Happy Halloween

Well the day of the devil is upon us. And I shall give you my Top Ten Favorite All Hallow's Eve moments:

10. When my Granddad baked for me a pumpkin birthday cake. He was a baker, and the thing looked exactly like a pumpkin. I think I cried when they cut it.

9. When at age 16 I took two girls I babysat for Trick or Treating, and I dressed up as a flenser (who loved Judy Blume?). Which was perfect because it was pouring out and it the costume involved a rain jacket. I am not telling what flenser is, look it up.

8. The fact that my brother dressed up as Dracula for about 7 years straight. Conversations usually went like this: "Hey, Michael Jaymie, what do you want to be for Halloween this year? Dracula? Really? Wow."

7. The fact that after a while my brother and I got smart in the ways of Halloween and used not the Halloween themed plastic small bags (which would always rip from the weight), but king sized pillow cases, and as for those pumpkin carriers - pure amateur hour.

6. The Great Candy Trade. Nothing beats free candy, but trading with your inept sugar frenzied cousin 3 Smarties and a Rollo for a full size snickers bar might even be better.

5. The fact that I never went berserk on Halloween - egging, shaving creaming, or toilet papering anything because I believed in the sanctity of the tradition. And before you ask, I was a loner in high school.

4. My pillowcase clown outfit that my mom made. It was fantastic. She sew pillow cases together, painted my face, put my hair in pig tails, and gave me a red bulbous nose. It was a phenomenal costume, and handmade.

3. Trick or treating in the projects. I grew up in Charlestown in the projects, which meant that each building had about 20 doors to knock on, and the candy was incredible and this one guy gave dollar bills out. I remember at the time thinking he was the best person I ever met in my entire life. Makes me almost want to give out money - but I just spent $17,000 on a new sewer pipe, so I don't think so.

2. My garbage can outfit. Which remains the best costume I ever came up with - basically I bought a plastic trash can, cut out the bottom, put shoulder straps on it and then wore the cover as a hat. I completed the look with these nasty brown and black tights and a garbage bag for my candy. Aside from people throwing my candy into the actual barrel I was wearing, it was the best. So basically, I loved being trash and I think my life all makes sense now.

1. Owen's First Halloween, which is today. He's a skeleton and so cute - photo above. I love that I get to do this all over again. Yeah!

Happy Halloween everyone.

Happy Birthday To Me

I have officially entered my mid-30s. Hello thirty-four. Did you know that is 17,870,400 minutes of being alive? You dwell on that. So in honor of this momentous occasion, let it be known, that I Cassandra Michele Catherine McCall, have added another moisturizer into the routine. I don't think marking another year of your life is better expressed than with a new moisturizer. So in addition to my alpha hydroxy peels, my Clarins moisturizer, and my tinted MD Skincare moisturizer I have now added MD Skincare's Hydra-Puree Antioxidant Firming Serum. Yep, nothing says Happy Birthday than the fight against wrinkles. Not that I am deluding myself. I understand that as I age, my skin will lose its elasticity and droop. I have a degree in biology after all, but I am thinking with good genetics, moisturizing, and the drinking of plenty of water, I can ward off the potential ill effects of aging upon my skin. There are two things I have learned from talk shows (well two things that I think are most important). The first was when I was 15 when I saw Bill Cosby on Oprah wherein he stated that water and drinking lots of it was the key to healthy skin. Needless to say as a 15 year old who just got 3rd degree burns on my face from combining Noxzema and Clearasil as an overnight mask, it had impact. The second thing I learned from talk shows, and it has nothing to do with beauty routines, was Jackson Pollack. Phil Donahue did a show about him - showing some of his art, him painting, and basically I fell in love. I can't remember how old I was, but I loved it. And after reading a biography of Mr. Pollack, I have wanted to see Blue Poles Number 11 in person. It is currently on exhibit in Australia. Someday I hope to visit. So, I guess that is my birthday wish, because I have already been blessed with a lovely son, wonderful husband and great friends. Sorry for the sentimentality, but sometimes the inner dork comes out. Speaking of inner dorks and Alice in Wonderland lovers, to all those not celebrating their birth today - Happy Unbirthday!

