels like I am embarking on the first steps of an affair, because do people in long term relationships actually purchase condoms? I don’t think so. I even think the lady at the register was all, this lady has a ring on her finger. What a tart! But then as she rang up the total and said $7.11, I realized that all of my trials and tribulations were worth it for this moment. The price of condoms was $7.11, as in 7/11, as in lucky, as in getting lucky. Oh Walgreens, you joker you.

And So It Goes

Oh Jesus, please let this running at lunch thing get better. Each day I feel as if I will die and fall to the concrete thinking this was the last thing I did? Run!! Not drink myself into alcohol induced oblivion? But it continues. I know with time this desperation at the difficulty of said running will be laughed at, but it’s so hard this time around. Yes, likely due to the thirty pounds of baby weight still to lose and the fact that my legs had an eight week hiatus from any sort of meaningful work. But dear God, let this get better. I don’t’ want to be that fat lady eating bon bons on the MUNI and taking up two seats with my ass. Of course, if that was me, I would have to change my name. Because in my fat person fantasy world, her name is Devereaux Jane Dawson, DJ to her friends. Which she has over often because she needs help scrubbing between her many flesh rolls, luring them with her homemade goodies of tarts and fried chicken. She has a southern accent, of course. Okay, I guess I did watch too much Paula Deen on my maternity leave, but can’t you all just see it? DJ Dawson, her bon bons, her hair polished and coifed, her dimpled chins laughing with delight. Not this Cassie McCall, huffing and heaving her way up the Embarcadero with a forehead scarlet from perspiration and an overwhelming need to vomit. But I can do it!! I will survive, and not go the bon bon way of happiness. Hopefully these running high endorphins, which have been elusive thus far, will emerge and I will be giddy with exercising excitement. I just hope it is soon.

The Results Are In (Kinda).

So did I kill my hair stylist? Nope. Did my ass fall asleep due to the fact that this haircut took about 2.5 hours? Yes. You ever try to walk after your left cheek has fallen into such a slumber that there is no feeling. It’s hard. Do I like my hair? I believe so. It is longish with lots of layers. It will suffice until the pregnancy weight is dropped so that the one and only blunt bob can return. My being at the core is the blunt bob. I feared doing it this weekend because I am far away from blunt bob body. This photo will be my goal in both hair and body:



Once pregnancy created asszilla, bellyzilla and upper thigherzilla are slayed; we can venture back to the bob. Progress is good since John informed me this morning that my ass is half the size it was after giving birth. And yes ladies, he is taken!

This weekend I decided that I have had enough of the moob. Those not in the know, the moob is the result of a big breasted lady wearing a shelf bra tank top as her only support. There is no definition between the breasts, creating a one mammoth boob, or mono-boob, or moob for short. TM pending. In order to have the moob eliminated from my being, I am now wearing one under wire nursing bra and then the shelf nursing tank. Hello boobies! However, it does feels like an anaconda is squeezing the life out of my lungs. But I care not, because it creates two inches of lift. You know how I know this? Because yesterday I leaked breast milk with the bra/tank combo. I then removed the bra. Looking in the mirror there was a two inch differential from the milk stain and where my nipples lay. Two freaking inches. Gravity is not loving to the nursing mother, especially one that has traveled the road before. But I rather have the gravitational pull problem of the big breasted girl, than the deflated balloon problem of the small/medium breasted girl. Because a bra can fix the lift, there is no getting around the deflated balloon boobies. It’s like a gastric bypass patient after weight loss, too much skin and not enough fat. And that ain’t pretty.

Please God, Just Once . . .

Dear Hair,

Tomorrow you have a date with a pair of scissors. Due to pregnancy, bed rest and life with a newborn you have managed to attain record length. Aside from an ill advised decision in college to grow you (oh those photos), this is the longest you have been for a while. Quite frankly, I hate you. Right now your evilness is harness back with an elastic, because when unleashed you seem to engage every orifice on my face causing me to curse and turn red with rage. Not to mention the post pregnancy shedding, there are so many long blackish brown hairs one can take. And I have reached my limit. However hair, there is a problem with the cut. Since arriving in San Francisco almost five years ago, I do not think I have had one haircut in which produced delight within. After the WHE following Owen’s birth, one could say that I have been scissor shy. Actually I am razor shy, because razors and my hair do not agree. I swear to God, if this lady tomorrow attempts to cut my hair with a razor I will punch her and then claim insanity at the assault and battery hearing. So hair, I ask you to behave so that I can get a hairstyling to thrill. I don’t know what I want to do, but it may involve a few shorn inches, maybe bangs, maybe a Pulp Fictionesque Mia, hopefully not tears. Haircutting gods please allow one haircut in which from the salon I emerge without the will to kill. Thank you.

