So my little friends, looks like I’m not the only Twitterdork.  So allow me to explain Twitter in my own words.

Let’s say the internet is High School. Every time you post on your blog it is the same as standing up and giving a report in class. All eyes are on you and for a few (sometimes painful) minutes you are the star and you get the feedback, the praise and a “grade” on your presentation.

Well if your blog is class, Twitter is lunch period. Everyone all together meandering in and out of conversations when they have the chance. Contributing when they want, starting new topics when they want and announcing general craziness when needed. Twitter is just like the worlds longest mass text message ever. Twitters show up, one after another as people post them. They just keep going and going and going. Sometimes they are responses to other Twitters, sometimes they are questions and sometimes they’re general observances. Regardless, once you do it, even just once, you’ll “get” it. (I should also mention that you can pick and choose whos Twitters you follow, so you can keep up with friends and favorites easily.)

It’s awful really, yeah,  awful fun. Sometimes all you want to put out there is that two chocolate chip cookies with a bunch of frosting smooshed in the middle is really really tasty, but you’re not quite ready to devote a whole blog post to the topic of frosting stuffed cookies. So you Twitter it. The world knows of the pure sugary bliss that is cookies piled with frosting and you are off the hook of trying to figure out how to make frosting smooshed cookies sound interesting enough to devote and entire post to.

Does that help you Twitterdorks want to become my Twitterhos? Hope so. Does it also make you want a frosting smooshed cookie? Because you totally should.

Well I’m glad you like it. Thank you very much. I’ve mentioned before it’s a small miracle that it still appears every day, especially on days after I messed with it. What I’m coming to realize is that there is an awful lot that you crazy kids are participating in out there on the interwebs and I’ve been left huffing in your dust.

But I am pleased to say that I have joined ranks and now have a Stumble Upon profile, I’m somewhere in there on sk-rt, and tonight-I LOST MY TWTTERGINITY. That’s right, my first ever Twitter took place at exactly 9:58 pm EST.

And at 9:59 EST I realized I still don’t get it.

But I do get that an awful lot of you cool kids are hip to the SU Twitter jive, so will you be my friend (my fan? my follower? my groupie? my twitterho?) I’ll be sure to return the favor. Call it painful memories from high school but when you join up with these things they always ask to raid your email address book so they can instantly make you a fan (a friend? a follower? a groupie? a twitterho?) of three hundred and eighty seven people, but no one is a fan (a friend? a follower? a groupie? a twitterho?) of you. So you’re left feeling like the fat kid with braces, pigtails and mustard stains in the bleachers decked out in TOTAL TEAM SPIRIT that no one will sit next to.

I’m here to be your twitterho, let’s twitterho it up. And now I’m just looking for excuses to type twitterho.

Thanks.

Please send your love and prayers to these ladies who need them now more than ever.

Her sweet little baby is in the hospital, again.

And her husband is in need of a Kidney. Have a spare one lying around somewhere in there? He really needs it.

I am a sweaty, sweaty person.

And not only when doing the conga at weddings on the beach in Florida mind you.

Yep, you can pretty much bet that if my heart is beating, my pits are sweaty.

They’re just especially sweaty on the beach. In Florida. At fancy weddings. Whilst dancing my can off.

Enough with the Florida/beach references?

Okay.

I have good news though! I’m not alone! And if you’re one of the secret sweaty come on over to Blissfully Domestic to read more pit talk out of me and find out what you can do about it!

We’re going to start the B.O. Mafia, our slogan?

“We will funk you.”

If you’re not to hip to the gushy love garbage that us married folk can dish out now and again CLICK! AWAY! I warn you! Because I’m about to get ten kinds of mushy towards the man I call husband.

Yep, there he is. Pretty sad that the only picture I have of just him is from last year. Someone commented awhile ago that I should post more pictures of him, or even GASP! a family picture. Brilliant idea I say but he’s just not around enough to accomplish such a task. The sheer absence of Cody from my blog should be enough proof that the man really is gone that much.

But oh! He’s gone working his tail off for us. For our family and our future and for the chance that one day the moosh will be able to go to school and not have to worry about all of these stifling graduate student loans. His work ethic used to annoy me when we first got married. He would never (NEVER!) take a day off. The only time (seriously, only time) he ever called in sick was after his second trip to the ER in a week for an abscessed throat and three doctors ordered him to take the night off.

Now his work ethic has him accomplishing every goal he set for himself in law school. I don’t have to worry about him dropping out, or finishing school and deciding “Huh, this really isn’t for me, I think I’ll give long haul trucking a try.” Despite the fact that he annoys the daylights out of the moosh and me any chance he gets, we know we are the center of his universe and he’d do anything for us.

