It Scared the . . . .

Please read this. I don't really know what to say about this news, other than it scared the poop out of me. Seriously, on the floor below me is digested meals of days past. Oh sweet Jesus. Although I have been nightmare free for over 2 months now, I think we have succeeded in causing my REM brain to once again be fraught with terror. I can't even fathom this being true, yet it is. Egads! This just goes to show you that the ocean is infinately better than lakes. Sure, a shark may come over one day and take a limb, but at least a blobby mass will not trek up your nasal cavity in order to consume your cerebrum. Salt water 1, stagnant water zero.

The Getting Older Underwear Raping Patron Saint of Boobies

My underwear is totally riding up on me so that I feel like I am raping myself with every step. Honestly. It seems due to my weight loss all my clothes are swimming on me. Even things that were fine before the being that grew in my belly. I guess things that are stretched to the limits of their seams do not bounce back. Gosh darn it. A weeding of my closet is in dire need. Yesterday due to lack of clean laundry, I wore pants two sizes too big. I looked like I had Jimmy Hoffa hiding in my arse. Those pants are officially retired, but not thrown away. Since baby number two is somewhere on the horizon (no I am not pregnant), and I am sure my weight will increase once again. But maybe not, I think this go around I will be much more conscious of that fact that Ben & Jerry's every day makes for a big ole booty, but a sweet ole baby. However, in my defense, I was on bed rest for 10 weeks. So there fools. Also, when I went to Nordstroms this weekend for a new nursing bra it was pointed out to me by the molester, errr, sales clerk, that my boobs had not decreased, the circumference of my chest had. WHAT!?! I went from a 36G to a 34G. I have never been a 34. I think the reason for this is of course dieting, but also the fact that for nine months my back has been supporting G size boobies. That is a hell of a lot of work. You try putting two honeydew melons on your upper chest and go through the motions of a particular day. No wonder I collapse into bed, exhausted with an aching back. My life I tell you. I really should be nominated for some sort of sainthood. St. Cassandra, Patron Saint of Large Breasted Women. Girls could pray to me in the throws of puberty. "Dear St. Cassandra, please give to me the gift of boobies. I have been a good girl, conscious of my parents, and school teachers, but now I want boys to be conscious of me. Please grant me those fat sacks in size C. Thank you." In other news, I have two birthday parties to attend on Saturday, both of which are for boys - ones first, and another's second. And the best part, after attending both of these parties and going home it will be around 3:00 p.m. Wow. Two parties and done by 3:00, and not a.m.! How a life changes. Which brings me to another birthday - mine. I will be turning 34 on October 30. Those wishing to send me gifts, please note that I am fond of music of an alternative bend and books of a non-whiny chick lit form. I can't believe I will be thirty-four - thirty freaking four people. I am officially in my middle 30s. However, I don't really feel too bad about this since to be honest as each year has passed in my life it has only gotten better. No longer the overanxious teenager with a shy streak, or a fumbling twenty-something who knew nothing of herself, I am now a thirty-something with a amazing kid, a wonderful husband, and a great house. And yes, I can be an overly sentimental (semi-mental) sap at times - you should have seen the tears during the President's speech in Independence Day. But if this what being old is, then bring it on God of the Old. But please don't bring on the wrinkles, because I don't want those.

Vegetarian No More

Good news at the pediatrician's office yesterday - I can give the boy whole milk at 11.5 months which means that December shall be an exciting month for me. Read bender. Owen is also of the carnivore set. He had his first chicken meal yesterday - granted it was from Safeway Organics, but this evening chicken breasts and brown rice shall cook and pureed accordingly. So in addition to breastfeeding that kid, I also make all his food. For a hippie hater, I am beginning to blur the line. But if I was true to the hippie roots, I would be nursing that kid until first grade. Which is not happening. Can you imagine? I get the creeps already since he has unlatched a few times and touch my nipple in a playful way. Saying "Don't play with Mommy's nipples" is phrase I thought I would never utter as I am not a porn star or into S&M. It is hard not to have a look of horror on my face, but I was reading that kid's look to your face for clues about right and wrong. And this especially true with the stinky diaper - for to make a face of disapproval makes a child equate his or her genitals with that disgust making for a rough transition into a sexual being. So I laugh and giggle and smile, and barely suppress the vomiting when changing a super duper noxious diaper all in the name of my son not having issues with his peter. The sacrifices!

