Mine Eyes Have Seen The Glory of the Coming Of Old Age

For the past few weeks, I have been suffering from pretty intense headaches that make their way from dull ache to blinding pain back to dull ache, so an eye doctor appointment was made because my last visit was almost three years ago. I’ll admit that my first thought was I had some sort of stroke or aneurysm, but then I figured that this was am impossibility not due to the unlikely chances, but the simple fact an IUD was removed from my gut not three weeks ago. God could not be that cruel. I think this way often, my house was burned in a fire in 1991 so there is no way in hell my house could ever catch fire again. Right? That would be just too terrible. But then you hear about these people who have been struck by lightening twice, and a rethinking my position starts. At the eye doctor yesterday, after a series of brutal tests. My favorite being the eye puff one. Man, is that not the most awesome thing ever? I want that job. You tell a person to blink, open their eyes as wide as they can and then puff some air in their eye at any given moment. There is no warning, just boom, eye puff. I love it. I explained to the doctor about my headaches, and she then said “Are you tired?” Am I tired? Hmmm, let me think about this. Well I have an almost three year old son, and a six month old daughter who has never gone 4.5 hours between feedings. I don’t think tired is quite the word to describe me, walking dead, zombified and oogly dark circle eyes all much better. It was there that the doctor informed of the need to under script my glasses for reading and the computer. Under script? Under script? You mean reading glasses! Yes, that is what she meant. I am thirty-five years old, soon to be thirty-six years old at the end October and was just told I needed reading glasses. After hearing the news, John said “You are an Old Hag.” Indeed, John. Indeed.

At A Loss

The other day I was getting off my stop on the N-Judah, when this man out of no where starts running for the train going “Oh wait, wait, wait.”, just as the doors closed. He then said “Shit.”, taking out a cigarette and lighting it while looking up the street for the next train. I will now like to point out that my stop is the second to last stop on the train. The last stop is two blocks or a five minute walk from where he smoked. It has been three days since this happened, and I still don’t know what the hell was going on. Welcome to San Francisco.

On the Downcurve

Let me explain the above diagram.

The head at the beginning is representative of March 23, 2009. The day in which my vagina expelled a human life into the world (and yes, I could have used the term “gave birth”, but let us all not sugar coat it, okay?). The peak, or apex, is today September 23, 2009, six months from the date in which a human head was pushed into the world by me, one lone girl who really likes to drink. This brings me to the end point which is six months from now, where a big ole vodka filled martini glass waits. This represents the end of breastfeeding, the return of my very big, but not pornographically so boobies, and my return to the sweet joys of hard liquor. There is only so much beer and wine I can drink (and never to the point of drunkenness). I miss being drunk. I think it is fun. And maybe that will land me in AA someday, but until I hit rock bottom, I look forward to the end of this year long nursing my baby because it is really good for her and how could I not road. Hooray!

I'm Alive

I suppose it would be considered poor form to go on and on about an impending surgery, only the day before the surgery to end all communication. Consider me evil. I did not die on the operating table. Thank god, because I can imagine what that would be like in heaven:

Heaven Inhabitant: Wow, you are pretty young? What happened? Car Accident? Cancer?
Me: Uh, no.
HI: Murder?
Me: No.
HI: Did you fall?
Me: No. I got an IUD, it punctured my uterus, and I had to have surgery, and I guess I died.
HI: That sucks.
Me: Tell me about it.

Dr. Lofquist with her quick and nimble fingers got the IUD out in five minutes. I received two cuts (one in my belly button, and one right on my bikini line, a few bruises and a bottle of vicodin. A win, win for sure. The pain the next day started getting pretty bad, so I made sure to take a vicodin every 3.5 hours. And let me tell you, as I lay in bed that night, after some wine (of course), I felt as if lapping waves were gently taking over my entire body, and it was awesome. It was here I understand that someone could get addicted to pain medication. I totally forgive you Burt Reynolds.

