Tetris, Wedding Lady, Boston. My Mother’s Day Gift Kicked Ass. Some mothers get breakfast in bed, some mothers get flowers and some mothers, such as myself, get Nintendo DS Lites. Oh joy of joys! And today marks the first time in my entire life that I actually beat Tetris. I cleared those 200 lines and was in the zone, even with the lady next to me involved in heavy wedding preparations. Mind you she was about 40. I am sorry, but you 40 year old bride, do not need a big white dress or a huge ceremony. I understand that at long last after years of missing the bouquets, it is your turn, but at 40 you need not to wear white or command the attention of 200 guests. She was actually showing three different versions of her wedding invitations - each ornate and intricately bowed. I wanted to shake her and say “Lady, are you insane? Do you really think your invitees care?” But that is the wedding minded woman. In other news, I am going to Boston next week for the wedding of my dear friend Diane. So that should be exciting, not the trip back and forth across country with an infant, but still fun. It is at times when I am going back to Boston I realize how much I miss - mainly all of it having to do with food, in particular the Wellfleet Oyster and the Famous Roast Beef. I admit that I would often make fun of the “famous” attached to the roast beef, but then you move to San Francisco and you are PMSed, and the only food you want is a roast beef with sauce and cheese on an onion roll. But nothing similar is found because every god damn sandwich made in this city has avocado on it, not that I hate that, but my god. When a girl ranging with hormones wants a roast beef sandwich she either gets that sandwich or ends up crying in the tub at night pondering the decisions of her move, all because of a sandwich. As for the oyster situation, I like oysters of all kinds, but my favorites are Wellfleets. I love the saltiness of the juice, the plumpness of the body, the absolute tingly feeling that they create within. And I miss that feeling, since I use to indulge at least once a month. But now I am in a haven of west coast oyster faire, which is also good, but lacking to fulfill my Wellfleet need. So I am going to Boston with a few needs to be met, so if you see me on the street with oyster shells all around and my face streaked with roast beef sauce, back off - you never want to interrupt an animal as it eats.

File It Under TMI. First things first, I did in fact get a big ole pimple upon my chin on Saturday morning. This would be god punishing me. Those not familiar with God Punishing You must not be Catholic or raised by my mother - who would often say, “Well that is what you get, God punished you.” Personally, I can’t believe that God has the time, but he often goes out of his way to make my life so much more interesting. Today I have to discuss the fact that since I gave birth, my va-j-jay is prone to make noises. In fact, I think mostly what it is trying to convey is “God damn woman, what the hell was that 19 weeks ago?” The first few weeks after Owen was born, I was pretty sure I had the new star of American Idol between my legs. I can hear Randy now “Well Cassie’s Vag, you were a tad pitchy in parts, but dawg, I gotta say, I loved it.” Although it is less common now due to the implementation of the Kegel, its sweet song is still sometimes heard, usually at such moments when the train goes blissfully quiet. Hmmm, maybe this all is just a new punishment by God. What a jerk.

I Feel Pretty, Oh So Pretty. Yesterday was the first day in about 7 months (aside from that one day when 8 months pregnant) that I have felt pretty. I recently read somewhere that over 60% of new moms admit to have letting themselves go, especially in the first year. And although my beauty routine is far from extensive, I understand the need to cut corners with getting ready. So yesterday while walking to the N Judah with the air full of a sea breeze, and the sun glorious, I felt very, very pretty. It was almost skip worthy. And what do I attribute this shameless self loving? Well the answer is two-fold:

1. Dr. Dennis Grossman and his Alpha Hydroxy Pads. When I was about 19 years old I read in some female magazine that if a girl did not take care of her skin beginning at a young age she would be saddled with wrinkles by 40. For some reason this shook me to the very core. I still don’t know why, but I immediately went out to Woolworth’s in Downtown Boston and began what is now a 14 year obsession with washing and moisturizing my face. I don’t believe in the last 14 years there has been one night wherein I have not washed and moisturized. Even when under the influence and my face is suddenly three fold with distorted drunken eyes, it is washed. Even when under the strain of childhood, it was washed. And truth be told, I am a rather frugal person, not spending much money on anything, but when it comes to skin care penny pinching be banished. Currently my favorites are Skincare MD’s tinted moisturizer in light, Clarins Daycream, and those amazing Alpha Hydroxy Pads, which promise a facelift in a package. And they do deliver girls. So, enough about my obsessive compulsive skin care regimen, and on to factor two of why I felt pretty.

2. The Beasts Have Been Tamed. I love my father dearly, but what I do not love is the eyebrows that he has genetically bestowed upon me. I became an avid plucker after I bought Cindy Crawford’s guide to make-up circa 1993 when I finally decided to wear make-up and needed a tutorial. I plucked and plucked and plucked (cleared the debris from the sink) and plucked some more until my bushy little caterpillars became acceptably arched and angled. Looking back on photos of me prior to my 20th birthday, the question of “Why I never dated?” could be found clearly upon my face. However, now that I live in San Francisco, I get my eyebrows waxed. For a very ungirly girl, this is a very girly girl thing to do. But I accept it since it seems these days if you don’t get your eyebrows waxed you are banished to some sort of bohemian subset that reeks of hippie. And hippie, I am not.