Cassie

Tit for Tat

Today while pumping in our lactation room surrounded by the other pumping bags, all of which were black, it occurred to me - why hide our breast milk pumping ways. I think if I were to design a breast milk bag it would be flesh colored with big boobies on it, maybe a tag that says “Yes, I do in fact, got milk.” I would carry it proudly as people would stare at me and say “Wow, that girls boobies are ginormous for a reason.” or “What a freaking hippie, why do that to your ta-tas?” or “Look at that, the Mother Teresa of nipples.” Why do I have to go camouflage with a bunch of other big black bag having gals about town. At least my bag has an actual purpose to it, rather than an unnecessary object that is continually slamming into my right thigh on MUNI. Do you really need to take your entire apartment with you to work? Do you?

The Little Bonuses

Ah the working life, the return is sweet. No longer talking to an infant about the color of her breastfeed poops or how she needs to take a napinsky or how Mommy really thinks Al Roker is pretty god darn funny. I am back making conversation with actual people capable of returning my questions with actual worded answers. But the best part of returning to the working life is that of the commuting life. I have been on public transportation probably since the day I was born. In fact, I have never commuted to work via motor vehicle, because I am a city girl. And city girls don’t drive, they sit on a crowded train with a book, a walkman (now Iphone) and a patented don’t talk to me glare. Sure it is a pain in the butt when your train is late, or if you are unfortunate enough to have to ride the N-Judah which seemingly breaks down every 3.5 seconds, but the rewards of same are sweet. In the past few days I have been witness to a myriad of city folk. The crazy older guy singing at the top of his lungs while everyone else just ignores. Drunken homeless woman cursing the many love pains in her life with slurred speech. Older Asian lady so adamant about getting a seat she sits in a pool of water only seconds later to jump up with a wet behind. There is a reason that seat was empty on a crowded train lady. Public transportation, you make it all worth while.

In other news, day two of the Goal of Thirty proved to be tough. The front part of my thighs achy from yesterday made today’s run difficult. I am pretty sure that if they could talk, they would be saying “You bitch. You bitch. You crazy bitch.”. But two down, twenty-eight to go.

I Take It All Back

I would like to state the following. Work is better than staying at home with a child. Need evidence, how about the following two stories that I have heard today:

1. There is a bird near my office that is attacking people who walk by her nest. It is so ridiculous the news has covered the story so now stands a crowd of people waiting for the next bird pecked victim. Guess where I am going tomorrow?

2. One of the people I work with told me she has Benign Positional Vertigo or Inner Ear Dizziness. I think the following is best used to describe this:

Someone with this problem may mistake it with having a really bad hangover or being so drunk that when they plop down on the bed to sleep it off everything begins to whirl around. The person will feel dizzy sometimes nauseous. Any attempt to get up and they may fall. Any effort to crawl is just as difficult. The dizziness may last briefly or all night. The person may pass out and wake up the next day feeling fine.

Benign Positional Vertigo occurs when minute calcium deposits inside of the inner ear break off and repeatedly strike the fragile hair cells when the head moves. The reason a person who has been drinking might cure their self of the Vertigo is because they will probably keep moving and stumbling around until they knock the calcium deposits out of the inner ear. Otherwise their body would have to absorb the calcium deposits on its own, which could take ten weeks or longer.

For the record, I totally must have had this at one time or another. From this day forward, whenever drunk and stumbling I will state with slurring speech “Drunk, me. No freaking way, I happen to be suffering from benign Positional Vertigo, now let me drink some more in order to correct said problem. Tequila! This is an alcoholic’s dream come true.