So that is that. My next surgery should be the removal of my lipoma on my shoulder. What is a lipoma you ask? Well it is a sac of fat that just turns up on your body and grows. I have had mine for almost 11 years now, and although initially small it has decided to have a growth spurt it seems. Ah puberty. I need to think about a lie so that my doctor will remove it because it seems that it might be medically unnecessary. How is having a permanent softball size skin growth on your shoulder necessary? Other than a head rest.

Frankly, my life has pretty much been all about Fantasy Football and the return of Mad Men, John Deere Footectomy being amazingly awesome. Finally a TV show delivers. If you don’t know what this is about, I pity you. I leave you with this photo, a Football Sunday:

T Minus Forty Eight Hours

It is forty-eight hours before someone cuts me open to get a rogue IUD out of my pelvis. Readers, please note that I have decided to turn this sad medical story into the tantalizing tale of a rogue IUD incapable of handling the Mirena protocol. It did only what it could, and that was pierce my uterine wall to escape. It now lays in my pelvis trying to figure out its next move, but can’t really concentrate because it is right next to my bowels, and even though I don’t eat Kashi I Will Make You Have Gas Pains That Mirror Contractions, it is still really loud.

Today I had an x-ray. The technician said to me, “Would you like to see?” “Hell yes baldy, I would love to see.” I then glanced upon my screen, and there right above my hip bone, my Mirena IUD looking like an anchor on the ship of cruelty that is my life lay. On the table beforehand, this guy informs me how that something like this in a pelvis can move pretty freely: when you get up, when you sit down, when you fall down drunk because you can’t handle the pain of the fact that your uterus and cervix are total bitches. He also mentioned that he hopes they get it out quickly, but you never know because there are flaps and folds, and matter, and gobbily gook (he did not use this term, but I feel it suffices). Basically he made it sound like my doctors are going on a god damn fishing mission for Moby Dick. But you know what? I don’t really care because after getting the x-ray, I had to give blood. You know what giving blood is like for me, it goes something like this:

Me: I have really hard veins.
Tech: They all say that, blah, blah, blah. (Looks at my arms)
Tech: Wow, they are really tiny.
Me: Yep. That is what I said (asshole).
Tech: Let’s try to get them out. (Puts on arm strap).
Me: Uh huh.
Tech: Oh, they are really deep. (Tries other arm).
Me: (Considering whether getting a tattoo on my veins that says - yes, they are deep, and thin, and you will have trouble getting them so don’t even try dickhead - is too much.)
Tech: Your hand looks good.
Me: Yes. Lots of time they will do my hand after poking me.
Tech: Well let’s just do the hand.
Me: I love you.

I get my blood drawn through my hand. I would like to point out that I find it funny that now people don’t even attempt to get blood out of my veins, but instead just go to my hand vein, even though it is more painful and causes bruising, because the alternative is that bad. I would make a horrible junkie. After the blood letting, it was time for a urine sample. To the CalPac instruction writers of the urine sample, the term “labia” should not be used ten times in the instructions. In fact, I venture the term “labia” should not be used at all since it is entirely cringe worthy. In addition to the cup and wipes provided, perhaps include a barf bag, because you know what? I am nervous enough about this entire situation, I don’t need to read instructions about parting my labia and wiping in a downward stroke with two different alcohol based wipes. I honestly felt like calling the cops on myself for sexual assault.

Also CalPac, let’s call it what it is, a “surgery”, and not a “procedure”. Are you having a procedure? No, I am having surgery for a militant IUD incapable of protecting my eggs from the evil and dastardly spermatozoa. It is by no means a “procedure”. It is a battle for supremacy. So yeah, forty eight hours. And yes, I do realize the entire having surgery on 9/11 might not be the best idea, but it is a Friday, so there.

