Want to see what I look like first thing in the morning?
(Along with the zit I named Dell?)
Head on over to Blissfully Domestic.
Want to see what a bitter jealous hag I can be?
Take a journey down Neener Neener Road below.
Neener Neener Road.
When your best friend in the whole entire world and your dearest closest newest friend who means the world to you both tell you that they’re pregnant in the same week a plethora of feelings come bubbling to the surface.
Most of them unpleasant and requiring some form of repentance.
While I am incredibly happy and excited for my friends (really!) these were the third and fourth pregnancies I found out about in the last two weeks. After a round of bitter jealousy and a little tiny pity party, I have chosen the higher *snort* road. I call it the Neener Neener Road. Allow me to take you on a little tour.
On the right you’ll see the diaper shack. I have not had to enter the diaper shack for over three months and nor will I have to enter it for the next ten at least. No poopy diapers to change for AT LEAST A YEAR? Neener neener.
Over here on the left you’ll see the diaper bag emporium. Haven’t had to go into that store for over a year and a half. Instead I shop at the “cute stylish handbag you would never dream of carrying bottles in” store down the street. Neener neener.
Speaking of bottles. I haven’t had to make a bottle in over 28 months. I’m not even sure I remember how. Think of all that money saved on formula (because it was physically impossible for me to nurse) and time saved on washing bottles. Not to mention that I haven’t found a forgotten bottle of curdled stinky milk in a corner for almost two and a half years. Neener neener.
Up there on the hill you’ll see my bed. The bed I slept in for eight hours straight last night. I could have gone to bed when the moosh went to bed and gotten a solid twelve hours but that’s kind of overkill isn’t it? Neener neener.
And last if you’ll just direct your attention to my waist. Yes right there. Twenty eight inches and not a hint of stretch marks. Yes. I do believe this qualifies for a big neener neener.
So there you have it, you pregnant people in my life. You may be relishing in the joys of stretchy pants and blissful new baby smell, but I am relishing in the one curly haired heiress I have contributed to society and becoming okay with the fact that she may be my only contribution.
Take that bunk lady parts. NEENER NEENER.
Why SAHM’s Need Curfews.
Oh the joyous experience that is getting together with a bunch of Indianapolis bloggers and going out to dinner. And what better way to really get to know each other than a little post dinner fun and games?
With rented shoes?
That’s right baby, BOWLING!
You would think when we all got together for a big group photo we’d be CRAZY! OUT! OF! CONTROL! FUN! FUN! FUN!
But alas, you keep a bunch of moms out past 11 pm and we begin to resemble busted down tired Junior League rejects.
But, OH DID WE HAVE FUN.
Why we don’t fall down stairs. In photos.
It’s been a week since I took a tumble down the metal staircase of death.
I can’t feel a four inch patch of flesh on my shin, and it stings whenever I step down too hard. the moosh has the uncanny ability to land any and all sharp or hard body parts she owns on my left leg, for this I am grateful, it’s making me tough. GRRR. And it’s teaching me all sorts of creative covers for swear words.
How I didn’t break something is truly a miracle. I attribute it to the fact I had just gone to the Temple and was divinely protected. Because honestly?
I should be waaay more busted up than this.
Blissfully Domestic.
The Fabulous Mrs. Fussypants asked me to contribute to her shiny new online magazine that’s all about making life easier.
Guess what topic I cover? Beauty. That’s right, beauty.
Is now a good time to mention I don’t know how to apply eyeliner and I don’t own a SINGLE tube of lipstick?
If you’re all about what works with the least amount of money and the least amount of effort,
HAVE I GOT THE BEAUTY SITE FOR YOU.
When 34D shot 40D.
So I have this new camera. A new camera for which I sacrificed my left leg.
Cody told me months ago that he wanted (WANTED!) me to get an SLR if and when he was hired on for a summer position. Something about he “thought I’d be good at it and that it would give me a new sense of fulfillment and satisfaction blah blah blah.”
I think it was more along the lines of “HERE WIFE, SOMETHING SHINY WITH LOTS OF BUTTONS TO TAKE YOUR MIND OFF THE FACT THAT I’M ALWAYS GONE.”
Whatever, I have a camera and I love it.
(For all you inquiring minds, it is a Canon 40D. And yes my b0obs are 34D.)
But here’s the thing. My mom is a photographer and my best friend is a photographer. And I don’t mean photographer in the sense of having a really shiny expensive camera with lots of buttons that they take a lot of pictures with. (Like me, HI!) I mean photographer, photographer. Pay lots of money, published in books photographer.
