So Sleepy

There is a distinct possibility that my head will come crashing into my keyboard and I will delve into a coma like sleep that will last this entire pregnancy. Well, I hope at least. After dining upon a roasted turkey sandwich, I have both pregnancy tired and tryptophan sleepy combining into a whirling hurricane of shut eye. Work ends in two hours or 120 minutes or 7,200 seconds. A freaking lifetime. The problem with pregnancy is that you are very tired - your body is making a baby for Christ’s sake. With my first, I would sleep a ton. My entire weekends would be devoted to the art of sleep. I would go to bed Friday evening at 8:30 p.m., wake up at 8:30 a.m., pee, fall back to sleep until 12:00, eat, and then take afternoon nappy, shower, then lookey there, bed time approaches. Now I have Owen. And second baby sleep is way less. I close my eyes at night only to open them seemingly five seconds later to learn that it is time to get up. This is not good. And now this tired, combined with that turkey sandwich, have produced the zombie state. I am yawning every 10 seconds. My eyelids are impossibly heavy, as if two carnival fat ladies have taken residence upon the real estate. My face is slack, my attitude shaky, my vision blurred. I lust after my bed like a rowdy sailor on shore leave. Oh sweet heavenly, blissful bed. I want you madly.

Nerd Time

CLICK HERE. The Periodic Table of Elements - WITH VIDEOS!!!!!!! Hello, my name is Cassie, and I am a nerd.

Holy Hormones

Well it seems that I have entered the hormonal stage of my pregnancy, wherein my mind usually fun loving and carefree decides to become bi-polar. I reside in one of two states, pissed off wanting to punch someone in the head or overly emotional prone to crying jags. This past weekend, I give you two examples of my bi-polar nature:

Overly Emotional. Saturday afternoon after Owen has descended into nap and John has decided to join him in the endeavor, I sit on the couch flipping the remote while consuming a chunky peanut butter smothered sourdough English muffin. I stumble across Deep Impact. In the summer of 1998 there were two movies about the planet being destroyed by outer space - Armageddon had a big ole asteroid and Deep Impact had a big ole comet. Where Armageddon had Bruce Willis, Ben Affleck, and Liv Tyler, Deep Impact had Tea Leoni, Morgan Freeman and Elijah Wood. Yeah. So as I sat there watching Tea Leoni as an MSNBC anchor describing how the rescue ship Messiah is about to drill into the comet to insert nuclear bombs in order to blow up the comet so that it veers from its course of Deep Impact, I began to cry. At first I shook it off, this was Deep Impact, a movie, and as far as I knew, no comet was currently hurtling to destroy me. But as the music swelled, and Astronaut Gus (played by Jon Favreau) was blown into deep space, my chest began to heave, my eyes watered, and I began a soft wail. OH NO, DEEP IMPACT. You will not Brokeback Mountain me!! That is when I decided to get up and build Owen’s toddler bed, because it is one thing to meltdown after Brokeback when pregnant, another to cry at Spiderman and Independence Day while not pregnant, but obviously PMSed, but not Deep Impact. No way, no how.

Overly Psychotic. Before the football games yesterday John and I rushed to the park with Owen to give him some fresh air time before his parents hunkered down for their Sunday fix of football and fun. Although in hindsight, given the performance of a certain New England football team, I think we should have stayed at the park. At this park, there are often children’s parties, so you will see parents early in the morning setting up for their kid’s birthdays. We arrived at the park at 9:30 to see two guys decorating one side of the park in balloons, red ribbons, and a piñata. That is when this lady came and said - “Excuse me, but where else can you set up.” Now these gentlemen had obviously claimed that area, and told her other areas with tables were claimed by another. “But I have 40 people coming.” cried Mommy Dearest. It was at this point, the hormonal anger in me surged. So you have 40 people coming to a park for a birthday, and you decide to show up to claim tables at 9:30. Stupid bitch. Normally, I could care less - I really don’t plan on having any birthday party for Owen until his 21st. So, there is that. But the lack of planning by this woman was so infuriating. Because if it was me, I would have been up at 5:30 a.m. claiming spots, because you know 40 people (adults included), love to hang out in the middle of the park on the two benches that you now are forced to claim. I think the best part is when she said “Okay, well I guess we will have to have a person up there to direct people over to us.” This is not Yellowstone lady, it’s a kid’s park, that I could probably crawl the length of in a minute. But you get your director of traffic. Geesh. John had no idea why I was so angry, but I was, and I guess still am. Furious Anger!

