The Hustle, The Mistake, The Mad Piss

As the clock approaches 5:00 p.m., I do as many a San Francisco working fool does, log into nextmuni.com to find the status of my train. Well imagine my surprise yesterday at 4:56 p.m. that the next trains would be in 4, 8 and 27 minutes. So, I high tailed it out of the office in a running attempt to get the 8 minute train. However, with luck and a gazelle like pace, I ran down the escalator onto the N-Judah. I immediately texted John gloating of my hustle to catch the seemingly impossible 4 minute N-Judah. Well, not so much. I did not catch the 4 minute N-Judah, but rather the M-Ocean View. This is the second time this has occurred. I would like to point out for the record that my eye sight without glasses is 20/450. So you as a person with good vision see at 450 feet what I see (without contacts or glasses) at 20 feet. Yeah, I don't know where my walking cane is either. I would also like to point out, in my defense, that the M goes to Ocean View and the N goes to Ocean Beach and if you look quickly at the digital M/N they are similar, very similar. And honestly, I don't even get why the N-Judah - a train that basically goes down Judah Street is called the N, shouldn't it be called the J? But nope, not here, the J is the train that goes to the Castro. And then there is the L-Taraval that goes down Taraval Street. We just got a T Line that goes down Third Street. What the hell? Commonsense prevails? So I got off the train, and then got onto the L - the train that goes down Taraval and requires a 15 minute walk home. I got on the train, got a seat and noticed a skunky smell. I looked up to see across from me a teenage hoodlum rolling a blunt (and I had no idea I knew what that was called either, but I thank Snoop Dog and Dr. Dre). So as I sat reading, smelling the odor of weed, and listening to the friend of the rolling hoodlum speaking of the "mad piss" he had to take, I thought how lucky I truly was at that moment, but not as lucky as the poor owner of the house wherein the bladder buoyed boy let a stream of urine out with a shriek of happiness. Ah, Muni Madness.

She puts the Oh! in Wino

I would like to first state that my battle against the bulge has been going swimmingly well. I have taken up running, as well as walking lots due to my pedometer (although this week has been fraught with rain, so the walking has been kept to a minimum). In addition to a lunch of Subway and a breakfast of toast and Laughing Cow cheese, I do believe I am getting slimmer. At least that is how it feels when I put on my clothing. It is funny how pregnancy changes your body, or should I say 10 weeks of bed rest and a dire lack of physical activity in the year that followed. But I feel good, and the motivation of Hawaii and a bathing suit did the trick. That being said, I have finally come to terms with the fact that a year of breastfeeding has changed my boobies. I really thought that I would just fit into my old bras the minute the milk stopped gushing, but I do not think that is the case. So this weekend I shall be molested by the lady at Nordstrom's and buy new bras (more than likely at a hefty price tag), but my boobs need support and cups that fit. In two short weeks, I will be in Hawaii - Kauai specifically. On the beach I shall sun myself and try to put all thoughts of tsunamis out of my head. I will eat coconut shrimp, and drink fruity rum drinks, and slather the palest kid in the world with a metric ton of sunscreen. It will be joyful, it will be triumphant. It will be just the thing to snap me out of this Sunday footballess depression. Oh, and last night I had an entire bottle of wine. I don't know what happened. I feel fine today, which is great - but my god. I poured a big glass to consume while viewing the joy that is Lost, and then I had another when that was finished, and then I was like - okay, a little bit more, and then in a blissfully buzzed state, I finished the bottle while John slept and I continued the torture that is Nip/Tuck. And although I should feel like drinking a bottle of wine in two hours was a tad much, I don't care - it was one of those evenings where it just made sense, producing a giddily warm inside. There was no stopping. And yes, this will be first story in my desperate spirally tumble into alcoholism that I tell at AA. But until then, tonight is Rock Band Beer Friday - yeah, be jealous.

