Why Some Day I Will Be Committed - A Continuing Series

Like no one else on the planet, my resolution for the New Year was a healthier me: to eat better, to go the gym more, to workout on weekends. As we near the end of February, I can say my commitment has been solid. In fact, this past Monday was the first day since February 4 that I did not work out. Who exercises on President’s Day? Fifteen consecutive days of working my ass off (literally). As someone who needs distant goals to keep my will strong, I signed up for my office building’s Beach Body Challenge, a weigh-off with a grand prize of a trip for two to Hawaii. I know! However, in the back of my mind lay the following - “Too bad this was not in January because I have SO lost weight. I mean, whatever, it is still motivation.”

Imagine my surprise, when after body measurements were taken, I got on the scale to peer down and see the exact same number that was revealed the beginning of December. I don’t usually weight myself as it tends to piss me off, which is a good rule of thumb, since I was instantaneously fucking pissed off upon reading said number. “Seething” would be more appropriate. Why so mad? I have been killing myself at the gym. I have been killing myself at home. In fact, last weekend after completing an advanced 45 minute workout from the Nike Training app, John asked me if I had been gang raped. I think that right there details my level of exertion and commitment.

Oh yes, I know the entire muscle weighs more than fat bullshit, and that my clothes do fit better, blah, blah, blah, blah. I know this. But that number! I am pretty sure God hates me. Or my boobs weigh 30 pounds. And honestly, both of these things could be true. This now means I have gone from “No way I will win this thing” to “It is on, assholes. I am going to Hawaii.” Let’s be absolutely clear, I am competitive to the point of psychosis. And my psycho switch has just been turned on. So if you don’t hear from me, I will be at the gym not drinking beer (OMFG), not eating carbs and cursing scales everywhere.

Yes, I am crazy.

The New England Patriots: A Love Story

The reason I started watching the Pats is a simple one. My father bet on the games. He would make bets at the bar, and then watch the games. I watched them too, because these were the days in which you had one TV for one house, and no way was your Dad going to let you watch Scooby Doo when the Pats were playing. Although let me be honest here, most games during this time were blacked out. Blacked out as in not enough fans came to Sullivan Stadium to watch the Pats play. Hard to imagine, I know. Also, I was in love with Patriot Pat. Dreamy.


My true fandom was not experienced until the magical 1985 Cinderella season wherein we started 0-3 and finished 11-5 but still 3rd in the AFC East. We beat the Jets, Raiders and Miami (all on the road) to reach Super Bowl XX against the Chicago Bears. This logo proved untrue.


Let us revisit the 12 year old me after that game:


This was a very painful year for my sports psyche as not only did the Pats have a humiliating loss (fine I said it), the Red Sox lost to the Mets in Game 7 of the World Series. Two words: Bill Buckner. I also turned 13 and still had no boobs. So yeah, it was a fucking hard year.

As time went on, there were lots of games and lots of coaches and lots of players. We even had a 1996 trip to the Super Bowl wherein we suffered a loss to the Packers. The only good thing about this time period is that I got boobs and I started drinking. As any true Boston sports fan knows, drinking helps ease the pain, that and swearing. Swearing is good.

Also Drew Bledsoe went crowd surfing at the Paradise during an Everclear concert (his favorite band). And that right there perfectly sums the 1990s.


The year 2000 began with the firing of Pete Carroll (thank fucking god) and the hiring of one Mr. Bill Belichick in scandal. Bill was the head coach of the Jets, but then resigned, to come to the Pats. Obviously, Mr. Belichick is smart. In the 2000 draft we drafted in the 6th round Thomas Edward Brady. We went on to finish last place in the AFC East. The following year, the Patriots were not expected to do much better. During the second game of the season, Drew Bledsoe was hurt and in came back up QB, Tom Brady. Although Tom lost that game, the Pats went on to finish the season 11-5 with Brady at the helm. We went on to beat the Raiders, Steelers and finally the St. Louis Rams in Super Bowl XXXVI on Adam Vinatieri’s final seconds field goal.



Chills. Anyhoo, the aughts were a fun time to be a Patriots fan. We won two more Super Bowls and then had an almost perfect season that was destroyed by one Mr. David Tyree. How the hell do you catch a ball off your helmet? Anyway, that was bad. Especially since I watched that game with my friend Grant, a Giants Fan. Yeah. Then there was this dude named Bernard Pollard whose main purpose in life is to maim Patriot Players - Tom Brady, Wes Welker and most recently Rob “GRONK!” Gronkowski.

