Oh My How the Time Flies - 2009 The Recap

Oh my god, it’s the end of the year don’t you know it, and what do I have to show for it? Other than a few more wrinkles. The following sums up my year. Holy God I am boring.

January 2009. I spent most of this month in bed on bed rest due to pregnancy. This would be the month I started to grow my second ass. Many would think that the growth of a second ass would be sweet, you know those in circus and carnival circles, or those in a large ass fetish community, but for me, not so much.



February 2009. Still on bed rest. It is here that my second ass really began to define itself. I ate a bunch, I watched a bunch of crappy TV and I attempted to crochet a baby blanket (which remains incomplete).



March 2009. This is the month where I basically went insane. I was off bed rest and expected my second baby to arrive any day as she was due on March 14. Because those assholes at BabyCenter say second babies come bigger and sooner. LIARS. Nine days later, on March 23, 2009, I gave birth to a baby we decided to name Maggie Nicole McCall.



April through May 2009. Not much here. Take care of baby, feed baby, watch baby smile, watch Owen try to kill baby, stop Owen from killing baby. Repeat. Also stopped Maggie from taking up with Somali pirates. Oh, and Happy Birthday John!



June 2009. I return to work after a six month absence. There is no cake. This is good because this month I begin to battle Azzilla by running at lunch on the Embarcadero. Although calling it running is a stretch since I basically walked, jogged and coughed a lung.

July 2009. No idea. Fireworks I am sure. Did continue with the running which actually resembles running. This marked the month in which some lady took me aside when running to tell me about a “sports bra”, yes, obviously my bounce was that bad. Got a new Iphone, I wonder why?



August 2009. Two lovely weeks spent at the cabin where Owen learned how to jump out of his pack and play and I learned how to wail to God as to why he has forsaken me.

September 2009. Maggie is six months, things are easier, life is better, my ass is half its old size. I made this pizza.



October 2009. I turn thirty-six. Three to the Six to the I am old. Can someone please explain to me how I became thirty six years old, because just the other day I was twenty-two at X night at Axis and some guy bought me a Zima with Chambord. Stay Classy, Cassie!



November 2009. Turkey Turkey. Owen decided to get a fever on Thanksgiving, and basically turn into most pathetic toddler ever. I made a turkey and a blueberry pie. Sometimes, I really do wish I could marry me.



December 2009. Since this month is the most fresh in my child having, riddle with inaccuracies and yes I do sometimes to talk to my self so shut the hell up mind, I recall my son turning three years old and having Christmas with five children 3 years of age and under and wine, lots of it. Also Owen’s potty training is taken to a new level, all I want for Xmas is a kid who does not poop in his underwear. Thanks for nothing Santa.



Tomorrow, goals for the new year!

One Love

I think everyone has an idea as to what sort of parent they would be, permissive, strict, middle of the road and everyone has steadfast “I’ll never”s. Some of mine being I’ll never hit my kids (well at least when sober so I can’t remember) and I’ll never try to be the cool parent (because really do I want to be friends with my kids - hell no. I want slave labor). But today I broke one of these “I’ll never”s. Today, I bought my son Owen a tie dye shirt. It is no secret that all things hippie make me angry, to Birkenstock socked feet, to the Grateful Dead, to white people with dreadlocks, to the general retardness of something that happened fifty years ago and should be a glimmer in everyone’s eyes. Again, surprising I moved to San Francisco. And why did I have to buy my son a tie dye shirt with gigantic peace symbol on it? Because his preschool class are being rasta reindeer and performing Bob Marley’s One Love for their holiday show. Yes, 3 year old Rastafarians, singing and dancing to Reggae for Christmas. When thinking of reindeer, I think Rudolph, red noses and holiday cheer, I don’t think of tie dye clad toddlers with fake dreadlocks and antlers signing One Love. But I can't lie, I love that this is happening, even if it means that Owen does now owns a hippie peace shirt. Because let's face it, there are always matches, but not many opportunities for your son to be embarrassed 10 years from now as Mom whips out Rasta Reindeer 2009 for the 1,000th viewing.

