My Name Is Maggie, And I Am A Bagelholic.

Because of a work meeting, while John got coffee at Peet’s, I took Maggie into Noahs for bagels. As soon as she had a look at the bagel display window she began to point while simultaneously humping my hip and repeating “baaayyylllll”, “baaaayyylllll”. A few weeks ago Maggie received her first taste of boiled and baked doughy goodness instantaneously falling in love. I ordered her a plain cinnamon raisin with John's toasted pumpernickel with butter and plain blueberry. Usually plain bagels are handed you immediately while you walk down to pay. But today some lady starts asking questions about the cased salads. Because who doesn’t want lettuce at 8:00 a.m. The Noah’s assembly line only prepared for toasting, cream cheesing and buttering came to a halt. Maggie did not take kindly to this, looking around and becoming increasingly agitated. She looked to me with fright pointing and saying “Bayyyylll, Mamba. Bayyylll.” while we moved to pay. "BAAYYYLLLL!!!!" Dude, I get it, you want a bagel. I ordered okay, it’s not my fault some fifty year old woman started going on and on about whether she gets a free bagel with her chicken caesar. Finally bagel man realizing the error of his ways, as my Tasmanian bagelholic reached higher and higher pitch, handed over the bag. Placated, Maggie smiled and said “tank you.” At least she is a polite bitch.

A New Love

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

The Law of One More Time

Last night John had a work dinner which meant I had both kids myself. Aside from Owen asking every ten minutes or so “Where’s my Daddy?” it went well. By the way, the answer to that was “He is working Owen." and not "He left dude, because you are annoying with your incessant Where My Daddys? Also, he is Maggie’s Daddy too (I think).” After reading him Trees, The Counting Book, Charlie Harper’s ABCs, Curious George Goes to the Library (and wrecks havoc), Good Night San Francisco and tucking him in thirty-three times. Not an exaggeration, each night Owen requires that he is put to bed with his four blankets. All which are from his baby days, three being large swaddling blankets of the same variety and the other a super soft baby blue blanket that he rubs with fervor of a teenage boy.

Owen: One More Time.
Me: Okay.
Owen: One More Time.
Me: Okay.
Owen: Three More Times. (Smart Ass).
Me: Okay, last time.
Owen: One More Time.
Me: Last time.
Owen: One More Time.
Me: Last time, Owen.
Owen: Okay, Mommy. I miss you.

Finally out of blanket tucking hell, I escaped to the kitchen to finish dinner for tomorrow (Baked Ziti). There was an intention to make something to eat. Instead due to the heavenly quiet, I went the single girl route and poured myself a giant glass of wine. Then another. “One More Time”, indeed.

The Long and the Short of It.

Friday was spent in a salon chair where I was given exactly what was asked for, “Shorter. Like a ponytail, but not the actual pony tail. Not a bob.” Famous last words, for Rihanna I am not. Although repeatedly told it looks great, cute and modern, every look to the mirror elicits the same response: cringe, scowl and what the hell was I thinking. This immediately followed by the googled factoid that “human hair grows 1/2 inch per month” and October is totally right around the corner. In five short days I have purchased clips, barrettes, bobby pins and headbands. Simply put, this hair cut is not me. I am a bob, not a longish pixie. I tried the pants on and guess what? I HAVE A FUCKING MUFFIN TOP. But I resolve not to cry, not to bitch, not to tackle a long haired girl with scissors for cheap extensions, I will wait this out, one half inch month at a time. And that is the long of it, the short of it is obviously my hair.

The Killer Whale Roll

Bay Shabu Sushi Sake is a restaurant in San Francisco that has a food challenge. You devour the Killer Whale Roll in thirty minutes or less. The $29.95 Killer Whale Roll is four pounds of sushi comprising shrimp, crab, eel, spicy tuna, vegetables, avocado, and tobiko. No one can help you in the endeavor, it is just you and this:



Egads! That thing looks like a post nuclear attack apocolyptic slug. When stopping by the front door today, I saw this posted:




That right there my friends is the Killer Whale Challenge World Champion. "He eat it in 14 minutes, 20 seconds." (That's what she said.) Now my question, you think that guy is really on the Track Team?

Uh Oh, it’s the Monster Cookie

There is an insanely gratifying feeling when your children begin to speak. Awe mixed with love mixed with complete adoration. Maggie has begun her Uh Oh phase. Dropped a sippy cup? Uh Oh. See Daddy? Uh Oh. Eat your one thousandth strawberry of the day? Uh Oh. Mommy’s glass of wine is empty? Uh Oh. Okay fine, the last one I said. The Uh Ohhhing toddler is incredibly cute. She also says Daddy, Mama, thank you, hiyeee, waffle and a few others I am forgetting because she is my second kid, and who cares, right? My first born on the other hand was very select with his words and did not really say too much. Now the kid is a yammering fool. From his “Mama, I miss you” when saying goodnight to the holy cow you are awesome “Monster Cookie” in reference to the cookie monster. Who is that Owen? Mama, that the Monster Cookie. Who could correct that? He is speaking so well these days and becoming this little person. They are no longer babies, they are an almost 3 and a half year old monster cookie loving kid and a 13 month old uh ohhing toddler. Both whom I love exceedingly.

The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger


My rating: 5 of 5 stars
After Mr. Salinger's death, it was an absolute must to reread this book. What amounts to maybe my tenth reading, I can firmly state that this book still resonates and is a masterpiece. You feel as if you are in the mind of a person, in the room with him as the tale unfolds. Your heart breaks as his does, and you take from it the simple fact that life is hard, and things happen, but there are small things that “kill” you with joy. I love this book, but still would never name my kid Holden, because good god.

View all my reviews >>

Tales of MUNI

I have been taking public transportation since birth. I do believe Mary Jane had to hobble onto the green line to Mass General after her water broke when opening the fridge. This should be a lesson to all pregnant women, stop eating already. My entire life I have been getting on and off of trains and buses as a way to get from here to there. My mind is programmed to think bus rather than car, which now makes me “green” when it use to just make me “poor”. Yes, public commuting can be an exercise in exasperation with its delays and overly close sweaty scabies guy. But it also provides a bounty of entertainment, especially in the form of people running to a train that they are about to miss.

The See Saw. A person usually of advancing age saddled with too many grocery bags of what smells to be rotting vegetables. The run to the train is a quick duck waddle with the bags of one side going down and the bags of the other going up. This person will always miss the train, and possibly break a hip.

The Bitch Slap. This person sees the train and makes a mad dash, only to stop because they realize the journey is impossible. But then the train remains with heckling open doors. They run fooled by promise only to reach closing doors with a departing train. This will always end with cursing usually of the muther fucker variety.

The Savior. There will be times when you are running towards a train, another passenger sees your effort. Perhaps a Bitch Slap fresh in his mind, he holds the door open while you enter the train. You will say “thank you” and he will “smile”, the rest of the train will glare at the both of you for making them late.

The Jabberwocky. This is the person for some reason or another when running for a train starts to talk in almost hysterical excitement. There is usually some sort of skip run combined with an “Ohhh, Ohhh, Ohhh. Wait, Wait, Wait.” Perhaps invoking a Savior response in another passenger, but usually just ending with them on the platform huffing and puffing with a significant amount of eye rolling.

And there you have it, just a few of the pleasures of public transportation to witness and adore while you Purell your hands obsessively while tri-folding your newspaper. How do those guys do it?

My Weekend

Wake up. Coffee. Little Bill. Karate. Running. Koret’s Children Park. Running. Supercuts for Owen. Knocking about twenty bottles of Paul Mitchell to the ground while there. Swim Lessons. Swim coach basically calling me awesome. Lunch. Naps. Cleaning and organizing. Shower. Park Chalet. Beer. Dinner. Baths. Books. Bed. The Pizza Place. Wings. Bed.

Wake up. Coffee. Curious George. Farmers Market. Park. Food Shopping. Lunch. Naps. More cleaning and more organizing. No Shower. I smell. Park Chalet. Beer. Soccer. Football. Fun. Mac and Cheese for the kids. Baths. Books. Bed. Porterhouse Steaks and Baked Potatoes for us. Bed.

It amazes me the amount of things that can fit into a forty-eight hour period that for years before basically consisted of vodka, TV and sleep. God I miss it.

Murphy's Law - The Pregnancy Test

Let it be know that after a person takes a pregnancy with a negative result, that person will finally get their period usually within twenty-four hours. There will be massive crippling cramps just to punctuate the fact that you actually begged for this. You might cry.

