Now with Seething Jealousy!

I’m not proud to admit that I’m a jealous person.

I’m jealous of just about everyone in my life in one way or another. Even the people I don’t get along with all that much, because they are usually the ones who are pregnant, rich or have the abs of Hilary Swank.

In fact I’m jealous than no one else seems jealous of anyone else.

When I actually have the opportunity to sit down and read through blogs I usually come away feeling all down on myself because so and so can sing, so and so has an amazing house, so and so just got a new car, so and so is pregnant, so and so just met Steve Carell at a party, so and so is an amazing photographer, so and so is an amazing writer, so and so has the fashion sense of Jackie O., so and so lives in New York, so and so is married to a man that leaves her love notes and cleans the house, so and so looks like a million bucks straight out of bed.


Does this happen to anyone else?

I know we all don’t share everything in our little corner of the internet. I don’t because frankly it’s none of your business and also because I’ve found that by only keeping a memory of the good, the memories of the bad are able to fade a lot faster.

I’ve kept a journal since I was 12. Until I ended up in the psych ward three years ago I wrote about everything in it. Good and bad. Which meant when I went back to read over my past the hurt came bubbling to the surface like a noxious gas. While writing at the time was theraputic, it was poisonous to my future self.

I now keep what I call a “bitch journal”. There are no dates, no proper punctuation, no breaks between entries. I keep it tucked away, deep and hidden and pull it out when the therapeutic need to write hits me. I never read what I wrote. I never will. No one ever will. It will be burned when it is full. But it allows me a release that is sweeter than any chemical or edible substance.

But this brings me back to the seething jealously I have for everyone else’s lives. I know you have problems, a whole mess of them that I wouldn’t really want even if it did come with that fabulous thing you wrote about last week. If any of you want to be me when you grow up, just know it comes with a matching set of baggage that you’ll be left to carry around by yourself.

A lot.

Jealousy and my own (very numerous) insecurities are something I really need to get a grip on before the moosh gets any wiser. They are not traits I want to be passing on.

Warmer than a womb.


(Well, you in particular.)

Rachel nominated me in the Blogger’s Choice Awards for…

My site was nominated for Hottest Mommy Blogger!

My site was nominated for Best Blog About Stuff!

My site was nominated for Best Parenting Blog!

Holy crap right?

And people have actually voted for me. (Okay, so I voted for myself, but it’s all in an effort of self love, this Eat, Pray, Love book has made me want to love me more.)

So I know you have to register to vote, but it’s really a painless registration and they don’t send you any garbage. (At least they haven’t sent me any, maybe I was blacklisted as a “self-voter”?)

I would just like to be able to get on the first page, not even first place, just, you know, towards to top. By all the winners.

JustMommies made up a list of the top 100 Mommy Blogs of 2007. Guess who made it to #27 and didn’t even try? I wouldn’t even know about it if it weren’t for the only Daddy Blogger who made it on the top Mommy Blogger list. (To share a list with women like this and this and this and this is an honor.)

Even thought I haven’t showered and the song “Barracuda” is pounding through my head as punishment for not quitting Guitar Hero in a reasonable amount of time last night, I’m happy. And thankful.

Now if you like me go vote for me.


I’ll even make good on a promise to you!

Remember the tongue promise?

That's the hotness.

Who’s the hottest mommy blogger NOW?

Sneaky with sprinkles and a candy coating.

the moosh has learned the fine art of, well, doing what I do so well.

You know, knowing just how and when to ask a question so the answer generally results in a yes? It’s a fine skill I’ve honed in my almost seven years of marriage.

She has learned to ask me questions when I am incapable of hearing well or catching her full drift.

Like when I’m on the phone or in the shower for example. Or maybe blowdrying my hair.

She starts out with a simple enough request that I can understand.

“Mom? Can I wear my Barbie dress?”

I am able to answer yes without much further investigation.

“Mom? Can I wear these?”

Requests like these require me to poke my head out of the curtain, see that she is holding some form of plastic pink dress up shoe, and I answer “Yes, of course you may wear those.”

Next comes a question that is a little harder to understand as it is said outside the open bathroom door but I do know it involves the words “Can I” garble garble “dance” garble garble “Barbie” garble garble “princess”. With my killer maternal skills of deduction I assess that she would like to “Dance like Barbie the Island Princess” Easy enough right?