But here we are a mere 5 days from another Super Bowl, Super Bowl XLVI. So that means 26 Super Bowls from my first Pats Superbowl (holy shit I am old). I am nervous, feeing a mixture of dread and happiness. Happiness that we somehow are having a great season with no secondary, dread because of the people named Hakeem Nicks, Mario Manningham and Victor Cruz. I am not going to jinx my team so the only predictions I am willing to make revolve around my beer consumption and cursing. (Over/Under: 5,258). But in the end, it always remains the same. I love me some Patriots football. Go Pats!

Soul Mate - Don't Jinx Yourself

Recently on a blog I read, the writer announced her separation from her husband of ten years. I should have been thinking, “Oh wow”, “That is awful”, and “No freaking way”. Instead I was thinking, “That is what you get when you call someone your soul mate.” Can we all agree that nothing will destroy your relationship eventually than the flagrant foul of calling someone your soul mate? It is a jinx.

Let us visit the definition of a soul: The spiritual or immaterial part of a human being or animal, regarded as immortal. To me, the soul sounds awfully similar to a snowflake, in that every single one is uniquely formed. A perfect mate for a snowflake seems impossible. Yet time and time again, people use soul mate. And surprisingly, not in humor. They actually mean it. I know!

Maybe I am a cold, heartless, dead fish of a person incapable of attaining the enlightenment that is soul mate-yness. (I feel compunction to say ARRGHHH here, so I will. AARRGHHH). But how is it possible for any person to use it seriously. I once knew a girl who dated her “soul mate” 503 times. I know this because instead of referring to these guys with their actual names, I would ask “Where did Soul Mate 152 take you tonight?”

The point is that life is a somersault of good, evil, happy, sad, sober and drunk. Whatever you experience will change you. If you are lucky enough to travel that road with someone hope to god the people you become are fortunate to still love and be kind to each other. The point is that your soul mate of today may not be the soul mate of your future, so stop using the effin term already. However, we with true soul mates are free to carry on.

Joys of Parenting: Toddler OCD

As someone that the sight of an open cabinet immediately creates within a spastic twitch in the cortex of my brain signaling - CLOSE, CLOSE, CLOSE, CLOSE, CLOSE, CLOSE - the fact that my daughter is a creature of habit bordering on psychosis should not come as shock. Since having children, the phrase “you get what you give” has been painfully defined. On one hand, I have an ultracompetitive sore loser who I much preach the concept of “fair play” to and the other a girl whose bedtime routine is an exercise in torture (and probably might be in Dante’s version of a modern Inferno).

A few weeks back, John once again came upstairs after putting Maggie to bed exasperated and shaking his head, reaching for the immediate beer. Since we have been alternating Owen’s bedtime routine, I said “You know, maybe we should share Maggie’s stories too?” (Usually I cook during this time). John responded, “Totally.” He then may have danced a bit and praised Jesus and smiled at me with a face of “You have no fucking clue what you are getting yourself into.” I realize this now, at the time I just though - what is the big deal?

Let me explain the big deal to you. After the kids finish their bath, and get dressed, at 6:45 p.m. it is time for Maggie to go to sleep.

Me: Maggie, it is time to go to bed.
Maggie: TWO MINUTES. TWO MINUTES. TWO MINUTES.
Me: Okay, two minutes.
(Two minutes pass).
Me: Mags, time to go to bed.
Maggie: TWO MINUTES!! I WANT TWO MINUTES!!
Me: Time for bed.
Maggie: I need to kiss Daddy. DADDY, DADDY, KISSES!
Me: Okay Maggie. Bed.
Maggie: OWEN, OWEN, kisses for Owen.
Owen: (Kissing Maggie). Good night Mags, I miss you. (Awww).
Me: Maggie, bed.
Maggie: I pick out my bottle.

She picks her bottle; we fill it with ice and water. The left side of my skull starts to throb. We head down the stairs to her room. She first goes to the computer to turn it on so that her Mozart playlist can be played (brainpower!), then she goes to her heater to turn it on, then she throws her bottle over her crib and climbs in. For those thinking: She is still in a crib? How old is this kid anyway? The answer is 3 in March and she sleeps from 7:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. every single day. She will be in that crib until she is 18 if I can help it.

Now, the stories. At this point in the adventure, Maggie chooses one book which is usually a Dora book. These books are long, and if you try to skip words, you are in trouble. Like last night when I skipped the part about crossing the sea on the pirate ship to avoid the snake and we did not say “Arrggggh”. So then we said it 18,000 times. Mama you forgot AAARRRGGGGGHHHHH. ARRGGHHHHHH. MAMA ARRRAGGHHHH. Mistake. After the first story this is the time when Maggie goes to the bathroom. We head in, where she turns on the light. I DO IT. Then sit and go pee and try to go poop. If she can’t poop she will strain until you are pretty sure an aneurysm will be had, and you are okay with this. She climbs off, flushes and turns off the light. POOP MAMA!

