Blog Feed – Page 88 – making unbreakable

Maddie Moo.

The world lost one of the sweetest little kids to ever grace this earth today.

Madeline Alice Spohr, daughter of my beloved Heather passed away today.

Please, donate to the March of Dimes over there –> so one day, every baby will be born healthy.

And so no parent will ever have to go through what Mike and Heather are going through right now.

I have a testimony of eternal families, and that Maddie is pulling on Jesus’ diaper hat at this very moment.

But it’s still. not. fair.

I love you Mike, I love you Heather and I love you Maddie.

Hysterosalpingogram-the patient’s version.

Monday morning I headed into a local hospital to have ink shoved up my fallopian tubes.

If you are to ever have this procedure done your doctor will either call it an HSG test or a “Hystero,” if he’s really into freaking you out he’ll give you the full name, hysterosalpingogram followed with a shallow promise of mild discomfort. When you get home you will Google said HSG test and see that yes, mild discomfort similar to menstrual cramps is to be expected.

If you are like me you will then tweet “Who’s ever had an HSG and are sedatives a good idea?” You will get responses back ranging from “@mooshinindy heavy drinking advised” to “@mooshinindy NEVER AGAIN. GOD BLESS, you’re going to need it.” to “@mooshinindy There’s not enough tranquilizers in the world.”

You will then call your doctor to make sure he’s aware you passed out at your first colposcopy and required Xanax at subsequent inter-vaginal procedures. Your doctor will quickly prescribe you Klonopin, so quickly in fact you begin to panic even more about the upcoming violation of your previously exit only cervix.

When V (violation) day comes you should really take a friend with you. I brought Ami, I trust her more than I trust my DVR. I really suggest you bring a friend whom you also trust more than your DVR. If you’re in the Indianapolis area, I am available, I may even let you borrow Ami.

I changed into a hospital frock, bare from the bellybutton down and hopped up on the hardest most cold, cruel medical x-ray table ever. Sure they put a sheet on it but there’s no denying that the tables they do autopsies on may be more comfortable. A radiologist came in (a middle aged woman thank heavens, I can only imagine the guffawing from Ami had a hot doctor appeared to ink me.) This middle aged woman made me the same “mild discomfort” promises to which I promptly replied “Iz on deh Klonopin, rilly, iz gud…*drool*” Humor can only take me so far when I’m scared.

See all those speculums? Who else knew they came in every size and shape? Who found out they came in every size and shape after every one was shoved in their tender areas in an attempt to get their cervix to “pop out?” Anyone? By the time she popped my cervix out she asked “Uh, does this hurt? Your cervix is really irritated and bleeding.” To which I started to cry, because yes, it really did hurt and WAH, I didn’t want to know that you made me bleed.

Ami gets four gold stars for champion hand holding.

In went the tube, which truthfully looked long enough to come out my nose, or at least tickle my uvula. The former moosh manor was filled with contrast ink and all sorts of pictures were taken of my anemone like uterus.

I had no idea it was that small. Talk about elasticity.
I had no idea it moves around as much as it did.

The idea behind the test is that if your fallopian tubes are open the ink will spray out the top like a shaken bottle of sparkling cider. If one of your tubes is blocked the ink will either bust its way through (which happened on my left side) or it will only pour out the open tube, or back out through your cervix if you’re all kinds of plugged up.

(click on picture to get notes on each frame.)

I am now 100% assured that my tubes are a superhighway of moosh 2.0 egg transport.

I’m not sure what’s next, but I do know my baby making parts are open for business. I also know that the sign of a true friend is one who takes you in to get donuts after a test like this, even though you’re staggering like a drunk, who doesn’t judge when you eat three of the four donuts on the way home, gets you to your couch, covers you with a blanket and leaves you to drool on your pillow in a drug induced haze for the next eight hours.

Long’s Bakery Cinnamon Fry and Carmel Iced Fluff Filled bars. Everyone now with the nom nom.

May everyone have an Ami in their life, and open free flowing tubes. And donuts for later. And Klonopin. And a fluffy pillow and soft blanket. And people to watch your kid (thanks A. and M.!)

buying a house is NOT a fun process.

House flippers must be optimistic, masochistic, jerky people.

Optimistic because frankly after some of the houses I’ve walked into over the last month? You would need a really sunny disposition and glass half full mentality to even envision anything but a pee stained hole in the walls hot mess of a house. Even if I had the guts to flip a house I could never live in it, or comfortably allow someone else to live in it after seeing just what existed there before.