So yes, be prepared from some fun with my new bipolar mind. Yesterday, as I was cleaning up from football, I spilled a half full beer off the counter, and I swear to God, if I did not want to punch a wall and kick a kitten. Then cry, of course.

For the Love of God . . .

I recently got invited to a birthday party for a two year old. Please hold back your screams of jealousy. It was an Evite. I love these things because you get to read things like the following “Sorry we can’t make it, but our babymoon is scheduled for that weekend.” Are you faithful reader not aware of the babymoon? Well, urban dictionary describes it as:

Mandatory vacation for both parents before the live birth of a child. Maybe a weekend, maybe a week. Requires the male end of conception to pay for all expenses out of his pocket. Travel, lodging, preferably at a seaside hotel, and gifts (to the mother to be, not the baby,) are an absolute necessity. Eases away the stress and woe of pregnancy.

Oh really? You know what I define it as - stupid. You know what else is stupid - push prizes. The only thing I wanted after pushing Owen into the world was him. And maybe a new vagina. But babymoons and push prizes? When did men get so pansy assed to put up with this utter nonsense. I mean isn’t it enough that they are forced into the delivery room instead of drinking and smoking at a bar telling the other drunks that they are about to have a baby. Also, how awkward would the following conversation be:

Person: Oh Cassie, what a lovely necklace. Where did you get it?
Me: John, he got it for me.
Person: Birthday? Anniversary?
Me: Ah, no.
Person: Just because?
Me: Well, if you have to know if was for squeezing Owen out of my vagina. It’s called a push prize. I also pushed out a poop, but I think this is just for the baby. But maybe not.
Person: Nice, I am going to leave now.
Me: Okay!

So maybe I am betraying another secret girl code that I was not privy too because of my tomboy nature, but let me say I am not partaking even if it would mean diamonds and beach vacations. Wait a second, can I retract everything I just said.

Maybe Lasik Is Not So Bad Afterall . . .

In case you did not know, I wear glasses, and am pretty much blind without them. As evidence of this psuedoblindness, I just received the following IM from John:

...so i just got out of the shower. while taking my shower, i noticed something strange in the tub. it turned out to be a poop. so that means that either owen pooped in there last night and it's been sitting in there this whole time (and you showered in there with it...ummm....ewww...) or you pooped in there this morning. which is it cassie? enquiring minds want to know.

Let me just blame this on my eyes, Mr. Bubble and not my incontinence.

Maternity Clothing - My True Dilemma

I do not think there is anything more depressing than maternity clothes shopping. Well maybe attending a funeral, but if it is my family that usually involves drink and food and laughs. So again, maybe it is maternity clothes shopping. And I don’t really find it depressing in the sense of “Wow, I can’t wait to put this on so that I can look like a gigantic peach.” But rather depressing in the sense that I repeatedly said to myself, “Wow. I really hope I can still wear this after the baby is born, super cute!” Also, I said it before, and I will say it again. I love elastic waists. Who needs zippers and buttons and potential muffin tops, when there is cute maternity wear? I ask you this?

Pregnancy Is A Funny Thing

There you are with an itty bitty person growing inside you. You are the vessel controlled by surging hormones and too tight pants. You are the victim of morning sickness and cravings. You are no longer are alone. Things about being pregnant that I have recognized this week:

What is it about meat? I have had two meatball sandwiches in the past three days, one from Toaster Oven and one from Gambinos New York Style Subs, because someone told me that they were much better. A normal person would say, I will get that meatball sandwich next time I crave it - say in 3 months. A pregnant person says. You don’t say, Gambino’s, eh? And then proceeds to think about said sandwich for the next 20 hours. How big are the balls? Is the sauce good? Is the cheese provolone or mozzarella? Is the bread super soft? Conclusion - I like the Toaster Oven better. I am unsure if this actual due to the meatballs or the fact that I in general hate anything associated with New York.