We exit the bathroom, wherein we have come to the touching shadows portion of the evening. “I TOUCH SHADOWS.” She proceeds to touch all the shadows in the room taking care not to step on the treadmill “This is Daddy’s Mama, IT’S NOT A TOY.” Thanks Maggie, I keep forgetting.

Back into bed for more stories. But first, “I NEED BIG ICE”. I get a piece of ice for her to chew on. THAT NOT BIG MAMA. I find another, my headache growing. Goodnight Moon is now read, a favorite since she repeats everything I say. This is a good moment, I almost love her again. That is until the Cheerios book. The Cheerios book has me wishing for death. How can a six page book seemingly take six hours? Oh, because she has to point out every color, and then pretend to take cheerios from one page to put them on another. Then count them, over and over, and then tell me which mice don’t have glasses. I need to get him some glasses Mama. TIME FOR BED MAGGIE. GLASSES MAMA. More placing of pretend cheerios. Until finally every mouse has glasses, every fish has bubbles, every car has wheels, and she agrees to end story time.

We next discuss her day. This is another part of the routine in which I kind of forget that I want to hang myself. She informs me who was her friend, who wasn’t her friend, how she sang Wheels on the Bus and the baby went Wah, Wah, Wah, how she pooped in the potty. The life of an almost three year old is quite compelling. I then tell her, “Good night Mags”. She then asks for a fist pump. We fist pump. Then we high five. Then we high five again. One more high five. I zip up the crib tent and start for the stairs, Maggie then pulls off her all of her blankets and says, “MAMA, MY BLANKETS!”. Shocked. As if she did not take then all off when I turned around. I go down, unzip to tuck her in. First one blanket (tuck, tuck, tuck), her baby blanket (tuck, tuck, tuck), her Dora fleece blanket (tuck, tuck, tuck). LOOK MAMA, DORA!!! AND BOOTS!!! Said happiness and joy, as if she does not say this every single freaking night. My love is back. Good night Maggie. Good night Mama. WHERE IS OWEN? Going to sleep. WHERE IS DADDY? Going to sleep. WHERE YOU GOING? I am going to sleep Maggie. DADDY TIRED. OWEN TIRED. MAMA TIRED. MAGGIE TIRED. Yep. Go to sleep, sweet dreams. NIGHT MAMA. Night.

As I climbed those stairs I know that I am free (to drink copious amounts of wine). And although torturous in its execution and not to mention high pitched cries of anguish for any transgression of the “routine,” I try to tell myself that this will be over someday, I will miss this, I will ache for this. But you know what? I really don’t think so, I really don't. At least she is cute. She has to be.

The Half Decade Mark

Five Things for Owen on this his Fifth Birthday:

1. You Love Cars 2. You love to play races with your cars, lining them up, rolling them and yelling at Maggie when she takes them. The fact that you asked for Cars 2 bedding with that being your favorite present has only added to your love affair, but also your oddness as what five year old wants bedding. However, let me clear about something - it is pronounced Piston Cup. There is only so much your Dad and I can do to remain straight faced when you cry out that you have just won the “Pissing Cup.”

2. Holy Cow, Competitive. I feel that this is somehow my fault, given that this is surely retribution from God for my own transgressions against my parents. The other day after you defeated your father and me in a riveting game of Xbox Kinect Twister, you said to Dad when he was reading bedtime stories, “Daddy, guess what?” “You and mommy are doofuses, I’m the winner.” Yep. You also throw a major fit when you do lose, “Why I lose Daddy?” “Why you beat me?” And then you sulk. So now we are forced to expunge the “it is only a game”, “it is suppose to be fun” and “it is not about winning” mantras. Again, totally retribution or competiveness is a genetic trait, which I am thinking it is.

3. Mr. Sensitive. It is hard to believe that the same person who is a hyper competitive a*hole . . . err kid, can also be amazingly sensitive and sweet. But true! Yesterday after Maggie woke up from her nap, and was not feeling well. You asked to draw a picture “to make her feel better.” And then as she lay like a slug on the couch, you came up to her, rubbed her head and said “Aww, Maggie, feel better.” This empathy is one of your best qualities.

4. You Are Funny. You do things like this (by the way, go 9ers!).



5. You are the Best. As your parent, I know there is some obligation to make blanket statements like this. But I can’t really remember when you were not part of my life, which must mean that my life is exponentially better with you in it - or I am just really, really tried, which can totally be a possibility. You are my Os, my son, my first born and there will never be anything better than out of the blue hearing you say, “Mama, I love you.” I love you too Owsie. Happy Birthday.

P.S. How were you ever this small?