The Limericking Lass Named Cass

Many people don't know this about me, but I can pretty much come up with a limerick for any person on any occasion at a moment's notice. So in addition to functional alcoholism and potato loving mania, this too can be traced to my Irish roots. Also, I hate to say it but do I not have a mastery of the Microsoft program Paint? Between today's earlier boob post and my near perfect rendering of John and I in bed, there is no other conclusion than I have a gift. Today's Paint picture is of a Manhattan, which will surely be mine (November 17, 2007 - you hear me), and today's limerick is to mark the occasion.

There once was a girl named Cass
Whose breastfeeding will soon pass
The Manhattan her drink
Oh those glasses shall clink
Until she falls shortly on her ass

Dear Diary . . .

Or should I say, Dear Blog. Well for the life of me, whether it is good or not, I think I will detail the every day nonsense that is my life in this here blog. This way I don't suffer for hand cramps due to writing - which happens often at work if I am forced to print Certified Mail/Return Receipt Requested forms. Wow, see the excitement already! So it seems that I am in the midst of a quandary - my nursing bras are too big. How do I know this? Well I will tell you. The other day when in the elevator I saw my reflection in the mirrored wall and my nipples were erect and cockeyed - one pointing low to the left and the other pointing high to the right. I have attempted a drawing to illustrate. Obviously my boobs are not being well contained in my bra, but the problem is nursing bras in umbrella sizes are expensive and I am cheap. Purchasing two bras for 13 weeks (the time I have left nursing) would amount to about $120.00 bux, if I am lucky. This seems a little extravagant since I am expecting that once I stop nursing my boobs will return to their previous size. God I hope so, because I am banking on a 10 pound weight loss with such event. I think I might purchase one bra and live with cockeyed boobies every other day of the week. Which brings me to another thing - I am sick and tired of pumping. I am so done with breastfeeding. It has become a chore, well not feeding Owen, but the pumping twice at work, and once at night and the cleaning, and the bottles, and the freezing, and the measuring, and the worry about not pumping enough, and most importantly, the not drinking. However, I shall suffer the 91 days until Owen turns one (what?!?!) and is able to have whole milk. I have begun the weaning process and hope that it goes without issue. But how does one make a sacrifice to the weaning gods to guaranty same? I am thinking lighting a paper mache boob on fire and then dousing with milk? Hmmm, I must investigate.

My Son is Cuter Than Yours

I know, I know everyone thinks that their kid is the cutest thing ever. As they should really, but I have to say that the photo of Owen on the left is truly the definition of cute baby. That smile, those blue eyes, that fair skin. Good lord, give me some A-1 sauce for I want to eat his face off.

My Apologies

Obviously my life of a blogger is haphazard in its entries, which plays to the fact that I am a procrastinator. The blog in my head is full of entries that would make your sides ache, your eyes widen and your mind excited. But alas, the procrastinator in me has set up camp with no intent to leave - a renter in the rent controlled apartment of my brain. But enough about my inner turmoil, and let me catch you up on all the joy that has occurred in my life, it should be short given my boring parental (but extremely happy) life of the moment.

1. Weight Watchers Works. I have lost 14 pounds on the Weight Watchers plan, which is great considering on weekends I eat whatever the hell I want. I feel like a prisoner given a conjugal visit, except my romp is with the heavenly bliss that is pizza, ice cream and more importantly beer which leads me to another milestone.

2. Hello Beer, My Old Friend. After a 7 plus hour drive home from the cabin (pictured above), I had an itch. And this itch had only one cure, booze. So, after almost 8 months of leading a somewhat sober life save the occasional glass of wine or bottle of beer, I dived wholeheartedly into a pool of Heineken (of course this pool was kiddie in size as four Heinekens delivered in me an inner peace that was usually the product of 2 shots, 4 jack and cokes and a beer). Now, I can firmly state that nursing the boy shall end December 19 (Owen’s first birthday), as Momma needs her cocktail. Originally my thought was that this cocktail would be a Maker’s Mark Manhattan (as in MMMmmmmmmm), but now I fear due to my lightweight status (both literally and figuratively) I may have to have something more simple, like a Vodka Cranberry. However, I am still leaning towards the MMM, which probably means after the consumption of one I will be of the stumbling but super silly sort.

