Why kids should always get cookies whenever they ask for them.

So this one time, I lived up on a really high mountain and was packing up to move to the flat wasteland wonderland of the midwest. I was all on my own because my significant other thought taking finals so he could graduate and go to law school was more important. (Overachiever.)

Have you ever tried to pack with an 18 month old around? You know, put stuff in boxes and have it stay there? It’s like trying to lick your own elbow, seems like you could do it but in all reality it’s impossible.

I kept on packing, she screamed, I let her occupy herself with anything that wasn’t combustible or shaped like a knife. She quieted down. She demanded cookies, I denied. She screamed. I ignored. She quieted down. Peace.


followed by


Apparently someone wanted my attention quite quickly at the front door. So I opened it. It was a cop. A very out of breath cop.

“Is anything wrong Miss?” he huffed.

“No?” Thinking that the neighbors had heard the screaming child and banging boxes and called me in.

“Is there a child in the house?”

“Yes.” (Oh crap, he thinks I’m a child abuser, they’re going to take my child. Oh, crap.)

“Is the child okay?”


“Ma’am, we have reason to believe your child called 911.” (Enter the moosh shrieking and laughing like a banshee from around the corner.) “Everything is okay?”

“Well, I wouldn’t give her a cookie, that made her pretty mad.”

(It was at this point that I learned that this cop wasn’t issued a sense of humor.)

“We tried to call the number back and your child answered screaming and then we couldn’t get through, you’re sure everything is okay?”

“Um, yep.” (However, as soon as you walk away from this door someone small is going to be locked in a closet for 16 years.)

(into his walkie talkie) “We have a 23-19 on 2259, the child is fine, that’s a 23-19 on 2259.”

“Sorry officer. Really. Sorry.”

“Have a good day ma’am.” was his reply through gritted teeth.

Good one the moosh, good one. Never saw THAT coming.

Balm, crap, spray, DANGIT, I quit.

Just call me Little Susie CrapMaker, because I have managed to bungle a load of laundry worse than any load of laundry has ever been bungled in the entire history of laundry load bungles.

Ever washed and dried lip balm? DARK beet colored waxy lip balm? All over your favorite pair of shorts and husband’s (very expensive) dress shirts?

So maybe some of you have done this. I see your lip balm and raise you.

Ever try to spray SHOUT! onto your dark waxy stained shorts? Sure you have. So did I. Try being the key word here.

I realized that after I sprayed the living daylights out of my shorts the bottle I held read “Tilex Mold and Mildew Remover with SUPER DUPER IMMEDIATE BLEACH AND BURN ACTION” instead of “SHOUT!”

(Insert a real shout here. Maybe a few swear words.)

Pretty bad right? Oh, it gets worse.

One pair of shorts down, I sprayed the rest of the stained items with SHOUT! for real, for real and let them soak overnight. The next morning I gathered up the clothes Cody had worn to work the day before and threw them in with the cursed load, the cursed load was soaked, it wasn’t possibly contagious right? Right. The clothes washed well, the stains appeared to be a thing of the past. On to the dryer!

Did you know Cody keeps pens in his shirt pocket at work?

Neither did I!

Until I opened the dryer and noticed the pen that was in his pocket had











Spray. Soak. Repeat.

For the third time. On the same load. In less than 24 hours.

Ever notice how bad things come in threes? I have. Three times.

What’s Dewey Decimal for naked?

Our main library is temporarily housed in a scary old government building that gives one the feeling that they are going to have their soul sucked out by Dementors around every corner. Shelves are stacked in every nook, cranny and in every possible old scary room that was accessible. While on a hunt for a “Teach yourself HTML and CSS” bible I found myself in a very dark, very dead end, very quiet part of the library that housed law books.

Snooze fest! Who on EARTH would want to read “Indiana State Court Rulings of 1984?”


The thought then entered my head that this would be an excellent place to do a little public bow chicka bow bow (you know, if you were into that type of thing), and if it were a good place for public nookie it would probably also be a good place to fix my underskirt that was hiking up my crotch because I didn’t fix it properly after using the hobbit sized bathrooms on level one.

So that’s what I did.

I hiked up my skirt and fixed it. Undies exposed. Very unladylike.

It was then that I heard a page turn and a voice clear. Dude on the other side of “Indiana State Court Rulings of 1984” just got the most front row seat possible to my skirt hitching and fixing possible. What a gentleman, he waited UNTIL I WAS DONE, to let me know he was there.

Nothing like flashing young, up and coming attorneys in the library to bring back my carnal need to blog.



I am having so many issues and am losing so much sleep over this whole hot mess that this is no longer an enjoyable hobby but a source of desserts spelled backwards.