Holy Mole

Two days ago was my pre- surgery appointment with Dr. Fingers (not my OB/GYN’s real name). I have been under the assumption that this surgery despite being a “surgery” would not be that big of a deal. This train of thought would directly correlate to the amount of alcoholics in my family line, we love denial. When asking when I could resume running, Dr. Fingers said, “Three weeks.” THREE WEEKS! That sounds like an awfully long time to recover from a “minimally evasive procedure.” She then informed me that there would be an incision in my belly button and two along my bikini line (thank god too, because I would really hate to have a reason other than two pregnancies in three years not to wear a bikini) and hopefully, I repeat HOPEFULLY, she will be able to get the IUD out on the first try. She then went over the risks of nicking my intestine, bleeding, and the very slim chance of death. Hello people, all I ever wanted was never to have my uterus be the lifeblood of a human life, and now I am risking “a very slight, but had to mention, chance of death.” Kill me. Oh, wait, no don’t kill me. I swear to god, what the hell Fertility Gods - WHAT DID I DO TO YOU!!???!!!!!!??!

The Tides Have Turned

When returning to work ten weeks ago, I never believed during the huffs and gasps of my luncheon run there would come a time when running would again be pleasurable. However, over this past week, my brain clicked, my legs strode and it all seemed so right. Today is Friday, marking the fifth time I have run this week. Every day of this week I have gotten out there and spent twenty-five minutes enjoying the views of the Embarcadero, concentrating on my breathing and feeling absolutely amazing. The thing about exercise is that it totally and completely sucks donkey balls, but it totally and completely also makes you feel wonderful. So even if some strange lady walks up to you with advice on a sports bra able to contain your behemouth breastfeeding boobies, it is all worth it since your pants fit again and your mind runs ecstatic with endorphins.

When Boobs Attack

Yesterday while running a woman stopped me. At first, because I see this woman a bunch when running, I thought that she was going to compliment me on my success with the weight loss. Oh yeah, I have not told you? Hopped on the scale last Friday to find out that in 9 weeks I have lost 16 pounds. Take that pregnancy bed rest! So she grabs my arm and starts to run in step with me and says “You should really check out Title 9, they have great sports bra.” What! Did this woman just stop me running to inform me of a sports bra. Whatever could the reason be? Flustered, I mustered “Ah okay, I uhhhhh, just had a baby, and am breastfeeding.” As if this was an appropriate response. She said “Me too.” “Title 9, trust me”. Needless to say I spent the rest of my run looking down checking the bounce of my boobs. Below is a photograph of the sports bra I was wearing.


It is not pretty, and could double for a straight jacket, but still I have boobs that offend a stranger so much so that she had to take the time to let me know that I need to contain my assets. Now what am I to do? I think I will just wait until she brings me the catalog.

Fox’s More to Love

It was Friday night, John was out of the house (seriously), the kids were asleep and I was bored. Flipping channels, I reached Fox’s More to Love. Typically I would not watch this show because the premise is basically The Bachelor for a bunch of fatties - The Fatchelor. (As a side note, I am quite surprised of my highfaluting reality TV watching ways, since I still watch the Real World). Considering that I have not slept more than four hours in a row in almost five months and if you were to jiggle something shiny in my eyes I would follow you like a rabid dog, I started to watch.

That being said, joy of all joys, this show kicks a whole bunch of ass for the following reasons:

Kristian. Hello insane. This woman has stalker written all over here. I am pretty sure that if a man were to smile at her, it would constitute to her an undying eternal bond. I think it is funny that the Fatchelor is still keeping her around, but fear when they are off the show and she kidnaps him ala Kathy Bates Misery style he will see the error of his Fatchelor ways.

Holy Low Self Esteem Batman. Never has there been such a display of low self esteem ladies. It is like FOX went to a bunch of fat camps to see who was picked last, assembling them into a freak show of pity. “I have never been on a second date.” “I have never been kissed.” “I have always been bigger than the guys I date, so they cheated on me.” Personally I think the issue here is not your weight, but the fact that you have absolutely zero confidence. Group hugs.