(P.S. In case you don’t follow me on twitter or you’re not my parents or grandparents, Cody and I have been looking for a house in Indy since February with him graduating and having a job and all that stuff, celebrate! whee! squee! And we’re done, house hunting sucks, I’m not even going to call it hunting because no one goes hunting as much as we’ve gone hunting and comes back empty handed.)

(P.P.S. If you do follow me on twitter or you are my parent or grandparent sorry for all of the false hope “WE OFFERED ON A HOUSE!” followed by “Nevermind, some other person bid $2K over us and got our house.” back and forth stuff. Really, sorry.)

Anyway, back to house flippers. I say masochistic because some of these “investment opportunities?”

OH. MY.

There was the one on Orchid Ln. that was charming all except for the fact IT HAD NO CEILING. Then there was Oakdale Dr, lovely in every way except for the foundation buckling and falling out from underneath the house. Then there was Herbert St. where I’m pretty sure an old crazy cat lady died, leaving her cats to eat her face for a month and her death was only discovered because of THE SMELL THAT WAS COMING FROM THE HOUSE.

I could go on for a while, dungeon bedrooms, bathrooms with no sinks, mouse turds in the upstairs closet, showers in kitchens and freezers growing hair. Not to mention the things PEOPLE. DO. TO. THEIR. CARPET. Blech.

I call house flippers jerks because they go in and pretty a place up with new! paint! smell! clean stain free carpet, maybe some poorly laid laminate flooring and a few new ding and dent appliances, jack up the price because it does look deceptively appealing to a weary homebuyer. All in a feeble attempt to distract you from the fact the plumbing exploded, it used to be a meth lab and your new neighbors are regulars on Jerry Springer and/or the county jail scene.

The right house is out there for us somewhere, but I swear, if one more person sneaks a bid past us and gets the house I wanted I’m going to start sneaking dead fish into their curtain rods.

Hooves the vacuum and his imminent retirement party.

Meet Hooves.

Hooves joined our family via gift card about eight years ago. He’s cleaned every room of every apartment Cody and I have lived in since we got married. It’s travelled across the entire country and was even detailed by a circa 1960’s Electrolux and entire box of Swiffer dusting cloths during my pregnant nesting phase of 2004. It has vacuumed up cat hair, birthday confetti, needles from Christmas trees past and the smashed cracker debacle of 2006.

Hooves is tired.

Hooves is getting a little lazy at keeping it all in.

For example, when someone starts Hooves (which let’s face it, you all know it’s me) they must keep one hand pressed firmly on the top of Hooves’ canister lid. Otherwise the canister lid burps open upon starting spewing carpet roadkill all over himself and the floor you had every intention of vacuuming in the first place. The Swiffer cloths don’t even want to help Hooves anymore.

Hooves lights went out years ago, but he still pushed on. Even when the moosh thought it would be amazing to cut the tassels off her bike handlebars into tiny little pieces and throw them like CONFETTI! all over EVERY! surface of the upstairs, Hooves stood strong.

Love ya’ Hooves.

But I can’t ignore that Hooves smells like a burnt mouse every time I turn him on. I also can’t ignore that he’s getting a little sloppy when it comes to cleaning around the edges. And Hooves’ “accessory tube?” Not enough vacuum viagra in the world to get that thing going again.

I have an emotional attachment to someone that sucks, well, technically he sucks at sucking.

I’ve always had wandering eyes when it comes to vacuums. I looove to vacuum. It is a highly revered chore in my house. Nothing like vacuum tracks in the carpet. *ahh* When Dyson came out? I swooned a little. When I used my first Dyson? I swooned a little more. My best friend has a Kirby that is a piece of art that literally sucks. And now Hoover, Hooves decendtant, has reinvented themselves and gone fancy at sucking. (I’m pretty sure Dyson still holds my heart, I think it’s because Mr. Dyson has an accent.)

I’m pining for a new vacuum, especially since a new house (well, new to me) is on the horizon. Upright? Canister? Ball? Bag? Bagless? SO. MANY. CHOICES. Almost too many choices.

But ultimately, who’s the best at sucking? And what would I do with Hooves? Is there a retirement home for sad, tired, little vacuums?

the truthful yet TMI side to PCOS.

TMI is in the title. You’ve been warned.