Happy Holidays

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Gobble, Gobble

Happy Thanksgiving to you, as I head into the car for a 5 hour plus ride with the kids, remember, be thankful that you are not me. That being said, things I am thankful for in no order:

1. Sleep. After a long time in which my sleep was interrupted by the random cries of newborn, infants, toddlers, almost 5 year olds with bad dreams, I would like to say that my now 38 year old body loves a good night’s sleep.

2. My Kids. Okay, as much as I portend that the trials and tribulations of parenthood are a roller coaster of awesome and awful - and they are people. I do love my kids and am thankful that they drive me absolutely bonkers with their boisterous and rowdy and sometimes ridiculous behavior. But nothing will ease you into acceptance of that than a kiss and strong hold hug from your daughter or the fact my son will say “Hey Mama.” And after I ask “What?” he responds with “I really love you.”

3. John McCall. I am thankful for John for a myriad of reasons which I will not list here because some things need to be kept to oneself, something that Facebook seemingly has destroyed in about 45% of the population. Oh, you know who you are.

4. Football. That is right assholes, football and fantasy football. I don’t care if you don’t like it, I do. I am pretty much under the assumption if one was to track total brain power usage on fantasy football it would hover at a consistent 30%. (As a side note, I am thankful for the word "asshole".)

5. Turkey. I love turkey, I really, really do. I love it so much that I am pretty sure that my last meal if I ever murdered someone and ended up on death row would be Thanksgiving Dinner. I don’t know what it says about me that these are the things I ponder late at night but there you go. Although it could be lasagna if I am PMSed. Or maybe roast beef. Jesus H. Christ, such a tough question. One needs to be prepared.

6. My Kindle. Holy cow, let me just say that I was one of “those” people professing my love “of real books”. But you know what self righteous judgey judge, the Kindles houses “real books” in a compact, easy to carry parcel with an illuminated light for easy night reading. Caa-choowww! (Please note I have watched Cars 2 approximaely 38 times). The Kindle kicks so much ass, and did you next to me on the bus know I was reading another biography of Ted Bundy, serial killer - no you did not. I blame my fascination on serial killers from my Senior Year Honors Psychology Class and final paper on serial killers which received an A+ - don’t be smart people, cause you will end up being able to quote inane facts about serial killers, which surprisingly does not make for “appropriate” dinner conversation. For example, there was this one guy who would cut off his victim’s boobs and then try to make plaster caster molds of them. This went on for months because said serial killer “could not get the mold right.” I do not lie.

7. My Family and Friends from Boston. Okay, I know that it is cruel of me in my San Francisco weather winter to send you forecasts that call for mild and sunny 60 degree days while you are the throws of punching out your neighbor who parked in the spot that you dug out from three feet of snow. I get that might be interrupted as a bit much, but do know that I miss you and your snow and your laughs and the fact that I spent 31 years of my life there and sometimes (read holidays), it is really hard for me not to curl up into a ball and lament about times of old. Like that time my Nana McInnis threw a turkey leg at my mom during Thanksgiving dinner. That was funny. But seriously, I miss Boston. I love San Francisco, and I love my time here and the incredible gift of having started my own family on its very shores, but there will always be a part of me that is unapologetically Townie. Give me Bell’s Seasoning, or give me death.




Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

P.S. I also love my San Francisco family and friends as well, and if you think I do not, then you let us get a bottle of whiskey and wax poetic about how all of you have made me feel loved and welcomed.

P.P.S. See that there - “P.P.” Hee hee. This may or may not have been stolen from Cars 2.

Hello November.

Hello there people who read this blog, i.e. John. There are no specific reasons (lazy and too much wine) to explain my absence of late. Perhaps it is that the very minutia of my life these past weeks begins with “B” and ends with an “oring”. Not that it can ever be that, for life is never boring when you have an Owen and a Maggie.

The other evening, while reading stories to Owen and in a blatant attempt get him to behave better, I asked him what he wanted for Christmas from Santa. Now that Halloween is over, I can ask this question ever single freaking day until December 24 and quickly follow it with: “You know, Owen, Santa keeps a list of everything you do and if there are more bads than goods you don’t get any presents. I don’t say you get coal, because then Owen would say, “Mama, what is coal?” Thinking it something extremely cool and something he must possess. This would lead him to purposefully choose the “wrong” thing to do in order to achieve this fated and glorious coal of which I speak. That is how he is, curious (and insane). I just enforce that he will receive nothing since nothing in the eyes of a child is something huge - nothing! Oh hells to the no.

So I asked him what he wanted from Santa. He then proceeded to say, “A new Cars 2 blanket”, (officially ousting Toy Story 3 as his Pixar movie of choice). He also said wanted the “Fresh Beats.” If you are not familiar with Fresh Beat, I give you this:


I could have linked a video, but the viewing of such a travesty would cause the immediate mush of your central cortex, followed by leaking out of your left ear to be forever gone and you forever changed for the worse. You can thank me later. But then he said he wanted a guitar, drums, and keyboard. So I think I will get him this:


One man bad bitches!