Pooping Boots

Yesterday it was a pigeon flying into my head, and today it was an accidental pooping. Yes, you read that right. In God’s effort to humiliate me into being a lard ass, yesterday he summoned a pigeon with the flying experience of a blind man to smack me upside my head, and today he summoned my stomach into a state of rumbling that only creates fear. No motivation to increase speed is bigger than that of a potential pooptastic accident on the Embarcadero. I made it, thank god. This week has also marked not one, not two but six different people telling me how much weight I have lost. An insanely great accomplishment considering I thought that my five months of running was for the caloric intake consumed this past Thanksgiving weekend. Blueberry pie bitches! That being said, yesterday my jcrew boots came (see below) and today I will be venturing to The Gap in order to try on skinny and straight leg jeans so that I can tuck them into said boots. I know people, the fashion! Hopefully I will not chicken out as this once again seems a very “costumey” way to dress, but these boots are quite lovely and I have seen many a gal about town with a largesse more than me do same. And so it continues, my slow crawl out of the coma of pregnancy and baby having into the sunlight of being myself with a new pair of kick ass boots.

OMG

As I was stepping onto the Embarcadero to begin my run up flies a scared pigeon who proceeds to slap its body into the left side of my head. I kid you not. Do you know that pigeons are flying rats? They are. Also did you know that you always think they are going to hit you in the head and you move awkwardly to avoid them, but the don't hit you and you look like a complete jack ass. But my pigeon obviously a lover of the drink, flies and hits me in the god forsaken head. So what did I do? I continued to run while cursing how gross it was and thinking of the bird lice now hatching eggs in my hair. Good lord I hate pigeons. Hate, hate, hate, hate. So now in addition to pooping on me twice a year, they have added "bitch slapping upside the head" to the mix. I need a protective helmet.

2, 4, 6, 8 - We Don't Like To Separate

That is the face of a baby that does not want me to leave. EVER. Yes dear friends, it is separation anxiety time at the McCall household. Separation anxiety is when your baby knows who you are, that they like you, that you are fun, and oh yeah, you carry those treasures that provide a steady supply of frothy milky bliss and if you leave them, they think you have stumbled into a black hole of non-existence so they start to panic and cry uncontrollably. Babies are so stupid. This is the stage in which Maggie has to grasp onto Object Permanence, wherein she recognizes that when I leave to go into another room, I still exist. I told you they were stupid. This does not really cause too much of a problem, but at night, after I nurse her and try to slip her back into her crib she is revolting. Because she is all - hey booby lady, where are you? Where are you? WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? I love my daughter, and for the most part, she has been a wonderfully easy baby. But for that all goodness, there had to be one bad. And that bad is a cry that is absolutely piercing and ultimately destructive to my nerve core. It sounds as if she is being stabbed to death, it is not a cry - it is a gut wrenching wail of wounding. I can’t listen to it without an immediate twitch in my right eye combined with a searing pain behind my temples. All those not familiar with the wail of banshees, I submit to you the following: In Irish Folklore is a spirit in the form of a wailing woman whose appearance is an omen that you will die. Although in Maggie’s case, it is just that I want to die. Oh, separation anxiety, how the hell did I forget about you? Oh yes, I know, because one tends to block out traumatic injuries to the psyche.

The Beast Within

What just occurred in the ladies bathroom was absolutely gruesome in nature. Have you ever had a pimple in your nose? Or Nasacne, little buggers of excruciating pain that pop out of nowhere to create havoc in your life. Do you realize how many times you touch your nose in a day? Why surely, not because you are not obsessive compulsive and insane. But imagine a pimple eligible for statehood in your right nostril and you have allergies. Egads! After six hours of what must have been an extreme growth spurt I inspected the specimen. Good god, its large size and white nature surprised me so. There was no other answer; it had to be dealt with. I grabbed a Kleenex and prayed no one entered the bathroom as I stood nose up to the mirror with fingers probing. There are many things in life I aspire to be, weirdo at work, not one of them. In what can only be attributed to Twister like gifts - right hand on forehead, left hand on nose - I managed with a shriek and tear filled eye to pop said beast. Except for the fact that my nose bled like it was 1985 and Michael J. Fox in Bright Lights, Big City, success was had.