Scared Out Of My Mutha Effin Gourd

The trouble with weaning is that for about three months you are in hormonal hell. You soak through your sheets, you can’t find anything to wear, and your face is seemingly one gigantic pimple. Basically so giddy, you want to punch babies. After all, they are the reason you are in this situation in the first place. Due to child abuse laws, you instead take in a steady stream of vodka and Advil while watching The Real Housewives of New York and other shows that make your husband cringe due to the vagina-ness of it all. Did I mention The Hills premiere is in five days? In the midst of all this feminine woe, there is another fact that is cause for extreme duress: the irregular period. I am clockwork when it comes to surfing the crimson wave, every twenty-eight days for four days I am out of my godforsaken mind, but luckily crippled by debilitating cramps as to not cause mayhem. I got my period the day after the complete wean (thanks God!), dutifully marking on my calendar twenty-eight days later with “Period?” Last week that popped up on my calendar reminder. Suddenly, the pimple on the side of my face taking up my entire chin made sense. There were cramps and trips to the bathroom. But nothing. Eight days later, in absolute fear of the unknown, I bought a pregnancy test. You are probably thinking how the hell could it be a pregnancy? You have two kids, you have sex? I know, stupid me. The fear of taking a pregnancy test when you have absolutely no desire whatsoever to be pregnant is a traumatic anxiety riddled event. Because of my Catholic programming, “Please God, do not let me be pregnant. Please, please, please. I can’t be pregnant, I can’t be pregnant. I can’t be pregnant.” was repeated about one hundred times. The pee and the excruciating wait later, no plus meaning no pregnancy meaning no me falling down a flight of stairs “by accident.” Happiness, it has a name - EPT Negative.

Owen the Terrible

Oh good lord. No one tells you, no one tells you about three years old because you are dealing with a bi-polar three foot tall asshole. Most parents are comfortable saying “terrible twos”, but not many are comfortable calling their three year olds an asshole, lucky for you, I am. Last night Owen decided that he did not want to take his bath, but watch “TB”. TB being television and not tuber nodule lung disease making a come back. “I want TB Daddy”. “No Owen. You can take a bath or go to bed.” We often give Owen two options to choose from - the one we want him to do and the one there is no way he will do. It has worked gang busters. Until now. Owen has discovered his free will. No longer is it the simple choice of the thing Mama and Daddy want and the horrible alternative. He realizes that there is a third option - WHAT HE WANTS. Freaking cognitive development We posed a “bath” versus “go to sleep” with Owen responding “No Daddy, I watch TB. I watch George.” “No, Owen, take a bath.” While yelling “No!!!”, he takes the cords to the TV pulls them all out. Since electrocution is something we in the McCall household frown upon, he was sent to his room for immediate three minute lockdown. You have not lived until your ears hear the symphony of the wailing angst of a three year old denied his Curious George. Punishment served, Owen leaves his room to apologize and take his bath. While getting undressed, it is clear Owen is pissed off. He is mumbling about George, TB and starting to blow spit bubbles. He knows this is something we hate. “Owen, if I see one bubble of spit, you are going into your room, to bed, without stories.” Owen adores his books. The threat of taking away his stories is akin to taking away my wine after a tough day. There will be tears, screams maybe the occasional punch. But within his demon raddled toddler brain, it was decided that tonight would be a pushing buttons kind of evening. He blew spit bubbles I could not see. I ignored this because the kid was totally right. I did said “If I saw one spit bubble.” Smart ass. He climbs into the tub, looks right at me and bites Maggie’s finger. That was it. “You are going to bed. Without stories.” You could immediately see that this was not his intention, as his face went to “WTF.” John took him out of the tub, put his PJs on said good night and closed the door. No stories. We listened to him scream as he recognized his poor choice. I went in and asked him if he would “Like to read stories to Maggie?” “I take bath.” “No bath, Owen, you bit Maggie.” “I sorry.” “I don’t care Owen, no bath, you can go to bed or you can read stories to Maggie.” “I read stories.” As we read stories to Maggie, he would look at me with the eyes of a puppy and then sort of glare - the bipolar toddler mind raging. John came in and I said, “What do you say to Daddy.” “No spitting, no pulling cords, no biting. I sorry.” Apology accepted, we read stories as a family. Then there were laughs and kisses, and love. He gave Maggie her bunny, tucked her in and then read stories with Daddy and feel asleep. The asshole contained, for now.

TS Eliot Was Right

Sometimes I joke about being cursed and having a guardian angel named Sully who is nothing but a mean spirited drunk with a penchant for causing misery. However, it is becoming quite clear that this is no mere exaggeration, it is fact. Case in point the last ten days, which have been sort of like hell, if hell involved children and vomit and whiskey and no sleep, so yeah, hell.

1. Maggie Becomes Ill, Monday, April 5, 2010. When receiving the call that Maggie “was throwing up,” I immediately left work and wondered if she was okay. Not worried at all because throwing up happens, and this kid is my second. First time mommy nerves are for wusses. But then she proceeded to projectile vomit every fifteen minutes for five hours. Oh that smell, holy god. It was pretty much scarring, in a years of therapy kind of way.

2. Maggie Is Better, Tuesday, April 6, 2010. Woah! That was a quick hitter wasn’t it? Maggie is back in the game. Had to be something she ate. Why did John even stay home? Stupid, stupid.

3. Maggie is Not Okay; Owen Joins the Fun, April 7, 2010. We drop Maggie off at daycare with instructions of a bland diet and Gatorade, saying “we think it was just something she ate.” Then after my run I receive a call “Owen threw up. Twice.” Awesome. I call John to get Owen and settle back to work. Another call, this time “Maggie, threw up everywhere. AGAIN.” Really? Really Satan? Nothing like two vomiting kids to brighten your day. The McCall House of Vomit is officially in business.

4. Owen and Maggie on the Mend; Cassie Vomits At Work, April 8, 2010. The kids are better, Owen totally fine. My stomach however is in an uneasy state of queasy. Nausea flowing at a steady clip so much so that twenty minutes after my run there is a rush to the ladies room. After which it is certain that everyone now thinks my weight loss had nothing to do with diet and exercise and everything to do with my now blossoming bulimia.

5. Maggie Throws Up On Me, AGAIN; April 9, 2010. Feeling better in all respects and thankful that the misery is behind us, Maggie awakes. I take her into the living room and sit her down wherein she projectile vomits all over me. Completely enveloped by that smell, I slither into the fetal position shaking. We finally go to the doctor where we are told that it is just a bug going around taking from two days to two weeks to remedy.

6. The McCalls Are Feeling Better; April 10, 2010. Everyone is on the mend. Things are going well aside from the fact that the kids think that 5:00/5:30 a.m. is an appropriate time to wake up. We have Saturday fun inclusive of park visits, swim lesson procurements and a Park Chalet visit. Tingly while walking home from my two Chalet beers, I ask John to “buy some Jameson.” After all, the week was tough.

7. I Did What? Owen’s Finger; April 11, 2010. When your husband turns to you in the morning and says “You don’t remember, do you?” Just tell him at that point “No, I don’t. And shut up.” Don’t ask “What do you mean?” Because then you will here this tale about how he woke up to you sitting on the side of the bed pinching him all over mumbling incoherent words. You will then go to the kitchen discovering an empty glass next to equally empty bottle of Jameson. So in addition to sleep walking, sleep talking, and sleep pinching, you also engage in sleep drinking. A rare breed indeed, and by rare breed, I mean completely nuts. Suddenly, that searing headache of yours has an answer, and its answer is - YOU ARE A SLEEP DRINKER (Trademark Pending). One who gets up in the middle of the night, and goes to the kitchen, gets a glass, pours a decent size whiskey drink, gulps same to wander into the bedroom to torment your husband with pinching fingers and words of the wacky.

Later in the morning, say 6:30 a.m. since your kids He-Devil and She-Devil wake up at 5:15, you notice that your son’s right hand middle fingertip is swollen and puss filled. (As a side note, although you can say “pus-sy” as in something that is filled with pus, you can never write that. NEVER.) You make a call, have a clinic appointment where they tell you it is “pus-sy” and needs antibiotics. Because Walgreens decides to have lunch that exact time, you kill an hour by getting your son shoes, a hot chocolate and a visit to the bookstore. It is there, Owen says “Mama, you can go now. I live in the bookstore.” So you do, have fun with the words weirdo.

8. 4:45 Is No Time To Wake Up; April 12, 2010 - But 3:30 a.m. is Worst; April 13, 2010. When I was in my 20s and slept until noon on a beautiful day and spent the rest of it in bed in front of a TV, the thought of doing something other than watching reruns of Gilligan’s Island would prop up. Now, no sir re, happy for every single second wasted. That type of rest will not be attainaible again until they lock me up in the ole Senior Center for Sleep Drinkers. You know why people who are old just all of a sudden doze off, because they had kids.

And there it is, my last few days. So to echo T.S. Eliot - April is the cruelest month. Especially since I no longer live in Boston which means no Monday holiday off, no morning Red Sox and no beer while cheering marathoners. April you suck. And the best part being: it is only half over.