So with my face crystal clear and glowing, my hair long and flowing and my eyebrows non-bushy and groomed, I stepped outside of my house, the air improved by the ocean breeze and the sun shining, feeling incredibly happy and pretty. It was a feeling long overdue. Of course tomorrow due to this boost I will probably be saddled with the pimple equivalent of Mt. Fuji. Ah, thanks again Sully!

The Battle of the Pregnancy Bulge Begins. When I first got pregnant, I was cautious of weight gain. Come Month 8 when I was eating a pint of Ben & Jerry’s a day, this caution was obviously thrown to the wind. Now that Owen has hit the 18th week of life, it is fast becoming clear to me that calorie reduction is a priority. After moving, I had the opportunity to unpack my pre-maternity clothing which now sit in my closet mocking me with such comments as “Hey fattie, remember me, your favorite gray pants? Remember how good you felt when you wore me with that black cardigan and white camisole with the black maryjanes?” And I collapse in tears and say, “I do remember gray pants, and I do love you. I want to be reunited with you so that we can dance the favorite girl outfit dance.” Needless to say, that unpacking and closet organization leveled me with Stage 5 depression (only to be followed by Stage 6 - Jump Out the Window). Now that some time has past and I am adjusted to my working schedule, I can finally focus on myself and the whittling away of the pregnancy pounds. Honestly, I would have to say that I was under the assumption that after I gave birth, I would be breastfeeding, and breastfeeding with its 500 calories burned a day would make for fast weight loss. What no one told me was that when you breastfeed you become a ravenous chocoholic sweet seeking fiend. Before when I ate a piece of dark chocolate I would say “Oh my, was that good. Yummers.” And this would occur maybe once a month. Now in my breastfeeding psychosis I seek out chocolate with planning bordering on stalking. A typical day in the mind of one breastfeeding mother: the setting, after lunch:

“Hmmmm, I’m still hungry. Why the hell am I always hungry? What do I want? Oh you know what you want, don’t try to fool me. Okay, chocolate. Let’s go to See’s. Oh yes, let us go to the magical land of dark chocolate and tasty goodness. (Skipping, I arrive). Jesus, why is this line so long? (Tapping feet). God, this lady is going to take forever, I hate her. Fucking bitch. Why yes, you can help me chocolate giving girl - I would like one dark chocolate chip truffle. And yes I know it cost 58 cents, I only get it every freaking day - here is the exact change. And yes I will take that free sample. Oh heavenly goodness, sweet chocolate truffle melt upon my tongue and satisfy the part of my brain screaming for you with the desparation of 40 year old with no kids. I love you, I love you, I love you. I need to cry in happiness.”

Needless to say, eating chocolate is not going to help anyone lose the thunder in their thighs or that rocking double chin. But it must be done. And I know I have said this before, but I am employing a never fail mental tactic that will allow me the loss of some weight, and that my friends is the “Maggot Materialization Method”.

Although I am a fan of all things insect, there is one thing that I cannot stand due to an unfortunate event in the 15th year of life, and that thing is maggots. I warn that this is not for the faint of stomach. It was summer of 1989. I sat on my dad’s recliner watching Bob Barker on the Price is Right. I was chilly, even though it was summer and the temperature was probably in the 70s. I ran down to the basement and procured a blanket, running back upstairs so as not to miss the always exciting game of Plinko. About 5 minutes in, I got really itching. I then realized that I was not itching, but that there was movement under the blanket. Horrified, it was at this point, I had what they in the psychiatry profession call a dissociative break. I took off the blanket only to discover about 100 maggots on me, the blanket, and the chair. I screamed ripping off my clothes, brushing off the larva and running to the shower. Eventually I recovered, but never again was I the same. Even typing these words creates in me a sense of utter dread that may lead to ultimate vomiting. I hate maggots, I despise them. The name alone makes me queasy. So, in an effort to banish the pounds from my frame, whenever I see something bad for me, I will picture 1,000 creepy crawling maggots on said food. And I will not eat it, believe me. In fact, I may not be able to eat for a good 3 hours after. But it is a proven way for me to attain the goal of my gray pants and I having a day at the park complete with twirling and a possible somersault. We can only hope.

The World Presses On. I have this theory that as one ages at some point they decide on a decade. You see it around you all the time, the 45 year old with the big permed and teased hair looking like a groupie from an 80s metal band or the mid-30 year old black leggings, flannel shirt and clunky shoe escapee from a Nirvana concert, or the old lady with the beehive and cat's eye glasses. I don't think any of us can escape the decade trap; it is just a matter of when you are going to settle and become trapped. However, as I age, there is no escaping the fact that the world is trucking on without me, sorta like how my dad when moving a computer mouse moves his entire arm 3 feet in each direction. And that my dear friends is initialing in replace of typing what you actually want to say. Sure, it took me a while but I now know that LOL means Laugh Out Loud, but recently I joined the Pumping Moms Group at yahoo. I will pause for you to laugh. And my god, I can't understand what half these bitches are saying. I think I have figured out that MM is mother’s milk, DS is darling son, DD is darling daughter, and DH is darling husband. What I don’t understand is why the hell do you need to place “darling” in front of these. Maybe it does not mean darling, but that is all I can figure out. And why the hell is darling what they are using? I don’t get it. I am so tempted to write - my BS (bastard son) is BMNO (biting my nipples off) and my SOBH (son of a bitch husband) LOL (laughs out loud). Does this irritate others as much as me? For the life of me, I still don’t know what hell “HUTH” stands for. As used here “did something like this when I was trying to reduce my supply a month before HUTH”. I think it has to do with going to work. I am not sure though. I need help or a time machine so that I can be born in 1980.

