Remember all the jean trauma I went through last night?
Take this lame denim designers.
Regular length my keester. Where’s my shoes? This won’t work.
I have a sewing machine, I can fix this.
Check it. Totally hemmed. All by myself.
My awesomeness is available for hire.
I am normal you jerk. What is your problem? I’ll betcha I can guess, you’re a man designing womens jeans. Right?
Your secret is out now you piggy pig of a man. Don’t like short women do you? Well I’ve got news for you, I am average. All 29 x 29 inches of me. In fact I am so average you should build a shrine to my averageness and worship it regularly.
It really chaps my hide when I have to go out every fall and find even one new pair of jeans. Partly because I’m led around the store by a 28 x 31 blond with perky boobs and mostly because the little perky thing looks at me as though I’m asking for bronzed elephant eyelashes when I ask for short pants. Not all of us can traipse around in stilettos whenever we want to wear jeans. Some of us have two year olds to run after before they throw a Waterford dish like a frisbee. Some of us have to wear practical shoes.
So there, I’m old. And practical. And borderline fuddy duddy. Ha.
What I don’t get is that when looking at the piles and piles of pants that don’t come in my size they do come in sizes like 24 x 33 or 26 x 36. Oh you stupid man, this is what gave you away. Just because you design jeans for Amazon Barbie isn’t going to make her come to life and love the forty eight pairs of pants you made just for her.
I came so close to buying Gloria Vanderbilts with an elastic waistband tonight that you should be responsible for my therapy bills. I’m not kidding, I was this close.
I shouldn’t have to tailor, altar or sacrifice hundreds of dollars to look hot. And my lands I should NOT have to try on more than twenty seven pairs of pants to find some that don’t completely suck.
OH AND ONE MORE THING YOU STUPID JEAN DESIGNER MAN.
Making skinny jeans in my size?
NEVER OKAY.
You may as well make me a chicken suit, at least that would be hysterical on purpose.
Yo my peeps-
Pardon my temporary absence, I’m really busy being awesome.
Kisses, the moosh
Law Review, VP of the BLA, 16 credits and moot court. For anyone who’s dealt with law school you know what this means. For those of you who haven’t, it means I’m a single parent for a few months.
Apparently these aren’t going to be an easy few months.
This is the moosh and her little buddy E-Guido.
This is what happened when I tried to make my bed.
I should have seen it coming, last week when E-Guido was over the moosh told him where the cookies were stored and somehow convinced him that he should climb up and get them for her. He did.
Y’all, she can already convince a young man to destroy his own character so she can get cookies. She doesn’t even have boobs yet. I don’t know what’s worse, that she climbs on the counter to help herself or that she has the ability at two to convince a boy to do it for her.
She’s gotten so used to me taking pictures of her when she’s in trouble that she now makes sure they’re good ones. What a toad. Where is her father?
OH? Yes, Cody is back in school. No, I can’t talk about what is going on because there’s a chance that “they” are googling, and I must keep a lot off the blog over the next few months. But trust me, it’s big. My appearances will be much fewer and much farther between, but trust me, when the spaghetti hits the floor I’ll be around to complain.
I’m not sure what a normal life with a two year old is like, I’ve never lived with one before. But tonight after she peed on my tile floor and mopped with it, I realized that a lot that goes on in these four walls would seem bat-crap crazy to any outside observer. (Especially you, the one who’s never lived with an alarm clock that wears footie pajamas and requires cereal.)
Normal in our house is the moosh smashing various body parts into various hard and sharp objects resulting in what “normal” people call owies. Us? We call them supertoughs. And when a new supertough crops up somewhere on the moosh’s body it leads to her asking grown men at the grocery store if she can see their supertoughs. Awkward you say? Nay, I say normal.
Our resident two year old giggles, a lot. I’m sure most “normal” two year olds do this, but hers is abnormally cuter than yours.