Someone in the office, who knows I am with beastie, said the following to me. “Cassie, have you lost weight? Your face is thinner.” Needless to say, after I dove upon this woman in flurry or kisses, hugs, and inappropriate office touching, I felt blissfully good. I do not think it is often the pregnant are given praise for their weight loss, but hallelujah I was. And do not think this is not going upon my gravestone:

Here Lies Cassandra Michelle Catherine McCall
Born October 30, 1973
Died TBD
Was once told during her second pregnancy, her face looked thinner. Also, loved the Pats. Considers the day Matt Cassel hoisted the MVP Superbowl trophy a day of pure awesomeness. Hopes she gets to haunt people.

I think I need to retire my button and zipper pants, because right now I am wearing a pair that castrating my mid-section. Is my face purple? Because I think it is. I must unleash the belly. I must!

Ham, A Love Story

Today is a great day. Not only has my seven month separation from my true love ended (hello NFL) but I have finally, after six weeks of obsessing, decided to make a baked ham. I desire ham crazily, pretty sure it has to do with this life growing in my belly. Please note that my last foray into haminess probably occurred circa 1998. It is in my thoughts at least three times a day. Dreamingly, I ponder the heavenly taste of it dipped into buttery mashed potatoes and then driven into my hungry wanting mouth, over and over again. I imagine there is no greater joy to me at this time than that of a freshly baked ham with cloves and pineapple. Saturday I have a date with destiny, until then I will drool and daydream. At the supermarket, after a careful and probably fraught filled selection process of the bone-in ham, I will pick up my love and dance a disco of delight. Shall I crochet a cozie for its journey home? Perhaps. Will it mind me peeping at it through the oven while it cooks in its juices and coca-cola (my mother swears by it)? Of course not. Will Owen or John get a single bite? I don’t know. Will I change my name to Hamzilla? It does have a ring to it. Will I eat it all in fit of ravenous desire? Most assuredly. Oh ham, I love you so. I can't wait until Saturday. Ham, sweet precious ham.

A Pregnant Pause . . .

That is my title because I am pregnant and have had an awfully long blog pause. Oh my goodness, aren’t I just the most witty thing ever. Anyway, yeah so I am knocked up, and just about to enter my second trimester. Also known as the glory trimester because you are no longer sick all the time, but not yet able to be harpooned by fisherman due to your large girth.

Things about pregnancy this time around I have noticed:

1. When you tell your husband, you know this might take like six months to a year, so we better start trying now. Please be prepared to be pregnant right away, and put away your flask.

2. When pregnant with Owen, I had often said due to some issues at the beginning “Please God, just let me be sick.” As this was suppose to be the sign of a healthy pregnancy. Well let me tell you, God is very funny, and very mean spirited. Only recently has the nausea subsided, but for the past seven weeks I have been hit with waves of pukiness. But I never puke, because you know that would mean relief, I just sit there thinking of puking, for hours on end. But you know what, I don’t care, because “it is a sign of a healthy pregnancy.” This to me know falls under the “a bird shitting on you is good luck” category. Absolute crap, but the unfortunate sufferers need a bright side.

3. The other day, I looked in the mirror and said to myself (or out loud, as I tend to do unknowingly): “Wow, Cass, you are getting chunky.” But then I was all like - I AM PREGNANT. THANK GOD, I AM PREGNANT. So the entire allowance of being a fat ass is a pretty sweet perk.

4. Forget bloodhounds, just let me track that missing hiker lost in the woods because my sense of smell is superhero extraordinary. Is this a good thing? Hell no. There is nothing worse than being the victim of morning, late morning, noonish, afternoon, dusk, evening, nighttime sickness and be met everywhere you go with the smells of the world. You ever change a 20 month old’s poop laden diaper when battling throwing up with the smell of a nasal ninja? And don’t get me started on MUNI. I am sorry man next to me, but your burps of Chinese food every 30 seconds might just cause me to punch you in the face repeatedly, and is that a beer you had with that lunch? Because I think it is, and I hate you!

5. You don’t know true happiness in your husband, until you look to his face when uttering these words “Its only one baby.”

So, yeah, pregnant again, meaning that my next hard alcohol cocktail will more than likely be for the celebration of the year 2010. Hello, my name is Cassie McCall, and I have been sober for 8 weeks. Our baby is due March 14, 2009. We can’t wait.