The Birthing of Maggie Nicole

Yesterday on my run it occurred to me that I never did detail the magic that was the birth of Ms. Maggie Nicole McCall. In an effort to correct this huge injustice, and also let her understand what exactly she did to me on March 23, 2009, I submit the following.

After eight weeks of bed rest, four weeks of wondering if she would come early, the due date of March 14, 2009 came and went. This did not surprise me since her brother was eleven days overdue, and I was still hoping for a St. Patty’s Day baby. At my doctor’s appt on March 16, I was asked if I wanted to be induced. No doctor, I would rather continue my life as the world's largest woman not currently in a circus. Of course, induce me. Unfortunately, St. Patrick’s Day was booked. This was probably for the best considering a daughter named Maggie McCall born on St. Patrick’s Day is just screaming for hospitalization during a future twenty-first birthday party. The next date available was Thursday, March 19. It was during this appointment I was told that my cervix was 100% effaced and dilated 4 cm and basically my baby would be coming at any moment. However, they did not know Maggie “I love my womb” McCall, because on Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. as instructed, I called the hospital. If you have never been pregnant, let me tell you that 40 plus weeks of pregnancy without a baby does something to the mind and spirit. It is an anxiety mixed with zero patience and the slightest bit of crazy. I gave the nurse my information and she told me “Sorry, but we are really busy, call back at 9:00 a.m.” So I did. I was then greeted with the information that there was no way I would be induced today. It was here when my I had a psychotic break, as I put the phone down, went into the bathroom, sat on the toilet and cried the howls only the overly pregnant can make. My doctor called later in the day to say that she was sorry, but there was nothing they can do, and my new induction date was Monday. She also said she thought I would not go over the weekend. Placing bets? Correct! On Monday, I called again and this time got the okay to come. Hooray - baby exit, stage vagina. Also it should be noted that if I was denied admittance, I would have gotten a coat hanger. Just saying.

To the hospital we went. Surprisingly, we were given the very room we were going to have Owen in before it was discovered that the TV did not work and there was an upgrade to birthing room Shangri-la. But I was fine with this room, because this bitch was getting her eviction notice. The plan was to break my water, because I was already so dilated and effaced, labor would start pretty soon after. Yippee.

I was offered an epidural and since I vividly remember my OB/GYN up to her elbows inside me after my placenta with Owen detached I wholeheartedly said yes. However, since with my first epidural and a puncture of my spinal fluid that in turn created the worst mind numbing headache known to man, I was cautious. I told the anesthesiologist exactly what happened, and he said okay. Also he wanted to know the doctor’s name, which I did not know, because I am pretty sure when you do puncture the spinal fluid, the other anesthesiologists think you are a fucking retard. This guy however claimed to be “super good.” And I was all “Okay, buddy, whatever.”

It is here that I should also mention our nurse. Because I was 100% effaced, 4 cm dilated and this was my second baby, it was thought I would “go fast” when my water was broken. This nurse was assigned to me, and only me. And that nurse had no sense of humor. In fact, at one point when John, his mother and I were all cracking jokes, she said to us “Oh, I get it, you are funny people” in a heavy Asian accent and a look of complete scorn. Yes, lady, we are funny people, now do me a favor and get the funny progeny out of my funny vagina.

So back to the epidural (get it, “back”?). The numbed me accordingly. And Mr. Expert got to work. After what I can only guess was forty-five minutes, twenty plus pokes and me sweating profusely in pain, he decided to abandon the space where you usually put the needle and go one above. Guess what people? Epidurals are actually not that bad and only take two minutes. Seems in addition to having a freakishly long back, I also have an “elusive” space between my L4 and L5, and that he recommended in the future they go in L3 and L4. As if I am going to have any more kids asshole.

