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.


View all my reviews.

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!