Bathing Suit Date. One date required all the attendees to be in BATHING SUITS. I think any woman no matter what size views the term “bathing suit” in the same context she views the word “c*nt”. But thank you FOX for going there. First there was the horror on the faces (see low self esteem above), then the crying (again, see 2 above), then the bathing suits. I truly enjoyed the fact that the girl who had the most trouble with the date, came out in a bathing suit that was leopard print with red accents. Note to self: when as big as a house, do not drape yourself in a bathing suit that might get you killed in an African safari.

Fatchelor. I don’t even remember this guys name, all I know is Fatchelor is a whore. I think he has kissed everyone at least six times. And dude, has game. Basically he sits there listening the girls complain about their weight, and how ugly they think they are, and he says “Oh no, (insert fat girl’s name here), you are beautiful, your eyes, your skin.” Cock head to one side and go for the kiss. You think it is uncomfortable watching people kiss? Try watching it on this show. It is like a car accident, you can’t help but watch in horror and carnage. Who needs birth control?

More To Love. FOX, Tuesday nights. Be there, or be you know, normal with a good head on your shoulders, and not easily persuaded by reality rejects.

She's Back . . .

I am back from vacation. I will be posting a photo blog of the loveliness that occurred, as soon as I down load the photos. You excited bitches? But until then, a few things:

1. There is this homeless man that I pass each and every day on my way to my run. His legs are wrapped in ace bandages; before they were rapped they were really swollen, like elephantitis swelled. Can ace bandages really remedy something like this? I think about this every day.

2. If you are a fan of True Blood, then you know of this vampire named Eric. Let me say that in all of my almost thirty-six years of breathing, never have I have been so enraptured by a blonde man. I am firmly on Team Eric. And also became a fan of his on Facebook, and yes, that sound you hear are the dork police arresting me right now.

3. I am going to be an Aunt (Part Duex) (brother-in-law’s spawn. I have not mentioned my soon to be born nephew in this blog because I don’t like to jinx, but the kid was due 8/10 and still has not arrived. Personally, I feel it is because his parent’s are naming him Floyd, and he is staying in there until they change their minds. That being said:

4. DID I TELL YOU THAT I HAVE TO HAVE SURGERY TO REMOVE AN IUD THAT IS SOMEWHERE IN MY PELVIS IN 25 DAYS? I just want to mention that because I will be walking down the street, or looking at my kids, or watching TV and this pops into my head. However, truth be told, I am really looking forward to the anesthesia. Oh, and the possible pain pills given after, because if they try only motrin, I might just kick someone’s ass.

Vacation

Please let it be know that I will be leaving for the great and wild Chester, California. I will be sure to regale you with tales of the swimming hole and Owen’s rock throwing (which should border on 10,000,000). Also, we are not taking Maggie’s swing. We are so stupid.

Oh Dear Lord

You want reality? Try being pregnant twice in three years and then trying on an outfit you bought ten years ago. Uh-huh. Actually, you want a quick trip to the nearest mental hospital? That is what I did this weekend. Dear readers (all three of you) know that I have been running and dieting, my Goal of 30 slowly progressing. But there is nothing better to snap you back from any weight loss delusions you may start to have than trying on a skirt and top made of silk santung from Ann Taylor circa 1999 that you bought when you were twenty-five (the fit year). Forget what I said the other day about fitting into my pants, the road ahead, she is long. I don’t think words could quite describe the carnage that lay reflected in the mirror. Hot dog and sausage factories, much acquainted with casing and overstuff meat products, would provide a better description. Estimating high, two pounds a week will have to be lost by November for this dress to be worn. Breastfeeding makes this a near impossibility. However, forge on I shall. Because let’s face it, The Goal of 30 has pretty much been met, and motivation continues to be needed. Yesterday, I could not zip, could not button, but could get the dress on. A good starting place considering the skirt was over my hips and my arm flab contained in the shirt sleeves with not a single burst seam or material rip. It occurs to me that I should snap a photo of my progress week to week, but I don’t want to horrify you. Or myself. Wish me luck.