I proceeded to ask him what he thought Maggie would like for Christmas, keeping with the theme of good behavior for a bounty of goods. He looked at me and said, “Mama, Maggie would like a Barbie, a car and (dramatic pause) poop.” “Owen, are you saying that Maggie wants poop?” “Yes, Mama, she told me.” “She told you she wanted poop?” “Yep, today. She wants poop. Maggie is really funny. She’s crazy.” Okay then.

And there you have it, not the most exciting of daily adventures, but certainly not boring.

Tales From The NJudah Express

I am now a happy devotee to the NJudah Express which stops in the Outer Sunset then leaves like a bullet from 19th and Judah to Bush and Sansome. What was an hour or so commute is now a happily livable 35 to 45 minutes. The thing with buses though is that you often board them at the same time, and you and your fellow patrons are suddenly a bus posse. The same people day in and day out sitting in the same seats day in and day out. Because of this, I have come to notice the people on my bus. Today I present to you - Crazy Hair Lady.

Crazy Hair Lady is dubbed so because one day John and I sat in front of her and a friend. CHL began to go off on the fact that her hair was cut into layers by some arrogant Supercuts stylist when she specifically said - NO LAYERS. She lamented the fact that she was antsy about her hair and was dire need of a cut, so instead of going to her other less than $20.00 stylist who was on vacation, she went to Supercuts. This scourge of a stylist took scissors to her hair with the vigor of a layering ninja. She droned on and on in a voice an octave too low and medicatedly even. “So now I’ll have to grow my hair. And it will take at least a year. Last time someone cut my hair in layers, it took forever to grow out.” “I don’t understand, I did not ask for layers, I asked for an inch all around.” “I should have waited." On and on she went the entire bus ride.

All of this hair waxing I could understand, due to many an ill-advised (read PMSed) idea about a haircut. But this woman, this woman so adamant about her hair, so distressed about this layering massacre. This woman who I have seen day in and day out for weeks. She puts her butt length, dyed black, split-end ravaged hair piled on the top of her head in a ponytail secured by god forsaken scrunchie.

I was tempted to turn to her and say that what do you expect when you go to Supercuts with hair brittle, black and way too long for your age? They guy was doing you favor, Scrunchie. So shut up. I would like to point out that said scrunchie is always the same color and same style leading me to believe it is the same one.

Ah, buses. Next up - Gross Pervert Man.

Let's Dance

The problem with not writing in your blog for a bit, is that after a time period you feel that you cannot come back to the blog with the minutia of your daily life, instead a great event worthy of your absence must occur. I am a working mother of two and the only “great event” worthy of mention is perhaps my overindulgence of vodka on Friday night - hello, party of one. (Thank you to my brother-in-law Garen for said term, which I love). Even that only involved 3.5 vodka gimlets while watching Project Runway. Dudes, I know, the awesome.

The best thing occurring in my life thus far is my son Owen’s penchant for peculiar phrasing and fascinating mind. Let us examine the following:



If you are unable to understand the following exchange it goes as follows:

Me: Do you guys want to dance your butts off?
Maggie: Yeah.
Owen: No. Not at all.
Maggie: No, not all.
Owen: No.
Me: Are you sure you don’t want dance your butts off.
Owen: No. Our heads.

Remember that Owen is almost five years old, but uses the phrase, “No. Not at all.” I don’t even use that phrase. If one looks closer at what he does want to do - dance his head off. You can see he wanted to say was: “No. Not at all, I much prefer to dance my my head off.” And that word, “prefer”, in his vocabulary regularly.

I am not sure what any of this means other than he must be watching the BBC late night or his Welsh name of “Owen” is more than just a name. By the way, everyone should want to dance their butts off, heads are far too important.

When Rainbows Vomit

There was a time when I would see little girls dressed like rainbow vomit and say “What is wrong with that mother?” That was before I had a girl, a girl who now picks her own clothing. Maggie is 2.5 years old, and has the fashion sense of an eccentric bag lady drunkard. “No, I want my tights, Mama!” “I want my boots!” “No, I do it, Mama!” It is pretty much to the point John and I throw up our hands and let her have at it. She is a girl very adamant (bordering on pyschosis) about her wants and dislikes. She HATES when I put her hair in ponytails, much preferring “my barrettes”. Last Saturday, she grabbed 8 barrettes and made John put them all in her hair. And seriously, this sucks because even though I am a tomboy, I loved doing my Barbie’s hair. Now I have a girl with hair, lots of curly ringlet hair that just screams “Play with me!!”, but, no, it is a steady stream of headbands and barrettes for Mags.