As an aside: special thanks to John who had to work while taking care of Maggie, whose favorite activity these days is falling to the ground in a fit of frustration crying her banshee wail while kicking her feet every ten minutes or so (that and eat strawberries by the bushel). He is the best. Kinda. You know when you are drunk, from sleep drinking.

Historic Day

When getting dressed after my run today, I looked upon the tag on my way too big bra. Seriously, my boobs look like pin balls entangled in frilly laced machine: nipples cockeyed and gravity a cruel mistress. But this is your reward after two babies who each nursed a year. And let us not forget the sixty pounds I lost this year. The tag on the bra said 38DDD. Which meant that I had to be 36DD? Which meant Victoria’s Secret carried that size. Which meant fleeing my office giddy with the prospect that my days of playing knee soccer with my flesh were numbered.

I tried on every single 36DD bra that they had in the store. Thank you understanding sales associate who just gave me the 36DD bins to have at it after the words “just finished nursing”, “need support” and “I used to have really nice boobs, really.” Fifteen contenders later, I settled on the Victoria’s Bio Fit Bra and an uplifting demi underwire. Uplifting key as it refers to both spirit (mine) and the manual act of lifting, heavy lifting. Again, gravity plus pregnancy plus breastfeeding equals shield yee eyes children from ancient time honored horrors. But due to the advances in bra engineering, this girl once again possesses cleavage. C-L-E-A-V-A-G-E, bring on the free drinks sort of cleavage. My four year breast journey is best summed, as follows:

1. The starting point of 36 D.
2. The frightening heights of 38G.
3. The still need to lose the baby weight 38DDD.
4. The holy god not another pregnancy 38Fs.
5. The I don’t care if they are ugly and horrible and made by Playtex nursing I give up on life 38E.
6. The I lost 60 pounds, and stopped nursing, and need a bra capable of heroic feats 36DD.

Thank you Victoria’s Secret for saving me thousands in breast surgery. You are the best.

Did He Just Call Me Fat?

Last night Owen was resisting putting on his very cool outer space themed pajamas. A proven technique to get a toddler to do what you and not he wants is to pretend that you desire what he does not like. It is helpful to be overly animated and a tad bit psychotic. Something that is right up my alley.

“Oh Owen. What awesome alien PJs. I love those PJs. My PJs. Mmmmmmiiinnneeee.”
“No, no, these mine PJS.”
“No way Owen, mine, mine, mine. I want to wear them now.”
“No Mama, you too big.”

And just like that, I now have one child.

For Maggie On Her First Birthday.

Unlike your brother, I did not photo document your first year. You my find out someday that having one kid is easy, having a new baby with a two year old requires you to organize your time in such a way that you are not insane by 8:00 p.m. Today you turn a year, an entire year of your existence in our lives.

When taking the pregnancy test and getting a positive result, my immediate thought went to - it’s a boy. It’s a boy. I can’t wait, the mother of two boys, awesome. But this was all for show, I really, really, really wanted a girl. I wanted to be a mother to a daughter, and just thought boy in an effort to prevent disappointment. But then I got sick. Gut wrenching morning sickness every single morning for almost the entire nine months. I never got sick with your brother. I also got acne that would make a teenager happy not to be me. I was craving healthy things like pears, turkey sandwiches and salads. With Owen, it was a steady stream of ice cream, chocolate and glowing skin. When the 16 week ultrasound to reveal your sex arrived, I thought maybe, maybe it will be a girl. The ultrasound tech said immediately, “I know what it is.” Dad and I in unison said, “Boy.” At this moment, all the images of a dress clad, chin length brown haired girl gabbing a flowers in a grassy field vanished and was replaced with the horrifying image of me wiping clean the toilet of which three men made use. I still shudder at the image. But the tech said, “No, it’s a girl. A girl. I see labia.” LABIA! Never has something so disgusting in sound made me so ecstatic in thought. A baby girl. My girl. My daughter.

Months flew by. We survived bed rest and you being nine days late (please note that this is probably not the first time you have heard this - NINE DAYS LATE MAGGIE, NINE PAINFULLY LONG DAYS). Your dad likes to say that you came out, looked around and then went bananas, as if to say “no freaking way people.” You were beautiful even if you were totally pissed. You took to me immediately, settling into a nurse locking your eyes with mine. This is where my heart grew about twice its original size. The love was so immediate and so intense; I had to catch my breath. Although that might have been the entire giving birth vaginally part, but let’s just go with the love.

Maggie, you were an incredibly easy baby. I count myself extremely lucky to have had you. Within two days, at night you only woke up to eat, falling quickly back to sleep belly filled and content. Owen would smack you in the head, your response being only a blink as if to say “Bring it on, First Born.” Of course, for every blessing we had, there had to be that one thing. That is your cry. Never has a wail been so ear piercing and soul shocking. You want what you want, when you want it. Truthfully, this is something that makes me fearful of events in the next year. Especially since you already throw tantrums when you do not get your way, pretty much eight months early. However, this is not surprising, because you have done everything early: smiling at one month, rolling over at two, first teeth at three, sitting up at four, crawling at five, pulling up at six, cruising at seven and walking at eight. Dad and I like to say thank goodness we had Owen first. Or we would have thought he was tad slow, I mean he only walked at 10.5 months. Idiot.

So on this your first birthday, I can tell you that your gifts are the bright twinkle in your eyes at the realization of finally figuring something out, your contagiously happy smile that showcases your slightly cute dimples and your feisty spirited nature. Our gift is that you so effortlessly entered our family making it wholly complete. Maggie Nicole McCall, I cannot wait to see your path into the absolutely lovely and intelligent woman you will eventually become. As Owen said this morning, “Appy Birdday Mags. I wuve you.”

Proof I Am Cursed - A Continuing Series

I am currently about fifty-four hours into what some call “weaning”, but I like to lovingly refer to as my official return to alcoholism. Let’s face it, you cannot be a drunkard on wine and beer. For the distinction of alcoholic, you need vodka. Or whiskey. Which after an almost two year hiatus, this tongue had a taste of last night. Glorious. Even with the suffering of rock hard, pressure filled and horribly aching boobs. You want to know what the pain of the end of nursing is like. Imagine a balloon being filled with water. Keep on filling it. Keep going. Now what happens? Yes, it breaks. It bursts because it cannot take the amount of liquid that is bubbling inside. Now imagine that pressure being kept inside your boobs. Imagine the hot burn, the pain in every turn, the slow descent into insanity. Then punch yourself in the stomach repeatedly and often, because guess what? Your period, that thing you last saw around June 2008, has picked this week, of all weeks to return. Because searing breast pain is not enough, you must also be saddled with Advil resistant cyborg cramps. So yes, I am cursed. Is there any other feasible explanation?

Pretty

I took this photo getting off the NJudah the other night.

It Is Worth It

Sometimes as a parent you will stand holding your screaming banshee like child retreating inwardly to ask yourself was this worth it? Not to mention the fact that you have been sober for almost two years. But then one day your three year old son who is very curious about body parts says to you “Mama, what is that?” while pointing to your nether regions. Since you have a degree in Biology, you make use of it by saying “It is my vagina, Owen.” Your son turns to his Dad and says “Daddy, where is your vagina?” You then fall to the ground in a fit of laughter thinking, oh yes, absolutely worth it.

Out of the Mouth of Babes

My trip to Boston could be summed with one word “Family”. If using four, “a shitload of family.” It was great, I saw my nephew, cousins, aunts, uncles, parents and friends. Even though the plane ride to San Francisco was anxiety riddled hell. You want to torture a person - put them on a plane with an eleven month old that only wants to walk, explore and touch. It was so bad that when finally arriving, I saw John and burst into tears. Then I had a six pack. You may take the girl out of Boston, but you don’t take the Irish out of her. I have many great memories of my trip, but the following was worth its weight in gold.

My brother has a son Nicholas who is four and a half years old. I have not seen Nick since my visit in June of 2007, we did not really bond then because he was a toddler, and I had a six month old who really liked my boobies. As he sat at the dining room table drawing, I decided to join him. Nothing says bonding like a serious coloring session. Now I do not consider myself gifted in the art department, but I can draw. I can draw a dog, and it looks like a dog. People have said, “Wow, you can draw.” And I am all, “Bob Villa Bitches!”

We sat and I asked “Do you want me to draw anything?” This is where Nick said “Ncredible Ulk.” Seems my nephew has this speech issue where he drops the first letter of every word. He is getting help for this because although insanely cute at four and a half, I am pretty sure when you saunter up to some girl at a bar in college and ask “An I uy ou a ink?”, the evening is not going to end in a drunken grope session.