And that is pretty much it. Not really but I have 15 minutes left before work ends for the long weekend. I plan on going to the new haunt that is the backyard space of the Park Chalet with Owen and John where we will sit outside, eat and drink beer in a sea of parents, kids, dogs and other refugees of the usually banned from restaurants camp. We have found true joy! Happy weekend, and I will try to write more, but that fat balding guy with the short sleeve dress shirt and the procrastinator title on his desk really does create an obstacle.

This morning while walking a large boobied lady made her way across me in all of her plastic surgery enhanced beauty. I shook my head. There are two things in this world that I don’t get - (1) Fake Boobs and (2) Tattoos. Perhaps because I am well endowed, I can’t possibly understand why a woman would choose to go out and pay money for things that basically cause dents in your shoulders and make the wearing of some v-neck shirts outright obscene. I also am hard pressed to understand how any heterosexual man could enjoy the feeling of said boobies which I imagine feel like a gallon size Ziploc bag filled with sandwich size water filled bag that continually moves as you grab it. Sorta like, oh wait a second, I know why men would like it - it feels like their balls! It all makes sense now. But why a girl would want larger melons is beyond me, but then I am never one to intentionally seek out attention from the masses. This brings to another thing that causes in me the immediate tisk, tisk and that is the tattoo. How could you like something so much that you choose to get it inked permanently on your body? A friend of mine in the mid-1990s got two tattoos - the infinity symbol on her foot and Dionysis’s staff on her belly. Although I could appreciate her journey to be different, I never really got it. Also, I think in 2007 both of these tattoos are dated. Especially since her Dionysis’ staff (see photo above) basically got the following from people who viewed - “Is that a rosebud?” “Ah no (disgust), it is the staff of the Greek God of wine and intoxication. Geesh. (rolling eyes)” Yep, that is right - the staff of a Greek God who stood for wine and intoxication. Ah, being in your 20s. So, I don’t know maybe for all my liberal intentions I am quite conservative in my views of boobies and tatts - one should be real and the other strictly reserved for sailors.

For the Love of Verily. Those unfamiliar with high rise office buildings are missing out on one of my favorite inventions over the past five years - right behind the Nintendo Wii and Grey Goose L’Orange - and that is Captivate TV which is found in the elevator. Captivate TV is a television that informs the rider of general, entertainment and sports news as well as odd and educational tidbits. I love Captivate TV for many reasons, but mainly it has to do with its name. Is it actually Captivating TV or is it because you are in an elevator and basically a captive. Hmmmmmm. Today I learned of my new favorite word ever. The word is “verily”, an adjective meaning “in truth”. The sentence use was “I verily believe that wearing white should be reserved for after Memorial Day.” This appealed to me for two reasons:

1. I too believe the wearing of white should only be used during the days between Memorial Day and Labor Day or by virgins offered for sacrifice.

2. When said out loud “verily” sorta sounds like really, but in a fucked up retarded tongue like when you are drunk. I am all for words that make me appear stupid and/or intoxicated but in fact play up my intelligence. I verily do.

Other things that I verily believe in are as follows: I verily believe the Manhattan will be my first liquor drink after the baby. I verily believe that it will be made with Maker’s Mark. I verily believe I will become drunk. I verily believe that this will cause exuberance in me bordering on mania. I verily believe during this Manhattaned induced exuberance I will more than likely fall and meet an untimely death. I verily believe at the gates of heaven St. Peter will ask me if it was worth it. To which I will reply “Well, St. Peter, I know lots of people would be pressed to say no, but I disagree, for I verily believe it was.”