Today this is what Maggie wore:


Please note the cowboy boots, with blue tights, and pink tutu.


Her Beatles Shirt with bedazzled elastic as a bracelet (because you know, not like I can actually ever put her hair up in one).


And the hair. Today we have a blue and white striped headband with hot pink flowers. Maggie, opting for an around the head effect ala NBA stars, as well as a purple barrette - because hell be damned if this girl does not have a barrette in her hair.


Maggie McCall, Fashion Maven.

Give Me Your Money

I am a mere 9 days away from my first half marathon. I think that there will be no problems with this because last Wednesday I ran 10 miles. I never thought I would run 10 miles, unless someone with a machete was behind me with the inkling to kill. But I did, and it was fine and dandy. I was not sore the next day, but I did come down with a kid’s cold that knocked me out of the run for a week (I also was on vacation, so really don’t feel too bad for me). But next Saturday, August 27, I will be running the AT&T Half Marathon. 13.1 miles of awesome, at least that is what I am telling myself. The last 11 weeks I have thought this marathon was on Sunday, August 28. Last night finding otherwise. Which means either (a) my subconscious is really smart or (b) I am really stupid. I go with (a).

So if you read this blog and would like to donate to my fundraising page, please do -

http://www.race-sfgiants.com/TheGiantRace2011/cassiemccall

Thanks.

Just Shoot Me

Yesterday I got a crown for a back tooth and today I got my period complete with cramps. It is like a bonus of awesome over here at Cassie Central. I don’t really mind my period too much even with the cramps because it means I am not pregnant. So torture away uterus, I care not. But you back tooth that cracked into four without me knowing, you are an asshole. Although I am sure this is my punishment for having a slight addiction a few weeks back to Runts. Which are really, really good, but they require you to bite them using said back teeth. Runts 1, Cassie 0.

This was my first major dental work visit, up until this point it has only been the occasional cavity. Most of which I had when I was a wee lass of childhood age. I should have known there would be more pain involved in this procedure when the biggest needle ever filled with numbing solution was repeatedly injected into my lower left gum-line. I have come to the conclusion that I have super powers when it comes to anesthesia. My back is incapable of getting an epidural in the proper location and even with same I still felt the "oh so" large newborn head of Owen exiting my va-jay-jay. After 15 minutes, I was asked how my mouth felt. I said “tingling”, not right, as the hugest needle ever started its third series of injections in the soft flesh of my gums. Finally I was numb (or blacked out from pain). I sat back watching Its Complicated (my movie choice because doesn’t dental work scream Meryl Streep), as my tooth was whittled down to burning smells and screeching sounds, to be finally capped with a “temp.” Because guess what, I get to go back to get my "permanent" crown put on. What a bunch of bullshit. Maybe this appointment will be for the morning on the first day of my next period. And I will bring vodka.

Things I now know because of this temporary crown:

1. Chewing on only one side of your mouth is quite challenging and also requires you to eat slowly. I think this is the bonus of the crown because I am eating much less due to the fact I am not stuffing food at breakneck pace into my gullet because I am famished (which is pretty much all the time).

2. Crowns are fake teeth. I thought they were little hats that would just sit atop my tooth sparkling away. But nope, a quick look to Wikipedia informed how your real tooth is shaped down to a nugget so that your fake tooth can be glued upon that bone. Crowns are gross.

3. I never want a root canal.

4. Lots of food is “crunchy”, a bit difficult to avoid - as I take a bite of celery dipped in humus. I am eating on the one side, so don’t worry. This is me being a rogue. Fear me.

5. Vodka Gimlets help with pain. (I already knew this but any chance to justify my pseudo alcoholism is a-okay).

I am feeling better now and have come to terms with the fact that I am pretty sure I bought this all upon myself by stumbling on a box of Runts in Walgreens three months ago, and then eating them like the candy they are for a month straight. Now I get to pay $750 bux for this mistake. Oh, the dentist also told me I need Invisalign because as you age your teeth move forward and start turning and bending. Screw you old age.



(Disclaimer - these are not my actual teeth, jackass.)

