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.