“Of course you can dance like Barbie the Island Princess!” I reply.

“Mom? Is Barbie friends with the animals?” she asks right outside the shower curtain.

“Yes, she is friends with the animals.”

Then again from outside the bathroom door I hear “princess” garble garble”animal” garble garble “white” garble garble “shelf”.

Again with my intuitive skills I deduce that she wants to “get the princess animals down from the white shelf.”

“Yes, the moosh.” I say, and that ends the conversation, she’s obviously off playing princess with all the magical animals of the forest.


That’s the obvious answer.


There were never any animals on any white shelf.

There were however WHITE ANIMAL crackers that the PRINCESS wanted to eat off the SHELF.

I came downstairs from my shower to Barbie kicked back on the couch picking every single white animal cracker out of the bag.

Ah, a sneaky one I have birthed from my loins.

Sneaky, sneaky.



Oh hi.

I’ve slept for five hours in the last 38.



That’s right, I was the first fool one there. With books, snacks, a pillow, a camp chair a blanket and a my iPod. Boys showed up about 2:30 a.m. with nothing.

Boy were they bored.

I’m pretty sure they were pissed that a girl beat them to the front of the line. And I’m also pretty sure they were jealous of my luxurious spread that I had no intention of sharing.  By six a.m. there were about thirty people in line with only 16 Wiis to go around.


So yes, we have a Wii, Cody is currently ROCKING the Dance Dance Revolution. (I’m shocked and awed.) In an effort never seen before in our marriage we pooled every single cent from our Christmas money to buy one. (Cody just threw off his socks in an all out Wii Dance Dance Revolution SMACK DOWN. It is so on.)

I cook, I clean, I wax, I’m bendy, and I stand in line for hours to get a video game while my husband is at home sleeping snug as a bug in our warm little bed.

That’s me. Best wife ever.

Please be sure to remind my husband how good he has it, I think he forgets all the time sometimes.

Potty, the five letter word of doom and destruction.


I’m not such a huge big fan of being the mom today.

I don’t even want to utter the two words that are befuddling my everyday life and filling it full of needless motherly stress and guilt. Let’s just say in involves redirecting the bodily fluids of someone small into an appropriate vessel of defecation.

Final score for the day:

Appropriate vessel of defecation- 1

Floor – 1


It doesn’t help that I’m going all out balls on this one and quitting the diaper cold turkey. Day and night. What’s a few more loads of laundry? A spare pair of panties in my purse?

As if it weren’t bad enough that the entire internet announced their overall general state of pregnancy, now it seems the entire internet is also announcing the fact that their children just decided one morning to get their bodily fluids in the right place with no problem.

Either you’re all liars or the world is out to get me.

Or both.

Why haven’t I read a single freak out post yet? HUH? WHY?

Why does nobody write about how exasperating it is that the small person needs a STRICT ORDER TO THINGS? A strict order that is ONLY to be performed by said small person?


Fast forward five minutes.




H-E double hockey sticks.

I know this will all be over in the blink of an eye and I’ll look back someday with warm fuzzy memories and laugh at how wound up I was about this whole thing blah blah blah.

But why does nobody else come clean and tell you that the more independent your child gets the more pain in the rear they get? HUH? WHY DOES NOBODY TELL YOU THIS?

Here goes, the more independent your child gets, the more of a pain they are (only for a bit, thank heavens.) You see, they will want to do EVERYTHING by themselves, and you’re going to have to be the one to teach them how to do everything.

Only you’re not going to be allowed to help them.

At least not until they are a weeping ball of frustration lying on the floor.

And you’ll have to be the one to keep your composure and calmly explain why you can’t pull your skirt over your head and show the checker at Costco that you have Belle on your big girl panties. And then you’ll hear,


“Because we don’t show our panties in public.”

“Because they are not for anyone to see but you.”

“Because we keep our panties and our bums to ourselves.”

At this point you grind your jaw to avoid bopping your kid in the head or telling horror stories of kidnapped children.

And then you’ll say this, (which you swore you’d never say)


And then you realize you’re one step closer to becoming your mean grandma that you hated to go visit because you weren’t allowed to touch any of her stuff and the only thing she knew how to make was macaroni and cheese with lots of pepper.

The older the moosh gets the more I realize how lucky I am my mom didn’t leave me at a roadside fruit stand.

