moosh in indy.

My husband feels this story needs to be told.

I don’t feel that it needs to be, given that it is just another everyday occurrence in the life of being me.

I have flown solo with the moosh on at least two dozen separate flights (Dear Airlines, THANKS FOR ALL THE DIRECT FLIGHTS TO INDIANA, REALLY. Suck it, Casey) and during these two dozen flights I’ve learned that as soon as you put people on airplanes 90% of those people will become jackasses if they weren’t one already. Cody has flown with us three times and only once has he flown solo with the moosh.

Oy, if I could only tell you the number of times people were unwilling to move one row back so that I could sit with my kid. When someone rudely refused to trade me seats on a flight last year a dozen spring break frat boys almost jumped the guy and used his head for a pinata. Another time when the moosh and I were booked in different aisles I was left with no choice but to plunk down her bag of toys with her in the seat and walk away. Only then did Mr. Businessman realize I was serious.

So on Tuesday I entered a full plane, well, full except for every middle seat. The flight attendant told me to start asking around to see who wanted to trade. I took one look at those cold eyes staring back at me and made an announcement “You can sit with my four year old, or you can trade me seats.” I wasn’t trying to be rude, I was only trying to be efficient.

Cody on the other hand was mortified that I would YELL! in my SHRILL! MOM! VOICE! at unassuming passengers and he also thinks I’m quite lucky I didn’t get kicked off the plane.

Not a single person volunteered. At least I was able to get out of the way that the entire front half of flight 1815 were oblivious or jerks instead of having to go row to row asking for either mercy or babysitting. 

I’ll have you know I am a very nice person to fly with. My kid has manners and entertains herself. Except for that one time that I shoved an old lady out of the way in Chicago, I would like to think that I have been nothing but nice to anyone lucky enough to be on the same plane as me.

However Cody had me sit two rows away so he didn’t have to be associated with the crazy yelling plane lady.

Whatever, he loves me so much he can barely stand it.

Personally it’s the crazies that make flights fun, if anyone needs to be kicked off it’s the fools who turn into complete horses asses upon entering the jetway.

Anyway, that’s the story. 

The end.

Nothing packs a wallop to a barren, unfruitful uterus like a Hollywood pregnancy. 

I’m not even talking about celebrities, which BTW, Britney? Why do you get two? And Angelina? Don’t even get me started.

I’m talking about movie pregnancies, television pregnancies and yes, even novel pregnancies.

I threw Breaking Dawn against the wall when I found out that little whiny human was knocked up by someone who doesn’t even produce sperm, just VENOM.

I screamed at the TV when Sun ended up LOST and pregnant on a deserted island with no one but her infertile husband Jin around to do the job.

Elizabeth the Golden Age? OF COURSE YOU CAN GET PREGNANT WITH THE QUEEN’S LOVE INTEREST THE FIRST TIME YOU DO THE DEED.

Meh.

There’s already a raging debate going on that romantic movies put too much pressure on everyday husbands who’s wives expect them to come home holding stereos playing Peter Gabriel above their heads every time they screw up. Fashion magazines put too much pressure on young girls to look flawless, tan and thin. Parenting magazines would have you believe that parenting is a beautiful joy spent surrounded by Pottery Barn furnishings and pastel clothing.

Well I’m here to say that movie pregnancies are just as bad.

There’s an ENTIRE MOVIE dedicated to getting pregnant off of a one night stand (and no, it’s not my kid in the movie.)

Yes, I know it can happen. Just like winning the lottery can happen.

But why my cousin can get his girlfriend pregnant, dump the kid on his handicapped parents,forcing them to adopt the baby, AND THEN GET THE SAME GIRLFRIEND pregnant again, even though they’ve had restraining orders on each other, twice, IS BEYOND ME.

I want to hear your favorite unrealistic pregnancy, real or theatrical. Maybe if I surround myself with so much ridiculousness I’ll be able to get pregnant while swimming through an ocean of fairies and twinkling lights while my husband is taking the bar and eating hot dogs half a world away while on my Barry Manilow karaoke world tour.

Hey, it could happen.

One picture everyday for one year. 

I’m not calling it a resolution. Resolutions suck.

I’m calling it a challenge. 

I’m sick and tired of looking at everyone else’s photos and whining, “Why is everyone so much better than I am?”

Shut up, I have insecurities. Lots of them, and photography is one of them.

But I am doing something about it.

One picture everyday for a year. Over there, in my sidebar. And in its own group on flickr.

Be prepared to watch me not fail.