renerfing. one ball at a time.

Everyone puts their pants on one leg at a time.
Except for the moosh who positions herself just so, then rocket jumps into her pants and generally lands with her face against some sort of upholstered furniture, giggling.
Pants on one leg at at time, piffle. What a crappy way to relate to someone.

  • Today I cleaned my microwave because it looked as though I had cooked a fairly substantial cat in it.
  • This weekend I cleaned poop smears off of my kid and the toilet seat because she’s four and let’s admit it, sometimes wiping can still be a little tricky even for a grownup.
  • Earlier I somehow got fabric softener on my finger during my last load of laundry just before dinner. I later got Snuggle Ultra Fresh in my mouth when I tried to pick out a piece of especially stubborn chicken.
  • Today my period came out of nowhere (okay so I know where it came from) to surprise me a week early with the fact that I’m still in fact, not pregnant.
  • At dinner I cleaned up spilled milk twice in less than three minutes. One time was out of the moosh’s eye and/or nose.
  • This afternoon I had my hand (covered in a hot pink latex glove) shoved up to my elbow in my (broken) outdoor dryer vent digging out mud, rocks, ant traps and a Nerf Ball, circa 1997. While it was snowing. Hard.
  • I was woken up this morning by a four year old knee to my crotch and a four year old head to my jaw.
  • Tomorrow I need to seriously consider scrubbing the applesauce that spilled in the fridge (honestly, what is it with spilled stuff in the fridge? It’s stickier than snot before you have time to blink.) and defurring the furry corner of the bathroom.
  • I vacuumed dead bugs out of all of my light fixtures today.

and finally

  • I spent half the day as a ladybug (with pink sparkly wings!) who wasn’t allowed to talk and was served “bug goo snot” out of a red toy teacup by two little girls, one dressed as Alice in Wonderland, the other dressed as Supergirl.

I say we no longer relate to each other by how we put our pants on, but by the furriness of our furry corners in the bathroom and the number of Nerf Balls in our dryer vents.

desperately seeking approval.

“What do I have that she would be jealous of?”

As soon as I said the words out loud I realized I had a problem, and it had been stewing for waaay to long to be considered healthy.

She’s beautiful, lives in a beautiful house, has a beautiful family, had a beautiful wedding, went though her pregnancy beautifully, had a beautiful baby, continues to be beautiful, lives in a beautiful part of town and has a beautiful marriage with no studen loans or vile mildew stench coming from under her rented apartment’s kitchen sink.

I should add that I uttered the words out loud while touring another friend’s brand new out of control beautiful home mere blocks away from a brand new temple. (If you’re LDS you’ll know what a big deal this is, if you’re not, it’s probably like being Catholic and living next door to the Vatican. Or if you really like bread it would be like living next to a bakery. Or if you really liked working out it would be like living next door to a gym. You get my point. It’s a big deal.)

Suddenly my smelly little hundred year old apartment back home that always seemed to smell of a sour rag was the bane of my existence. The debt, all the time gone with Cody in school, my inability to get pregnant, my lack of proof that I was, in fact, 26 years old without a hint of grown up hit me like a ton of bricks.

There I was with two friends, the same age as me with so much more, so much better.

I threw myself a pity party bigger than Mardi Gras with free booze.

A few weeks ago I came back to my life in Indiana. Back to that odd smell from under the sink. Nothing had really changed except that I made myself a vow to change myself and that nasty little attitude I had chilling out, maxing, relaxing all cool in a Barca lounger at the back of my mind.

So what if I have a small smelly house? I HAVE A HOUSE.

So what if we’re in massive amounts of student loan debt? NO WHERE TO GO BUT UP!

So what if I never see my husband? I MISS YOU MAKE OUTS ARE AWESOME.

So what if I can’t get pregnant? I GET TO HAVE A LOT (and boy howdy I mean A LOT.) OF PRACTICE IN THE MEAN TIME. (See previous sentence.)

I also found that I was relying too much on the approval of others to be happy with myself. (Shocking, I know.) But highest on that list was Cody. I so desperately wanted him to glorify my awesomeness in everything I did. I expected him to come home with trophies for cleaning the house. I wanted him to swoon over how well I had curled my hair or wobble at the very scent of my good smellingness.

But he never did. (Well, at least not out loud with fanfare and praises like I envisioned in my head.)

Then I realized I’m married to a dude.

Dudes don’t do fanfares of awesome over their ladies. (Well, mine doesn’t.)

So I started producing my own fanfares, sometimes to the tune of “Candyman” in front of a full length mirror before I left the house.

And I felt better.