Back to Work. I think there is no better illustration of my first day back to work, than the following: Sunday night I go to sleep antsy because of my reintroduction to the working world. I wake up, confident in my ability. I step into a steaming hot shower and while scrubbing my head with Aveda rosemary and mint shampoo a wave of emotion overwhelms me so that I begin to sob. And this cry is not mere weepy, it is wrenching, full guttural sobbing. So much so I wake John from a slumber with my woeful shower howl. Somehow I managed to get it together to take Owen to daycare and say a happy goodbye. But the sad just keep nagging me until finally on Wednesday evening I had an emotional episode where a straightjacket would have been welcomed. But since then I have accepted all, and have nary a worry. I do believe a good cry however crazy will often direct one to a more peaceful acceptance. That and the fact that I truly believe someday I will win the lottery. Go ahead and scoff, but someday I tell you. So during these past two weeks, there are some tidbits I have realized:

1. I am a social retard. Like all bedridden folks, I did not get out much. And with the introduction of an infant, my social life did not take a turn for the better. So after six months of myself, Owen, John and the television, the concept of adult conversation is perplexing. For some reason of late when people are talking to me, I find myself watching them. I have to force myself to actively participate and listen, because my mind wanders. On my first day back, while my boss told me of her impending retirement, and new house, and plans for the rest of her life, I just sat there smiling, watching and thinking “is this bitch every going to shut up.” I would so turn the station on her.

2. I love riding public transportation. Sure, public transportation has its bad - the delays, the smell, the crowding, but there is so much good on it too. And yes, I am talking about the weirdos. I don't think there is a person more fond of the freak than me. And they say circus freaks have no home now-a-days. As of yet, the train rides have been pretty mundane, aside from this one guy who sat, pulled out a calculator, and calculated nothing for approximately 20 minutes. Yep, good times. But I am waiting for the gold that will surely come. I cannot wait.

So that is pretty much it, and since I am at work I will be sure to post more. Because well it is work, and I now have the time. Funny isn't?

Could It Be? For the past week and a half I have been suffering what I believe to be the demon woe of womankind – PMS. However, since I have not engaged with the beast since mid-March 2006, I do not know if it is truly a sign that my period is going to spoil my white pants wearing wiles. (Please note that I actually do not wear white pants, well not until Memorial Day, and only if I can somehow manage to lose the baby weight that is plaguing my existence). But back to the PMS:

Symptom One: One day last week I left my house to forage for food. I was gone for 45 minutes. I went to nine different places, 2 of which I waited in line only to bolt right before ordering because I was unsure of what to order. My mental process during the Subway line wait: “Oh, Subway. Okay, I can do that. Hmmm, do they have that Meatball special on Wednesdays? Do I want meatballs. Oh, with cheese would be good. But meatballs aren’t exactly figure flattering, what about turkey? What turkey and cheese on wheat? Hmmm, that sounds okay, but they give you like a slice of cheese, which they say is 2 pieces because they fold it in half in a diagonal. Whatever Subway, you tart.” Finally I gave up, got Vitamin Water and wondered if I was going nuts. Then it dawned on me that this nuttitude is exactly my MO when PMSed - going from food locale to food locale, having inane conversations in my head, and basically driving myself mad.

Symptom Two: On Tuesday night I saw a commercial for Kellogg’s Raisin Bran Crunch. On Wednesday morning, I loaded Owen in the Bjorn and we made a beeline to Safeway under the pretense I needed a few things. But the only thing I truly needed was that cereal. So when I got home, I immediately had a bowl and good lord it was good. The flavors danced upon my tongue like a Jackson Five Era Michael. It was heavenly. I resisted another bowl until 9:30 p.m. However, this morning, I have already have had two bowls and the box is reaching an empty state that is causing worry. So again, craving a particular food to obsession is classic PMS.

However, other than being a tad irritable that I associated to our moving to the new house, I have no other symptoms. I could be bloated, but I could also be hiding Jimmy Hoffa in my belly, so I really don’t know. Supposedly breastfeeding is a natural birth control, but I think do believe these mental breakdowns could be the beginnings of my foray into Advil purchasing and cramping bliss. Which leads me to another concern – will the fact of me giving birth relieve my agonizing cramps as promised by my mother. We shall see . . .

He Liked My Frames. I have issues, which I like to refer to politely as quirks. Quirks are the bizarre idiosyncrasies that define who we are. For example, for a long time I had an irrational fear of going into a Gap store. The reason? The hardwood floors. It was impossible for me to walk into The Gap without my shoes making a clicking clack upon the floor. Which would bring the attention of a salesperson, who in turn would ask me if I needed help. To which I would respond “No, thank you.” The entire process aggravated me, so I avoided The Gap until I discovered headphones equals no salesperson harassment. You as a reader will surely be saying to yourself “Bitch be crazy.” But nope, that is just one of my many quirks. Another quirk of mine is the fact that I hate the attempt by some to turn the mundane into cool. Starbucks has been doing this for years with their Tall, Grande and Vente shenanigans. I outright refuse to use those terms. A typical Starbucks Order:

Me: Could I please have a Medium Non-Fat Latte? (Defiantly).
Clerk: So, a Grande? (Trying to convert me to Starbuckian).
Me: Yep, a Medium. (Hahahahaha bitch!).