There’s also a lot of bodily flinging across all items resembling furniture at any given point in a day. I’m completely sure this is normal. If it’s not, don’t bother to tell her, she won’t listen, she’s two. Unless you tell her you have cookies, then you’ll have a new best friend who happens to do front flips off La-Z-Boys.
the moosh doesn’t smile, she cheeses it. Cheeses it like Cheez-Whiz in a can. Getting a “normal” smile out of her? Impossible. Again, I’m pretty sure this is normal.
the moosh wholly subscribes to the belief that anything put on your head is funny. Really, really funny. Which is why we normally wear a lot of different things on our heads.
And just when I feel like the moosh is growing up too fast and gaining way too much personality for someone who can’t even tie her own shoes, I notice that she brings a stuffy anywhere she goes. She doesn’t necessarily hold it, she just likes them nearby. You know, just in case.
It’s also normal to do a lot of yoga in our house and it’s very normal for the moosh to kick my trash at particular poses. Like this one.
Showoff.
One year ago yesterday I flew across the country to live in Indiana.
Of my own free will.
I know.
The things we do for love.
I celebrated my one year in the land of corn, race cars and trailer parks by steam cleaning my carpets. Nothing like the hum of a rented rug doctor to make you miss living at home as an irresponsible teenager. HA! Remember when all you had to keep clean was YOUR room? Sure I had a few other chores but the whole house didn’t go to hell in a very dirty handbasket if I didn’t do them, I just got to see the vein on my mom’s head pop out. A lot. (Yeah, sorry about that mom, I was a butthead.) But now? If I don’t do my “chores” (snort) not only does my child eat rotten potato (thinking it’s chocolate) off the floor but in all reality my kid could be taken away from me if I slacked enough on my household duties.
Mom, sorry for not appreciating all those times you pulled out the Bissell and steam cleaned the WHITE CARPET IN OUT KITCHEN. But white carpet? Really? That’s like dressing a toddler in white fluffy lace just for the fun of it. Anyway, thanks for always having food in the house even though I always claimed there was nothing good, thanks for paying the cable bill even though you never got a replacement remote when the other one went missing. Having to walk up to the TV to change the channel? That’s sooo 1986. My point? You were a really good grown up. Even though I said you sucked at it. All the time.
One year in Indiana down, at least two more to go. One year closer to being a real grown up, at least sixty more to go.
I’m grateful, really.
For 22 nights over the last few months I have been holed up, parked in front of my TV watching SYTYCD. (Don’t know what SYTYCD is? We’re done being friends, go read MSN.com, you’re boring.)
Here’s my take on the final four.
Have you seen this boy spin? His solo tonight? 18 pirouettes in a row, 3 backflips and who knows how many other jumpy spinny things. Video of his spinniness here. (Pardon the loin cloth, watch the spins, not the loin cloth. It’s hard, I know,) Do I want him to win? Let’s just say I wouldn’t be sad if he did, boy can twirl.
Sabra, she was in High School Musical (which was filmed at MY HIGH SCHOOL, and that’s a whole other post- TWO DAYS, TWO DAYS!) I’m pretty sure she maybe even went to my high school. Do I want her to win? Again, wouldn’t be sad if she did.
Lacey, ah, Lacey. You saucy little minx. I don’t like you. It’s because I’m jealous of you. There is no other reason not to like you except that I am green with envy over everything about you.
Do I want her to win? Nope. Jealous. Too jealous.
Niel. Niel, you want me to make little boy babies and make them dance and dance and dance and be as cute as you and as dashing and charming and tall and as good as dancer. I heart Niel. I want Niel to win. I’m pretty sure Niel is in my 5 after learning he’s legal and over six feet tall.
And, you know what they say about guys who can dance. EH? EH?
“If you ever want to feel like your family is normal, go to the State Fair.”
-Jeff Foxworthy
the moosh hearts goats.
See anything WRONG with this picture?
WE DID.
And we ate it…
(We don’t suggest it, unless you like carbonated grease burps. mmmmm.)
YOU WONDER WHY INDIANA’S SO OBESE? STOP WONDERING.
(Dedicated to you Redneck Mommy.*wink wink* neigh)
Pigs have half hour orgasms.
HALF HOUR.
30 minutes. 3-0.
And as you can see they have the nads to back up such a feat.
This was by far the most educational fair I have ever been to.
Fried Cheez-Whiz anyone?