Unfortunately, I did not take a photo of my Hulk, but as Incredible Hulks go, it ranked an easy 7, possibly even an 8. Then I showed Nick. “The Ulk oesn’t ear nderwear, Assie” (The Hulk does not wear underwear, Cassie). You see I had drawn a pair of super hero undies for my Hulk. Granted, the kid was right. The Ulk does not wear Nderwear. He wears pants that are frayed because he just got super pissed off that some bitch on MUNI decided to wear an entire bottle of Whore Island perfume (side note: I am just guessing here). Not once did Nick say “Wow, Assie, good drawing.” Instead he showed me his Hulk, which was the size of a dime and a stick figure colored green. My guy had hair, frayed pants, bulging muscles and a menacing hulkish grin. But whatever, do I validate my drawing ability from the eyes of an almost five year old? Fuck yeah I do. So I did what any self respecting adult would do, I stopped drawing. And he did not even care in the slightest. Which means only one thing - this kid is his father’s son. Next year, he will be taking me up the bathroom to “do my hair” like the other girls. Yes, in high school my brother took pity on me and my social leper status to inquire of his harem how to perfect late 80s/early 90s styled hair. I am unsure what pain to you is, but at 16 years of age, this was debilitating.

Until August, Nicholas, until August.

Bring on the Binge!

Thinking of what I miss of Boston, I have realized that (aside from family and friends) about 80% of it is food related. In addition to the roast beef, foods I miss:

1. Oysters. Sure they have oysters in San Francisco, but what they don’t have much of is the Wellfleet. I love my oysters large and briny. And yes I am looking at you Kumamoto oyster, obviously the other San Francisco treat. You may call yourself an oyster, but if you were in a fight with a Wellfleet, your face would be a mass of blue and black and purple and your body broken.

2. Chinese Food. One would think living in a city whose population is forty percent Asian there would be Chinese food to impress and dazzle this tummy o mine. But nope, its sucks.

3. Clam Chowder. Although this may be negated due to my discovery of the Tadich Grille whose Boston style clam chowder is quite deliciously awesome. Don’t get me started on the bread that comes with it - sourdough awesomeness. But I can’t go there grab a cup and leave, so Clam Chowder at a local venue with a pack of oyster crackers, I miss you.

Now that I think about it, thank god I have been running for eight months, because I am pretty sure that my entire time in Boston will be stuffing my face with foods my belly use to adore.

IT’S FAMOUS AFTER ALL

At 10:50 p.m. this Thursday I will be setting off to Boston with Maggie in tow for a long weekend to celebrate the fact that my Dad is almost a senior citizen (sixty years old). What was originally thought as “no big deal”, is slowly making me insanely anxious. Not sure if I have reported my overactive and slightly macabre tendencies on this blog before (serial killers are awesome by the way), but let me say this. When I was in Amsterdam circa 1996 with a friend and was sick, that friend went out one night by herself - you see staying in a hotel room the size of a closet with a sick girl was not her idea of a good time in Europe. When I awoke in a haze of codeine cough medicine (sold in the drugstore!), she was not back. It was then, I came to the most logical conclusion for her absence, she was attacked and murdered. And as I sat in the dark thinking of her funeral, what I would say to her mother, she bounded in completely stoned, drunk and alive. Still my thoughts often go to criminally insane. Once I fell asleep in a tub, waking hours later convinced a serial killer was outside the bathroom door waiting to kill me. I stood at the door crying softly and getting dressed so that I could make my escape upstairs into my bedroom. Yep, I am that girl, the one who thinks someone is going to kill her but instead of running outside into the street screaming, I run upstairs to my room to my bed and under my covers. Because the knives of serial killers are nothing in the face of whatever Bed in a Bag my mom purchased that was on sale at Zayres. So, in an effort to curb my nervous imagination (the plane will go down), this week on the ole blog is Boston Week.

Those living in New England know of “The Famous Roast Beef”. It is everywhere and every sub shop has a version. Growing up I would often say to myself, why the hell is it famous? It’s a god damn roast beef sandwich with sauce on an onion roll. Duh. Flash forward to me living in San Francisco, PMSed, cranky, cursing and wanting nothing more that Famous Roast Beef sandwich. But it is no where to be found because San Francisco is famous for crab, sourdough bread, gay men and earthquakes, not roast beef. That is a New England treat, a tradition, and every so often, my brain will say to me - ROAST BEEF. ROAST BEEF. And I have to say, shut up brain, there is no roast beef here, but here is some fucking sourdough bread. But this weekend I get to say, one large roast beef, extra sauce please.

A Tale of Two M&Ms

When potty training, one must resort to bribery in order for the child to comply. Owen is potty trained, although still in pull ups, which will end soon. For #1 he gets an M&M and for #2, a matchbox car. Appropriately phrased, he is amassing a shitload of cars. So now we only reward “big poops” with cars. Yes people, this is my life.

On Tuesday night, there was a “little poop” where Owen asked “M&M, Mummy and Daddy?” I reached for the M&Ms which I keep in an old pickle jar (and yes, I recognize it is not Oklahoma circa 1933). Standard protocol is Owen reaching in and taking one M&M, something that he has been doing without issue for weeks. Accidently, he grabbed two. “Two?”, he said. “Two M&Ms”. His glee obvious. “No, Owen. Just one. Just one M&M, put the other one back.” With a look of pure confusion, there he stood, an M&M in each hand, directing his gaze between the jar and his M&M holding hands. “Owen, put back the M&M. You just get one. One only.” Looking at his face, you could see his brain completely engaged. The devil on one shoulder shouting “Eat them. Eat them both - NOW.” And the angel chirping, “Mommy said only one. Put the other one back.” Then it happened. He looked at me, he looked at John and with almost lightening speed popped both M&Ms in his mouth and laughed an almost cackle. He fooled us! Admittedly, the semi-stifled laughter John and I shared was probably not the best parenting move considering last night given the same opportunity, Owen stole a handful of M&Ms. I can say that this is one of my favorite moments with my son yet, because everyone has to give into the devil sometimes, especially in the face of M&Ms.

Belle of the Weight Loss Ball

Two things about losing a bunch of weight: (1) people notice and like to go on and on about it and (2) you realized that you must have been really fucking fat. Although, was I? Yes, I have gone down 3 sizes, almost 40 pounds since starting work (60 since having Maggie) and am venturing into Fit Year (holler 1998) territory. But was I that big? Being tall, I can carry more pounds than most, but the reaction from all is getting a tad hysterical. My favorites being the following:

You're still running? Yes I am still running. I like it now. Who knew? You know how they tell you about running and its addictive properties, but no one ever explains it to you because there are two types of people - those who run and those who don’t. It’s kinda like a secret society, and the first time out you are running with the runners, but you are not one of them, you like to pretend to be. And boom, seven months later, you don’t run for three days and suddenly you are getting trembles, shouting at people like a crack whore in need of a fix. So yeah, it is fucking addictive.

Good for you. This is by far my favorite of the all the comments, only because I am insane and can’t help to think the person just said “Good for you (you fucking cunt, I hate you).” Because that is how I would feel. I would be, holy Jesus, here she comes again with her thinner face, and her running, and her smaller sweaters. Why does she mock me and my big butt? WHY!!!!! Asshole.

So yes, I am a tad off. Is this even news?

From the Mouth’s of Babes

Yesterday morning as I sat on the couch, looking at Owen I exclaimed: “Boy, am I tired.” He looked at me, and without any hesitation said, “Take a nap, Mommy.” I am also pretty sure, he thought to himself “Good god, what a stupid bitch”.

Horror of Horrors

Last night was the first attempt at the night wean. What is a night wean you ask? Well a night wean is when you stop feeding your baby with your boob at night. Surprisingly, it went extremely well, meaning tonight will probably be hell. But I care not, you know why? Because I was running today and had to place my building access card in my jog bra. When my run was completed, I searched for the card. As I stood there groping my breasts, there was nothing. Did it fall out? Did I lose it? Wasn’t it just there? But then, a slight tinge. Hand down my shirt and into my bra, there it lay, my 1 1/2 inch by 3 inch card completely hidden under my right tit. So when Maggie is difficult tonight, I will go to my special place - a place that does not involve boob girth capable of playing hide and seek with a god damn building security badge. 38 days!

Look Out, Here I Come

I just booked a trip to Boston for the last week of February in order to celebrate my father’s 60th birthday. This also means that there will be a huge snowstorm during my trip which will cause my slow descent to insanity at an airport because Maggie will be accompanying me on the journey. Nothing says awesome like being stuck in an airport with a kid about to turn one who can run. Do you know there are some babies who don’t even walk until after a year? Me either. Because my kids decided to do it 10.5 months and 8.5 months. And please don’t take this as bragging, because it is not. Those two kids are assholes. Which makes me wonder, what the hell is the rush? Are they trying to get away from me? So yes, Boston noreasters pay attention to my call - do not come between February 25 and March 2, 2010. Thank you very. Those unfamiliar with a “noreaster”, it is basically a snow storm that comes to town to dump a foot of snow on you only to get caught up in the ocean and turn around to pound you with snow again. Basically, a snowstorm bitch slap. Wish me luck.