A Moment of Reflection

I miss football. I miss it so much that when Sunday rolls around and I open my eyes to greet the day, I feel empty and sad. Why is it that I cannot sit around all day drinking beer and watching my fantasy stats automatically update on Direct TV (I love you by the way Direct TV). This period (the one between Football and Baseball) is hard trying time. It is especially difficult because I do not have the basking glow of a Superbowl win by the Pats. I got nothing but a bitter lost which leaves an even bitter taste that no amount of liquor seems to wash away. Why can't football be on every Sunday? Why am I forced to live a life that is only truly meaningful between the months of September and January? I guess I can try to think of the positives - the fact that the Pats are playing the 9ers in San Francisco, a game in which I will attend with wild abandon (unless knocked up that is). But even this does not help. Football, I love you. I miss you. I want some more of you. Boo hoo. Boo freaking hoo.

An Open Letter to Arlen Specter

Dear Stupidhead,

Please leave the New England Patriots, Bill Belichick and the NFL alone. You my sir are an idiot. I don't know what your motivation is, but I believe it is something to do with the fact that you are unloved and need attention - maybe because you have cheek jowls or a stupid first name. I do not know. Were you picked on by football players in high school? I was reading on ESPN this morning that you are particularly concerned with your state's loss to the Patriots. Well boo hoo. First, as all Philly fans know - they are cursed. Second, the Steelers' themselves stand behind Goodell. So what the hell are you doing? I'll let you in on a not so little secret, Bill Belichick is crazy competitive. If possible, I think he would tape an opposing team going poop so that he could examine the bowl to see if there is some sort of secret football language released from their anuses. The man is ultra competitive (something I heart him for, and appreciate being somewhat the same way). He is a nutter, yes. But a nutter with an amazing football mind and obviously a person who holds a grudge - read the almost perfect season. Do not besmirch him, Arlen. Leave him alone, leave the Pats alone and more importantly leave the freaking NFL alone. Spygate is not the MLB steroid mess, it never will - so stop trying to make it that way. Why don't you focus on something else, like the war, or the fact Katrina homeless are in toxic trailers, or even better why there is a shooting every three weeks at a school.

Sincerely,
Cassandra M. McCall

Pre-Haircut Emotions and Obama Barack

So this is the day my hair (I hope) returns to the land of the normal and not the land of the pseudo hipster. I am a mom, I don't need to be looking all crazy and young and hipsterish. Thank you very much. I am feeling a bit antsy because I don't know what Marcus the Hair Cutting guy is going to say to me. My one fear is he says - what the hell are you talking about, your hair is fine. But hopefully he pities me and makes sense of what lies upon my head. Not even sure I want to share this, but what the hell. This morning while laying in bed between the not sleeping and not quite awake limbo I started thinking about Barack Obama. The following is a trace of my thought process (it ain't pretty).

Wow, Barack Obama had the initials of "OB".
Hah, that is funny. My tampon is called an OB.
And I took my virginity with it.
Hah, Barack Obama took my virginity.
Wait a second. His initials are BO, not OB.
What a fucking retard I am. Is that Owen?

Yeah. So, I don't know what the hell that was all about. I could blame dyslexia, but I am not dyslexic, so chalk it up to mental deficiency due to major hair trauma. And you know why I am only sort of worried about this haircut, because I could have sworn that this morning (given my Guardian Angel Sully's disposition of distain) that it would be the perfect hair day. But nope, I got nothing but the crack ho. So shear away Marcus. Shear away.

Blah, Blah, Blah - PMS Ramblings

I do believe that a sufficient time has passed with regards to the Patriots loss in the Superbowl that I can now blog again. That evening at around 2:00 a.m. I woke up and just shook my head trying to figure out how it happened. And the worse part of it all? John repeatedly saying the following "At least Joe Montana never lost a Superbowl." Yeah, kill me.

And moving on, it has been three weeks and I still hate my hair. I am remedying this tomorrow with a hair cut. Alternatively I thought this morning I would just wear barrettes for the next 3 months, but whatever, to the hair cutter I go. I don't know if they will be able to fix the razor ravage mess that was once my flowing mane, but I surely hope so. At this point, I don't really care - I just don't want to look into a mirror and cringe saying "I fucking hate my fucking hair; I look like a crack addict." Mind you, I don't really, but that is the level of hate I have - similar to my hatred of the New York Yankees and now the New York Giants. I could go on about this, and I am sure John can attest, endlessly, but lessoned learned - if someone comes at me with a razor and states they are going "to give it a go." Well I am going to spit in their face, stomp on their feet, and hightail it out of there.