Things I Know Now . . .

I know what you are thinking, what a sweet and innocent boy (also, dude has hair!). Please remember, however, that said boy is captured forever still in this photograph. For if it was action, then you would see this boy jump left, jump right, put his right hand in, put his right hand out, put his right hand in and shake it all about while uttering a guttering wailing that can only be surmised as a cross between a Planet of the Apes bellowing and the sound I imagine victims of x-ray guns utter before vanishing into the great unknown. Last night, we visited relatives in an unchild proofed house. No biggie you say. But with Owen, Curious of All and Destroyer of Much it was hell on wheels. They say a toddler has an attention span of five minutes. And if one was to track his or her moments over a specific time frame, it would resemble the product of an intense session of spirographing. I left the apartment two hours later with a pounding headache. I remember the day before thinking - Yeah, I don’t have to cook dinner! But in all honesty, I would have made an eight course meal complete with crème brulee instead, because you know why? My house has gates, which contain the roaming beast. And it also has a bunch of toys, which pacifies the wondering beast. Oh, and there is this wonderful Cable TV station called Sprout, which soothes the beast with its Goodnight Show. So in a continuing list of resolutions with child, in addition to not smoke crack or invite hobos in for coffee, goes NEVER GO OUT ON THE WEEKNIGHT WHEN THE BOY HAS TO GO TO BED AT 7:00 P.M. I always hated tattoos, but thinking this one on my forehead might stop invitations.

Oh Really Vitamin Water?

And so it begins . . . .

I know that it has been a while since I have taken finger to key to type the wonder that is my life, but honestly, I have not even thought of this blog of late. I know! What a bitch. But I am back, because it must be said that my son has been taken over by the Terrible Twos. And in no particular order, the joys so far:

The Wind-Up Toddler. When picking up a frustrated and angry Owen Patrick, be careful of the full kicking of his feet back and forth. Like a demented gazelle, my son will scissor his legs at such a rapid pace, one would not be surprised if placed in water, he would cross the Atlantic in 2.5 days. Although locked in my arms, and incapable of escape, his legs do not get the message. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Furious feet do you magic! I am afraid to put him in corduroys for fear of fire.

I Shall Slaughter You All. I imagine that being the youngest kid and only boy in daycare has its moments of “Holy cow, I really wish I could take those girls down. Dolls, dolls, dolls, stupid dolls.” And it seems that Owen has finally had enough as he has begun hitting the other kids, I believe the phrase “threw her to the ground” was used this morning, which as a football fan makes me proud, but as a woman makes me call domestic violence hotlines. But I guess this is all “normal toddler behavior”. Seriously, I was wondering if having a hissy fit, and punching some one at work out could be qualified “as normal adult behavior.” Because, that would be awesome.

Although a Bruiser, I Ain’t Stupid. John informs me that at the park Owen will only knock down and push kids that are smaller than him, while he leaves the big kids alone. Smart boy.

You Are an Obsession, You're My Obsession. Owen has two obsessions of late. The first is brushing his teeth. Never has there been a child on this green earth who has loved the tooth brushing so much. We brush his teeth in the bath, first thing. Don’t break out of the order, or you will have deal with the wrath of Owen. “Teeettttt. Teeeetttt. Teeeeetttttttttttt. Teeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeettttttttttttttttttttt.” Okay, dude, I got it. So I brush his teeth and there is such joy and happiness in his eyes. The second thing, and I am pretty sure this might prove out to be beneficial, is his new fangled love of the potty. “Pppppooooddddyyy. Pooooddddyyy. Poooddddyyyy”. For now all he does is sit on it, with a proud look upon his face. So proud, this morning I asked if he wanted any reading material. He yells poddy, sits down, gets up and repeats 10,000 times. John and I are actually considering this may be the start of a diaper free existence. Can you imagine not wiping the ass of someone else 3 to 6 times a day? Well I can too. And it is glorious.

So there you have it, the first of what I am sure will be many stories of the joys of my son entering his “first adolescence.” Heaven help us.