Why I Am a Dork. I think that this may be a continuing series because the list is very long. First I would like to report that I have gotten an A in Big Brain Academy on my Nintendo DS Lite. Although I am satisfied with this grade, I still want an A+. Also in the realm of gaming goofiness, John and I just moved the Wii into the bedroom so that we can play Mario Party 8. I will let you chew on that for a bit. I allowed a gaming system be moved into my bedroom so that I can play Nintendo with my husband before bed. I think that violates total girl code, but whatever, I love the Wii. I am officially on Day 2 of my Weight Watchers diet. So far, so good. Of course my in-laws came over last night with boxes of See’s Candies. Curses! However, I only ate 2 pieces, which is an improvement over grabbing the box running to a corner and growling at any passerby. And you probably think I am kidding. I will like to state as a nursing mom, I get 10 extra points a day for a total of 35 points. 10 extra points? That is basically a big slice of pizza a day because I breastfeed. Finally my ravenous hunger makes sense.

I just made a purchase of a Jonathan Weiner print entitled “Flower Offering” that makes me so happy that I would hop, skip, dance, sing and whistle all at the same time if it would not cause me to fall flat on my face in a heap of twisted leg and tongue. As luck would have it, I stumbled upon his site from my numerous searches for art for Owen’s room, and fell instantly in love. The print is above. Of course, I am still looking for art for Owen’s room as well as pondering whether to buy Flor tiles. I am seriously insane when it comes to anything in that room - the crib and bedding purchase alone was a two month adventure in internet searches. But I got the Dick crib and the ABC Dwell Baby sheets and crib skirt and the room itself is a cold steel blue with white curtains. The color scheme being brown, blue and white. I have to say that I am rather impressed with how it came out, but I still must get the art and the rug which causes numerous headaches. I have this great Interpol print by Tara McPherson that is what the colors are based on, but still need to get some other things. I should seriously just get an entire wall of mirrors given Owen’s love of himself, but alas, I guess this is normal. I hope. Otherwise, I just gave birth to reincarnation of Narcissis.

So to sum up, I am a dork for the following reasons:

1. My grade on Big Brain Academy bothers me.
2. I have a Nintendo Wii in my bedroom.
3. Weight Watchers.
4. A piece of art has made me as giddy as when the Red Sox won the World Series.
5. I equate my son to a Greek god who fell in love with his reflection.

Don’t worry; this list is in no way complete.

Boston Betrays, Infant Flying and Competitve Trickery. Remember how I said there are things in Boston I miss? Like scali bread, Wellfleet Oysters and Famous Roast Beef. Well, there is one thing I don’t miss and that is humidity. After 3 years of only visiting in the winter, I returned in June to find the welt in swelter. Holy crap. The next day however it was 50 and rainy. My dad repeated the phrase “If you hate the weather in Boston, just wait a day.” Well, I have another saying “If you hate the weather in Boston, fucking come to your senses and move already.” Needless to say, I am glad I moved for the weather in San Francisco although foggy on occasion, is never ever hell-like in its heat. Well except for the day I got married and it was 112 in the shade. In other news, I shan’t ever go on a plane again with Owen until he is at least 18 years old (maybe). The plane ride out was not bad, but the one back was six and half hours of pure torture. The poor guy got a head cold 10 hours before our flight, and was indeed Woe-wen. Thankfully, it is all a distant memory (photo of Owen in Boston above). The wedding was great though as was seeing my family. But from now on relatives and friends - you visit me.

This Monday will be my first Weight Watchers meeting, which is horrendous to type, but alas the 10 weeks of bed rest, the fanatical addiction to ice cream and my inability to stay on track has caused me to make the move. However, I have to say there is only one motivation for me joining the WW, and that is the fact that I am ultra competitive and need to join in order to put others to shame with my dramatic weight loss. Yep, I am this pathetic. At my old office we used to have something called Fat Track in which we all put in 20 bux and whoever lost the most percentage weight over a specific period of time, was named winner. And guess who was named winner and co-winner on every occasion? Me. And you wanna know how? The last weeks I would be running on my treadmill in garbage bags in order to eliminate any water from my system as well as eating hardly anything but tuna in a can and water. All this suffering for a mere 200 dollars, but it was worth it. Because I won! I won! I won! So, in order to trick myself into getting focused I have joined weight watchers. Even though there is a total crazy lady running this thing who annoys the hell out of me. Her name is Gwen, and she is a vocally high pitched cheerleader. But it must be done, for the boy is 6 months old, and I have exactly 6 months before we try for baby number two (who will never see the inside of an aircraft).

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.