I have tiny little fluid filled cysts on my ovaries. Well, tiny is all relative. If my ovary was the size of my head? The cyst on my left ovary would be roughly the size of a very large cat sitting on my head. My right ovary on the other hand would contain a litter of the very large cat’s kittens.

Not only are these cysts keeping me from getting pregnant they are basically like bodily weeds mucking up my entire internal business. (See Joaquin Phoenix reference in previous post.) These “cysts” are slowly turning me into a man.

With Cody freaking out about his 30th birthday on Wednesday it doesn’t help that his former petite feminine wife is slowly being turned into a testosterone laced barren swamp creature.

I admit the following because PCOS is common, it’s painful (!!!), and it can be rather embarrassing as you’re about to see. I have the acne of a teenager who smeared an entire large pepperoni pizza all over their face. I have been gaining an average of two pounds a week, mostly to my middle, for the last few months leaving me 17 lbs. overweight despite my best efforts. The hair on my head is falling out. If I don’t have a ponytail combed just right I have obvious bare patches of scalp showing, if I pull my hair back completely my receding hairline is painfully apparent. To counteract the hair falling out of my head I am growing hair in places Cody doesn’t even grow hair. Face, chest, shoulders, stomach, other parts, my tweezers can barely keep up. And finally? The symptom that has me ready to run into head on traffic?

Due to an increase in prolactin because my poor body doesn’t know what the heck is going on, I’m lactating.

Yep.

I was never able to nurse the moosh after she was born, but put some cysts in me and I could begin a career as a whet nurse.

The only other side common side effect to PCOS is depression. Thankfully I’m already medicated for that or that head on into traffic thing would become a serious problem.

I KID!

But only because I’m medicated.

So there you have it, I’m a short balding woman laden with acne sporting a rotund waistline and hairy chin who may squirt if you get too close.

I’ll put the whole wanting a baby thing to the side and replace it with “I just want my body back before some balls drop.”

Too far?

cystacular! now with jazz hands!

When I was but a young child I thought that when a dad’s bellybutton touched the mom’s bellybutton in a “baby hug” a mom got pregnant. The kid was in her stomach and after awhile she pooped it out. I never did understand where food went with all that baby crowding her business. I also never really learned the difference between pregnant and overweight until embarrassing my parents over and in front of a long time (heavy set) friend.

Sorry about that guys, kids, sheesh. Right?

My aunt remembers a dream from when she was little (well before she knew where babies were made and where they came out for reals) that she remembers to this day. She barfed the baby out of her stomach through her mouth (because in her world babies hung out in stomachs too) but it wasn’t “cooked” all the way. So she swallowed the baby and some sort of Polariod photo fluid to “develop” the baby.

the moosh is at a point where she believes that a baby is put in a mom’s tummy when Heavenly Father decides to get His act together and put one in there. Being four she’s big on turns, so when I told her that her friend was going to have another little sister she looked at me and said “God skipped you.”

Kids, sheesh.

Now that I’m a grownup I know where babies are made and I’m even more aware of where they come out and what they do to you while they’re shacking up in your uterus for the majority of a year. I’m also very aware that when there’s a problem with the baby making hardware there’s really only one easy way in.

What I wouldn’t have given for a zippered bellybutton today.

I’m just going to say it.

Vaginal ultrasound.

*shiver*

Now this is also where I date myself in the babymaking process, when the tech pulled out the “wand of wonder” today I said “THAT’S IT? The last time I had this done the thing was the size of a TSA wand in airport security.”

Obviously the girl was young, fresh and new because in her memory of schooling she had never seen one bigger than the one she was holding.

Dear 2003, I demand my dignity back. Those two ultrasounds I endured back then were similar to having a spatula inserted (and not an omlette spatula, a full on pancake spatula) resulting in the tech trying to flip my uterus back to my tailbone in one swift movement.

Today’s ultrasound had soothing music, dimmed lights and I’m pretty sure an aromatherpy something was involved. I had my own little screen to watch the goings on in the KC Baby Ranch. Sadly after two previous ultrasounds I know what wrong looks like.

And my insides are all wrong.

It’s as if the outside of me is an average everyday person with a few zits and chubby knees.

Inside? Joaquin Phoenix circa Late Show 2009.

There is a cyst party going on down south and no babies are invited until they get all of their slobbish fraternal ways off my ovaries.

The good news? I have an explanation on the sudden 15 pound weight gain, zits as far as the eye can see and hairs in places where there should never be hairs on a girl. This also includes hairs with texture that should never never be found on girls.