I have never used the term Grande, and will continue to refuse until the day I die, when I will probably be buried in a Grande Coffin. Well that is my hope given my new exercise and diet regime, we are still floating around piano box at the moment. But I digress. So, last week while getting my hair cut (not styled), my hairdresser (not stylist) said to me “I like your Frames.” My five-second thought process before uttering a weak “Thanks” was:

Frames? What the hell are Frames? Frames . . . Oh, my glasses. What the hell? Frames? That is stupid. Stupid hairdressers with their stupid salon and their stupid cooler than thou attitude. Yeah, so what I have not got my haircut in 7 months and you are looking at me like I just murdered someone. I was on bed rest. And no I will not be buying any of the 15 products you will put in my hair and drill in my head I need. I don’t need them . . . AND THEY ARE EYEGLASSES, DORK.

Anyway, is it wrong of me to hate the hipster attitude of turning the mundane into something brilliantly different? I think not. But I do like my glasses. Don’t you agree?

My Boob Revolts Against Exercise. Today marks nine weeks since I gave birth to The Head, which would be a great nickname for Owen, given his genetic predisposition for a monster noggin, but alas, his head is normal. Darn it, for I had visions of him joining a modern day freak show and being called the Human Lollipop. Dreams for your kids, I tell ya. Anyway, at the moment I am in complete agony, well not so much to the degree of tears, but give me a few hours. It seems my right boob is suffering from the breastfeeding woe of a plugged milk duct. The blame is solely my own. Last week, disgusted with myself and tired of the jiggly state of my body, I began to exercise with an obsessive compulsiveness bordering on crazy. More specifically I began to squat, lunge, and lift weights all to the most annoying bitch on the planet. Thank you Comcast On Demand. Sunday I began to notice that my right breast felt a bit sore, which was initially attributed to normal breastfeeding pain. However, last night it became quite clear that a duct is plugged. The cause – a sports bra. Well more specifically, my pre-pregnancy sports bras that I have used even though the process of getting into them is a contortionist impressing display of acrobatic maneuvering. But the result was my boobs compressly packaged and immobile which is exactly what a 9 week post-pregnancy mildly insane exercising gal wants. However, it seems the breastfeeding boobie needs not to be confined. It like a bird, desires freedom from the prison of a too tight sports bra. So, my boobie revolted and now a continuous, sharp and progressively worsening ache courses outward from it. The only cure of which is continued feeding, massage and heat. Although it is painful, it will be cured within the next few days. A more painful prospect is figuring out how to adequately support my swollen mammary. A trip to Old Navy today was futile. My only hope is that my night nursing bras will be able to support me when I began my newly purchased “Buff Moms” DVD. And yes, it is equally embarrassing to type that, as it was to purchase it. Ah well, the road to fitness continues. Wish me well.

Oh looky what I made. Yes, after months of not posting, I have returned and hopefully with a vengeance. But more than likely with tales of baby poop and my slow descent into insanity. My life of the past five months since that joyful announcement of BRAS ARE HERE can be summed in ten parts.

Part I. Dr. Mucci Scares the Bejesus Out of Me. Mid-September at a routine ultrasound at almost 27 weeks it was discovered that my cervix was funneling and that I was possibly contracting. A trip to the hospital confirmed that although I was feeling nothing, my uterus was indeed contracting. So after 2 days in the hospital and visits from doctors about such wonderful things as brain bleeding with the premature birth, I was sent home and ordered to bed rest for 10 weeks. Needless to say I did not post because regaling you with tales of my bed ridden life which consisted of (1) ER repeats, (2) trips to the bathroom, (3) 5 minute showers and (4) absolute terror and worry did not seem appropriate to the blog. However, I do think a post would have been the following “I think that my new friends of pillow one and pillow two are mad at me, I think perhaps my greasy non-showered head is offending them. Selfish bastards.”

Part II. 36 Weeks, Where the F*uck is this Kid? After making it through my 10 weeks of joy, my jellified body was able to move again, however, slow. So at this point one would gather that with movement at any moment my “dynamic cervix” (the technical term) would open up and the process would begin. However, this was not the case. After each day nothing happened, except my growing addiction to ice cream. I truly believe that I am solely responsible for quarterly sales of Ben and Jerry’s and Dryers to have skyrocketed.

Part III. Overdue and Pretty Pissed Off. Again, here is where my demonic guardian angel Sully entertains his bar buddies. After 10 weeks of bed rest and 4 weeks of Price Is Right “Come on Down” expectation, nothing happened. My due date came and went and I was left searching the Internet about how to get labor started. I tried all the old wives tales to no avail and began to suspect that having a dynamic cervix was code for “lets drive the pregnant lady crazy.”

Part IV. Relief in the Form of Low Fluid. Oh, I forget to mention, also at the appointment of premature horrors, it was discovered that my umbilical chord had two vessels instead of the normal three which occurs in 1 out of every 1,000 pregnancies. Again, who has the best luck ever? In response to this, it was ordered that each week I have a non-stress test which basically is a measure of the baby’s heart rate and amniotic fluid. On the December 18, 2006 appointment, it was discovered that my fluid was indeed low and I would be sent to the hospital to be induced. Yeah, induction! Even though I was 2 cm dilated and almost completely effaced, my dynamic cervix was still holding on and induction was necessary. By the way, I hate my cervix.

