moosh in indy.

Dear AT&T,

Ha ha, you funny jokers you. I logged onto your att.com site today to tell you that I have no dial tone and that my phone isn’t working. Your first instructions to me were “call our 24/7 customer service line.” Of course in my head I think “CALL! Immediate results!” Then I remember what I would be calling about.

And that I can’t.

I know I could use my cell phone, but peak minutes spent on hold with those automated machine things?

“I’m sorry, but I didn’t understand what you said. Did you say you wanted a sandwich with bologna?”

“No. But if you don’t help me I’ll find some choice places to shove some bologna.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m having trouble understanding you. Did you say you wanted to buy a pony?”

GAH!

I also think it’s very admirable that you gave me step by step instructions on troubleshooting my phone issues. Of course it has to start with “Is your phone plugged into the wall?” because there are those people out there.

I’m even related to a couple of them.

What really got me is that you provided a tutorial for customers to self diagnose their phone line, which included bringing a corded phone and a screwdriver outside their home to the Network Interface Device. I’m flattered that you trust me enough to try and fix my own phone, or that you’re that ecologically (economically?) minded enough to have the customer do his or her own repairs. However I don’t think it’s the smartest thing.

Also, thanks for the warning not to perform the troubleshooting in an electrical storm, again, totally related to the reason you have to give that warning.

However, something went awry. There was a dude all up in my telephone buisiness yesterday morning as the moosh and I were eating cereal. Was he supposed to be there? Did you screw up? Because I know I didn’t ask him to be there. All I know is my phone doesn’t work.

And it should.

Can you hear me now?

xoxo-

Casey

A hairdresser I used to go to claimed that how you hang up your toilet paper is a window into your personality.

I have yet to change a roll of toilet paper without thinking about him and his tp tarot.

So I put it forth to you.

If you are a back roller it means that you are controlling, unwilling to share and reserved.

If you are a front roller it means you are sharing, outgoing and giving.

Now he didn’t talk about this last one, but I feel it deserves to be mentioned.

If you’re tp roll looks like the following, you’re most likely married.

Just sayin’.

So which one are you…is my hairdressers philosophy true? I’m a back roller personally, I only do it so the kid won’t play hampster wheel with the roll.

We took our kid to Disneyworld to hang out with princesses.

(And to spend time with each other and my family and blah blah blah tender moments brought to you by Disney.)

You know that smile your kid gets where they are so happy that even their spleen is smiling? The one that lights up their face but almost never makes it on camera because it’s so rare and fleeting? A smile that you as a parent can look at, knowing your child, and say “Yes. Nothing could make them happier at this very moment.”

the moosh had that smile on her face a majority of our trip. It was magical. She had the undivided attenion of five people who love her most in this world. Plus princesses and white sandy beaches.

THIS is my kid smiling with her spleen.

Barack stopped off in Indianapolis today on his way to visit his sick granny.

I took the moosh, not because I’m in love with Barack Obama along with what seems like the rest of the nation, but to be involved and to be a part of something monumental. A democrat hasn’t won in Indiana in 44 years.

So has everyone decided who they’re voting for? Because I sure haven’t, opinions? I HAZ EM. But this ain’t no political blog.

I’ve mentioned before that my alarm clock wears footie pajamas and requires cereal.

When she was tiny I was awoken with demands of rubber nipples and warm milk.

When she was a little bigger I was awoken with her sumo slamming her feet into her mattress.

A little later I was awoken to sweet baby blabber.

She then learned a few words and I was awoken by “OUT OUT OUT” and other various one word demands.

Then there was the day I woke up to her falling out of her crib. Bad day.

After that day I was awoken to her reading books in her bed (she had no idea that she could open the door and wander free, man, those were the days.)

When she discovered that she could open the door, I turned the lock inside out and was awoken to her banging on the door singing various songs about cereal and being let out of her room.

After she no longer wore diapers I was awoken by the potty dance being performed thisclosetomyface.