Happy Anniversary

Today I celebrate five years of marriage with John McCall - five years, two kids and seemingly 13.5 hours of sleep. Last night, as we were going to bed, John said called me a doofus. You see, I am one of those people who only truly believe humorous acknowledgments of my being. I live for the joke, this is not to say that I am not serious, I am in ways. But I much prefer to laugh than lament. For example, the other night on the Bachelorette, one of the bachelors was having a serious conversation with his mom about his emotional development, his acceptance of himself and his new reality of wanting to be a person of substance. His mother listened intently, thanking him for an apology. All the while I am watching this, I am saying in my head - Do people really act like this? If I was to tell my mother any of that, she would have said “Oh my god, Cassie. What the fuck is wrong with you? Get a load of Cassie Mikey, Ms. la deee da. Emotional reality? Oh for Christ’s sake. Shut up and get over yourself.” So yeah, I don’t take things of a serious nature very seriously. But neither does John. After his doofus comment, I retorted with “Well, you are the one that proposed to me.” And he said, “Did I?” And I said, “Yeah, right?” To which he responded, “Ah, I don’t know.” And I guess I could have been “that” girl who can’t believe her husband forgets such important things, but seriously, I had no freaking clue either. The only reason I know today is my anniversary is because I have the wedding invitation on my refrigerator. So, yeah, Happy Anniversary John. You may or may not have proposed, but who cares really? I 50s styled trapped you by getting pregnant and now you are condemn to a life with a girl who doesn’t like birthday gifts, anniversary gifts, Christmas gifts but will instead play fantasy sports with you while drinking gimlets. Cheers to us. Also, we sorta kinda made these two nitwits.

Its Starts Early . . .

While Maggie repeatedly uses the phrase “Where my socks?”, when John repeats it, she suddenly remembers that said socks are “downstairs in my bed.” John then volunteers to get said socks. And there you have it, pretty girls getting guys to do things for them when they can do it themselves, starts very early, indeed. Also, her curls are killing me I love them so much.

I Knew He Was Giving Me Come Hither Eyes

"My cashier today was Randy." Capital R. Not only does Safeway provide an avenue for me to get food and booze, but now I bear witness to a sexually agitated cashier. Was it because of me? I think so.

Please note, that yes, I am a coupon cutter. Don’t judge me, because food shopping is more fun when it is a competitive sport. And the answer to your question is “Yes, I am a still big ole nerd.”

Kaboom, Kaboom - A Fourth of July Tale

The Fourth of July is one of my favorite holidays - possibly because it too qualifies as a drinking holiday and there is the added bonus of fireworks. The combination of nighttime explosiveness with cheap beer is one of the pleasures in life worthy of awesomeness. Growing up, because we had a pool, my family would have an annual 4th of July party. My parents, each the middle of seven children, would invite our family -lots of uncles, aunts and cousins. It was fantastic for us kids - barbeque, swimming, playing - and equally fantastic for our parents - barbeque, beer, the kids not driving me bonkers (I now know this).

A few weeks prior to one 4th of July party, my father came home with a gift. During my Dad’s drinking days, he would often come home from the bar with a surprise. One time he came home with a dozen cream filled Dunkin Donuts because they were my favorite (best Dad ever), another a pizza with everything on it, including anchovies (what the hell Dad?), but that night he came home with a box of fireworks. Living in Massachusetts you can’t buy fireworks anywhere because they are banned. But my Dad gave me and my brother, ages 8 and 10, fireworks for 4th of July - again, BEST DAD EVER!

I can’t completely describe the level of obsession my brother and I had for those fireworks, but it bordered on unhealthy. We would take them out of the box one by one, examining them, talking about the order they would be fired, how the one shaped like a tank was his, and the roman candles were mine. We pretended, we plotted, and we prodded along in a firework haze waiting for the party, where we could enact our extravagantly thought out plan.

That day was one of the happiest of my life, it rivaled Christmas morning. When will it be dark? When? WHEN? Our many cousins arrived, and each one was brought them up to Michael’s room where his closet held our magnificent treasure. The day progressed. We swam, we ate and we showed the fireworks approximately 300 times. As it began to get dark, we brought the fireworks outside in their box. Carefully going over the order of what would be done. Michael was first with a bottle rocket, and I would follow with a roman candle. Finally, after what seemed like a century of waiting, we were given the okay. Most of the family was situated on the lawn by the tree, my mother on her lawn chair with beer in hand. (An example I am proud to follow.)

Michael held the bottle rocket up and ignited it to a screaming ear popping blast. Hurray! Now the real display was to begin, I reached down and grabbed a roman candle. Michael lit it. I held it to the sky when boom, one went off, two went off. Wow, there are lots of sparks. Another boom and more sparks. Then it happened, below my feet catching all those sparks was our utter happiness, our box of fireworks. Lesson to you, when setting off fireworks, the box containing said fireworks should never be below the ones that you are currently lighting. I remember turning and seeing explosive light everywhere. Some people screaming, but most people running. They went everywhere, all at once - flashes of light, booms, and bottle rockets screeching. Five minutes later, my Dad managed to grab the hose, so that it was over. The box a sodden charred reminder of what was. We walked over, my brother and I, looking upon the wreckage in tears. He picked up his tank, and then dropped it defeated. I think he may have forgiven me, but I can’t say for sure.