Part V. Never Get An Epidural From a Doctor Who Just Awoke From A Deep Slumber (a/k/a DUH!). Prior to actually having the baby, I had considered the possibility of a natural childbirth. I was going to see how it was, and make my decision. At 1:00 a.m. with contractions one minute apart, I made my decision – EPIDURAL. So Dr. McSleepy arrives and accidentally drives the needle into my spinal fluid. The result of which he said was a possible headache that would require re-entry and a blood block. Yeah, big deal I think. Just stop this agonizing pain. By the way, do you know that I have an abnormally long back? Yep, not one but two anesthesiologists commented upon its freakish length. And yes, I am thinking of painting myself a nice mahogany, learning yoga, and doubling as a coffee table during parties.

Part VI. My Dynamic Cervix, Abnormally Long Back and I Give Birth. Not much to tell here, I push and push and push. Baby arrives. I see Owen for all of 2.5 seconds because he is whisked away due to the fact he has pooped on himself. He is fine, but I am not. Seems my placenta has detached from the chord. When you OB/GYN says to the nurse – “Ah, she has an epidural right? Yeah, can you push that button a few times.” it is never good. So as Dr. Fingers is rooting around my uterus for my placenta like keys in a purse, I am planning my own funeral. John and his mother are with the baby I have only glimpsed, while I have a hand and forearm up my love canal. Finally a discovery of placental gold is made, and I do not expire although it looks like a murder scene. I again ponder what I have done to be so cursed.

Part VII. Owen and Back to Work, Bitch. Finally I am given Owen and I look at him anticipating that instant love that moms all over exclaim about. I gaze and wait. Then the nurse tells me to feed him. So, after 10 weeks of bed rest, 4 weeks of waiting, 1 week of absolute frustration, 6 hours of labor and 1 and a half hour of pushing (he was back labor) I am given the new task of breastfeeding him. No rest for the weary it seems. Also it seems it is amazing to me that any mother can instantly love a creature that has parasitically lived in them for 9 months, requires exit from an orifice that is quite small and then immediately needs nourishment in the form of latching on to your once prized boobs. Or maybe I was just resentful since a moment before I had the arm of a woman flossing my teeth internally for 20 minutes.

Part VIII. Leaking Spinal Fluid Causes Your Brain to Drop. At the time I felt that having a headache due to the mistake of Dr. McSleepy was no big deal. How bad could a headache be? However, flash two days later when up at 7:00 a.m. feeding Owen, my head is pounding. It aches and aches, throbs and throbs, I am crying. And guess what? Outside are jackhammers. Yep, jackhammers. Construction. It is at this point I decide to get the blood block, actually it was the time I decided to end it all by jumping off a roof, but I decided to try the 60% success rate torture session. So in comes Dr. McSavior. She is very nice and awake! She comments on my long board back, and after five attempts due to my poor veins, blood is drawn and injected into my back. I am an absolute mess at this point. Crying due to hormones and pain and the fact that it seems my back is a science experiment gone wrong. However, the block works and my head no longer pounds, and I actually feel really great. I attempt to skip, but fall down.

Part IX. The Baby. Owen is an absolute treasure, completely healthy, quite handsome, and very good and John and I are extremely lucky. Not much to tell here except that I am so unbelievably happy and only once wanted to throw him out the window when he did not shut up.

Part X. The Biggest Mistake. Two weeks ago I decided to free myself from the elastic waist prison that is maternity wear. I figured that I would have to go a size or so up, but whatever; I would be able zip my pants and button a button. I would be somewhat normal. However, as I put on my first pair of pants, I realized that having a 7 pound, 7 oz baby does free you of weight as does breastfeeding, but ice cream binges, being immobile for 70 days and having a post-partum chest size of 38G is another story. So, I left the store with the only thing that fit, a pair of shoes. And no delusions of the state of my body. But fear not, this Tuesday marks 6 weeks since the birth and my return to the gym. An epic story in the making, of which I will be sure to keep you posted. Promise.

Last week my ordered bras from Fig Leaves arrived. John sent me an IM notification of BRAS ARE HERE. Obviously due to his bolding and use of all caps, I don’t need to describe to you the joy in my heart that leapt as I read those words. So after skipping home in absolute glee, I opened the box, ripped off my shirt and unsnapped my too small bra calling it incompetent as I flung it across the room and tried on my new purchases. Happiness quickly ebbed, as my bras were ill fitting and not able to adequately hold the monstrosities my pregnancy has created. I think it is possible at this moment I had a minor conniption fit. Just a slight one. Sometimes I truly believe that my guardian angel is a drunken fat man named Sully with a mean streak. I can see him up there with his barroom mates, telling them all about me.

Bar Pal: So Sully, who you got to watch over?
Sully (wiping drool off his lower lip): Me? I gots this girl. Cassandra. She is nice and all but I like to toy with her for my own amusement. Like, poor kid is pregnant and her boobs are just enormous. And well, she order bras last week and well, just to fuck with her I made sure these bras won’t fit. She is getting them today, come over and we can watch together. Should be fun. Oh god, see her face. Hah. Poor kid, I don’t know why I like doing it but I do. Bartender, whiskey shots for all. The girl's gonna cry.