Movie Review: Wanted

Let it be known that as a mother of an 18 month old, my trips to the movie theater have taken a horrid tumble. Last Saturday due to the blessing of babysitting grandparents, John and I took ourselves to the movies. Our choices were: Get Smart, Wanted and Wall-E. Now Wall-E is a kid’s movie, and since I have a kid, I figured, let’s be adult. So that left Get Smart and Wanted. Now, I loved the old Get Smart, and I love Steve Carrell, but those two shan’t be together in my mind. The only Maxwell Smart is Don Adams, and the only Agent 99 is Barbara Feldon. Nuff said. So that left Wanted. Did you know that Wanted has gotten really good reviews? Well it has. Honestly, I had no clue what it was about. So imagine my surprise when before the movie began the following appeared on the screen in written text:

1000 years ago, a Secret Society of Weavers created a group of assassins called the Fraternity.

A fucking secret society of WEAVERS. WEAVERS!!!! Now, when I think of assassin I think of ninjas, the CIA and Lee Harvey Oswald, I do not think of a group of weavers. I decided to forget about this stupid weaver thing and enjoy the film. And I did, until the following occurred: Morgan Freeman informs James McAvoy how it is that they receive the names of people to assassinate. Okay then. Morgan leads him into a room, and there they stand among a loom. But this is not any loom people, it is THE LOOM OF FATE. Yeah, Morgan Freeman just seriously uttered the words “The Loom of Fate.” You see folks, The Loom of Fate weaves and at some point it will have a double stitch - so if the stitch is on top, it is a zero, on the bottom a one. This binary code yields the name of the person to be assassinated. Again, why don’t we all say it together “The Loom of Fate.” Needless to say, John and I were laughing. You know who else was laughing? No one. You know why, because well the rest of the audience actually must have thought that a loom of fate was a plausible storyline. It would have been better if a secret society of dog walkers had a talking dog. That I would have easily accepted, as opposed to this secret society of weavers protecting The Loom of Fate that gives binary code of people to assassinate.

This movie sucked total balls. I would say it even sucked Donkey Balls. It was like Fight Club for the recipients of frontal lobotomies. I should have seen Wall-E.

The Shipping News

The Shipping News : A Novel by E. Annie Proulx

My review

rating: 3 of 5 stars
The Shipping News was good for one thing, I know a bunch about knots. Not sure if the entire knot thing at the beginning of each chapter threw me for a loop (hah!), but I would spent a few minutes following the course of the knot to figure it out. Which probably did not help the flow of this book. The Shipping News is beautifully written, and has a few lines that are just awesome, like "Quolye had the big man's love of a petite woman." But I never really got into the characters or the story, although I must say the last 40 pages did enthrall me, but was it worth the preceding 280 pages? I guess the answer is yes. Its an odd story of an island community, sorta reminded me of Northern Exposure a tad. Or my visits to Martha's Vineyard. Oh Islanders, you crazies.


View all my reviews.

Tales of MUNI

Let it be known that yesterday was a day of MUNI reckoning that was headache producing in nature. First let me begin by saying that in the morning, I like my coffee. I like it on the N-Judah, whilst reading and listening to music. So if the train is stationed and not yet going, I go to Java Beach, and order a medium black. Yesterday morning, I entered Java Beach and was happy - the train was parked and there was but one customer before me. However, Mr. Skinny Non-Fat, Non-Dairy, Bagel Toasted Dark, With Oatmeal And Bananas, you made me tap my feet in a fury of activity as I nervously eyed the train. After his seemingly 10 hour order was complete I quickly rattled off my order, received cup, pour coffee, got lid, and don't burn your hand cover, ran to the train as it sat parked and pushed the button. I pushed again. Door open!!! No, it did not. I ran to the next car as its doors closed. Muther fucka. As the Muni took off, I quickly followed. Let me say this, running with coffee is not an easy task. I ran at a good clip finally giving up because "No way will I catch that train." Flash forward to 10 seconds later, "Good lord, I can get that train, look at that line of fools waiting to pay." So I hoofed it again, like a half paralyzed animal due to coffee and my bag, only to be once again greeted by closing doors. Muther Fucka Part Deux. I know the pain of running for a train, only to miss it. But to run for the same train twice, with the same hurt feelings of failure and incompetence is a true horror.