I thought pregnancy cured PCOS. LIES! ALL LIES!

Then there’s the results of the hundredteen blood tests I had done a few weeks ago.

Joaquin Pheonix.

Srsly.

why finding God is a tricky business.

I do know this person in real life, however all identifying references have been removed. (If you’d like to out yourself man, be my guest but I’m going to respect your privacy as not all the internet is as forgiving as others.) I share this with you because I’ve found that a lot of people put pressure on other people to find God, once they finally do they are told they found the wrong God because it’s not their God. This chat occurred last night after a tweet about my disdain for BYU.

Man:
Man from MyBlog here, are you there?
Casey:
yup
Man:
wanna here my thoughts? are should i leave you be?
Casey:
about me being a bad person? I’m totally interested.
Man:
oh, so you already know? : )that helps
Casey:
are you kidding me?
Man:
well, i am right now
Casey:
a lot gets lost in translation in 140 characters or less.
Man:
but i stopped following you because i think you use cheapness to garner attention
Casey:
that’s your opinion and you’re entitled to it.
Man:
indeed it is
and i read enuf on your blog to wonder why you would call yourself LDS
you might guess i’m totally against LDS…but
Casey:

are you sure you’re reading the right blog?

Man:

if you are gonna say that’s what you believe it ought to show. yeah, the one i read had to do with gays
Casey:
I love all people.
Man:
it was a while back, i even made a comment. i love all people too
Casey:
the prop 8 post?
Man:
probably but wait…you use sex a lot in your posts to excite
Casey:
I really don’t…
Man:
that’s not an approved Biblical concept there
Casey:
I’m not even sure I’ve used the word sex in any post of mine.
Man:
you probably haven’t, but c’mon
Casey:
It is and approved biblical concept that I make out with my husband.
Did your wife ever experience infertility?
Or anyone close to you?
Man:
i even remember when we met at [that thing we met at], and i saw you twittering in the big room…
hang on – short phone call, almost done if you’re still there
Casey:
I’m sorry that you think I’m cheap. Or that I gave you the wrong impression, but who I am online is who I am in real life. Whether you like it or not, nobody’s opinion of me will ever change who I am unless it’s my opinion or God’s.
I’m not sure what you’re trying to accomplish.
No one forces you to read my blog or my tweets.

Man:

it would be a lot easier to have a conversation about this, but i don’t think that’s what you’d wanna do. mostly i’d just like to encourage you to take a serious look at God’s word and compare that to how you think…
i’m not here to bash you, but you words are not in line with Biblical teaching…
you can get mad at me if you want
but you need to hear that
Casey:
I’m not mad, I just don’t argue about God, what works for me doesn’t work for you and vice versa and that’s fine.
Man:
for YOUR good, not mine
Casey:
And that’s fine.
Man:
not really fine, either one, or both of us is wrong
Casey:
What does it matter if we are both happy with our lives?
Man:
cuz happy don’t get you to Heaven, you might be happy and go to heaven…but i sure wouldn’t trade happy here for Hell
and before you get mad, i’m not saying you are going to hell…i don’t have any way to know
Casey:
I’m not going to hell, neither are you…
Man:
ok, but why do you think you are not? do you wanna try a short skype call?
Casey:
I don’t understand why it’s so important to you?
If you don’t like the LDS religion wouldn’t you rather me be out there perpetuating your negative image of my chosen faith?
Man:
do you remember that i run the pro-life music fest?
Casey:
I do remember that, a worthy cause.
Man:
no, i want you to go to Heaven
Casey:
I am going to heaven.
Man:
LDS won’t get you there
Casey:
It will get me there, and my family will be there too.
Man:
well, then it seems to me that you don’t believe the Bible and you are more than free to not believe, it just comes with consequences
Casey:
I do believe…is this based soley on the prop 8 post?
Man:
no, not at all
Casey:
I mean the last post I did was about my difficulties in trying to have a baby, the one before that was about feeding hungry children. I had one about how much I love my husband and my child.
Man:
so, good cancels bad? no sin if you do enuf good?
Casey:
I just don’t get what I write about that is so offensive to you?
Man:
that’s noy Biblical
Casey:
I don’t get where my glaring sins come through on my blog, yes I have them, but who are you to judge? I leave the Judging up to Jesus. As it should be. Why are you so worried about my salvation anyway? I’ve got it figured out for me.
Man:
as do i, but the Bible clearly teaches that we should confront those who say they believe but aren’t walking as they should
Casey:
I love my life.
Man:
that’s not judging
Casey:
Ah ha…well. my blog is 1/16th of my actual ife.
Man:
God is the only one who can judge, i have no power
Casey:
if you only see 1/16th of my actual life (if even that) I’m pretty sure I’m good.
Man:
no one is good, certainly not me
Casey:
me nither, but I do my best from sun up to sundown.
Man:
that’s the problem, we are all headed to Hell, unless…
Casey:
I slip sometimes.
Man:
unless we find the way that leads to Heaven
Casey:
That’s the difference, we are not all headed to hell.
Man:
and that’s only thru Christ
Casey:
we are headed to different degrees of heaven. I can send you some missionaries to explain it to you…
Man:
we are all born headed for Hell, you don’t agree?
Casey:
nope. where’s the hope in that?
Man:
you don’t seem to know much about the Bible the hope is only in Christ
Casey:
you don’t seem to know much about my faith.
Man:
that’s the point!
Casey:
so why not let me worship as I please?
Man:
you can, i care enuf to converse tho, if you want me to leave, i will
Casey:
I’m not changing my faith on the opinion of anyone.
Man:
didn’t expect you would…but i did hope to challenge your thoughts and to do so in love
Casey:
what religion do you consider yourself?
Man:
Christian
Casey:
what denomination?
Man:
not a denomination
Casey:
OH. well
Man:
there aren’t any in the Bible it’s all about Christ
Casey:
the name of my church is the church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.
He’s in the name, yo.
Man:
denominations are like clubs to people these days
Casey:
well, I like my “club”
Man:
yeah, i know, i was one when i was akid
Casey:
LDS? or in a club
Man:
but Christ is not at the center of LDS
Casey:
he totally is.
Man:
and that’s easy to research
Casey:
if you only look for what you want to look for.
Man:
not the Christ of the Bible…they’ve made a different one – similar but different
Casey:
my husband keeps telling me this is never going to end.
Man:
probably right
Casey:
You are a child of God, I am a child of God, Jesus loves you, Jesus loves me, please respect me because I respect you.
Man:
well, that certainly takes the “i’m a sinner and need salvation” part out of it all
Casey:
That’s not what I said…
Man:
that’s usually what people wanna leave out and that’s the pivot point
Casey
Man, goodnight.
Man:
well, i haven’t been mean or nasty
Casey:
I haven’t said you have been.

Man:
so i hope that speaks to you
Casey:
I hope I haven’t been either.
Man:
and, i did just what you said, i stopped following you
Casey:
I appreciate your concern in sharing your opinion.
Man:
that’s what started this
Casey:
People unfollow me everyday.
Man:
but i do wish you would want to talk about all this
Casey
People send me nasty letters when they find out my choice of religion.
Man:
that’s not why i left
Casey:
They like me up until they find out why I’m “one of them” I like being “one of them”
Man:
it’s because you use the weakness of human nature to puff you up and that’s cheap
Casey:
the weakness of human nature?
Man:

just as i said, our sinful nature
Casey:
that BYU stinks?
Man:
your posts appeal to our sinful nature a lot, that’s my point
Casey:
There’s a lot of other bloggers who need a lot more help than me.
Wha?
Man:
why would someone wanting to please God do that? yes there are, but i only know you
Casey:
allow me to introduce you to a few…
Man:
you do remember me from [that place we met], right?
Casey:
I do remember you
Man:
you sat at my table in the big room
Casey:
yes. and we sat along the wall and talked about your concerts
Man:
and then at the meeting in the evening, yeah, so, i met you, maybe for a reason
Casey:
or maybe I met you for a reason.
Man:
maybe
Casey:
I want to spend friday evening with my husband, Man.
Man:
but i can tell you that i have experienced Christ in a way that gives me the strength to say you can put a bullet in my head, I will never deny Him
Casey:
Same here, goodnight Man.
Man:
i honestly doubt it…. have agreat eve

Now, I may not spend every waking moment and every word bringing people and glory to God in obvious ways, but I’m pretty confident in saying I’ve never scared anyone away from Him.

I’m leaving comments open as long as everyone can play nice. No name calling. If you must name call tell me what color your bedsheets are instead.

Hi, I’m a professional not pregnant person. Nice to meet you.

I shudder every time I go out in public and someone inevitably asks “So, what do you dooooo?”