Anyway, I knew drastic action had to be taken. So on Friday evening after work I walked to Nordstroms to the lingerie department. Where I summoned a clerk and stated that I was pregnant, and I needed to be fitted for a new bra. Into the room we went wherein she stood with tape measurer, and I took off my jacket. She looked at me for a moment before saying, “You must take off your sweater and shirt as well.” Okay then. So, I stood in bra and pregnant belly being measured wherein she said - you are a 36. So I was right on that front. As for the boobs, she said you could be a DD or a DDD, let us check. I waited in the room when she came back with about 7 bras. She then asked the question, “May I assist you?” I have always had issue with being naked in front of other women. I hate it, and if necessary I can in fact get changed in about 3.2 seconds. But I was in a situation that required immediacy. MY NEW BRA MUST BE BOUGHT. So I said yes, and stripped off my bra and tried on bra, after bra, after bra, after bra. And when the Nordstrom’s lingerie sales clerk says assist. Well, they actually mean molest. Just an FYI. But I suffered through, and found a bra. The sales person saying to me - "This bra is perfect. As you are bit top heavy." Really? I am bit top heavy? Do you think? Considering my boobs are Triple DDDs at the moment and I could provide a shelter for a midget family and their dog in a hurricane? Thanks lady, I would have never guessed. But I have to say, she did a fantastic job and I am quite perky in my new purchases. Which is pretty great, since perky and I departed ways in 1999.

Well the answer to the phrase "What the fuck comes after Double Ds anyway" on Google seems to render no answer. However, I did find out by measuring myself that I am currently a 36F. Now this does not mean much really - just that I grew a cup size because I guess in the bra world 36F, 36DDD and 36E are pretty much the same thing. So basically my boobs have expanded an inch. No, an inch does not seem like much. But remember, I started out as a 36D. I have grown two cup sizes in 22 weeks of pregnancy bliss. And I can expect another cup size growth after the birth of Owen. I believe the next size up is G. As in God Damn. Actually I am thinking that the entire A, B, C, D naming of bras is long overdue for change, to which I submit the following:

A - Almost.
B - Boobs.
C - Ca-ching.
D - Damn.
DD - Dynamic Duo.
DDD - The Ds are for Delightful.
F - Freakshow.
G - God Damn.
H - Holy Hell.
I - I'd Consider Surgery.
J - Jerry Springer?
K - Kill Me.
L - Life Sucks.

I can't even imagine the prospect of M through Z. But if there is a poor soul out there, please let me know if you get a discount on wheelbarrows in order to cart those suckers around.

I don't know what is more disturbing, the fact my belly is finally growing, or the fact that each of my boobs suddenly has a jealous streak and want to compete for the prize of biggest round object on my person. My head easily has been beating out the competition for years now; however, Irish head your throne is in jeopardy. Honestly, delving into circus freakdom does not bother me. It happens. However, Victoria Secret stops making bras at Double D, and this for me is a huge problem. By nature, I am a creature of habit. I find something that works and I stick to it. My bra purchases over the years can be summed in 4 parts:

Stage One - Looky Me, I have Boobs. When I finally developed, I was given my mother's B cups. Basically I went flat to B cup in a span of 48 hours. Obviously, making up for the apparent development girls do gradually from 7th grade to sophomore year in high school. I did not mind the hand-me down bras, I really don't know why - probably the fact that I was painfully shy and going with my mother to purchase bras was a torture in which I'd rather not participate. But to my dismay and much gawking by men later, the b-cup and I were not meant to be, thus leading to . . .

Stage Two - It is 1950 All Over Again. One day while shopping with my mother at Caldor I ventured into the woman's underwear section to audition alternatives to the now strangling hand-me downs. My girls, they needed a new home. I looked, and found nothing that offered the obvious support and comfort I desired until I found the Playtex underwire bra in size 36C. This bra was not for the dainty. It was huge. The back strap was 2 inches in width, the hooks and closures sinister, and the cups almost pointy. And the only color it was available in was stark white. Basically, it was a 1950-styled bra, purposeful and not pretty. But I loved it. It supported me, made me perky, the shoulder straps bearable and not digging grooves. And for four years or so, the Playtex "This is perfect for Nuns" Bra and I were happy. Until I started dating, which leads me to . . .

Stage Three - So Sassy, So Sexy. Every girl at some point in their lives has spent way too much on underwear that they consider sexy, and I was not immune. I figured no boy was going to be impressed with my Playtex Boob Prison in white, so I bought things that were pretty, lacy and 36 C. It should be noted however, that pretty 36C and 1950 36C are quite different, and none of these pretty bras ever fit me correctly. I had a lot of boob pop out - which I guess in hindsight was a great date conversation breaker. "Ooops, there goes my boob again, silly me. Let me just put that back in, did you want another drink?" Also it should be noted that no man cares about what the hell is covering your fat sacks of pleasure. And if they do, get out of bed immediately, because you are obviously not the right sex for him. So after a few years of this, I was fed-up and sensible, journeying into . . .

Stage Four - Victoria's Secret, Happiness Found. Eager to find a balance between ugly and too much money/ill-fitting, I bravely walked into Victoria's Secret. I explained my issues to the salesperson, was fitted and discovered the Body by Victoria Secret bra. A match made, and for the last 7 years, my sole destination for bras and underwear. Success, finally.

But, as we all know, my boobs victimized by pregnancy and hormones have grown to epic proportions, laying waste to the Victoria's Secret boob holders, and I am left with a frightening prospect - the hunt for new bras. With the pain in my shoulders massing, and the strain on my rib cage almost unbearable, again, my girls, need a new home. So, today, the hunt begins. I wonder if typing into Google "What the fuck comes after Double D Anyway?" will work. We shall see.