So as the day progressed, and the 5:00 o'clock whistle blew, and I made my way to the Embarcadero Station for my train. Little did I know that June 30, 2008 was the day Cassie McCall would be driven to insanity by the good folks at the Bay Area Transit Authority. It began simply enough, a two car N entered the station. But the second car said "No Passengers". Muther Fucka Part Tres. I made my way to the other car with gaggle of others. Push, push, slam, bam, is that person touching me? Oh my god. So I got out my book, got a decent standing spot, and tried to forget all the body heat circling me like bees buzzing in my ear. The next stop added to the crush of people. At this time, a woman about 55 years old with wild white hair, a 6'0" foot frame and man hands stood behind me. It was at this time, I knew I was in trouble She repeatedly said, "Move in everybody, move in. We can all get in the car." Sorry, lady but currently my ass is being rubbed by the man behind me, my whole left half is sandwiched into the girl beside me like we are Siamese Twins, and you are getting a little too close for comfort. We continued onward, trying to lose myself into my book. Gargantuan woman makes her way beside me and gets out her USA Today paper. She beings to read, while touching my hand. I kid you not. She rested her hand on mine. I moved, she moved, I moved, she moved. Is this really happening? Her paper is on my head. My head! We get to the next stop and another rush of persons onto the train. Ms. Charitable Commuter actually says to the person trying to get on "Come on sir, you can get on too." Bitch, please. So now this guy is on after about two minutes of twister like contortions by the other passengers. We get to the Duboce Park stop, and before me the seated passenger is leaving. Hail Thee Jesus. I sit down, but who else sits down? Yep, Ms. MUNI United. As she sits, her cat hair strewn sweater is on my hand, this does not surprise me. If the was ever a poster child for the Crazy Ole Cat Woman, this lady was it. It is at this time, that the passenger who we let on at the previous stop shouts the following "Hey Man, don't let your frustration out on me, because I AM PRIME TO GO. PRIME!!" Great, now there is a going to be a fist fight. Thanks lady, soooooo happy he got on board. But peace reigns supreme.

Finally it seems that the world of MUNI had gotten off its crazy axis as the cat lady has left, and a young girl sits next to me. I was happy. But a minute into this bliss, came the following "Do you have twenty-five cents?" "No, sorry." Then there came the moaning. The guttural wailing of an insane homeless person and then the talk of purple potatoes. Ah, I don't hear you. Seriously, God, why me? I try to concentrate on my book while the girl next to me chatters, moans and speaks in demon tongue. And then it happens, a seat opens up, I make a beeline and plop down. Finally on my own within the confines of N-Judah ride of crazy. My head is aching, my nerves fried, only to hear "Sorry folks, but this will be our last stop." Oh the humanity. I make my exit, I make my entrance, and finally arrive at my stop. Needless to say, that evening, wine was had. MUNI, you may have won the battle, but I will win the war.

If It Is Yellow . . .

At nineteen years old I went up to New Hampshire with my friend Valerie, whose family had a cabin. Upon going to the bathroom, I was greeted with the following embroidered and framed sign:

If It Is Yellow, Let it Mellow
If It Is Brown, Flush It Down


As if. Please note that said sign was done in browns and yellows on an ivory background with flowers and butterflies. It still haunts me. Upon explanation by Valerie I was told that they had a septic system, so you did not really want to flush anything but poop, so there would be no overflows. Okay then. I will let you know that I flushed every time, I had to. I could not let the yellow just mellow. Flash forward 15 years, and what am I currently doing due to the water restrictions? Yep, letting my yellow mellow. And good lord it is hard, try reversing years of programming of flushing. It is ridiculous. I often go into the bathroom thinking "What the hell man? Who didn't flush?" Only to immediately think, "Cassie, it is mellowing, that yellow is mellowing." So I guess I am being green, or disgusting, I have yet to decide. Speaking of disgusting, I kid you not when I say that on Monday's N-Judah ride the old lady next to me was ravaging her nostril with her finger at a break neck pace. I just sat thinking, this is not happening. Does this woman think she alone, or in her car? I get entire wisdom when older, but it must stop when you are happily picking and then flicking, FLICKING, your found treasure into the air on public transportation. Is this a total giving up on life, or just further proof that you just don't give a damn when old? I don't know.