Currently I am awoken each day to her door opening, followed by her little shuffle to the bathroom down the hall. I hear her ritualistic morning pee followed by a her little shuffle back to my room. I see her crazy bed head bob all the way around my bed where she then puts one hand on the frame, the other grabs onto my blankets and she yanks herself up with a little grunt. Depending on her mood I am either awakened with a kiss on the cheek or a knee to the crotch. I much prefer the kiss on the cheek.

We snuggle in bed for a bit, she always asks if I had good dreams. She tells me hers, then pretends to be a monster under my covers. I pretend to be scared, then the monster turns into a puppy that pulls the covers off of me. OH HOW I DON’T LIKE COVERS PULLED OFF OF ME. Some days the puppy even licks my face. I’m so not a dog person, pretend or real.

This is our little morning routine. I’ll miss it someday when it’s gone, especially the sound of her little shuffle down the hall and the big smile I get every morning when I first open my eyes and see her surrounded by her halo of insanely frizzy hair.

While it still hurts daily that I don’t/can’t/maybe won’t have another child, I’m thankful that I’m able to be around with the one I do have.

Even though she does pull the covers off of me. Little jerk.

High school was not my thing.

I did well academically, but socially? Let’s just say election Sarah Palin has nothing on high school Casey.

Many people are very happy to escape high school. To move away from the hallowed halls of their alma mater and all the catty rumor spreading garbage that comes along with it.

I know I sure was.

Wait.

HIGH SCHOOL FOLLOWS ME WHEREVER I GO.

Many of you already know that High School Musical was filmed at my high school. It’s one thing to have the name of your high school in a huge multi million dollar movie, it’s a completely different thing to have not only your school’s name and colors, BUT YOUR ACTUAL HIGH SCHOOL in THREE multi million dollar movies.

I saw at least a dozen film clips of Zac Efron dancing where I was called a whore sophomore year by a boy I liked named Chris. On. my. VACATION. Huge twenty foot screens in the middle of the world’s largest Disney store.

Ouch.

There were parents paying close to $60 for the same cheerleading outfit I wore in 1997.

I did get to teach a REAL! EHS cheer to a 9 year old girl standing in line wating to meet Cinderella dressed head to toe in HSM gear. For about three minutes she thought I was the bomb diggity. Then I’m pretty sure she went back to thinking I’m old.

Hi, hello, how are you? No one left me any great news while I was gone, am I to assume this was the most boring week ever for all of you? C’mon, my best friend’s kid was LIFEFLIGHTED, surely something happened to at least one of you? Preferably not involving helicopters and hospitals?

I myself have no idea how to even convey the fantasticness of our week spent in Dinsneyworld.

Perfect is the only word that comes to mind.

Over 2,200 photos taken, whittled down to 576. (I HAZ PROBLUMS!)

The only way I know how to begin is with photos.

Friday: Hotel Bed Jumping

Saturday: Animal Kingdom

Sunday: Typhoon Lagoon (or as the moosh called it “Tyfoo Lagew”)

Monday: Epcot (the moosh called it “Eppercot”) and the Magic Kingdom Halloween Party


Tuesday: Hollywood Studios

Wednesday: Magic Kingdom

Thursday: Animal Kingdom

Friday: Tyfoo Lagew and Disney Quest


Saturday: Magic Kindgom and Eppercot.

Sunday: Home

Phew.

It’s good to be back. xoxo

Originally posted September 27, 2007

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Did your son come home the other night without these on his feet?

Did he tell you how he lost them?

No?

Well, allow me.

Your kid was breaking into our car a couple of nights ago and my husband (we’ll call him Captain Awesome for the time being) drove up as your son was IN. OUR. CAR. (For those of you who are regular readers here this is a different break in than this one. I know, such a classy life I lead.)

Captain Awesome, being the bad ass vigilante that he is, jumped out of his car and chased your little juvenile delinquent son. That’s right, a 28 year old man took down your 15 year old twit. Lucky for your son Captain Awesome busted up his shoulder last week and couldn’t tackle your son properly without risking his arm. And my man needs his arm.

But he did get his shoes.

And I dare bet your son messed his pants.

We haven’t decided what to do with your son’s shoes yet, but we’re not giving them back.

Keep your mitts off our stuff you stupid, stupid people.

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These are getting sold on ebay by the end of the month, any bidders?