Defiance

At this moment, I should be in my office’s lactation room listening to the gasping wheeze of my Avent Isis Duo collecting breast milk for my second born. But I don’t want to. This decision will almost certainly lead to the manual pumping of an overly full right bosom at approximately 8:30 p.m. and the lamenting of said decision. Do you know today marks fifty days. Fifty days from today, I will be free. My time served. I have been wondering of late when the day approaches, what emotions will bubble. Sadness for the fact this is it, no more babies? Accomplishment for the fact I did this year long sentence twice for both of my kids? Happiness that Maggie is a year old and we made it without killing her, Owen or each other? Joy that I can finally drink vodka, whiskey and tequila? Not really sure (well other than the fact there will be joy in the form of a Manhattan), but I am stumbling to finish this nursing marathon. I want it over, I want it done, and I want a non-pornographic bosom. I cannot wait for March 5, 2010 to arrive. Its been a long haul.

Resolved - Twenty Ten

Yes, I know there was a promise of a blog post about new year resolutions using the term “tomorrow” that was never delivered. But honestly, did you really expect one? Now that it is almost a week later, I feel comfortable saying I made no resolutions. Because I am not retarded. Although that could be up for debate. The thing about resolutions is that you are resolving to do something that you should have done ages ago, but it is a start and I for one should not be negating the good they may bring. So let’s shut up about it. Personally, 2010 will be about running since I have booked a trip to Boston for the first two weeks of August. Nothing provides motivation like seeing people you have not seen in three years, and in some cases twenty-one years as there is a promise of a grammar school reunion. Gotta love the Facebook. So yes, I will continue to run. Weighing myself last week it was revealed less than four pounds were left to attain goal weight. Woo hoo. However, I did something I should not have, I searched the ideal weight for someone 5’9. The answer between 128 and 168 depending on frame size. To determine frame size one put their middle finger and thumb around their wrist. If you overlap, you are small; if you touch, medium; and if you can’t connect, then large. Since god likes to laugh at me and curse me often, I was born with very small wrists. Tiny in fact. Don’t arrest me officer, because this Houdini will be escaping via her slender wrists. But this means I should lose 20 more pounds to be “ideal”. Twenty freaking pounds. Which seems absolutely insane, but we shall see. God knows I am not giving up my friends wine, beer and brownies, but I resolve to continue my running, eating healthy and see how it goes. Are you with me?

Oh My How the Time Flies - 2009 The Recap

Oh my god, it’s the end of the year don’t you know it, and what do I have to show for it? Other than a few more wrinkles. The following sums up my year. Holy God I am boring.

January 2009. I spent most of this month in bed on bed rest due to pregnancy. This would be the month I started to grow my second ass. Many would think that the growth of a second ass would be sweet, you know those in circus and carnival circles, or those in a large ass fetish community, but for me, not so much.



February 2009. Still on bed rest. It is here that my second ass really began to define itself. I ate a bunch, I watched a bunch of crappy TV and I attempted to crochet a baby blanket (which remains incomplete).



March 2009. This is the month where I basically went insane. I was off bed rest and expected my second baby to arrive any day as she was due on March 14. Because those assholes at BabyCenter say second babies come bigger and sooner. LIARS. Nine days later, on March 23, 2009, I gave birth to a baby we decided to name Maggie Nicole McCall.



April through May 2009. Not much here. Take care of baby, feed baby, watch baby smile, watch Owen try to kill baby, stop Owen from killing baby. Repeat. Also stopped Maggie from taking up with Somali pirates. Oh, and Happy Birthday John!



June 2009. I return to work after a six month absence. There is no cake. This is good because this month I begin to battle Azzilla by running at lunch on the Embarcadero. Although calling it running is a stretch since I basically walked, jogged and coughed a lung.

July 2009. No idea. Fireworks I am sure. Did continue with the running which actually resembles running. This marked the month in which some lady took me aside when running to tell me about a “sports bra”, yes, obviously my bounce was that bad. Got a new Iphone, I wonder why?



August 2009. Two lovely weeks spent at the cabin where Owen learned how to jump out of his pack and play and I learned how to wail to God as to why he has forsaken me.

September 2009. Maggie is six months, things are easier, life is better, my ass is half its old size. I made this pizza.



October 2009. I turn thirty-six. Three to the Six to the I am old. Can someone please explain to me how I became thirty six years old, because just the other day I was twenty-two at X night at Axis and some guy bought me a Zima with Chambord. Stay Classy, Cassie!



November 2009. Turkey Turkey. Owen decided to get a fever on Thanksgiving, and basically turn into most pathetic toddler ever. I made a turkey and a blueberry pie. Sometimes, I really do wish I could marry me.



December 2009. Since this month is the most fresh in my child having, riddle with inaccuracies and yes I do sometimes to talk to my self so shut the hell up mind, I recall my son turning three years old and having Christmas with five children 3 years of age and under and wine, lots of it. Also Owen’s potty training is taken to a new level, all I want for Xmas is a kid who does not poop in his underwear. Thanks for nothing Santa.



Tomorrow, goals for the new year!

One Love

I think everyone has an idea as to what sort of parent they would be, permissive, strict, middle of the road and everyone has steadfast “I’ll never”s. Some of mine being I’ll never hit my kids (well at least when sober so I can’t remember) and I’ll never try to be the cool parent (because really do I want to be friends with my kids - hell no. I want slave labor). But today I broke one of these “I’ll never”s. Today, I bought my son Owen a tie dye shirt. It is no secret that all things hippie make me angry, to Birkenstock socked feet, to the Grateful Dead, to white people with dreadlocks, to the general retardness of something that happened fifty years ago and should be a glimmer in everyone’s eyes. Again, surprising I moved to San Francisco. And why did I have to buy my son a tie dye shirt with gigantic peace symbol on it? Because his preschool class are being rasta reindeer and performing Bob Marley’s One Love for their holiday show. Yes, 3 year old Rastafarians, singing and dancing to Reggae for Christmas. When thinking of reindeer, I think Rudolph, red noses and holiday cheer, I don’t think of tie dye clad toddlers with fake dreadlocks and antlers signing One Love. But I can't lie, I love that this is happening, even if it means that Owen does now owns a hippie peace shirt. Because let's face it, there are always matches, but not many opportunities for your son to be embarrassed 10 years from now as Mom whips out Rasta Reindeer 2009 for the 1,000th viewing.

Pooping Boots

Yesterday it was a pigeon flying into my head, and today it was an accidental pooping. Yes, you read that right. In God’s effort to humiliate me into being a lard ass, yesterday he summoned a pigeon with the flying experience of a blind man to smack me upside my head, and today he summoned my stomach into a state of rumbling that only creates fear. No motivation to increase speed is bigger than that of a potential pooptastic accident on the Embarcadero. I made it, thank god. This week has also marked not one, not two but six different people telling me how much weight I have lost. An insanely great accomplishment considering I thought that my five months of running was for the caloric intake consumed this past Thanksgiving weekend. Blueberry pie bitches! That being said, yesterday my jcrew boots came (see below) and today I will be venturing to The Gap in order to try on skinny and straight leg jeans so that I can tuck them into said boots. I know people, the fashion! Hopefully I will not chicken out as this once again seems a very “costumey” way to dress, but these boots are quite lovely and I have seen many a gal about town with a largesse more than me do same. And so it continues, my slow crawl out of the coma of pregnancy and baby having into the sunlight of being myself with a new pair of kick ass boots.

OMG

As I was stepping onto the Embarcadero to begin my run up flies a scared pigeon who proceeds to slap its body into the left side of my head. I kid you not. Do you know that pigeons are flying rats? They are. Also did you know that you always think they are going to hit you in the head and you move awkwardly to avoid them, but the don't hit you and you look like a complete jack ass. But my pigeon obviously a lover of the drink, flies and hits me in the god forsaken head. So what did I do? I continued to run while cursing how gross it was and thinking of the bird lice now hatching eggs in my hair. Good lord I hate pigeons. Hate, hate, hate, hate. So now in addition to pooping on me twice a year, they have added "bitch slapping upside the head" to the mix. I need a protective helmet.

2, 4, 6, 8 - We Don't Like To Separate

That is the face of a baby that does not want me to leave. EVER. Yes dear friends, it is separation anxiety time at the McCall household. Separation anxiety is when your baby knows who you are, that they like you, that you are fun, and oh yeah, you carry those treasures that provide a steady supply of frothy milky bliss and if you leave them, they think you have stumbled into a black hole of non-existence so they start to panic and cry uncontrollably. Babies are so stupid. This is the stage in which Maggie has to grasp onto Object Permanence, wherein she recognizes that when I leave to go into another room, I still exist. I told you they were stupid. This does not really cause too much of a problem, but at night, after I nurse her and try to slip her back into her crib she is revolting. Because she is all - hey booby lady, where are you? Where are you? WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? I love my daughter, and for the most part, she has been a wonderfully easy baby. But for that all goodness, there had to be one bad. And that bad is a cry that is absolutely piercing and ultimately destructive to my nerve core. It sounds as if she is being stabbed to death, it is not a cry - it is a gut wrenching wail of wounding. I can’t listen to it without an immediate twitch in my right eye combined with a searing pain behind my temples. All those not familiar with the wail of banshees, I submit to you the following: In Irish Folklore is a spirit in the form of a wailing woman whose appearance is an omen that you will die. Although in Maggie’s case, it is just that I want to die. Oh, separation anxiety, how the hell did I forget about you? Oh yes, I know, because one tends to block out traumatic injuries to the psyche.