Me? I had a weekend in Chicago with my mom. This is the extent of my photographic training.
So I do not claim to be a photographer. So if you want to roll your eyes at my attempts go ahead. I think I’m finally over what everyone else thinks of me.
I like my camera. I love the click the shutter makes. I love that I have a hobby that doesn’t involve doing dishes.
So without further adieu, some pictures.
Casey vs. The Stairs
I was coming off the Orange line in Downtown Chicago on Friday night headed for my hotel heavy with baggage. I had a large backpack containing my camera, an insanely large duffel bag with enough layers to keep one warm for ten straight hours outside in the middle of March in Chicago and my purse.
This is what I would have looked like had I made it down the stairs upright, I give you this illustration because it’s really hard to draw luggage on stick figures falling down the stairs :
(Oh yeah, I was wearing really kicky boots with tall pointy heels. I believe this to be what led to my downfall, pun intended.)
About halfway down the stairs it happened. How I’m not sure, I’m blaming the boots, but I knew I was going down and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
The first thing that should have gone through my head as I was falling is “GOOD HEAVENS DON’T BREAK A BONE AND KEEP YOUR HEAD FROM SMASHING INTO THAT REALLY HARD CEMENT.”
But instead it was “DON’T YOU DARE LAND ON YOUR CAMERA OR THIS WHOLE WEEKEND WILL BE A BUST, IT WILL BE MUCH CHEAPER TO FIX A BROKEN BONE THAN YOUR CAMERA.”
My first thought as I got up should have been “THANK HEAVENS I AM OKAY!”
But it was actually “WHO SAW ME?”
My response to the nice man who said “YOU CAN’T BE OKAY AFTER A FALL LIKE THAT. Can I call someone for you?” should have been “OW THAT HURT LIKE HELL CAN YOU PLEASE TAKE ME TO MY MOMMY AT THE HYATT?”
But instead it was “Oh, I’m fine, it just ripped my jeans.”
Dumb me and my pride.
So what did the fall really do to me?
I also have several gigantic bruises in places I can’t photograph, either because I can’t reach them or because my underwear covers them.
I still walked around with my mom taking pictures for over 10 hours in the freezing cold the next day.
I wasn’t about to waste the opportunity that was being in Chicago childless with my mom and a brand spanking new camera. Busted up leg or not.
A teaser with a swollen bloody end.
Tiny Gramma and I met in Chicago for the weekend.
These are the stairs I fell down and injured myself quite badly on.
Yep. It’s not a moosh vacation without some form of immortalizing embarrassment.
Stay tuned.
Cheaper than a Tropical Vacation.
Guest post over at Cheaper than Therapy.
Desperate plea for honest greaseballs below.
All I want is a Lube, dude.
Walking into a mechanics shop as a lone woman with a small child could easily be listed in my top five list of “stuff I don’t ever enjoy doing.” I don’t enjoy the feeling of being screwed over. But I do enjoy vindication.
Back home I had a mechanic whom I could trust. I had signed an estimate for $1,200. They had my money. When I came to pick up my car the next day they said “Good news! What we thought was wrong wasn’t wrong so we fixed what was wrong and you only owe $189!” (In Salt Lake City, Plowgian Auto Repair 1357 E. 3300 S. 801-467-2854. Ask for Larry.)
Another time we were driving with the moosh to Kansas City and our air conditioning went out somwhere in Nowhere, Missouri. We stopped at a mechanics where they filled our low freon and plugged up a leak so that we could make it to our destination comfortably and fix the problem when we got back home and had the time for a lengthy repair. They did all of this for free. (Meineke 2315 W. Clay St. St. Charles, Mo 636-940-7294. Ask for Dave.)
Is it so sad that this kind of service is rare these days?
Instead I take my car in for a $17 oil change and end up trying to be tricked into a $350 bogus repair (And I know darn well without a doubt it was bogus.) (Goodyear 1303 S. High School Rd. Indianapolis)
What happened to integrity? Is there any way to find a decent mechanic anymore?
To those of you in Indy, have you found someone good? How about anyone else? Got someone you want everyone to know about? I have no problem making the end all be all list of trustworthy, honest mechanics so that us moms don’t have to feel like enormous targets when we take care of our cars ourselves. Please comment or e-mail me, mooshinindy (at) gmail (dot) com.
Beware you shady mechanics, you never know when the girl you try to screw over has a blog.
making unbreakable - formerly moosh in indy. 