The other day on Muni a family of three comes on board. A teenager, a mom and a dad. The mother was dressed in a filmy tank top, and what looked like pajama bottoms. The dad has a huge pink fanny pack, and the teenager was well listening to her Ipod and looking otherwise depressed (typical teen). San Francisco is not warm in the summer and the Mom's outfit was probably too cool for Mexico. And I did not get it at all. Until of course I was getting off at the same stop, and heard that they had English accents. Oh, they are English, they don't know better. Amazing how a cockney accent cures all.

As for my boobs, you will have to wait until tomorrow. Sorry, I am such a bitch, I know.

Pregnancy is evil. No doubt about it. I mean, sure it is really good in the sense you get to mold a person (evil laugh), but in some ways it has to be one of the most devilish beings ever. I am beginning to think the old wives tale of how bad you treated your parents is what you can expect from your kid is a bunch of hooey. Instead, I believe how bad you treated your parents is directly proportional to the amount of hell that you will have to endure while knocked up. Luckily for me, I was good to my parents and my pregnancy has proven relatively easy. However, there are a few things that are darn right manipulative of the pregnant mind. Today after eating a rather healthful lunch of low fat spicy black bean chicken chili, I craved ice cream.

Ice cream and I have a long historic relationship which I think stems from my father's outright addiction. At any given time in my parents' house, if one looks in the freezer, there will be no less than two gallons of ice cream, and probably a few Ben and Jerry's pints for good measure sandwiched between pretty much an entire supermarket candy isle. Guess whose parents have a sweet tooth? Not that I am complaining, one of my favorites memories of my father are the ice cream sundaes that he made for my brother and me during episodes of Buck Rogers. Twiggy, Dr. Theopolis and ice cream sundaes basically equaled childhood bliss. And since being pregnant, my one craving other than jellybeans has been ice cream. So after my lunch, and being harassed by do-gooder teenagers about immigration rights - sorry guys, i don't need volunteer work for my college application - I decided to walk to Tully's and indulge in a vanilla and Oreo cookie frappe (milkshake for those reading not from Massachusetts). And when I was offered whip cream, I greedily accepted. Afterall, how could I have refused?

The first sip was incredible, as was the second to last. I cannot describe the joy received from a satisfied craving, but it is utter mouthwatering heaven. Mmmm, mmmmm, so freaking good. However, 90 minutes later, I am in hell - probably the 10th level of Pregnancy Backlash. My stomach is sick. It is pretty much the same nausea that I have had with eating pineapple. A lingering I am going to throw up, someone please kill me feeling. It pains me. But even more disturbing is the fact that I now believe that ice cream and its creamery goodness is banished as consumable food. So together with pineapple, I am forgoing ice cream for the remainder of this pregnancy. Of course, we all know this is a lie, for I will try it again, and probably be sick again and repledging my abstinence of it. But this, my friends, is the first plight of pregnancy that I am truly, and deeply sad about. Tonight I will bury a pint of vanilla and play Taps, and hopefully I can move past this horrid event.

Tomorrow, be prepared for "Boob Overhang in My Double Ds. What is next for the Breastzillas?"

Bitches is Crazy. First things first, John and I got married this weekend in what we like to refer to as The Debastardization of Owen Patrick McCall. That is right, we are having a boy of which we are very excited. I am a guy's girl, a true tomboy. I like getting dirty, I like sports, I even have a bug collection that I still like to show on occasion, so yes, and a boy for me is exciting. I can't wait to teach it order names for insects as well as why the Red Sox are the greatest baseball team ever and the New England Patriots the greatest football team. And yes, there will be a battle with John in this regard. Attached is a photo from the wedding (courtesy of my friend Amanda Clifford - whose website is linked to the right as madbproductions). Pregnancy hormones I thank you for the glowing skin.

Getting back to the title of this blog entry, evidenced by my tomboy aspects, girls and especially friendships with women have always been a bit of a mystery to me. In the sense, that I seem to apologize for things a lot, not understanding the delicate eccentricities of the female mind - which is quite shameful given my XX chromosomal status. But a fight yesterday with a friend, that has thankfully become resolved, brought up memories of another friend whose behavior was always a bit off kilter odd, but in an endearing and very appealing way.

The story: One day this girl and I were at our favorite bar, catching up as we saw each other about once every two months. It was just after the holidays. A few weeks back she had begun dating a friend of hers and professed her undying love and devotion so I was surprised to hear that things had quickly soured between the two - the reason being, his Christmas gift to her. Which was artistic and simple, but to her qualified a slap to the face as she had given him a few things, many of them expensive and thought filled. She went on and on about how awful his present was, and how amazing her gifts were. I never really could understand this, so I just sipped my drink and listened - which was becoming more and more our standard. So, they broke up. A few months later I was sitting across the table from this guy drinking Jack and Cokes, when he brought up the very situation. Basically stating he knew she broke up with him over the gift, even though she denied it. And how one day he came home to everything he ever gave her on his front porch. We both saw this as dramatic, but entirely in the nature of this girl. Now it was quite easy to see that he wanted me to fill in the blanks for him, which out of loyalty to her, I did not. But it was sorta heartbreaking to see in his eyes his love for her and his wanting a complete do-over. I have come to find out that the two are now together and married with a kid. Which is great. But I can't help to think about them when birthdays, anniversaries or holidays approach, and whether there is a pressure that he has to fulfill. A nervous sweaty brow as she opens his gifts, wondering if this will be okay and a fight will not be had. Just sorta makes me laugh in a way as it seems so polluted and tainted, but definitely confirms that bitches are indeed crazy.