The Beast Within

What just occurred in the ladies bathroom was absolutely gruesome in nature. Have you ever had a pimple in your nose? Or Nasacne, little buggers of excruciating pain that pop out of nowhere to create havoc in your life. Do you realize how many times you touch your nose in a day? Why surely, not because you are not obsessive compulsive and insane. But imagine a pimple eligible for statehood in your right nostril and you have allergies. Egads! After six hours of what must have been an extreme growth spurt I inspected the specimen. Good god, its large size and white nature surprised me so. There was no other answer; it had to be dealt with. I grabbed a Kleenex and prayed no one entered the bathroom as I stood nose up to the mirror with fingers probing. There are many things in life I aspire to be, weirdo at work, not one of them. In what can only be attributed to Twister like gifts - right hand on forehead, left hand on nose - I managed with a shriek and tear filled eye to pop said beast. Except for the fact that my nose bled like it was 1985 and Michael J. Fox in Bright Lights, Big City, success was had.

The Birthing of Maggie Nicole

Yesterday on my run it occurred to me that I never did detail the magic that was the birth of Ms. Maggie Nicole McCall. In an effort to correct this huge injustice, and also let her understand what exactly she did to me on March 23, 2009, I submit the following.

After eight weeks of bed rest, four weeks of wondering if she would come early, the due date of March 14, 2009 came and went. This did not surprise me since her brother was eleven days overdue, and I was still hoping for a St. Patty’s Day baby. At my doctor’s appt on March 16, I was asked if I wanted to be induced. No doctor, I would rather continue my life as the world's largest woman not currently in a circus. Of course, induce me. Unfortunately, St. Patrick’s Day was booked. This was probably for the best considering a daughter named Maggie McCall born on St. Patrick’s Day is just screaming for hospitalization during a future twenty-first birthday party. The next date available was Thursday, March 19. It was during this appointment I was told that my cervix was 100% effaced and dilated 4 cm and basically my baby would be coming at any moment. However, they did not know Maggie “I love my womb” McCall, because on Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. as instructed, I called the hospital. If you have never been pregnant, let me tell you that 40 plus weeks of pregnancy without a baby does something to the mind and spirit. It is an anxiety mixed with zero patience and the slightest bit of crazy. I gave the nurse my information and she told me “Sorry, but we are really busy, call back at 9:00 a.m.” So I did. I was then greeted with the information that there was no way I would be induced today. It was here when my I had a psychotic break, as I put the phone down, went into the bathroom, sat on the toilet and cried the howls only the overly pregnant can make. My doctor called later in the day to say that she was sorry, but there was nothing they can do, and my new induction date was Monday. She also said she thought I would not go over the weekend. Placing bets? Correct! On Monday, I called again and this time got the okay to come. Hooray - baby exit, stage vagina. Also it should be noted that if I was denied admittance, I would have gotten a coat hanger. Just saying.

To the hospital we went. Surprisingly, we were given the very room we were going to have Owen in before it was discovered that the TV did not work and there was an upgrade to birthing room Shangri-la. But I was fine with this room, because this bitch was getting her eviction notice. The plan was to break my water, because I was already so dilated and effaced, labor would start pretty soon after. Yippee.

I was offered an epidural and since I vividly remember my OB/GYN up to her elbows inside me after my placenta with Owen detached I wholeheartedly said yes. However, since with my first epidural and a puncture of my spinal fluid that in turn created the worst mind numbing headache known to man, I was cautious. I told the anesthesiologist exactly what happened, and he said okay. Also he wanted to know the doctor’s name, which I did not know, because I am pretty sure when you do puncture the spinal fluid, the other anesthesiologists think you are a fucking retard. This guy however claimed to be “super good.” And I was all “Okay, buddy, whatever.”

It is here that I should also mention our nurse. Because I was 100% effaced, 4 cm dilated and this was my second baby, it was thought I would “go fast” when my water was broken. This nurse was assigned to me, and only me. And that nurse had no sense of humor. In fact, at one point when John, his mother and I were all cracking jokes, she said to us “Oh, I get it, you are funny people” in a heavy Asian accent and a look of complete scorn. Yes, lady, we are funny people, now do me a favor and get the funny progeny out of my funny vagina.

So back to the epidural (get it, “back”?). The numbed me accordingly. And Mr. Expert got to work. After what I can only guess was forty-five minutes, twenty plus pokes and me sweating profusely in pain, he decided to abandon the space where you usually put the needle and go one above. Guess what people? Epidurals are actually not that bad and only take two minutes. Seems in addition to having a freakishly long back, I also have an “elusive” space between my L4 and L5, and that he recommended in the future they go in L3 and L4. As if I am going to have any more kids asshole.

After my epidural, they came in to break my water. Do you know they break your water with what pretty much looks like a big crochet hook? So honestly, I could have gone up there with a wire hanger and been fine. It was a breeze. Okay, contractions. Let’s go! We waited, and waited. There was nothing. No blip on the Contract-In-Nator. Nothing but a steady line of you will never have this baby. It was here that my nurse started to get a bit pissed. She would come in, look at us funny people, and then silently swear to herself as to why I was not going into labor. I mean I was 4 cm dilated, 100% effaced and they broke my water three hours ago. Then she mentioned the magic word “pitocin”. Do you want pitocin? Hell yes, I want pitocin. And then it happened. Contractions. Glorious, sweet, wonderful contractions. But the Contract-In-Nator was not recording them, but I sure as hell was feeling them. It was then decided that the baby would have internal monitors because they could not get an accurate reading on her heartbeat. This was about thirty minutes after the contractions had started, and as they reached in to put them on Maggie’s head, it was discovered I was fully dilated. Have I mentioned to you how much I adore the inventor of Pitocin? I am pretty sure both Maggie and Owen would still be in my uterus at this moment playing a game of pinochle if not for its invention. As our nurse fluttered about the room, happy to do something other than try to understand our humor and roll her eyes at my belly, I was happy. Truly happy that this pregnancy was coming to an end, and I would finally see Maggie. They then told me to do a practice push, so that they could determine my pushing ability. I pushed, and then the nurse said “Stop, I am calling your doctor.” That is right, I had that kid’s head pretty much out with one push, and my doctor had to race over so that she could say to me, “Okay, Cassie, push.” I did and Maggie was out. Two pushes bitches!

John told me that basically Maggie came out with a face of “Hello? What the hell? Oh my god!” And the tears came, and they put her on my belly. I gazed upon the back of her head full of dark hair while John and his mom gushed over her beauty. I then became progressively pissed off, as evidenced in the photo below.

Because Owen had pooped himself, and I had a detached placenta I did not see him and pretty much thought I was going to die. This time, I carried Girlzilla for 40 weeks, 9 days and 8 weeks of bed rest and all I got to see was the god damn back of her head. But then I did see her, and she was absolutely gorgeous. (Have I told you that people say we look alike? Take that as you will.).

Maggie Nicole McCall, born in two pushes on March 23, 2009 at 3:58 p.m. to “funny people.”

I Like Big Butts

Today as I was perusing Nordstroms.com for some denim, I stumbled across the following:


I like the fact that Nordstroms just goes out there with this. They don’t simply say “available in plus sizes”, they say - here is a big ole denim covered ass for your perusal. Whoah! Once again I am involved in the frantic search for jeans because the ones that I loved from The Gap are now too big. Which is great in the sense my ass is no longer that big, but sad in the sense it took me a very long time to find those jeans. Also, I don’t know what it is, but I pretty much want to set a match to everything I own and start over. But I am cheap, and hate shopping so there is that. So if you are reading this, why don’t you nominate me for What Not To Wear. Thanks.

Reason #257

I am suffering from a cold, and it is a total lingerer. Although starting to feel symptoms last Monday, nothing truly manifested itself until Wednesday evening. Now a week later from that Wednesday evening it feels as if my head is surrounded in a green snot haze. For the first three days, I pretty much wrote it off to allergies, because I like to do that. I am not one to ride the sickness pity party parade. Its allergies, dude. But nope, this is not allergies, this is a cold. And like any crazy person with denial about illness, I ran yesterday, with a chest cold. In all honesty, I can say it was okay, I felt better. But then this morning, I woke up. The worst part about all of this is that because I am breastfeeding there is nothing to take. I can’t Nyquil into hazy facial recognitions and purple ponies, nor can I Dayquil in order to make my officemates not look at me with abject fear. I take Halls Menthol Cherry Drops and this Vick’s Vapor Rub nasal shot that looks like I am doing cocaine. And this is reason #257 I will be happy to stop nursing in March 2010. Go Immune System!