After my epidural, they came in to break my water. Do you know they break your water with what pretty much looks like a big crochet hook? So honestly, I could have gone up there with a wire hanger and been fine. It was a breeze. Okay, contractions. Let’s go! We waited, and waited. There was nothing. No blip on the Contract-In-Nator. Nothing but a steady line of you will never have this baby. It was here that my nurse started to get a bit pissed. She would come in, look at us funny people, and then silently swear to herself as to why I was not going into labor. I mean I was 4 cm dilated, 100% effaced and they broke my water three hours ago. Then she mentioned the magic word “pitocin”. Do you want pitocin? Hell yes, I want pitocin. And then it happened. Contractions. Glorious, sweet, wonderful contractions. But the Contract-In-Nator was not recording them, but I sure as hell was feeling them. It was then decided that the baby would have internal monitors because they could not get an accurate reading on her heartbeat. This was about thirty minutes after the contractions had started, and as they reached in to put them on Maggie’s head, it was discovered I was fully dilated. Have I mentioned to you how much I adore the inventor of Pitocin? I am pretty sure both Maggie and Owen would still be in my uterus at this moment playing a game of pinochle if not for its invention. As our nurse fluttered about the room, happy to do something other than try to understand our humor and roll her eyes at my belly, I was happy. Truly happy that this pregnancy was coming to an end, and I would finally see Maggie. They then told me to do a practice push, so that they could determine my pushing ability. I pushed, and then the nurse said “Stop, I am calling your doctor.” That is right, I had that kid’s head pretty much out with one push, and my doctor had to race over so that she could say to me, “Okay, Cassie, push.” I did and Maggie was out. Two pushes bitches!

John told me that basically Maggie came out with a face of “Hello? What the hell? Oh my god!” And the tears came, and they put her on my belly. I gazed upon the back of her head full of dark hair while John and his mom gushed over her beauty. I then became progressively pissed off, as evidenced in the photo below.

Because Owen had pooped himself, and I had a detached placenta I did not see him and pretty much thought I was going to die. This time, I carried Girlzilla for 40 weeks, 9 days and 8 weeks of bed rest and all I got to see was the god damn back of her head. But then I did see her, and she was absolutely gorgeous. (Have I told you that people say we look alike? Take that as you will.).

Maggie Nicole McCall, born in two pushes on March 23, 2009 at 3:58 p.m. to “funny people.”

I Like Big Butts

Today as I was perusing Nordstroms.com for some denim, I stumbled across the following:


I like the fact that Nordstroms just goes out there with this. They don’t simply say “available in plus sizes”, they say - here is a big ole denim covered ass for your perusal. Whoah! Once again I am involved in the frantic search for jeans because the ones that I loved from The Gap are now too big. Which is great in the sense my ass is no longer that big, but sad in the sense it took me a very long time to find those jeans. Also, I don’t know what it is, but I pretty much want to set a match to everything I own and start over. But I am cheap, and hate shopping so there is that. So if you are reading this, why don’t you nominate me for What Not To Wear. Thanks.

Reason #257

I am suffering from a cold, and it is a total lingerer. Although starting to feel symptoms last Monday, nothing truly manifested itself until Wednesday evening. Now a week later from that Wednesday evening it feels as if my head is surrounded in a green snot haze. For the first three days, I pretty much wrote it off to allergies, because I like to do that. I am not one to ride the sickness pity party parade. Its allergies, dude. But nope, this is not allergies, this is a cold. And like any crazy person with denial about illness, I ran yesterday, with a chest cold. In all honesty, I can say it was okay, I felt better. But then this morning, I woke up. The worst part about all of this is that because I am breastfeeding there is nothing to take. I can’t Nyquil into hazy facial recognitions and purple ponies, nor can I Dayquil in order to make my officemates not look at me with abject fear. I take Halls Menthol Cherry Drops and this Vick’s Vapor Rub nasal shot that looks like I am doing cocaine. And this is reason #257 I will be happy to stop nursing in March 2010. Go Immune System!