Guess What I Did?

This morning while standing in my closet in my underwear trying to decide which pants to wear, I did the unthinkable. I reached for my blue j crew khaki pants, the ones that fit me prior to becoming pregnant with Maggie. And guess what, they fit. Sure, they are a tad tight, but there is no camel toe, so hello pre-pregnancy post-owen sized pants. Obviously this entire running and eating right thing is working. I mean I can fit into my pants only 18 weeks post baby. Yeah me. However, this is only the first step in my goal of getting into my pre-Owen pregnancy pants. Which I hope occurs, because I have an entire wardrobe in my closet. But I am of the impression that perhaps my waist will never be that size again, but we shall see. The battle forges on.

What a Boob

The thing about nursing and having a well endowed rack is that you can’t really find the lift and support your fat puppies need. In fact, it is said by the La Leche League of Loudish Preachy Crazy Hippies that one should not wear underwire because it may interfere with breastfeeding leading to plugged ducts, mastitis, etc. I had mastitis after Owen, which pretty much involved having a fever of 105 degrees and thinking I could possibly die at any moment, so I heeded those words. But underwire to the big breasted gal, is like black clothing to the teenage goth. Necessary! So after a few months of a mono boobish life, I succumbed and purchased an underwire nursing bra. Boobs fixed and I had no near death experiences. Unfortunately, those bras were in size 38G and I am now a 38DDD (triple D-lightful) so wearing them now makes my boobs look pretty heinous in the sense of cockeyed nipples and belly grazing lows. I suffered my mirrored reflection because nursing bras are fucking expensive. However, I could no longer stand being made fun of behind my back (cross eyed nippled lady and she of the one boob), and purchased a Playtex bra on Amazon for 15 bux. Holy cow, let me say that I love Playtex. Sure, they make the ugliest bras known to man, but my boobs and Playtex are like moustaches and the 1970s, a match made in heaven. I have lift and separation people, LIFT AND SEPARATION. My boobs are for the first time in 17 weeks above sea level, and they look freaking awesome. No lie, I have gazed upon them at least twenty-five times today, each time saying in my head “Oh my god, they are still huge, but holy crap, I think they look good. Like really good.” So needless to say, I purchased some more Playtex underwire nursing gems and am considering stripping for money. But only that bra and panty type stripping, because I don’t want to be getting off the pole and tripping over my boobs. Because I think that could actually happen.

Parenting 101 - Solutions for a Modern Mom

Last year when discovering I was pregnant, in addition to the “what the hell did I just do” there was the one other thought - Owen needs to get out of that crib. Taking the initiative early, I bought and assembled a toddler bed and after three weeks of give and take Owen was fine. He loved his bed, I had a crib for Maggie, and all was golden in the world.

As time wore on, it occurred to John and me that Owen never got out of his toddler bed. In the morning he would call for us, and at night, even if he was upset, he would never get out of the bed. For in his mind, that bed was a crib, a crib with invisible bars. We heard stories of other parents of toddlers fighting to keep their child in their bed to no avail but we just chalked it up to tackling the bed issue at an early age. Even my mother could not believe it.

This Tuesday, in a phrase my father likes to use, the dawn finally broke on Marblehead. Seems our son came to the realization that he could in fact get out of bed, and nothing was holding him back. So after John finished his stories, instead of crying in protest. He got up, opened the door and walked out of his room. Go back to bed Owen. “No.” “Owen it is bedtime. “No.” John and I looked at each other in horror. It has come to pass. As John lay in Owen’s room waiting for him to sleep, I frantically googled strategies to keep your toddler into bed. The experts recommend that you state just once to your toddler that “It is bed time. You must stay in bed and go to sleep.” Each following time, you are not to talk, not to make eye contact and continue to lead your child back into their room and back into bed until finally they will succumb. Flash to that evening at 12:30 a.m. when Owen awakes and exits his room. John does as is instructed for 30 minutes. I then join the party for another 30 minutes until finally I put him in the crib since he still is unable to climb out of it. As a side note, to the makers of the Bratt Décor Dick Crib, I love you. I adore my son, but he is of the stubborn lot, the Irish in him flaring. Although I suspect this shall be an excellent quality for his future, it makes his toddlerhood all the more difficult.