Not that I am Mad or Anything

I was thinking the other day that if I was ten years younger, running as much as I do, there would not be an ounce of heft on my frame. It is not that the running isn't going well, it is. Last week I ran six out of seven days, and this week every day so far. I even ran on the treadmill this weekend while Owen napped because "might as well. I got the time." Guessing those happy little endorphins do provide you with the crazy. My clothing is fitting better, my muffin top is mini in size, and my legs, dare I say it, are getting quite svelte. But the fact of the matter is at 34 years old running approximately 12 to 18 miles a week provides you with the slow weight loss which I suppose may be the best kind. At 24, I would be wearing size six pants and flaunting my body like a crack ho in need of a fix. When younger, you could skip a meal and lose five pounds, now it a battle of epic proportions. I can't even imagine what it will be like in my 40s. But I am pretty sure by then I will give into a life of Bon Bons, big girl sizes and QVC.

Speaking of big, guess whose little monster weighed in at 27.1 pounds and 33 1/2 inches in height - otherwise known as the 75% percentile for both height and weight? Yep, Owen. He is officially living up to the linebacker title that no less than 50 people given him. Initially when they said it I was all "no way, he actually his is just 20% percentile in height and weight." But now, I am trying to figure out which colleges will provide him the best opportunity to join the Patriots in 2027. Also, the kid received 3 shots and cried for a solid 2.2 seconds. He shook it off to climb on a chair, to get up the examination table, where he tried to jump off. Owen is a year and a half old monster in the making, with no fear, and a high pain threshold. Help us Jesus.

George Carlin

I think I owe a great deal of my sense of humor to George Carlin, especially since I listened to Take Offs and Put Ons for only about three years straight when 7 to 10. Hi, this is the Hippie Dippy Weatherman, doing the Hippie Dippy Weather, Man! And my favorite of all time has to be Wwwwwwww, Iiiiiiiiiii, Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn, Oooooooooooooooooooo, Wonderful WINO Radio. So, to George Carlin, I repeat the best song of the lot, the love song:

I sent my sinuses to Arizona,
My liver to Peru,
My lungs and my kidneys,
For the summer to Sydney,
But I am sending my heart to you.

You will be missed.

Oh No He Didn't

This morning around 4:25 a.m., I woke to the sound of one Mr. Owen Patrick McCall. For the past two weeks, Owen has been waking between 4:00 a.m. and 6:00 a.m. Usually I can get him into bed with us for at least another hour of sleep. I do not know what is going on with him, but have read about this 18 month old sleep regression that comes on suddenly and then disappears, so I think it is this or teething. Basically whatever is wrong with your kid, you can attribute it to teething. Crying? Teething. Drooling? Teething. Horns? Teething. I knew we were in trouble this morning, when I got him and he started chatting. Seriously, this kid is one motor mouth of a McCall. I have never seen anything like it, he never shuts up. It is amazing. And as he lay in bed with us, aside from the flipping over and constant moving, it seemed as if he had achieved sleep once more. Hoorah! That is until John tooted a wee bit of a fart, and I kid you not, but 15 milliseconds later, Owen said "Koooooooooooollllllllll." Obviously in the midst of our laughter, there was no going back to sleep. And I don't think I would trade it for anything, seems my son is officially a man. One that loves brushing his hair, I mean if it took you 17 months to grow hair, you'd love it too.

In Celebration of Owen

Tomorrow Owen will be a year and a half, which is so very scary and so very awesome. So very scary because I can not believe that 18 months have passed since this little guy came into our life. Kid is going to be in college and playing beer pong in a blink of an eye (on that football scholarship god praying). It is very awesome because I no longer have to say months now to denote his age. I can say he's a year and a half, a little older than a year and a half, almost two, and then finally two. I can't tell you how much of a pain in the ass it is to say months when describing age. It is something you do, because well you have to, because it is all about developmental gains. Like when Owen walked at 10 months and people would be like - ten months? And I would be like - yeah, ten months bitch! He's the bee's knees. But no longer, months is being banished from my vocabulary, just like curse words because you know who dropped his first F-bomb? Owen. When did he drop it, after his mother screamed at the TV during a viewing of the Celtics Game 5 loss. Honestly it sounded more like "Buck". Can I help it if the kid has a deer fetish? I have to stop swearing. I really fucking do, assholes.