And maybe I’m not infertile, maybe my body has truce with my uterus I’m not in on.

“Uterus, you don’t let her get pregnant, then she won’t get even more bat crap crazy with two kids and I’LL LET YOU LIVE TO SEE ANOTHER DAY.”

That’s got to be it.

Merry Christmas, BAD TARGET.

My kid got the coolest Christmas present ever from her grandparents and it’s NO THANKS TO TARGET.

Target, you can kiss my rear. You didn’t have Rose Petal Cottage when I needed it. Kmart did. You didn’t want to honor the rain check you gave me for Rose Petal Cottage. Kmart did. And Target? Your customer service people are royal BUNGHOLES. Kmart had nice people. Nice people without a hint of bunghole.

Target, I no longer love you. We’re through. Over. Done. It’s not easy. But it’s the truth. I only give my business to nice people who honor their rain checks, not bungholes who involve themselves with false advertising.


So without further adieu, the coolest moosh toy EVER.

the moosh padthe moosh welcomes you!Her first apartmentChillin' in her cribThe crib in her crib

Taking after moi

That’s my girl.

Miss Mooshy Crocker.

Dumbo with a sideshow of scandal.

Welcome to my first ever book review.

I personally never read book reviews so this should be, erm, fun.

I finished reading the most recommended book by my darling readers titled Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen.

First of all, I remember clearly stating when I asked for recommendations to keep ’em clean since I am a bit on the prudish side. WHAT WOULD YOU PEOPLE HAVE RECOMMENDED IF I HADN’T SAID THAT?

Sweet tenderloins! There was swearing,liquor, strippers, prostitutes, murder and boobs galore!


However, it was a very good book. And it has a pretty cover. Sure I say I picked it because it was the most recommended, but truth be told when I was facing the fiction section at the bookstore it all boiled down to which one was the prettiest.

Dear Marketers,


Sincerely, Casey

Since the moosh’s favorite movie lately is Dumbo, and Water for Elephants takes place at a circus, the similarities between Disney and Ms. Gruen are plentiful. (Well, after you take out the swearing, strippers, prostitutes, murder and boobs. Surprisingly there’s a bunch of liquor flowing in Dumbo. Pink elephants anyone?) I never knew what a roustabout was until reading the book, I just sang along to the song blissfully naive of roustabouts drunken rich history. And I also get it now why an elephant in a circus is such a big deal. Who knew?

What else goes in a book review? Can I even call this a book review? Well, I can ask that if there are any books on my big list that may be too much for my tender brain to process give me a little warning, you saucy book readers you.

On being self hosted.

It kind of sucks.


And when it does suck it’s up to you to fix it.

It’s AAALLLL on you.

Now if you enjoy this kind of pressure, then self hosted is for you.

I personally don’t dig this kind of pressure so much, but alas, I am probably the foremost authority in blog sadomasochism.

If you only knew how many times I tried to change something simple and ended up turning my blog into an enormous error message at 2 am you’d probably snicker at the poor girl who can barley keep her blog bananas together. Just tonight I tried to post something and got this,

Fatal error: Allowed memory size of 33554432 bytes exhausted

(tried to allocate 79800 bytes) in /home/mooshini/public_html/wp-includes/cache.php

on line 48


Who knows what THAT means? And why they have to use the word “fatal” is beyond me, it’s so doomsday pessimistic.

Thankfully I called some boy (who sounded like a smokin’ hottie) at LiquidWeb who happened to have his wits about him and he fixed my problem.


I dunno.

But he did.

Those LiquidWeb guys probably know me as “that moosh lady who deletes her blog all. the time.

And yet they are nice enough not to treat me like the amateur bozo that I pretty much am.


A lot of you ask me how I went about being self hosted.

I was forced at gunpoint had my hand held by two very lovely ladies at BlogHer last year.

If it weren’t for them, I’d still be a blogspot casualty.

So unless your husband or best friend is a whiz at this kind of stuff and has no problem bailing you out of the pits of despair when you try to mess around with your template and it only results in a deleted blog at 2 am in a crazy batch of insomnia, don’t do it.


Although I must say being self hosted is incredibly spectacular when everything is going swimmingly.

So maybe you should do it.


If you do do it (do be do be doo) use LiquidWeb and use GoDaddy. And use this tutorial here.

And don’t come crying to me when you turn into a big error message.

I told you it kind of sucked, sometimes.