Back In the Saddle

My husband has requested a moratorium on the vagina talk, so I will just say the following - I have to get surgery to remove my IUD out of my pelvis. Anyone want to rub this belly for bad luck? I am the anti-buddha. Yesterday I returned back to work, and honestly it was not that bad. Since I am a second time around mom, the entire ripping out of my heart via waves of guilt was absent. I did feel the tinge of bad mommy, but in all actuality the chances of me weighing 400 pounds and becoming an alcoholic are quite high if I were to stay at home. I like to balance that with the guilt, well adjusted child versus child of fat alcoholic. Guess which wins? Speaking of fat, guess what today is? Yes, that is right, The Goal of Thirty returns. Those not in the know, last year I gave myself an edict of running at lunch thirty times. When I reached that goal, a determination as to the continuation of exercise would be decided. I never made the decision because I was under the influence of endorphins from averaging 18 miles a week. Today will probably involve lots of stopping, starting and suppressing the urge to vomit, but I am looking forward to the challenge, not to mention the entire wardrobe of my former pregnant self. There is only so much breast milk-stained, baby spit up covered clothing a person can take, and wear without people pitying her.

Cursed!

Today I went to have an ultrasound because during my follow up appointment for my IUD they were unable to see the strings which meant nothing as they could have been cut short. But let us remember that I am a girl that obviously pissed off someone with bewitching powers because the onslaught of medical oddities continues. I would not be upset if say I was on bed rest for both pregnancies due to a short cervix, or discovering I was allergic to yellow peppers at age 26 by having my eye swell to four times its size, or I having an IUD placed that suddenly become lost. If any one of these things happened to me, I would be fine with it. But holy crap, not all three of them, and an onslaught of other stupid trivial things that when added to these makes me wonder – WHAT THE HELL DID I DO? As a Catholic, and a guilty one, it is taught you get what you deserve, which I tend to agree. However, I do not believe shoplifting Lita Ford’s Kiss Me Deadly at a Kmart is quid quo pro. In fact, I do believe I am owed something, like lottery winnings. The last thing I need right now with returning to work Monday and an overwhelming need to vomit every time I think about leaving Maggie, is the fact that there is a Mirena IUD lodged somewhere in my being. Because let’s face it guys, the chances that this thing was just expelled by accident with my track record are slim to none. Which brings another telling sign, when you call your OB/GYN to explain the situation and her aide comes back in 45 seconds with a “Can you come in tomorrow at 9:00 a.m.?” you begin to think that maybe this is something that is not normal. I sometimes wonder if I were a hypochondriac if all of this would make me feel validated as an individual, but since I am not, it just pisses me off to no end, and I cannot even drink vodka to combat the woes. At this moment, nothing would feel better than becoming falling down drunk while verbally assaulting my nether regions. That would be grand.

Maggie Smiles; Owen Does Grease

Maggie Smiles from Cassandra McCall on Vimeo.

Owen Does Grease from Cassandra McCall on Vimeo.

T Minus . . .

In less than five days I will be returning to work after six months of bed rest, birthing and baby. It could be said since I did this with Owen, it would be easier, and I am sure that within a week I will fall into the routine and not even think of what I am feeling now. And that is absolute dread mixed with a taste of vomit in my mouth. I just have to think about it and I suddenly become weepy and anxious and wanting of vomiting. Mother’s guilt is a tough one. But I am looking forward to the good things, like a paycheck and my return to running at lunch. Which will help me return to my pre-pregnancy size. Seriously, pregnancy does so weird things to your mid section, you think you will just bounce back and then you put on the next size up pants, which you can pretty much pull down without unzipping, but your size is a tad too tight and no way are you going to go all camel toe as a mother of two. Thank god for maternity clothing, and its elasticized waist. After three weeks of running, I am sure I will no longer have to pull my pants up constantly because I will have a button, a zipper and a waist. The crack of my ass no longer privy to the light of the day, so we can now all rest easy.

Why Me?

I don’t often ask this question, okay I do, but it is in a playful way. But now I am outright asking it. Why me? I am scheduled for an ultrasound on Thursday in order to see if my IUD is placed properly. I am sure that it is, but come on already. Can one freaking thing go well for me with regard to my uterus? I think not. Cursed uterus needs an exorcism it seems. By the power of God, I command you. By the power of God, I command you. Be a normal uterus. Thank you.

The Cervical Cassie

My cervix hates me. I am not sure what I did to offend it, but obviously it has it out for me. Yesterday I got an IUD. I knew that the insertion of this IUD would be a tad bit painful so I took a Motrin 600 and a vicodin. Oh yeah! The nurse practitioner was going to perform the procedure because my doctor’s first available appointment was not until June, and there was no way I was going to wait that long. As I lay there, the nurse suddenly said, “Oh, your cervix is going to give me some problems, so I am going to get the doctor.” Did this surprise me? No. Because let me detail to you the amazing adventures of my cervix: abnormal pap smears, colopscopies, laser ablation surgery, maybe cervical polyps resulting in a D&C (no polyps though), short cervix resulting in bed rest during both pregnancies, and now IUD hating cervix. My cervix obviously has low self esteem and needs constant attention. I am sick of it. If I could I would repeatedly bitch slap it for the trials and tribulations it has put me through. Hopefully our relationship is now dead given my new IUD. Don’t call me, don’t text me, don’t e-mail me. If I hear anything cervix related for the next 5 years I will be pushed over the edge and punch the person who says it. Just a warning.