A year ago I could leave the answer at “stay at home mom” but with the recent influx of opportunities as a result of this here blog I can’t really leave it at just mom anymore. This blogging thing can take a lot of (gratifying) work.

If nosy people could just let “I write.” be an answer my life would be a lot easier, but no. The nosy people need to know “Sooooo, what do you write about?” I guess that’s what makes them nosy as opposed to minding their own businessy.

My new doctor in charge of all things ladybits asked me the “So what do you do?” question at our first meeting, since I couldn’t redirect the question back to him since it was pretty obvious what he did and what he was about to do there was an awkward pause.

“Uh, I write about my life on the internet, given your striking resemblance to a soap opera doctor you may just make it into a post next week.”

And here he is. Just as I promised.

I’m going to need a nickname for this new doctor, because he’s going to be around a lot. Over $1,000 alone in blood tests and we haven’t even gotten to the dirty work. That comes next week. WHEE.

Oh hai, have I ever mentioned infertility is really long, exhausting, expensive, boring, and regularly anti climactic?

Taking suggestions for Dr. Soap Opera’s new nickname, he really is quite handsome, in an “I look at cervixes all day” kind of way. NO I’M SORRYS, this too shall pass in it’s own time, if I’ve learned anything it’s that. I’ve also learned how much I really like someone when I find out they’re pregnant (HI ANNA AND ERIKA! LOVE YOU AMBER!)

If you feel an incontrollable need to say “I’m sorry” tell me your favorite kind of cake instead. Mine’s chocolate, or any one from Costco. Costco cake, mmm.

Doctor Costco Cake has a nice ring…

you may win a pretty mouse for filling a truck.

As part of the Vivienne Tam campaign I was given three Vivienne Tam mice (mouses?) to do with what I please.

These babies are hard to come by.

I’m giving you the chance to win one (I have three.)

Seriously, did I mention how hard these are to come by? Or how pretty they are? You could have a mouse that matches the prettiest dress I own. (So not fantastic incentive but it’s all I have.)

Want to win one and provide 35 pounds of food to a hungry child with one click?

Go to the Pledge to End Hunger and make a simple pledge that will help fill two trucks with hundreds of thousands of meals for hungry children in America.

Come back here and leave me a comment with a valid email address letting me know you pledged (please be honest) and you’ll be entered to win one of three Vivienne Tam mice (Works with any computer yo! Even a Mac!)

I’ll draw three winners at random as soon as those trucks are filled (3,000 pledges, we’re already more than halfway there.)

consigning a tiny decade.

I successfully ridded tiny gramma of a decade better left forgotten last night night.

We spent most of the weekend combing through consignment stores, we LOVE consignment stores. The two of us together are unstoppable.

The quest to introduce more color into my moms very drab monotone wardrobe was successful. However, upon inspecting her closet I found a lot of clothing still lurking from my days in elementary. Or even worse, things I HAD WORN in elementary that she held onto and wore in all seriousness. I grabbed a cropped hawaiian print shirt off a hanger and cried out “WHY MOM WHY?” and then threw it to the floor.

She didn’t argue.

I combed my way through thirty years of clothing throwing out anything with a waist longer than the moosh, denim that wasn’t jeans or things I distinctly remembered from kindergarten.Over the years she has become much more hip and the fact that she doesn’t even really look like my mom or even resemble a grandma is even more reason to dispose of evidence she was around in the ’80s.

Tiny gramma didn’t put up much of a fight. She knew she was guilty of hanging on to a few things for far too long. However we did agree that some pieces were to be kept for posterity, such as a purple stretchy pantsuit with stirrups and black polka dots.

(Geesh, do you remember stirrups? Oy.)

There were a few things she tried to save with defenses of “It’s comfortable.” or “It fits me well.”

“A mumu is comfortable and fits you well, doesn’t mean you wear it.”

In the end I cleared out about 40 things, she did try to sneak a circa 1991 skirt back in while my back was turned. She failed to realize that I am a mother now too and have my own set of eyes in the back of my head.

She discussed consigning some of the castoffs, the big snafu in that is that tiny gramma can (and still does) shop in the children’s sections of a lot of stores. Sure her clothes are in great condition, but when your waist is the size of my thigh it’s going to be a little tricky to find a buyer.

So let’s all congratulate tiny gramma, not only for her passion of shopping second hand, but for her willingness to let her daughter ravage her closet and remove all evidence of the ’80s and early ’90s.