And moving on (again), this Thursday is the blessed day of St. Valentine. Not that I am celebrating, as I have a child who is just about 14 months with green snot flowing out of his nose, and that is the day I am suppose to be visited with the women's curse. Nothing says Happy Valentines, like cramps, Advil popping and the craving of pasta. I have been torturing John about it though to comedic results. The other evening when telling him that February 14 means he has to woo me, he responded with the following "Wooooooooooo." "Woooooooooooo." (ghost effect, please). And there I had it, my present.

And moving on (for the last time), I have been fighting against the scourge of fat. I attribute this to the motivation of Hawaii in 4 weeks. Which is great, but also, I got a pedometer. Nothing will tell you how sorry and inactive your fat ass is than this miracle of an invention. My goal of 10,000 steps a day has been going well - combined with running (which I started this weekend), Subway, and staying within my weight watchers points, I can say that when trying on my old size today at the Gap I was thisclosetohappiness. However, I really need to get new bras. I am still wearing my use as a parachute in case of airplane emergency ones because I am cheap and don't want to dole out the money for a new bra if my old bras may fit again. Why pay for interim bras? Why people? Oh wait, maybe because my boobs are like oranges in a cantaloupe size containers that shift and move causing great humiliation in the form of off kilter nipples. So to Nordstrom's this weekend I will go to be molested.

So to sum up - (1) the Patriots lost the Superbowl, (2) tomorrow hopefully the hell that is my hair will end, (3) Valentines Day is for suckers, (4) weight loss is going well and (5) my boobs should be contestants on Dance Wars with Carrie and Bruno. That is all.

Taming of the Beasts and The WHE

At 12:45 p.m. this afternoon I partook in a very girlie endeavor, the brow wax. As a girl who is not very girlie (beer and football anyone?), I do make this one foray down girlstreet. Why? Because they do look kick ass after the wax. But honestly, I really don't think guys when speaking of girls comment on their eyebrows. Fat ass? Sure. Ability in the sheets? Definitely. Eyebrows like hairy salamis? Not so much. It is a complete girl (and metrosexual) phenomenon. The troubling thought is that I can't even trace back its appearance in popular culture. I started doing it about 3 years ago which means it probably gained popularity six years ago as I lag at pretty much twice the normal rate. I figure I will be wearing leggings and bangle bracelets sometime in 2012, after the frontal lobe lobotomy of common sense. Anyhoo, the last time I got a brow wax was a little over 8 weeks ago. I missed my next appointment 3 weeks later and vowed to make another all the while not tweezing, because I feel it is important to give the waxer a challenge. I mean, why the hell tweeze when I am paying someone to do it for me? So week after week it slipped my mind until suddenly on Monday I looked at my reflection to find that two brown caterpillars had taken residency upon my face. So an online appointment later I find myself this afternoon in Susie waxer's torture chair. It had occurred to me that 8 weeks of not plucking would provide a challenge for Susie, but what did not occur to me was that my face was the one taking the beating. Wax, rip, pluck. Repeat 30 times. As I exited the salon with my face now sporting an inflamed red reactionary batman like mask, I swore I was going to throw up from the aching. And almost four hours later, I find myself still sore and red, but with quite lovely eyebrows. Was it all worth it? Well I would have to say yes. Only because it is the first time since I have gotten worse haircut ever ("WHE"), I feel okay about it. I know I have neglected to mention WHE, but basically I got my hair razored, colored, and I don't likey. Everyone else likeys. But I don't, which has lead me to conclude that I will grow out this haircut until the razored snippets are capable of rejoining at a length in which my old hairdresser can cut a blunt bob. Then I will say a big fuck you to the hair cutting industry for a year, until I turn 35 and need bangs to hide my wrinkled forehead. The things I look forward to.