Spanx You Very Much

It is a well documented fact that when your uterus is used to grow a child, after you expel said life sucker, err baby, you tend to fall off the current fashion trends bandwagon. Where once there were heels, dresses, straight ironing and applied make-up now there is a slapping of tinted moisturizer, a brushing of lip gloss, a quick comb and hopefully no baby gooped clothing. For those scoring at home today proved to be unsuccessful. This is why when on maternity leave watching the Today Show’s Fourth Hour hosted by Kathie Lee and Hoda that I first heard of Spanx. Later in the week, Spanx was again mentioned, this time on Oprah. Seems when I was birthing babies a revolution of under garments occurred. And did anyone tell me? Nope. Because of an impending wedding, I decided to buy some Spanx. I mean if Oprah tells you it’s a must, IT IS A MUST. Even though there is seemingly another fashion trend of women wearing no panty hose (someone? anyone?), I ordered the high waisted, tummy tucking, thigh shaping nylon Spanx in nude. I am sorry, but my ancestors come from Ireland, there is no way these very white legs should be seen by the public. The only time someone needs to be witness to such blindingly white light, is after they die. Truth told, after ordering these twenty-eight dollar essentially control top hosiery, I felt there was no way the buzz could live up to the product. Walgreens sells the same thing for $4.99. When my Spanx arrived, I looked upon them with a fear that is only shared by victims of torture, this was some serious engineering. No way would these things ever be comfortable. But as I put them on, it occurred to me, who was I to doubt Oprah Friggin Winfrey. Holy cow, the comfort. Also did I mention that have a pee hole? Because they do. A god forsaken pee hole, “to make your life easier”. Why thank you Spanx, I appreciate you thinking of me being drunk and trying to pee when wearing an almost chastity belt. You rock. So yes, although my womb has housed two, I am getting back into the fashion game. First with Spanx, and someday, god willing, black diamonds.

Farmer's Market Betrayal

On Sunday morning in our weekly attempt to get Owen worn out significantly in order to watch football in peace, and by peace I mean him running around the house yelling “Play Niners Daddy. Tickle!! Tickle!!”. Tickle meaning tackle, and Niners meaning football. As a Patriots fan hearing these words from my son’s mouth fractures my heart each and every time. We journeyed to the Stonestown Farmers Market which has two jumpy houses. Thank you Stonestown Mall for thinking of me and my football Sundays. Sure I can’t go to Zeke’s and drink pitchers while drunkenly conversing with other Patriots fans about how picking up a Patriots running back always kills my fantasy football team and how pretty Tom Brady is, but I can have my son jump around an inflatable plastic orb so that he will be dazed and confused enough to allow something other than Cars and Monsters, Inc. to be played on the television. Yesterday after Owen had exhausted his ticket supply, we walked around the market wherein I saw this jewelry vendor. If one ever frequents Farmer’s Markets, usually the jewelry is pretty much turquoise and whatever else the stoned not very washed hippie making it decided to create. But in this display case was a most beautiful necklace. Looking I was immediately drawn in by its beauty, its dark metallic gray undertones, its shiny, and its absolute awesome. Oh pretty necklace, I love you so. Before even asking the vendor about the necklace and disregarding my fundamental cheapitude, I thought to myself that even if it was two hundred and fifty dollars, it would be mine. It would be mine! Then the following conversation was had:

Me: Hi, can I see that necklace. What is that? A metallic gray?
Vendor: Lovely choice. These are black diamonds.
Me: Laughter. (Thinking - oh sure, diamonds, right. At a Farmer’s
Market? Funny.)
Me: Its so beautiful, how much is it?
Vendor: 1000.
Me: One Thousand DOLLARS?!?!?!
Vendor: Yes, it is not something one typically finds at a Farmer’s Market.
Me: No shit, asshole.

It was then I thanked him and walked away dejected. It is not a lie to say that for over ten years I have searched for a perfect necklace. And yesterday, that necklace was found. With a price tag of a thousand dollars. Usually, this would not upset me so because I tend to avoid high end jewelry stores for this very reason. But at a Farmers Market? A one thousand dollar necklace for sale at a god forsaken FARMERS MARKET. I am unsure what a black diamond is, but I am sure of one thing - it stopped my heart. My eyes became saucers of adoration. I should have punched that vendor in the mouth, took the necklace and ran off to Kauai with it. But nope, I just went on the internet and further hurt myself by googling “black diamond necklaces” for an hour. Oh black diamond strand necklace, will you ever be mine? Will you? Also, anyone reading this right now, please note my birthday is Friday.

My Imagination

When I started running, it never occurred to me that seventeen weeks later there would be this amount of pain. A pain that is completely and utterly isolated in my triceps. It hurts to type, which I do believe is an indication of one hell of a sore. Logically all I can come up with is that my body is attacking the last true bastion of fat laden cells. When thinking of losing weight, I imagine little beasts consuming the fat stores that lay upon my body. Which scientifically is pretty fact based; however, I don’t believe most people believe it looks like this:



Eat em up my little purple monster. Eat em up.

Eff You Great Britain

I just finished ordering possible outfit number three for a wedding I am attending in November.

Outfit No. 1 was from J.Crew and tragically incapable of holding my ginormous nursing boobs. I actually ordered the dress a size up in an attempt to house said monstrosities. Unfortunately the size up meant that my chest area was still sausaged while the bottom of the dress could smuggle a family of five across the Mexican border. It was at the point I realized that I either had to do a wrap or a two piece. No dress without tons of alterations would do, and since I am not nursing forever (although it seems like it at times), there is no way Cheapskate McCall would spend money on something so unnecessary.

Outfit No. 2 is a simple black wrap dress with 3/4 sleeves that I got at Macy’s for the absolute low, low price of $64.00 bux. This is a great dress, and perfectly acceptable for the wedding, even though it cries boring. But in a fix, it will do. And every girl should have a black wrap in her wardrobe.

Today I got an e-mail from Boden declaring “new winter outfits.” And on perusal, I instantaneously feel in love with a 50s styled beaded cardigan and sateen skirt. A two piece wedding appropriate outfit that when paired with my black suede Mary Janes would make a girl skip. In my head, Cheapskate McCall was all “you have a dress, it fits, why bother?” But I was all shut up, I am acting on impulse, and I still get 10% off and free shipping, so quite down you ole bat. (Again, isn’t it is amazing I am let among the people?).

However, fine folks, do you know that Boden has UK sizing. I looked at the UK Sizing Charts to discover that even though I have lost forty-five pounds since having Maggie, and am finally in my old size (even though I still have 15 pounds to go), I still had to order a size up because it said “if you are a larger size then please order up for the UK equivalent.” Uh-huh. Talk about a fashion bitch slap. I will not be moving to London, EVER!

I never thought that one of the most important relationships in my life would be with the following:

What is that you ask? That is my breast pump. Every working day, five times a week, three times a day for 15 minutes a time, my Avent Isis Duo molests me. In addition to working for the man, I am working for the mammaries. This pump has lasted an entire year with Owen, and god willing, through these last five months with Maggie even though it sometimes delivers an exasperated wheezing that begs to ask “Aren’t you done with this shit yet?” No breast pump, I am not done with this shit. You will know when that time has come because I will be coming to you in a drunken vodka haze with a sledgehammer. You can imagine that this is a whole bunch of alone time with my exposed boobies. I usually pass the time with my Iphone, Nintendo, a book or just staring at how far that god damn machine can stretch my nipples. I am talking inches people. There are times, I forget to lock the door of our lactation room while pumping. That is what they call it here - not the Milk Mecca or the Conference Room Boob - but “Lactation Room.” I know that public education being as it is might make someone say “Lactation?” What is that? I should investigate. And sometimes with unlocked door, you do get a curious visitor. Once very heavy set woman in her fifties entered, someone obviously not lactating or in need of a lactation room, but medical science being as it is and the average age of first time San Francisco mothers hovering around 45, maybe she was. But my answer was quickly found in her reddened face at the sight of me, my boobs and awesome hum of the Isis Duo. I see this woman sometimes around the office, and want to shout “You saw my boobies!!! You say my boobies!!”, but refrain. I think she was scared straight. A few weeks ago, our wellness room was being used. That is what we call the nap room. Yes, there are adults who take naps at work. Who knew! Anyway, there was a knock on the door, and I was asked if a woman who was not feeling well came in to rest on the couch. Hmmm, let me think, some sick woman wants to rest her head while I sit her with my boobs out pumping breast milk to a pump that sounds like it is saying “you whore” “you whore” “you whore”. Ah, nope. Does she? I don’t think the term awkward quite defines how I felt as she lay on the couch with closed eyes while I played Bedazzled 2 on my Iphone. But let me say I am happy for wine and beer. I really am.