Spanx You Very Much

It is a well documented fact that when your uterus is used to grow a child, after you expel said life sucker, err baby, you tend to fall off the current fashion trends bandwagon. Where once there were heels, dresses, straight ironing and applied make-up now there is a slapping of tinted moisturizer, a brushing of lip gloss, a quick comb and hopefully no baby gooped clothing. For those scoring at home today proved to be unsuccessful. This is why when on maternity leave watching the Today Show’s Fourth Hour hosted by Kathie Lee and Hoda that I first heard of Spanx. Later in the week, Spanx was again mentioned, this time on Oprah. Seems when I was birthing babies a revolution of under garments occurred. And did anyone tell me? Nope. Because of an impending wedding, I decided to buy some Spanx. I mean if Oprah tells you it’s a must, IT IS A MUST. Even though there is seemingly another fashion trend of women wearing no panty hose (someone? anyone?), I ordered the high waisted, tummy tucking, thigh shaping nylon Spanx in nude. I am sorry, but my ancestors come from Ireland, there is no way these very white legs should be seen by the public. The only time someone needs to be witness to such blindingly white light, is after they die. Truth told, after ordering these twenty-eight dollar essentially control top hosiery, I felt there was no way the buzz could live up to the product. Walgreens sells the same thing for $4.99. When my Spanx arrived, I looked upon them with a fear that is only shared by victims of torture, this was some serious engineering. No way would these things ever be comfortable. But as I put them on, it occurred to me, who was I to doubt Oprah Friggin Winfrey. Holy cow, the comfort. Also did I mention that have a pee hole? Because they do. A god forsaken pee hole, “to make your life easier”. Why thank you Spanx, I appreciate you thinking of me being drunk and trying to pee when wearing an almost chastity belt. You rock. So yes, although my womb has housed two, I am getting back into the fashion game. First with Spanx, and someday, god willing, black diamonds.

Farmer's Market Betrayal

On Sunday morning in our weekly attempt to get Owen worn out significantly in order to watch football in peace, and by peace I mean him running around the house yelling “Play Niners Daddy. Tickle!! Tickle!!”. Tickle meaning tackle, and Niners meaning football. As a Patriots fan hearing these words from my son’s mouth fractures my heart each and every time. We journeyed to the Stonestown Farmers Market which has two jumpy houses. Thank you Stonestown Mall for thinking of me and my football Sundays. Sure I can’t go to Zeke’s and drink pitchers while drunkenly conversing with other Patriots fans about how picking up a Patriots running back always kills my fantasy football team and how pretty Tom Brady is, but I can have my son jump around an inflatable plastic orb so that he will be dazed and confused enough to allow something other than Cars and Monsters, Inc. to be played on the television. Yesterday after Owen had exhausted his ticket supply, we walked around the market wherein I saw this jewelry vendor. If one ever frequents Farmer’s Markets, usually the jewelry is pretty much turquoise and whatever else the stoned not very washed hippie making it decided to create. But in this display case was a most beautiful necklace. Looking I was immediately drawn in by its beauty, its dark metallic gray undertones, its shiny, and its absolute awesome. Oh pretty necklace, I love you so. Before even asking the vendor about the necklace and disregarding my fundamental cheapitude, I thought to myself that even if it was two hundred and fifty dollars, it would be mine. It would be mine! Then the following conversation was had:

Me: Hi, can I see that necklace. What is that? A metallic gray?
Vendor: Lovely choice. These are black diamonds.
Me: Laughter. (Thinking - oh sure, diamonds, right. At a Farmer’s
Market? Funny.)
Me: Its so beautiful, how much is it?
Vendor: 1000.
Me: One Thousand DOLLARS?!?!?!
Vendor: Yes, it is not something one typically finds at a Farmer’s Market.
Me: No shit, asshole.

It was then I thanked him and walked away dejected. It is not a lie to say that for over ten years I have searched for a perfect necklace. And yesterday, that necklace was found. With a price tag of a thousand dollars. Usually, this would not upset me so because I tend to avoid high end jewelry stores for this very reason. But at a Farmers Market? A one thousand dollar necklace for sale at a god forsaken FARMERS MARKET. I am unsure what a black diamond is, but I am sure of one thing - it stopped my heart. My eyes became saucers of adoration. I should have punched that vendor in the mouth, took the necklace and ran off to Kauai with it. But nope, I just went on the internet and further hurt myself by googling “black diamond necklaces” for an hour. Oh black diamond strand necklace, will you ever be mine? Will you? Also, anyone reading this right now, please note my birthday is Friday.