Origin of The Hairy Eyeball

Well first things first, I have been really busy at work. I can't believe it either, but I am in a closing book gathering nightmare that seemingly has no end. Are you still reading? But today I resolved to begin my day not with paper cuts from piles of stupid closing documents, but rather with a blog entry. Hooray for me. So, John and I have become fans of the Travel Channel show "Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations." On his visit to Ireland we sat watching and learned that the Irish do in fact have culinary magic, especially in the form of seafood - which you would think since they inhabit an island. Now the funny, the Irish do not like the fish. This news surprises me little considering growing up I only ate it on Fridays during Lent, either fried as in fish and chips or baked as in fish stick. Something like 80% of the seafood is exported. Well, wouldn't you know it, but John suddenly makes a startling connecting observation. How the hell did the Irish starve during the potato famine if they were surrounded by seafood? So, yeah, I come from potato loving drunkards who would rather starve than gut and eat a fish. That stubborn streak of mine is suddenly becoming clear as to its origins.

I am not really sure if this qualifies as an addiction, but I am mad with the lust for Lagunitas Hairy Eyeball (see label), but it like gin before it, seems to have an ill will towards my undying infatuation. I have had this beer 3 nights last week. On Tuesday I consume three and woke up to a screaming headache. On Friday, after a strong vodka and apple juice (which is not that bad), I had two and woke up to what I believe was a hangover. Then on Saturday while playing Rock Band (holy crap it is AWESOME), like any rock star, I consumed five in quick succession the result being Sunday morning feeling like torture. Now I am sure you are sitting there saying, what a lightweight, but these beers have 8% alcohol. Of course, I think when a brewer names his beer "The Hairy Eyeball"; one might be smart enough to figure that there may be a connection to waking up with eyes bloodshot. But as referenced above, I come from a long line of stupid drunks. So midday Sunday, I promised that no Lagunitas Hairy Eyeball will touch these lips again, which totally sucks because they are so delicious, like cartwheel after and smiles all around delicious. I don't know if I can promise to be faithful to this resolution. The catch phrase on the bottle is "Here's Looking Atcha", and in my drunken and conversant state I would say back to the bottle "And here is looking at you Hairy Eyeball, you tasty little minx." How does one stop drinking a beer that gets you buzzed in 15 minutes and compliments? I don't know. I really don't.

My Celebrity Look Alikes

I do believe when wrestling with the devil of PMS, I will refer to this post for a self esteem boost. And now, a not so great photo.



Wow, I guess they know a good face. I LOOK LIKE SEAN LENNON!!!

And now one of Owen:



Oh my goodness, it seems I gave birth to an Asian female or mass murderer. Also how is it that a photo of a kid with no hair but a whisper produces 80s hair wannabees?

A Patriots Poem

Well, as promised, here is my poem that is an ode to the New England Patriots who will face the Chargers in the AFC Championship Game. My God, how awesome were the football games yesterday? Two of the best games of the year. Playoff Football!!! I love it. And here is my inner dork revealed . . .

The 2007 New England Patriots
A Tale Told In Rhyme

This season began with a draft day surprise,
The Pats traded for Moss, can't believe my eyes!
A 3 million contract and a 3rd round pick?
If you're not a Pats fan, this must make you sick.

Game One a win against the Mangina Jets.
Belichick cheating? Shall we discuss, oh lets!
Did nothing too bad, but fined and dismissed.
Now all say together: Bill Belichick's pissed!!

Next up the Chargers, in a playoff rematch,
Is every Brady throw a touchdown catch?
The defense was outstanding in halting LT,
How was that on your Visio HDTV?

Next to come were the Bills, Bengals and Browns
But nothing could stop the Patriots touchdowns.
Ocho Cinco manhandled, Lee Evans too,
And Romeo, oh Romeo, what could you do?

The next game was against the Cowboys and Romo,
Could the Patriots stop the menace named TO?
Of course they did, a fan always believes
Brady was hot and threw for five TDs.

AFC East rival the Dolphins then Skins
Forgive me father, for these football sins
Decimation is the only word to describe
Combined score: 101 to 35.