Happy Almost Halloween

Well it is Halloween, or almost. I love Halloween, probably because my birthday is tomorrow and I have had a host of Halloween themed birthday parties. This photo is from a party 3 years ago - which happened to fall on my birthday. It is my good friend Amanda. I don't think there is anything better than photographic evidence of your drunken misadventures, especially when they involve putting a carved pumpkin on your head. So in spirit (boo!) of the season, I do believe that this week of blogging with be in keeping with Halloween. Wait until you see the pumpkin I carved yesterday.

A Baseball Story

Although this photo is a tad old, it is in keeping with the spirit of the moment and that is a loud and proud: Go Sox! I just finished reading an anthology in which women writers talk about raising sons. For the most part it was great, although there were a few ladies who told the story of crying when they found out they were having a boy, and these were not tears of joy, but with time they came to love the idea of a son. Some people I tell you. I guess being a tomboy; I had no qualms with having a boy, and perhaps in a certain respect have preferred it. Although I am sure that if I was blessed with a girl, it would be equally fulfilling. How could it not? Another theme in this book was the assigning of gender roles to children. As in it is okay for boys to cry, not like sports and wear pink. All of which is fine and dandy, but these women planned on outright defiance of the gender roles set by society. Most of them met an acceptance that even though they may force the doll, most of their sons preferred trucks. One writer prided herself on her son's lack of the male love of sports. Which is fine, I guess. I have come to age in a generation of feminist son-raising women, and I have found that some boys my age indeed do not like sports and some given the alternative tide of the 1990s found it a selling point. I can't even recall the number of guys who would say "I am sensitive, and I don't like sports." Which I am sure would make many a girl giddy, but always in me it would produce a smirk and then the immediate thought of "Oh jesus, what a pansy". I was raised on football, and horrid football at that - the 1980s New England Patriots. I remember sitting with my father and praying the game would not be blacked out although often, it was. I love playing tackle football at daycare, and thought maybe I could make it a career. Also I was one of two girls in Babe Ruth Baseball (age range 13 to 15). I was an excellent second baseman, but my male coaches would always regale me to right field - a/k/a home to the losers. Of course, due to my super competitive nature, I decided to remedy this. I practiced constantly with my brother, my swing, my catch, my throw, all in order to prove that I did not belong in right field for 4 innings, but rather on the infield for the entire game. So one game, I did amazingly. I hit a triple, a double, and caught every fly ball that came to me in my isle of loserdom. And as the game ended, my coaches gathered the team around, I felt happy that finally I would get the recognition I deserved, only to be met with the following "What the hell guys, even the girl is doing better than you." So there it was a bitch slap with words. Needless to say, I continued in right field for the next two years hoping for justice and receiving none. However, I did learn the life lesson that some people are complete assholes no matter what you do, but this is not a reason to stop trying. So, to the weekend and to the Sox!

Overheard on Muni

Yesterday while riding Muni home (don't I sound just like a San Franciscan?), I overheard the following conversation:

Twenty Year Old 1: Ah, did you ever see that movie Risky Business?
Twenty Year Old 2&3: Nope.
Twenty Year Old 1: Well there's this scene where he eats a girl out on a train.

I think that is all I have to say here. First I was astonished that someone had not seen Risky Business and second I was immediately grossed out that someone would use that term with a high octave voice on crowded public transportation. In fact, I don't think I was alone in this as it seemed the entire train just stopped for those brief moments of shock. I think that phrase just will always in me cause a tad bit of nausea because eating out should be referencing a meal not at your home that includes tip, not a buried face in a female's genitals. And I swear, I am not a prude.

Delayed Backache

While watching the Red Sox whoop ass on Sunday evening, a commercial for one of the ever present ways a man can get the bone back in boner came on the air. One of the many possible side effects stated was the following: "Delayed Backache." Oh really? You mean to tell me that some guy over 50 who has not had sex in a few months is going to pop a pill and go at it like there is no tomorrow may have a delayed backache? Wow. Shocking.

