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.