My mother still says that it was the best fireworks show she ever witnessed, because unlike the rest of us she remained seated and watched - her possible death only 10 feet away (again, she is kind of awesome, right?). But for my brother and me, it was our first true heartbreak. We thankfully managed to get over it, and now that story is one of our family’s funniest. Which in a way, is what 4th of July is all about. Taking a break from it all to be with the ones we love and remembering our history all while drinking beer and watching explosions in the sky - or around your backyard because some dumbass decided a box of fireworks would be best by her feet. Fourth of July, I love you.

She Bangs, She Bangs

The other evening in an effort to not let strawberry jello fall to the floor thus making a mess, I leaped forward to the sink whereby my second toe slammed into the child’s gate. This gate that protects Owen and Maggie from certain kitchen death often leads me to swift pain in the form of a stub. “Fuck! FUCK!!! Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Mutherfucking FUUCCCKKKKK.” I feel to the floor in a heap, clutching my foot and crying. I don’t normally cry after injury, I cuss like a sailor and then shake it off. This is something I usually tell Owen and Maggie when hurt, “Shake it off.” (Not swear). Owen usually responds with his ass shimmying; Maggie, her hands. But there I lay on the floor, my toe again the victim of a viscous stub. The pain was so bad that I could not uncover my hand at fear of what I might see. And when I did, it was bad, a bruise already forming and skin dangling. Thankfully, it was not the toe-decapitation imagined. My toes, if you have not been privy to see, are a tad long. My 2nd and 3rd in line are longer than my big toe. This is a trait from my mother that luckily has not been passed to my children. For years, I have suspected this was the source of my totally clumsiness. My big toe in its diminutive state is incapable of providing the stability necessary to a support body. I submit to you, Evidence A - my toes (pardon the state of my feet - I run and could care less about pedicures).


As you can see by the above photo, my big toe is woefully deficient. It should be at least an inch longer. Thankfully, it is not. Because that would mean size 11 shoes, and have you seen size 11 shoes? Neither have I, maybe once on a carnival clown. Although my big toe is awful in its ability to keep me from toe banging excruciating pain, it is thoughtful enough in its small stature to provide me with an assortment of shoes that do no scream circus. Thank you, big toe.

Tales From MUNI

Two weeks ago, I got aboard the NJudah and made my way to work. At Sunset Boulevard a girl sat next to me. Score, especially since she was rather thin and not smelly. I think we can agree that although we will sit next to the musky man muttering, we prefer a semi-normal being to share seat space.

Then it started. She started playing with her hair. Combing her hands through her long brown locks over and over until there was a stray single hair on her shirt, or pants or coat that she would carefully excise from its location. Bringing it forward, she would would flick her fingers until the hair fell between her knees to the floor. She was grooming herself as if she were a monkey the entire way until Montgomery Street, which was at least 50 minutes.

I sat reading my Kindle getting the side vision of what she was doing. As she succeeded in pick and flick number ten, I began to get annoyed, but more importantly disgusted. How can you possibly believe this is okay to do on public transportation? I thought it had to be a nervous tick of some sort, and then how sad it was this person will never marry. I wanted to shake her, but instead adjusted my vision so that it was impossible to bear witness to the abhorent action. I covered my eyes with my hand, essentially making a blinder. But every so often into my field of vision there it was - a hand releasings its find. Finally the speaker announced “Montgomery Station”, whack-a-doo off boarded and I breathe a sign of relief.

Is this normal? Was my reaction normal? I don’t know. Believe me for some reason things do get under my skin and make me insane - like open cabinet doors, or curtains, or vodka bottles. I kid, that last one is kind of awesome. But holy cow, Ms. Hair Extractor 2011, you top them all. Please do me the favor of never sitting with me again for I will gladly take psychotic bi-polar off his meds bearded clam smelling man, at least he's normal.

The Social Etiquette of Running

Tomorrow is my two year anniversary of running at work. I feel happy that I have continued on the path of the Embarcadero to relative health and fitness. And while I like running as much as anyone can like an activity that is very solitude in nature and often painful in effort, there is a seemingly social etiquette aspect that I am learning.

1. Men runners like to waive “hi” to me when running.
2. Women runners like to just stare.
3. Men runners talk to you sometimes.
4. Women runners check out your thighs.
5. Men runners get really pissed off when you pass them.

I don’t really get the “hi” or “great jobs” I sometimes receive from male runners. Once there was a wink, but I am pretty sure that might have been an insect that had flown into this guy’s eye because the last thing I would imagine anyone would want to do when gasping for air down the Embarcadero is flirt. But then this guy today waved at me and I was all - holy shit, maybe I need a new sports bra to contain this bounce. So, someone, tell me - is it just a friendly thing one does to acknowledge your comrade in breathing hell, or are these fools unaware that I can’t even comprehend the concept of flirting anymore. I am a mom for god’s sake. Gross.