Mine Eyes Have Seen The Glory of the Coming Of Old Age

For the past few weeks, I have been suffering from pretty intense headaches that make their way from dull ache to blinding pain back to dull ache, so an eye doctor appointment was made because my last visit was almost three years ago. I’ll admit that my first thought was I had some sort of stroke or aneurysm, but then I figured that this was am impossibility not due to the unlikely chances, but the simple fact an IUD was removed from my gut not three weeks ago. God could not be that cruel. I think this way often, my house was burned in a fire in 1991 so there is no way in hell my house could ever catch fire again. Right? That would be just too terrible. But then you hear about these people who have been struck by lightening twice, and a rethinking my position starts. At the eye doctor yesterday, after a series of brutal tests. My favorite being the eye puff one. Man, is that not the most awesome thing ever? I want that job. You tell a person to blink, open their eyes as wide as they can and then puff some air in their eye at any given moment. There is no warning, just boom, eye puff. I love it. I explained to the doctor about my headaches, and she then said “Are you tired?” Am I tired? Hmmm, let me think about this. Well I have an almost three year old son, and a six month old daughter who has never gone 4.5 hours between feedings. I don’t think tired is quite the word to describe me, walking dead, zombified and oogly dark circle eyes all much better. It was there that the doctor informed of the need to under script my glasses for reading and the computer. Under script? Under script? You mean reading glasses! Yes, that is what she meant. I am thirty-five years old, soon to be thirty-six years old at the end October and was just told I needed reading glasses. After hearing the news, John said “You are an Old Hag.” Indeed, John. Indeed.

At A Loss

The other day I was getting off my stop on the N-Judah, when this man out of no where starts running for the train going “Oh wait, wait, wait.”, just as the doors closed. He then said “Shit.”, taking out a cigarette and lighting it while looking up the street for the next train. I will now like to point out that my stop is the second to last stop on the train. The last stop is two blocks or a five minute walk from where he smoked. It has been three days since this happened, and I still don’t know what the hell was going on. Welcome to San Francisco.

On the Downcurve

Let me explain the above diagram.

The head at the beginning is representative of March 23, 2009. The day in which my vagina expelled a human life into the world (and yes, I could have used the term “gave birth”, but let us all not sugar coat it, okay?). The peak, or apex, is today September 23, 2009, six months from the date in which a human head was pushed into the world by me, one lone girl who really likes to drink. This brings me to the end point which is six months from now, where a big ole vodka filled martini glass waits. This represents the end of breastfeeding, the return of my very big, but not pornographically so boobies, and my return to the sweet joys of hard liquor. There is only so much beer and wine I can drink (and never to the point of drunkenness). I miss being drunk. I think it is fun. And maybe that will land me in AA someday, but until I hit rock bottom, I look forward to the end of this year long nursing my baby because it is really good for her and how could I not road. Hooray!

I'm Alive

I suppose it would be considered poor form to go on and on about an impending surgery, only the day before the surgery to end all communication. Consider me evil. I did not die on the operating table. Thank god, because I can imagine what that would be like in heaven:

Heaven Inhabitant: Wow, you are pretty young? What happened? Car Accident? Cancer?
Me: Uh, no.
HI: Murder?
Me: No.
HI: Did you fall?
Me: No. I got an IUD, it punctured my uterus, and I had to have surgery, and I guess I died.
HI: That sucks.
Me: Tell me about it.

Dr. Lofquist with her quick and nimble fingers got the IUD out in five minutes. I received two cuts (one in my belly button, and one right on my bikini line, a few bruises and a bottle of vicodin. A win, win for sure. The pain the next day started getting pretty bad, so I made sure to take a vicodin every 3.5 hours. And let me tell you, as I lay in bed that night, after some wine (of course), I felt as if lapping waves were gently taking over my entire body, and it was awesome. It was here I understand that someone could get addicted to pain medication. I totally forgive you Burt Reynolds.

So that is that. My next surgery should be the removal of my lipoma on my shoulder. What is a lipoma you ask? Well it is a sac of fat that just turns up on your body and grows. I have had mine for almost 11 years now, and although initially small it has decided to have a growth spurt it seems. Ah puberty. I need to think about a lie so that my doctor will remove it because it seems that it might be medically unnecessary. How is having a permanent softball size skin growth on your shoulder necessary? Other than a head rest.

Frankly, my life has pretty much been all about Fantasy Football and the return of Mad Men, John Deere Footectomy being amazingly awesome. Finally a TV show delivers. If you don’t know what this is about, I pity you. I leave you with this photo, a Football Sunday:

T Minus Forty Eight Hours

It is forty-eight hours before someone cuts me open to get a rogue IUD out of my pelvis. Readers, please note that I have decided to turn this sad medical story into the tantalizing tale of a rogue IUD incapable of handling the Mirena protocol. It did only what it could, and that was pierce my uterine wall to escape. It now lays in my pelvis trying to figure out its next move, but can’t really concentrate because it is right next to my bowels, and even though I don’t eat Kashi I Will Make You Have Gas Pains That Mirror Contractions, it is still really loud.

Today I had an x-ray. The technician said to me, “Would you like to see?” “Hell yes baldy, I would love to see.” I then glanced upon my screen, and there right above my hip bone, my Mirena IUD looking like an anchor on the ship of cruelty that is my life lay. On the table beforehand, this guy informs me how that something like this in a pelvis can move pretty freely: when you get up, when you sit down, when you fall down drunk because you can’t handle the pain of the fact that your uterus and cervix are total bitches. He also mentioned that he hopes they get it out quickly, but you never know because there are flaps and folds, and matter, and gobbily gook (he did not use this term, but I feel it suffices). Basically he made it sound like my doctors are going on a god damn fishing mission for Moby Dick. But you know what? I don’t really care because after getting the x-ray, I had to give blood. You know what giving blood is like for me, it goes something like this:

Me: I have really hard veins.
Tech: They all say that, blah, blah, blah. (Looks at my arms)
Tech: Wow, they are really tiny.
Me: Yep. That is what I said (asshole).
Tech: Let’s try to get them out. (Puts on arm strap).
Me: Uh huh.
Tech: Oh, they are really deep. (Tries other arm).
Me: (Considering whether getting a tattoo on my veins that says - yes, they are deep, and thin, and you will have trouble getting them so don’t even try dickhead - is too much.)
Tech: Your hand looks good.
Me: Yes. Lots of time they will do my hand after poking me.
Tech: Well let’s just do the hand.
Me: I love you.

I get my blood drawn through my hand. I would like to point out that I find it funny that now people don’t even attempt to get blood out of my veins, but instead just go to my hand vein, even though it is more painful and causes bruising, because the alternative is that bad. I would make a horrible junkie. After the blood letting, it was time for a urine sample. To the CalPac instruction writers of the urine sample, the term “labia” should not be used ten times in the instructions. In fact, I venture the term “labia” should not be used at all since it is entirely cringe worthy. In addition to the cup and wipes provided, perhaps include a barf bag, because you know what? I am nervous enough about this entire situation, I don’t need to read instructions about parting my labia and wiping in a downward stroke with two different alcohol based wipes. I honestly felt like calling the cops on myself for sexual assault.

Also CalPac, let’s call it what it is, a “surgery”, and not a “procedure”. Are you having a procedure? No, I am having surgery for a militant IUD incapable of protecting my eggs from the evil and dastardly spermatozoa. It is by no means a “procedure”. It is a battle for supremacy. So yeah, forty eight hours. And yes, I do realize the entire having surgery on 9/11 might not be the best idea, but it is a Friday, so there.

Holy Mole

Two days ago was my pre- surgery appointment with Dr. Fingers (not my OB/GYN’s real name). I have been under the assumption that this surgery despite being a “surgery” would not be that big of a deal. This train of thought would directly correlate to the amount of alcoholics in my family line, we love denial. When asking when I could resume running, Dr. Fingers said, “Three weeks.” THREE WEEKS! That sounds like an awfully long time to recover from a “minimally evasive procedure.” She then informed me that there would be an incision in my belly button and two along my bikini line (thank god too, because I would really hate to have a reason other than two pregnancies in three years not to wear a bikini) and hopefully, I repeat HOPEFULLY, she will be able to get the IUD out on the first try. She then went over the risks of nicking my intestine, bleeding, and the very slim chance of death. Hello people, all I ever wanted was never to have my uterus be the lifeblood of a human life, and now I am risking “a very slight, but had to mention, chance of death.” Kill me. Oh, wait, no don’t kill me. I swear to god, what the hell Fertility Gods - WHAT DID I DO TO YOU!!???!!!!!!??!