Next was the test of the Indianapolis Colts
The Pats losing at the half, oh my it revolts.
A comeback with win, the Pats don't disgrace,
Whoopee, look at that, it’s the Manning face.

A match with the Buffalo Bills yet again,
Destruction the result - 56 to 10.
The Eagles with Freeley surprise us all.
The game was close, but Pats do not fall.

The Ravens, the Steelers, the Jets and Miami
If this were a game show, then bring on the whammy.
Undefeated with only one game to win
Here come's New York, and Tom Coughlin's G-men.

The game was closer than anyone thought
Eli Manning will win? Oh god, I think not.
Moss and Brady combine for the records and win,
Is that quiet I hear, 72 Dolphin?

A perfect season had, but three more to go.
Welcome to the Belichick Tom Brady show.
So in conclusion, let us remove our hats,
God bless the game of football and of course the Pats.

I read this during halftime, and I do have to say that it went over well. Now if only I can get a job writing rhymes about things. I don't know who to sacrifice for this, but I am willing. Dr. Cassandra Suess has a ring, does it not?

Why is it . . .

that a Subway sandwich in all its brilliant glory ends rather too quickly for my poor lust filled heart, err stomach? And yes, before you ask I am becoming the female version of Jared - who if you don't know had a porn video operation in college. This information did not surprise me in the least, because honestly, that guy looks a little bit molesterish, does he not? Also, this weekend is the Pats first game of the playoffs and in honor of them I will be composing a poem to be read at halftime in my living room. Be there or be the sorta of person who does not draft a poem in honor of her favorite sports in her favorite sport a/k/a not a geek. Since I have yet to compose said poem, I don't have a title, but I am thinking that it will be in the vein of Ulysses or The Odyssey. Yeah, you heard me. Go Pahwts!

She Puts the Craze in Crazy

I can't really explain what happened to me last night, other than to say I had a momentarily separation from sanity and traveled down the harrowing road of the crazy. When finishing a Lost episode entitled "The Man From Tallahassee" I asked John "What happened to Locke's Dad, I can't remember?" Now John being John refused to tell me. Normally, I would sulk over to the computer, feign hatred and do a quick search to find the answer. However, this was not the case. Instead I was hijacked by lunancy and stormed off to the bedroom. As I drank my beer (Lagunitas Hairy Eyeball Ale, which I highly recommend) and watched the last DVRed episode of Nip/Tuck (which totally sucks ass this season and I can't believe I even waste my time watching it), I suddenly became quite mad. Note to readers - this was a question about Lost that could easily be answered by a 10 second Google inquiry. After Nip/Tuck was over, fueled by the Hairy Eyeball I made my way to John (who continued to watch Lost - which had me even more angry) and asked "Are you ready to tell me now." His response, "No." Under normal Cassie this would have elicited a laugh. Under psychosis Cassie this elicited my stomping back to the bedroom with a slammed door and bedtime. Long story short - as I closed my eyes, my anger grew, I made a scene, left the house for 5 minutes and had a crying fit. Again people, OVER LOST!!!! Now that I have reconnected with the sane, I am befuddled as to what happened last evening. I think that it could be hormones, but that is the excuse every girl makes but also one that is valid. But honestly, I think it was the following - sometimes as a girl you just need to cry and something as stupid as your husband jokingly not answering a question of yours can set you off onto that path. Which is what I think happened - hormones and hunger can often make a sane girl crazy. All is back to normal, but I do have a slight headache and feel like a complete ass. But I suck it up to the 1000 crazy things I get to do in this life with a free pass. Only 23 more to go, my 20s took up a lot.