Six Weeks After

Here is a summary of my six week post partum OB/GYN appointment:

Doctor: How are you?
Me: Great.
Doctor: So . . .
Me: I never want to ever in my life ever become pregnant again, ever.
Doctor: Good, I was going to ask you.
Me: EVER!!!!!

So I am getting an IUD not a DUI (hee hee, John came up with that). I will like to now take this opportunity to thank my ovaries for a job well done.

Dear Ovaries,

I appreciate the fact that each time I wanted to get pregnant you were all, “Girl says we can release the egg and create life. All men on deck.” Truth be told, I never thought I would even get pregnant. But each time it happened in the very first month of trying. Obviously, you guys do your job with extreme diligence. Sure, some people would consider that awesome, but I consider it a bit annoying. I mean the entire trying to get pregnant thing is awesome. When else do you get to repeatedly rape your better half? Also, thank you for never following through at any other point in my life, say when I was drunk and stupid. Because let’s face it, the early 20s were pretty much defined by drunken stupidity hey lets make out shenanigans. God, it was awesome. But I digress. I want to inform you that you are through, if I could I would remove you via clothing hanger but that might hurt, so I am going the IUD method of birth control as I don’t want to put it in a diaphragm anymore. Let me say, putting in a diaphragm when you a frisky and intoxicated is an event worthy of Olympic gold. Try being drunkenly unsteady with your leg up inserting a plastic orb up your va jay jay. Very taxing for the clumsy. Also, please note ovaries, I am 35, and as you know my eggs are suddenly becoming expired in their shelf life. They are not worthy of being fertilized but instead headed out to pasture with a nice 401k and a condo in Boca, just like you. So ovaries, I bid you adieu. Thank you for the kids (I think).

Yours truly,

Cassie McCall

The Terrible Twos

Oh sweet Jesus, you know when you have one kid and are contemplating another kid and you are all – how hard can it be? Let me be the one to tell you – freaking hard. Actually hard is not proper in its description. Let me rephrase it this way, this entire water boarding torture method – CAKE!! I really do believe that at times I would like to have a bucket of water pour on my head while semi-upside down than to live the life of a mother of two. You might be thinking at this time I am embellishing but dear readers, I am not. My daughter, god bless her, is for the most part a wonderful baby. But for every plus she has there is one thing that blackens it all and that is her banshee like wail. Actually I wish it were a banshee’s wail, because upon hearing it I would be dead. But nope, when I hear Ms. Maggie’s mighty mouth, I am right there next to her, with my ear to her wailing willing every part of my body not to tense up. It is said that your anxiety transfers to the baby making them even more of a mess, so it is best to take the abuse and sojourn on not caring that there is a good chance your hearing has been damaged permanently. I am getting better at going to my safe place during this child inflicted abuse, but at the same time I am thinking – is this what doctors refer to as blacking out during traumatic events? Maggie’s biggest issue so far is her uncanny ability to miss her window of sleep so that she will stay up for about five hours straight during which time she will quietly lull herself into a sense of calm only to ten minutes later find her way back to crazy baby. This leaves me to the entire three hour scheduling window – she gets up, I feed her, awake time, then 90 minutes of sleep. When on this schedule, things are beautiful and lovely, I am blessed, but when the train derails, it is a massacre of carnage. Luckily the train has not been derailing too often, and my willingness to leave and join the circus quelled. Owen is adjusting aside from a few issues involving his going to bed, and the fact that he likes to cry out Mommy!!! Daddy!!! for a good 20 minutes. This from a child who for an entire year did not even go boo when put to sleep. But he is also in his two no stage, or as he likes to say “No Way”. Which is pretty cute and completely irritating at the same time. But he does seem to love “mine baby.” I try to tell him that it is my baby, and that I carried her for nine months, but he does not seem to care, because everything is “mine.” Its like I did not get the memo or something.

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.
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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.