moosh in indy.

Want to see what I can to with a pound of butter and two pounds of sugar?

Sure you do. Linoleum Dynamite has all the answers.

*hint* They’d be perfect to make for Mrs. Fussypants week long SURPRISE virtual shower going on over at Blissfully Domestic. (Though it will really only be a surprise for a few moments today.) Be sure to wish her all sorts of luck on Baby Boy #5 over at her shower page.

Want to see what I can do with my political prowess *snort*?

Sure you do. MOMocrats has a guest post by me, go read it.

It’s almost as good as my cupcakes.

Once upon a time there were a bunch of girls in Chicago who wrote about their lives on the internet.

Two of them went home, got busy and got knocked up. One of them is in the above photo. And it’s not me. Or her.

And then there was this other girl who’s womb decided it had been vacant too long also.

That was approximately 37-40 weeks ago. Wow, time flies when you’re not the one having to worry about morning sickness, an ever expanding belly, back pain and weight gain.

The time has come for Her Bad Baby, Cheesy Chicken Baby and Chicky II to make their entrance into the world. Hopefully with epidurals, full time nannies and very understanding younger siblings. The ladies hosting their virtual baby shower asked the rest of us to hand out our best advice.

Wait, I though we decided advice was a bunch of baloney?

We did?

Okay.

Just making sure.

Closest thing I have to advice for you ladies on numero dos? Well, let’s just say it came from Sex and the City.

“One is an accessory. Two is a lifestyle.”

But don’t trust me. I’m still on number one.

Best wishes to all three of you, and the other eleventybillion pregnant women, new moms and soon to be adoptive moms out there in the world. Stay close because I’ll need some better advice than my own if I ever get to number two. Want to help welcome these babies into the world too? Want the chance to win stuff while you’re at it? Here’s how to do it.

And really the best advice I could give is that if you don’t already read all three of these ladies you need to start. I was blogstalking them waaay before I knew what a feedreader was and at a time when I thought Technorati was a kind of dance. And with the promise of stitches and sore boobs in the very near future they’re going to need all the support they can get. And I’m not talking nursing bras, people.

So maybe you’ve heard of BOSSY.

Maybe you’re aware that she’s on a month long road trip around the country and is relying on the goodness of her fellow bloggers to put her up and make sure she makes it back home in one sane piece.

If you weren’t aware, there is a blogger named BOSSY who is on a month long road trip around the country and is relying on the goodness of her fellow bloggers to put her up and make sure she makes it back home in one sane piece.

The good blogger who will be putting her up tonight in Indianapolis is named Casey. Oh wait. That’s me.

Hi!

So here’s the thing. I’ve been following the road trip and am sorry to report that BOSSY may have a hard time here. Of course she’d never say it on her own blog because she’s a classy broad. But she’ll be spending the night on my couch, my small couch with a substantial bar that is probably about seven inches too short to accommodate her height. If she’s really lucky she’ll get an air mattress that will lose air gradually overnight until she’s smothered in a hammock of plastic, flat on the ground. It’s not going to get any better in the morning. I don’t drink coffee. There’s no coffee joints around my house for many a mile (unless you count the seedy convenience store down the street). And when I say house. I mean apartment, graduate student apartment with exercise equipment hanging from the walls.

About the only thing I have to offer BOSSY is running water and my cooking ability. But even my finest of baked good won’t help the situation as she claims she is so full from Pringles and swallowed air from all the gum she chews to keep her awake on the road that she has no desire for any food what so ever. Strike three.

Technically strike three would land me out of the game. But alas, there is a strike four.

BOSSY can’t drink when she drives, and she has written in length about the late night wine she has enjoyed with friends on her road trip. This is strike four, for there is nary a drop of liquor in my house unless you count the tablespoon left over from the whole pecan pie debacle of 2007.