Introducing . . . THEORY TUESDAYS

This blog needs a gimmick, so henceforth let Tuesdays be known as (drum roll please) . . . Theory Tuesdays. What pray tell do Theory Tuesdays consist of? Well, simply put, Tuesdays will be the day to detail a theory which I have come to believe in as the years pass. Who knows, perhaps Theory Tuesdays will take off and readers will submit their own unique theories, making millions flock to this webpage so that I can quit my job, get rich from ad space sales and begin living the life I was meant to lead - that of an eccentric drunk. We shall devote this first post to my theory of "The Gracefully Clumsy". If you know me well, you will know that at any given time I am covered with at least 3 different bruises. It is not a secret that I am clumsy. My trials of this weekend include the following:

1. On my right upper thigh there currently resides a bruise the size of a grapefruit. This bruise was the result of me walking into a fire hydrant. Now, I would like to state that (a) fire hydrants are stationary and (b) are often painted a bright red, yellow or white. I just walked into it. Enough said.

2. My left big toe is a bloody bruised mess with the top half of its nail missing. This injury was the result of me walking from my bedroom to the bathroom whereupon I slammed my foot into the vacuum, the same vacuum that I moved not 30 minutes earlier. I should have realized at the time that by moving this vacuum I was giving way to the clumsy demons that haunt me. It is as if they got together and said "Holy crap, that stupid bitch just moved the vacuum right outside her bedroom door. And she knows without her glasses she is blinder than blind. She is so in for it. It is almost too easy."

So as the years have progressed I do believe that my constant clumsiness has somehow created in me an absolute gracefulness. For example, the non-clumsy when slipping will often fall flat on their faces. For me, I recognize the first slippage in a nanosecond, contorting my body in such a way that often negates mishap, therefore proving the grace in my clumsy movements. I think anyone given years of abuse will somehow find a way to thwart the first inclinations towards destruction. So the completely and pitifully clumsy, like me, do in fact over time evolve a grace to avoid utter disaster. How do I know this? Well if not, I surely would have been dead 1,000 times over. And that concludes our first installment of "Theory Tuesdays". Please feel free to share your own unique theories. After all, there are only two avenues to becoming my very own Miss Havisham - this blog and the lottery.

Strikes Suck

You want to know something? I really like TV. I won't lie, I may be addicted. It is the crack to my Ho, the vodka to my alky, the entire pizza pie to my bulimic. I love it. So it should come to no surprise that the current writer's strike is causing me great pain. Of all the TV shows that I love, and there are quite a few, there is one that rises above with a form of addiction nearing hysteria, and that dear friends is Lost, Or as I like to say LLLOOOOOOSSSSSSSSTTTT (high pitched in a rambling up and down voice). Call me; I can give an impromptu version. When Lost decided to have its season run in order with no repeats, I was a happy camper. When realizing this meant Lost would not return until mid-January 2008, not so happy. But like many others in denial, it quickly was put of my mind. There were others to occupy my time, like AMC's Mad Men (which is awesome!), HBO's Tell Me You Love Me (which for some reason I like - must be the ass shots), and many more that I care not to list in fear that you will call an intervention on my TV watching arse. In all fairness, I would like to state that my TV watching is much less given the arrival of Owen - which totally and completely sucks balls. I kid, I kid. Actually the term "sucking balls" is pretty awesome, don't you think? I wonder who came up with it. I mean, in order to originate a term, you must have actually done it, right? I can see it now, a pair of guys standing there pushing a brick to the pyramid debating on how much the job just totally stinks, until one of them finally says "You know what Amenhotep? This job sucks balls, just take my word for it." And so I would like to ask whatever God is up there, to please end this writer's strike so that I can sit my bum in front of the TV and rot my brain. Thank you very much.

Back In The Saddle

In a little more than six weeks Owen will be having his first birthday. There are many thoughts racing around my mind but most pressing is the following - I have forty-seven days to lose the last of my pregnancy weight. I think 15 pounds will give me the leeway to gain five with no issue. I have to admit, that the past few weeks I have not been the poster child of weight watching. I have given into my desires of non-diet food specifically red meat and chocolate (a/k/a the Dynamic Delicious Duo). Thankfully, this has not resulted in weight gain, merely a steady maintaining. However, this Monday marks my return to yogurt, fruit, oatmeal as well as silent curses. Also, the return to the treadmill. Watch out San Francisco, another 5.6 is coming your way! (Does this joke every get old?) The month before I got pregnant I was an exercising fool. Even in the worse hangover, I walked my way to the gym to run like an interval training fool. It was awesome, I was awesome. But then I got knocked up. So, the last battle in this weight war is to be waged. Because if I don't lose this weight, it is said that it will remain with me for life as a girl has one year to lose the weight pregnancy begets or else.

As a side note, my stomach just made the strangest gurgling sound - it sounded like a banshee wailing while be strangled. Good lord that Clam Chowder I had for lunch better not turn into a bad idea. Oh sweet Jesus, guess my weight loss may have just gotten a swift kick to the arse. Help!

Holy Apples Batman!

I believe that I just had the most perfect apple ever created in this entire universe. It was like eating apple cider, but crunchier. I consider myself an apple connoisseur, pretty much eating one every day (thereby keeping the doctor away). As I stood in the fruit section of Safeway, there next to the Braeburns was the Honey Crisp. Intrigued, I bought one - impressed by its large size and pretty coloring. Holy crap this apple is good. It could possibly be the heroin of the apple world - you will be addicted with the first taste. After doing some research, I discovered the following:

Honey Crisp is the new sensation in the apple world, a large, sweet apple with crisp "to-die-for" texture! Believed to be an offspring of Macoun and Honey Gold, Honey Crisp was introduced in 1991 by the University of Minnesota breeders at Excelsior, MN. Both its parents were noted for having excellent flavor, moderate sized fruit, and "ok" texture. Honey Crisp's flavor is perhaps not as dramatic as Macoun at its peak, but is first rate. The Kicker in Honey Crisp is its crisp texture -- no other apple matches its crispness.

So true. So true.

My Pumpkin

This is the pumpkin that I carved for Halloween which I think is best summed up by the little girl who after getting her trick and treat goods said "Look Daddy, the pumpkin, its funny." That little girl, she totally got me.

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