The following day I asked some friends about their son’s forays with getting up to be greeted with the following “Congratulations, at least we know that Owen is not stupid, but nothing has worked for us.” Back to Google, where it basically the same going back and forth until the child finally succumbs. And since “Ridiculous Stubborn Toddler of an Insanely Stubborn Mother Gets Out of Bed, Needs To Stay There” did not elicit any results, I went back to the tried and true, denial. I mentioned to John three times that day, “Well, maybe he won’t even get out of bed tonight.” John took pity on me with a “Suuurrrrreeeee he will.”

That evening as Maggie slept, and Owen’s last story was told, I crossed my fingers. But as John left his room, so did Owen. We took him back to his bed, tucked him in and said “Owen close your eyes and listen to music. Go to sleep. It is night time. You have to stay in bed.” But Stubbowen was having none of that. I brought him in his room, he exited. I brought him back, he got out again. I brought him back and then I held the door shut. And what do you know, after a screaming, kicking an almost rabid meltdown, he returned to his bed. FOR THE ENTIRE NIGHT. Yesterday, the holding of the door lasted 30 seconds. Tonight, who knows? I do know that when dealing with a manipulative stubborn toddler, the best remedy is to get down and dirty on his level. Because it works, and I did not have to waste who knows how many hours of my life playing this back and forth no talk, no eye contact nonsense guide to parenting. I held the door shut. And it may not win me Mommy of the Year, but I slept. Well I might add.

My Kind of Math

Maggie will be sixteen weeks old this Monday. And now for some quick math - 52 - 16 equals 36. 36 x 7 equals 252 . 252 x 24 equals 6048. 6048 x 60 equals 362,880. That is 362,880 seconds until I can drink a grey goose gimlet. The Triple G!!! I now know what prison feels like. One would think that an Irish girl going through nine long months (plus 2 weeks) of pregnancy would come out of the hospital with a swaddled liquor bottle. Not this girl. This girl needs to breastfeed for a year so there is no hard stuff consumption because your milk is tainted with awesomeness (just not awesome for the baby, unless a slow half witted child is your thing). Pump and Dump my ass. That being said, I think it is only 362,725 now. Thank God. Check it out.

Three Reasons I Would Not Want to Be 10 Years Younger

Lately, whenever I think of my forthcoming birthday there is a certain shudder at the prospect of being thirty-six. Mostly because thirty-six sounds old, and matronly, but let’s face it, this vagina has delivered two children, matronly suits me. But I really don’t care, because even though technically I am at the cusp of thirty-six, my brain is that of a twelve year old, a twelve year old boy. That being said, I was thinking, what if I was ten years younger, twenty-five instead of thirty-five. And you know what, no freaking way. My reasoning is illustrated below:

Every girl in their twenties borders on psychotic when dealing with relationships, a psychosis that can technically last into your thirties (but shouldn’t). Every man reading this right now is shaking his head yes, because let’s face it, a twenty something girl is just a fraction away from being institutionalized. I have no idea in this day and age how anyone dates. There is just too much stalker friendly technology. Facebook, Twitter, Blogs, Texting. Did he write about me? He is going where? He defriended me. What does this text mean? It is enough to make my head explode just from thinking about it. No thank you. I will take my husband, my children, and the sad fact that my twenties were spent in the 1990s.