Have you seen the hot Australian on American Idol? All scruffy and hot singing his hot hot songs? Yeah, I saw him too. And then I saw him again, only this time I though “Huh. He’s alright.” And then I saw him again. The spark was gone. Alli explained it perfectly on her Marriage Hacks site. “Research has proven that when we are in love we look at members of the opposite sex as less attractive.” Hence the reason the hot sweaty Australian lost points in my lusty love book.

That brings me to the whole theory surrounding the seven year itch. Well I’m at seven years and the only itch I feel is his tie tack when I loosen it at the end of the day. (Men dressed in slacks with their sleeves rolled up, collars unbuttoned and ties loose? Oh, mama.) I’m in love with this man who sings the Tigger song to the moosh at night, who saves me cupcakes from law school functions and who lets me have one night a week where I can walk out the door and be by myself as soon as he walks in it. Actually, I love him more now that I ever have in the past seven years. The only difference is we show our love now through constant annoyance and relentless teasing.

Sweet sweet love.

So there you have it. I’m smitten kitten in love with the man who also happens to be the father of my child, my husband for time and all eternity, the biggest pain in the arse I know and who also happens to be a year older today.

Happy birthday you hunk of delicious man meat.

the moosh got a new bike as a very belated birthday gift.

But before I tell you the story of the new bike, I must first tell you the story of her umbrella.

Umbrellas are a must in Indiana. In fact, when you move to Indiana they give you a supply list; and the list goes something like this:

1. Umbrella

2. Galoshes

3. Rain Coat

4. Ark

Indiana is also very windy and to make a long story short, a couple of weeks ago the moosh’s pink polka dot umbrella was violently blown from her grasp knocking her to the ground. Through screaming sobs she watched as her umbrella was blown across several soccer fields. I got her indoors with her preschool teacher and set out across the muddy goose terd laden field to get the $3.00 umbrella back.

Oy, the things they don’t tell you about motherhood.

She no longer uses her umbrella. She now hates the wind and with as much conviction as a three year old can have, she believes that the wind is out to get her.

Which brings me back to the bike.

For the first few days she had nothing against riding her bike endlessly around our neighborhood. So I was surprised when I told her we were going out to ride bikes on Friday and she broke down into hysterical sobs. As if something traumatic had happened on her bike but I had somehow missed it.

Ah, life with a three year old.

Then I noticed her clinging to her pink and purple handlebar tassels so hard her knuckles were turning white. If she hated riding her bike so much why did she insist on holding on to it? Then it hit me.

“Are you afraid the wind will blow your bike away?”

“YES! AND ME! INTO THE SKY!”

“What if I tied down your tassels so that they couldn’t blow away?”

“OKAY!” (this was not a happy okay, it was a ticked off bawling okay.)

Unfortunately the tassels couldn’t be removed without massive handlebar mutiltion. Rubber bands didn’t hold the tips of the tassels down to her satisfaction and tape would have ripped and stretched them. What was I to do?

And then, in a flash that could only come to someone who has truly been tested in toddler crisis it came to me. Shoved in the back of our first aid kit was a roll of vet wrap that my sissy had given my years ago when our cat had surgery.

And this is how I solved the bike flying away into the sky problem.

My busted up leg, two weeks later.

Yeah, I’m pretty freaking awesome.

Now go find some Easter eggs.

Want to see me humbled?

Okay.

This is me on the phone with my best friend Kim, apologizing for the unintentional mess I made yesterday with this post. To make a long story short I had no idea that so many of Kim’s friends lurk on here. Needless to say Kim was assaulted after an emotionally difficult day with dozens of people calling and emailing to check on her.

I was not trying to steal her thunder.

I was not my intention to come off as a mean, backstabbing, jealous, catty, raging witch.

I truly am happy for her (and my other friend). I’m apparently just licking my wounds in an unacceptable manner for a lot of you. Truth is I am frustrated. As much as I’d like to throw my hands up in the air and say “It’s all up to you Lord.” I just can’t. It is one thing to know you will never be able to carry your own child. I cannot fathom the emotions that would come with such a knowledge and I greatly admire those who choose to adopt or go through invasive fertility treatments to have children of their own.

I let my own jealousy get the best of me. Knowing my body is capable of pregnancy and yet having it be uncooperative for the last three years is frustrating, okay? And to have a friend get pregnant in one shot (no pun intended) and another friend who was never supposed to be able to get pregnant in the first place because of a horrible case of endometreosis be pregnant with her third, on top of being surrounded by at least a half dozen pregnant neighbors on any given day?

I let it get to me.

I’m sorry.

I was trying to cover my own insecurities up with witty humor. And it helped. But that I hurt my best friend in the process, even if only for a few moments, doesn’t make it okay. Her friendship and trust mean more to me than any post ever could. And I’m sorry to any of you who I may have hurt or offended amidst this whole kerfuffle.
I love you Kim.

And I love that you’re cooking another half Brazilian baby for me to munch on.

“I love you too, Casey. All is forgiven. Feel free to munch on my babies anytime.”