My Imagination

When I started running, it never occurred to me that seventeen weeks later there would be this amount of pain. A pain that is completely and utterly isolated in my triceps. It hurts to type, which I do believe is an indication of one hell of a sore. Logically all I can come up with is that my body is attacking the last true bastion of fat laden cells. When thinking of losing weight, I imagine little beasts consuming the fat stores that lay upon my body. Which scientifically is pretty fact based; however, I don’t believe most people believe it looks like this:



Eat em up my little purple monster. Eat em up.

Eff You Great Britain

I just finished ordering possible outfit number three for a wedding I am attending in November.

Outfit No. 1 was from J.Crew and tragically incapable of holding my ginormous nursing boobs. I actually ordered the dress a size up in an attempt to house said monstrosities. Unfortunately the size up meant that my chest area was still sausaged while the bottom of the dress could smuggle a family of five across the Mexican border. It was at the point I realized that I either had to do a wrap or a two piece. No dress without tons of alterations would do, and since I am not nursing forever (although it seems like it at times), there is no way Cheapskate McCall would spend money on something so unnecessary.

Outfit No. 2 is a simple black wrap dress with 3/4 sleeves that I got at Macy’s for the absolute low, low price of $64.00 bux. This is a great dress, and perfectly acceptable for the wedding, even though it cries boring. But in a fix, it will do. And every girl should have a black wrap in her wardrobe.

Today I got an e-mail from Boden declaring “new winter outfits.” And on perusal, I instantaneously feel in love with a 50s styled beaded cardigan and sateen skirt. A two piece wedding appropriate outfit that when paired with my black suede Mary Janes would make a girl skip. In my head, Cheapskate McCall was all “you have a dress, it fits, why bother?” But I was all shut up, I am acting on impulse, and I still get 10% off and free shipping, so quite down you ole bat. (Again, isn’t it is amazing I am let among the people?).

However, fine folks, do you know that Boden has UK sizing. I looked at the UK Sizing Charts to discover that even though I have lost forty-five pounds since having Maggie, and am finally in my old size (even though I still have 15 pounds to go), I still had to order a size up because it said “if you are a larger size then please order up for the UK equivalent.” Uh-huh. Talk about a fashion bitch slap. I will not be moving to London, EVER!

I never thought that one of the most important relationships in my life would be with the following:

What is that you ask? That is my breast pump. Every working day, five times a week, three times a day for 15 minutes a time, my Avent Isis Duo molests me. In addition to working for the man, I am working for the mammaries. This pump has lasted an entire year with Owen, and god willing, through these last five months with Maggie even though it sometimes delivers an exasperated wheezing that begs to ask “Aren’t you done with this shit yet?” No breast pump, I am not done with this shit. You will know when that time has come because I will be coming to you in a drunken vodka haze with a sledgehammer. You can imagine that this is a whole bunch of alone time with my exposed boobies. I usually pass the time with my Iphone, Nintendo, a book or just staring at how far that god damn machine can stretch my nipples. I am talking inches people. There are times, I forget to lock the door of our lactation room while pumping. That is what they call it here - not the Milk Mecca or the Conference Room Boob - but “Lactation Room.” I know that public education being as it is might make someone say “Lactation?” What is that? I should investigate. And sometimes with unlocked door, you do get a curious visitor. Once very heavy set woman in her fifties entered, someone obviously not lactating or in need of a lactation room, but medical science being as it is and the average age of first time San Francisco mothers hovering around 45, maybe she was. But my answer was quickly found in her reddened face at the sight of me, my boobs and awesome hum of the Isis Duo. I see this woman sometimes around the office, and want to shout “You saw my boobies!!! You say my boobies!!”, but refrain. I think she was scared straight. A few weeks ago, our wellness room was being used. That is what we call the nap room. Yes, there are adults who take naps at work. Who knew! Anyway, there was a knock on the door, and I was asked if a woman who was not feeling well came in to rest on the couch. Hmmm, let me think, some sick woman wants to rest her head while I sit her with my boobs out pumping breast milk to a pump that sounds like it is saying “you whore” “you whore” “you whore”. Ah, nope. Does she? I don’t think the term awkward quite defines how I felt as she lay on the couch with closed eyes while I played Bedazzled 2 on my Iphone. But let me say I am happy for wine and beer. I really am.

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!!???!!!!!!??!