Which brings me to my second reason, if I were twenty-five today, I would fall into the hipster category of life. Because I am an alternative band whore, although I bet the kids today don’t call it “alternative” music, but my 1990s sensibilities say it is. Anyway, this would lead me being surrounded by the bearded alternative gent. As there seems to be this god forsaken trend among the 20s male of growing beards. I am sorry, but the last thing I want to do when drunk at a show is make out with Jesus. I would have a no-beard policy, because in addition to the fact I lack a Christ fetish, I have very sensitive skin. I could see myself waking up hung over on a Saturday morning, my entire mouth area flaming red because I engaged in an ill advised make out session with Moses. No thank you hipster bearded men.

And finally, I would not like to be in my 20s because I could not handle fashion. Skinny jeans? These tops that make one look pregnant? I have a big rack, a small waist and hips. Nothing youth oriented in fashion would flatter me unless I became an anorexic, another seemingly very popular trend among those in their 20s. Eat something already.

To sum up, thank goodness I was born in 1973 instead of 1983 because I got to miss stalker dating, the bearded man and a foray into bulimia. So bring on thirty-six, hopefully with gimlets.

Tales of Muni . . .

Yesterday while sitting on the N Judah making my way home, I looked across the aisle and saw a homeless man sitting down. I was about to begin reading when it suddenly occurred to me that said homeless man was good looking. Looking again, I confirmed he was handsome. I had stumbled upon the ever elusive Homeless Stud. I began to wonder if homeless life was easier for him with his carefree boyish looks, whether all the homeless ladies in town spoke of him in girlish giggles and if being good looking in the downtrodden clique was a bonus - like high school. But then he opened his mouth to reveal tarred and yellowed teeth, three of which were missing. And I stopped thinking, because I had suddenly become ill.

Placenta Encapsulation

As luck would have it I stumbled upon an article by Joel Stein. Yeah, you read that correctly, EATING YOUR PLACENTA. But fear not, dear readers, this is America, it is not as if someone would actually take the placenta and eat it “as is”. No, no, no. It has to be steamed, dehydrated, ground and then put in capsules. Proponents state that some of the benefits of doing this are to ward of depression and to increase milk supply. In fact, one reviewer said “I pumped 1.6 oz of milk and my lactation consultant was amazed so much came from one boob.” Sure, she was. Please note that I pumped one of my boobs three days after Maggie’s birth and pumped 7 oz. It is amazing to me that people actually believe this, and no one even thinks that the entire process of cooking and dehydrating probably kills everything that could potentially be useful. Never mind the studies showing animals that do not eat their placentas do not become depressed. You know what a dog does after birth also? Lick its vagina clean. Let’s see you do that one. I guess these days we live in a world that wherein “natural” means better. One only has to look at the Zicam fiasco to see that just because something promises to be all natural and beneficial, does not necessarily mean it is. Sure, that cold totally went away, but you no longer have the sense of smell. People forget that this stuff is unregulated, that any goofball with a strong stomach and a dehydrated can do this for a premium. In fact, the people Mr. Stein’s wife used have a certification program ($300 bux), start-up kit ($250 bux) and referral membership ($300 bux). Can anyone else say scam? It seems to me anything that has to do with pregnancy, birth and/or parenting these days are targets for a good old fashion shakedown. My father once told me that if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is. I think those are words to live by.

And Just Like That

Today I did it, I ran to the ball park and back and I did not stop to vomit, walk or curse. I actually jogged the entire way. Day 10 of the Goal of Thirty proved the one. It makes me hope that when Day 30 comes around, I will be rounding around the ball park happy as a jogging clam. The good news is that I am losing weight, even without dieting on the weekends, which is what we of the diets consider an added bonus. I feel good. I feel accomplished. I tasted the runner’s high. And it goes, my friends. It goes. In other news, my son, Owen Patrick McCall, is a bit of a ham. When asking him “Owen, can you say ‘Happy Fourth of July”. He said “Yeah.” Okay then. Ask a stupid question.