(stressed, people, s t r e s s e d.)

I know no web designers, I don’t have the time to teach myself hardly anything (as much as I want to) online tutorials may as well be in Klingon and the tears are starting to flow. This isn’t fun anymore.

Go enjoy other peoples blogs who know what they’re doing, because this one’s going to be on hiatus forĀ  a while.

Klonopin? Anybody? Anybody?



So here’s something we don’t talk about enough as women.

Queefs. Yep. Vuh jay jay toots. You know you know what I’m talking about. (Before you go thinking “there goes that moosh lady sharing TMI again” it was the Canadians that started it. And the Canadians will finish it too, I’m not about to get TOO detailed on the subject because, well, it’s kinda embarrassing and in case you don’t remember I’ve had enough embarrassment for 2007.

There was a comment on this particular post about yoga queefs. These are the queefs I wish to cover momentarily. I have taken up yoga recently and have found that I have an amazing natural ability for contorting and holding myself in fairly unnatural positions. Frog? Cake. Swan? Easy. Full Lotus? First try. Needle? You betcha.
And while the name of the queef all yoga move is plow, the name doesn’t do it justice. I’m sure you’ve all seen it. While lying on your back you throw your hips over your head so your legs are straight and your toes are touching the ground behind you.

Talk about first row seat to your own queefing ability.

If I keep this up I’m going to Dooce myself from the Y.

Pi Kappa Huggies.

I live in a tiny little frat house. The inhabitants generally walk around half clothed, there’s strange snacks left in corners that have become unrecognizeable and instead of beer bottles littering the pool table there’s abandoned sippy cups strewn about as if we had an all night juice kegger. Party, party, party. That’s us.

Which brings me to the panties. The panties hanging from the furniture and sitting in the bottom of cereal bowls. Not mine of course, these are little tiny pairs of panties, most of them sport one of the days of the week and some sort of cartoon character. You see, these itty bitty undergarments are the moosh’s new obsession. She carries them with her everywhere, laying them out in little piles to keep her company while she colors. They in no way have inspired her to quit messing her pants. They have only managed to drive me crazy.

The panties have been taken away for now. Until there is a giant leap forward in the pee in the potty area the panties will stay under drawer arrest.

But really, who am I kidding? Pee rarely ever hits the toilet in a frat house.

Quick quills note to self.

You have a problem. It started when you read the first six Harry Potter books in less than five days. When you start thinking “What would Hermione do?” in everyday situations it’s a sure sign that all this wizarding stuff has gone to your head and not in a good way. Reading the seventh book last night for six hours straight right before bed? What on this green fuzzy earth were you thinking? Serves you right that you dreamed about Harry all night. That scar. Those glasses. That British accent. And then that greaseball Snape kept showing up to ruin it. Jerk.

But you really took it to far when you muttered “Crucio!” under your breath when your husband tried to wake you up, actually thinking it would send him dangling from the ceiling by his ankles.

Too far lady, too far, no more Harry for you.

The difficult knock up.

My lady parts have always been a rebellious sort. From ridiculously long periods, to non existent periods to cervical cancer biopsies at 18 years old to polycystic ovarian syndrome a few years later it’s easy enough to say that mine don’t make the A-list for uterine function. I have never been on birth control for longer than a month at a time because (according to Cody) it makes me bat-crap crazy. From the moment we got married we never really prevented pregnancy, with the whole cervical issue I was told I’d be lucky to get pregnant in the first place let alone make it to term. the moosh didn’t come about easily. the moosh was a result of hormone treatments, biweekly checkups and very scheduled military type lovin’ that went on for months. the moosh was not a happy accident, she was a lot of work and a lot of major disappointments until that fateful day in April 2004 when I started vomiting my esophagus out through my nose.

My lady bits still give me trouble to this day, I had a second degree tear in both directions (meaning up and down, side to side) and the scar tissue still causes me issues that require sweet sweet drugs on a monthly basis. Everything in there has done it’s job, carried my baby, fed my baby, birthed my baby. She is a shining example of the way babies are supposed to come out. But now that she’s getting closer and closer to three my mind wanders back closer and closer to the difficulty I went through to get her here. I’d love to be able to put all my faith in God to have Cody knock me up when we’re good and ready for it. But who’s ever really ready? I haven’t been on any sort of birth control since the moosh was born. Maybe it’s just not our time yet. But maybe it will never be our time again?

I don’t know how to get out into words the conflicting feelings I have about my fertility. All I know is I’m torn. Grateful yet angry. Hopeful yet betrayed.

It’s been in the back of my mind for years, and I obviously still don’t know how or what to feel. But now you know I don’t know.

For now that will have to be enough.