Confessions of a Fantasizer

Its 11:51 a.m., and for the last 30 minutes I have been having these fantasies. I can't believe I am actually going to admit to this in blog format, but here it goes. You wanna know what of? Okay, prepare yourself -















Yep, there is my man! A Subway sandwich. Get your head out of the gutter people. I'll fully admit that I am dreaming in a somewhat erotic way of a 6 inch wheat turkey and cheese with lettuce, pickles, green peppers, olives and onions, toasted. Now that I am back in the saddle of weight gain, with a Hawaii adventure a mere 2 months away, I have reigned in my eating. Actually I could probably eat more, like at breakfast, but I’d rather have my two glasses of wine at night. Thank you very much alcoholic gene pool. My only morning indulgence is 3 points towards a non-fat latte. I could get coffee for no points, but I like the latte, and more importantly, I need to get milk somewhere, so why not deliciously heated and foamed commingling with espresso? However, around 11:00 I begin to lust after the sandwich (total points 6!). I think of nothing else. It is really quite embarrassing as I imagine him talking sweet nothings in my ear that go somewhat like this - Cassie, you know I am hot and good for you. I could make you warm inside and full and satisfied. You know you want me. And, egad, I do Mr. Subway 6 inch toasted turkey. I do!

And So It Begins . . .

My two new year's resolutions are as follows: (1) lose 20 pounds and (2) drink more seabreezes in the seabreeze. I think I can accomplish on of these quite easily; however, the other will take some work - mixing vodka with equal parts orange and cranberry juices adding enough but not too much ice, then finding a beach. Tough work! Luckily, I live near one. But wait a minute; I thought that you would say losing weight? Yeah, me too. But in all honestly the formula for losing weight is quite simple - eating right plus exercise equals weight loss. Abracadabra ladies and gents. Although I did go on Weight Watcher's post baby and lost a fair amount of weight - 20 pounds, I have been lax of late and the jelly in my belly is making a comeback. So it begins anew, given I am no longer breastfeeding thus 24/7 ravenously hungry, I am confident that by March 7 (the day I go to Hawaii for the first time ever) I will have attained that goal, or at least come close to it. Wish me luck.

So today I went to Subway and got a turkey on wheat with veggies. Usually when I go to Subway, it follows a certain path:

Me: Turkey on Wheat, with American Cheese and Yellow Mustard. That's it.
Veggie Doler: What? No Lettuce?
Me: No. Just Plain.
VD: No pickles? No onions?
Me: Nope, just yellow mustard. Thanks.
VD: Shaking head.

Why is it so horrible to go into Subway and ask for the just the basic of all sandwiches? I did not just whip out my penis (if I had one) and peed on you lady (and I use that tern loosely because said Veggie Doler is actually a man, in ladies clothing - San Francisco is awesome). Sure I am possibly paying a premium for all the veggies I want, but I don't want them. However, today I ordered a turkey on wheat with american cheese, yellow mustard, lettuce, pickles, black olives, green peppers and onions. And holy crap, it was good. And filling. And under the Weight Watcher's Point System, only 6 points. So the total pointage, thus far for today is 9 points, 3 in the form of a latte and 6 in the form of a delicious veggie filled Subway sandwich. Okay, Veggie Doler, I get the entire thing now. Sorry. If I remember correctly, my points should be around 22 now that Owen is boob free, so I got a bunch to blow tonight - hello chocolate. I keed, I keed. Is it just me, or is the entire Weight Watcher's Points System somewhat akin to gambling? Do I blow my wad or do I play every game in the house, spreading it around a bit? Not too sure, but I am sure of one thing. Hawaii is 63 days which roughly averages to 0.317 pounds of weight loss a day. The journey, she will be tough, but I get to console myself with lush greenery, mai tais, swimming and hopefully not Tsunamis (because I got an irrational fear of those which I will save for another time).

Happy, Happy

You know what the best part of New Year's Eve is? It is when you hear the following "Happy New Years." (Please extend the "years" as follows - "yeeeeerrrrrrsssssss." Perhaps I am the only person on the planet who finds this funny - sorta like my belief that Daniel Day Lewis' suicide attempt in My Left Foot is on par with Laurel and Hardy's Who's On First. If you hear the dreaded Happy New Years (not, Happy New Year), and you look quick enough you will see that often that person using such phrasing falls into a certain category - older, balding and overweight. It is scientifically proven in the Theory of Cass Category. So, what am I going to do for my Happy New Years, well let me tell you . . .