Closet Discovery and Menarche Morn

A few weeks ago I was looking at some old photos and saw one of me in a maroon cardigan. At that moment I said "Whatever happen to that sweater? I must have lost it." So this morning, imagine my joy when I discovered said sweater. Of course, I immediately called myself an idiot as the sweater had been in my closet for almost a year. This happens to me a lot. I guess I don't pay attention to the particulars. Or more likely, the fact that I attended Catholic school ingrained a love of the uniform, which at my age has translated to pants, t-shirt, cardigan, flats. Repeat in assorted colors. So because said cardigan was not in my routine, it was neglected. Poor cardigan. However, welcome back to the fold. Speaking of maroon things, I have fully returned to womanhood. Yesterday morning I woke up to my period. My last period occurred March 4, 2006, so needless to say it has been a while. Of course, my sheets required immediate washing, and my pajama bottoms were destroyed but once again I am among the bleeders. I feel special. And no cramps! Not sure if this is going to be a continuing trend, but my mother always told me that my cramps would be less with the birth of a child. And egads, I think the lady is right. We can only hope since my consumption of 15 advil a day to ease the pulsating pain was a bit unbearable. However, my phrase of "It feels like a posse of drunken monkeys is in my belly fighting for the last beer!" might have to be retired. Such a shame. So to the monthly curse I say to you - welcome back. Of course, this means I am also fertile again. Yikes. Also, I am unsure of this, perhaps 80%, but I do believe some kid shouted at me from his car, "MILF". I felt both pride and disgust as obviously he thought I was cute, but although with the birth of Owen this is a club I have joined, my membership I care not to flaunt. Thank you very much.

The Ballad of Night Man

Not sure if you are familiar with the FX Its Always Sunny in Philadelphia, but the above produced in me hysterics not matched in over a year. I have seen this over 20 times and each time it is continues to be funny, which one would think impossible, but no.

The Dreaded Baby Germ

Well it seems that my fight with baby germs is almost concluded as is evidenced by the never ending supply of green snot in my nose. It seems no matter how hard or how much I blow, what escapes is replaced in about 2.5 seconds. I don't get it. Although I did some research today on green snot, and it seems that this is evidence that my immune system is waging a war it is winning. You go T cells. I'll be honest, when hearing that baby having equals getting sick a bunch, I scoffed. Why? Well, my immune system has been fighting off viruses, bacteria and other sickly woes with a cunning and agility not unlike that of the ninja. Its mastery of killing disease has basically rendered me healthy with nary a sniffle for a good 8 years. However, now that I have Owen Harborer of Health Horrors, my immune system has been riddled with disease, overpowered by The Dreaded Baby Germ (there should really be some music here - preferably of the 1940s gumshoe style). One would hope that The Dreaded Baby Germ would easily succumb to an adult's immune defense, but no - not unlike the baby itself those bloody germs get into everything causing headache, anxiety and fear. I don't think there has been a more miserable time in recent years for me than this Saturday when John woke me to feed Owen and put him to bed. As I sat reading Ten Little Ladybugs and Goodnight Gorilla, tears formed, and I thought death was imminent. Thankfully Owen went to sleep without issue, and I returned to bed with a box of tissues and hatred of the fact that when sick and nursing - there is no Nyquil heavenly bliss. There is nothing but chicken soup, water and lozenges. I can deal with being sick if given the opportunity to consume a half bottle of Nyquil and retire into a den of deep sleep and delirious thought, but it is quite another thing to be ill, nursing and taking care of a baby. Damn you baby germs!!! I hate you. It has also come to my attention that perhaps my conquering of illness in years past is not at all related to the super ability of my immune system, but rather the fact that my daily blood alcohol level hovered around 0.10 thereby pickling any invader into my bloodstream - deep thoughts indeed. Thankfully this illness is passing, and I am now 20 years old in Big Brain Academy. That is the youngest your brain can be. Yes, applaud me. (Sorry for the Nintendo DS Lite reference, but a girl in times of sickness, must find happiness in other arenas).

Obsession

I love, love, love this song, this video, this band. I can only say that I hope some day to see them live. I even turned off the new Radiohead for a listen - now that is saying something. Anyway, to Animal Collective, Peacebone and love amongst the aliens. Also, look how cool I am posting a video to the blog. Yeah me.

I am a 12 year old boy . . . .

Because I find this funny (and was the block composer of words). Also because I went to the movies to see Reign of Fire - you might remember this movie from years past. It was about dragons and starred Christian Bale and Matthew McConaughey. I went because it was about dragons. The sole reason - although it did have the requisite male eye candy. The movie was terrible, but as I sat in the theatre and I took a look around at the other viewers, there was no one over the age of 12 or female. So, yep, I am a 12 year old boy.

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.”