Today is my 20th week of pregnancy, which means I have 20 more thrilling weeks left. Wish me luck. And I promise to post more, just have been a tad busy - with getting married to an incredible guy and finding out my baby is a boy and well, kicking total ass at fantasy baseball. Any guess as to my favorite? Priorities, I know.

Last night was my first attempt of my new sleeping position - Side Sleeping. My perfect sleeping position basically involves me with my head on my hands and elbows bent, the pillow just touching my forehead, my body at a nice 45 degree angle with my legs completely outstretched. Please refer to my illustration above. Obviously, the move from stomach sleeper to side sleeper is hard, super hard. I feel as if I have had little to no sleep. I slept with a pillow between my legs, and was so conscious of the position, that if I got out of it, I would wake up. The things I do for this kid. No booze, no stomach sleeping, no oysters, no brie. Seriously, if he or she does not say, "I'm sorry Mummy" upon exit via the birth canal. It's over, off to ebay. Just kidding, maybe. I guess it is not good to sleep on your back or your stomach after 16 weeks, and since today is my first foray into my 5th month of pregnancy, I have begun the impossible. I truly wish I had theme music. Ah well.

I have always been gifted in the rack department. In fact, I always felt the C cup a tad too small, while the D cup a tad too big. And upon getting measured once at Victoria's Secret, I heard the results of 37 C ½. So basically I can go 36C to 38D with nary a problem. Which is actually really surprising considering that fact that I did not "blossom" until the summer between Sophomore and Junior years in high school where I went straight into my mother's B cups. Yep, hand me down bras. In eighth grade when it seemed all the other girls went from t-shirts to training bras during gym class, in an effort to fit in I pleaded with my mother to purchase me a bra, only to hear "What for?" Of course, she was right, but changing in front of all the other bra wearing girls while still wearing a t-shirt was sort of horrible. But 8th grade, 9th grade, 10th grade passed and I was still without rack, without period, without any signs of womanhood. And being a tomboy did not help. But the summer of 89 brought with it about 5 inches in height, boobs, and my period. In fact, I got my period at Salisbury Beach in Massachusetts when there one day with my mom and grandmother. As I exited the bathroom a woman, my grandmother quickly told me that she got her last period at Salisbury Beach - and that I found what she lost. Lucky me. So my boobs continued to grow, leveling out at an ample 37 C ½. Sure, sometimes dresses don't fit quite right, but I learned to love my boobs. Not too big, not too small - exactly goldi-breast right. That was until they delved into Double D pregnancy size. And the good news, they will continue to grow. Maybe it is the coral colored sweater I am wearing, but seriously, it looks like two infant's heads are currently breastfeeding, or should I say toddlers heads, because that is a more appropriate size. I am afraid. I am afraid for my back, my already dented shoulders, my reputation as it is about to venture into pseudo porn star status. But there is nothing I can do, so I shall embrace my breastzillas, and keep midgets safe from the rain.

This Saturday evening I had the distinct pleasure of seeing Radiohead at the Greek Theater in Berkeley - as evidenced in the high quality photo above. Believe me, it is Radiohead. Miracles of all miracles, I was actually able to stay up until 12:30 a.m. Thanks to a nap mid-day and sleeping in until 11:00 on Sunday, and pretty much being tired all day - but all in all worth the sleep deprivation for Black Star was played. The Bends will always be my favorite.

In other news, my pants, they are tight. Not camel toe creating or my god, that woman looks like real life sausage link, but truly uncomfortable. Especially given it is towards the end of working day. I just love going home, undoing my pants and seeing all the lines and wrinkles in my belly created by the tight fabric around my waist. Talk about fun. Today is the day I see a Las Vegas Elvis in my marked flesh. I know it! I think it has come to the point in my pregnancy that I must forgo my pants of the old and make the leap to elastic waistbands and roll panels. In fact, I have to say, the few things I have bought and worn are actually not that bad, in fact, I keep on thinking that all woman might be happier with an elastic waist, especially when PMSed and bloated. So, girls, shop maternity and be happy.

P.S. The battle of my bowels has been won, and I am back on a regular schedule. I thank all of those who made prayers and virgin sacrifices on my behalf.

Hello Bowel Movement, My Old Friend. When Will You Come To Me Again? I have not pooped in almost 65 hours. Correction, I actually did just poop, but I don't think poop resembling hamster waste in size and amount qualifies. Especially after being on the toilet for fifteen minutes willing everything in my body to make it occur, which included breathing steadily with a rocking motion all the while praying to God asking why he has forsaken me. However, I don't think God listens to the pregnant and constipated, so my battle continues. This morning I was reading about my upcoming 15th week of pregnancy, which forewarned of the following: "Let’s talk about constipation. Or not. But it’s a fact of life for many pregnant women." Nothing like being in a state only to have it reinforced by the fine folks at Babyzone. Bitches. In an effort to get things moving on the advice of my mother, I have consumed about 30 sugar free jelly beans which have the warning "consumption my produce stomach discomfort and/or laxative effect." Please pray for me. But please not to God, because obviously he is not of kind ear. Perhaps a pray to Poopzilla, Banshee of the Bum or KakaLaka, Goddess of Going, maybe even a sacrifice. Please people, I need help.