First up, I am working. But we get out at 3:00 p.m. and are having a pizza party. I have noticed a few things about working on holidays. The company feels bad, and instead of just saying listen there is nothing going on, just have the day off, they instead let you out early and feed you pizza. Pizza and being let out early is the corporate world's bitch slap to your face.

After I leave the confines of work, with a little more weight to lose in the upcoming year, thank you pizza, I will be traveling to my OB/GYN who will be giving me a pap smear so that we can check out if my cervical cells are back in line. A little history - my cervix and I are constantly at battle it seems. My cells go a bit wonky, I get another test, all is okay until they go wonky again and we repeat the process. If my OB/GYN is the paparazzi, my cervix is Britney Spears. It loves the attention.

Third up on the NYE agenda is home wherein John and I will follow the routine of getting Owen to sleep and then we will be making Greyhounds with a gallon tub of Grey Goose Vodka that was on sale for 50 bux at Safeway. I don't know how you define love, but your husband calling you at 10:30 a.m. in order to inform you that he just save 30 bux on a tank size bottle of Goose, is better than all the hearts and roses you other saps receive. I love you John McCall, I really do.

As John and I wander down the road of Grey Goose and Grapefruit Juice, we will also be engaging in the play of our Nintendo Wii. I will say this, I have lost my chops. Last night I was defeated by what my brother-in-law now refers to as "The Shark". John smelled blood in the water, and I was his victim. My bowling pro status tumbled 120 points in 3 games. This, to some, is nothing, but to me and my ultra-competitive you will lose attitude, it hurts worse than the seemingly horrid ending to this "What's Grosser than Gross?" joke - sliding down a banister of razor blades into a pool of rubbing alcohol. That's pain people.

Speaking of rubbing alcohol and stories of my unfortunate past, when I was in 10th grade our school newspaper "The Blue and Gold" had a theme at Christmas in which the students would answer the question "What I Wanted For Christmas". It was the early 1990s, and in Boston it was just revealed that Kitty Dukakis, wife of Michael "Presidential Candidate 1988" Dukakis was an alcoholic. And her addiction was so severe that there was a time she pilfered her medicine cabinet to drink rubbing alcohol. So as I sat thinking about what I wanted for Christmas, I wrote the following "All I want for Christmas, is a bottle of rubbing alcohol. Signed, Kitty Dukakis." I know, absolute hilarity. However, I was told later by Mr. Hines that such a wish would not be published because it was not funny, and as a young lady, I should act more ladylike. Well, well Mr. Hines, little do you realize that was pure comedic gold. I still stand by it. I was the David Letterman of Malden High, only to be bullied into silence, by what I do believe was pure jealousy. So on this NYE, I wish you the very best - be it rubbing alcohol, or gallon size bottles of Grey Goose, for we all have our poisons.

Ring Around The Collar

This morning I was ironing my shirt and came across a thought. I know, what mother with a child turning one irons her clothing for work. Me. Why? Because of my mother, a woman that to this day still irons jeans, ingrained it into my psyche. I have tried to go to work with semi-wrinkled clothing. The result being feelings I can only equate to those who have committed the crime of murder. I feel dirty, lonely and guilty - ravaged with the knowledge of wrinkled pants and shirt. But I digress. So as I was ironing the collar of my button down, I had the following thought - is that ring around the collar? Which lead to another thought - what the hell happened to the horror that was "ring around the collar"? Remember commercials like these:



Yeah, I do too. But here it is 2007, and I have heard not a whisper of the evil menace that was ring around the collar. After a quick google search, it seems that ring around the collar does still exists. It is the grime and dirt that collects as one's neck rubs into the fabric of the collar. Basically dead skin combined with sweat pooling. Good lord that is gross. However, it seems that society today is not fearful as it once was. How did this happen? Did lobbyists and supporters of ring around the collar make Wisk abandon its movement to abolish same? I mean with all the freaking guys out there wearing stupid striped collared button down shirts, one would think there would be some sort of crisis concerning the Ring. But nope, it seems this scourge has been swept under the rug. And I am here to rectify this. The ring must be combatted. Forget global warming and the war in Iraq. Down with the ring!!! Down!!!!!!! Please join me in my campaign. Donations gladly accepted.

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.