Today in church we were talking about “trying to keep up” with each other. Like high school. Remember high school? *shiver* I can tell you that if I went back to high school knowing what I know now? I’d do a swell job. I wouldn’t try to fit into someone’s mold, the popular style of jeans or even the popular crowd. I’d be nice to everyone and avoid drama like I now avoid sinus infections.

Yet I let what someone else had get in the way of how I felt about myself and my own self worth.

Hello? Casey? You didn’t learn jack crap from high school.

xoxo-the voice inside your head.

A brilliant friend of mine who was sitting next to me today said that she has spent hours exhausting herself comparing her inside to everyone else’s outside.

Let’s talk about doughnuts.

We’ve all seen the pretty perfect round doughnuts at the grocery store, the ones that seem as though their icing was painted on and every sprinkle’s location artfully mapped out by a seasoned professional.

They taste like crap.

Then there’s my favorite bakery by my house. Most of their baked goods look as though they have been sat on. The store is gray and the workers are salty women who wear too much eye makeup. But as soon as you bite into a fluff filled caramel iced bar? You know you’ve got something good. And you would never trade it for the prettiest doughnut from the fanciest most hyped up celebrity ridden doughnut store in the world.

I realize that my friends I referenced earlier are now thinking I’m saying they taste like crap and their whole lives are a farce. But really? The fact that I adore them both so much it overshadows all the nasty jealous feelings my nasty Barca dwelling attitude is able to fling out.

I am no longer going to let myself compare my tasty cream filled insides to other people’s seemingly flawless yet-taste-like-crap-insides outsides. I hope you’ll do the same. And I really hope we never envy each other, it’s such a waste of time. Let me be happy for you when your awesome parade goes by just as I’d appreciate it if you stood up and gave me a little holler during my 4:42 second awesome dance to Candyman.

As long as the Lord and the lady with the crazy hair staring back at me in the mirror is happy with me?

I’ve got all the approval I need.

Now I just need a doughnut.

preschool politics.

the moosh: Whatcha dooin mom?

me: Watching the inauguration.

the moosh: *crinkly nose “WHAT THE?” face*

me: We just got a new president!

the moosh: WHO!?

me: Him! (pointing at the TV)

the moosh: Bar-rockin Bamma?

me: Yeah! He’s our new president!


Apparently I made too big of a deal out of the election last year. Whoops. Never expected that.

a pregnant phone bill.

I received my medical records in the mail today from my old OB who took care of my broken lady parts, got me pregnant with the moosh (well, Cody took care of the fun part) and brought little miss into this world (so I did most of the work, but he was there to catch, fairly important duty.)
This morning I would have told you I was a fairly low maintainence pregnant person (aside from all the vomit) but looking over my records? I would have put a block on my number if I had been my doctors nurse.
“Patient called…sick.”
“Patient called, still sick.”
“Patient called sick of being sick.”
“Patient called still sick of being sick.”
I didn’t realized they kept track of every phone call I made.
It’s a little embarrassing.
Plus with the way doctors and nurses throw around the words “vaginal” and “discharge” it’s enough to make anyone blush, I’m pretty sure the word “odor” was in there somewhere too.
It’s also humorous to see in my patient chart my weight drop each week as my belly measurement expanded.
There was a lot in there I had forgotten about, pains, bleeding, IV’s, meltdowns, tests, specialist visits…but even after reading it I’m ready to do it again.
Only next time I’ll try to keep the calls to a minimum.
medical records.
Click through on the picture to see a whole bunch of notes on the “SIGNIFICANT FINDINGS.”

Are you there God? It’s me, the moosh.

“Dear Heavenly Father, we are very thankful for this day and that I could play dress up with my friend. Please bless that we could have a baby sister and a crib to put her in. Be sure to give it to my mom when it gets here. Please bless that Santa Claus will be safe and…MOM! HEY! WHY ARE YOU SMILING?”

“Because I love you too much.”

well made offspring.

“Oh, okay…in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.”


Growing up: Lawyers and doctors are rich!

Pre-Law School: (stars in my eyes) In three years my husband is going to be smart and rich!

Second year of law school: Huh, well this has to be worth it eventually right?

Four months away from graduation from Law School: Meh.

I admit to being just as disillusioned about law school and the prospects of my husband being an attorney as some people are about marriage being a romantic fun ride of never ending happiness. (P.S. If you’re new here, I don’t love newlyweds. They induce my gag reflex hardcore.)

Here we are, four months away from graduation and while three years ago I thought I’d be picking between a Cadillac or a Lexus, at this point I’m left deciding between Ramen or Mac & Cheese for dinner.

I don’t regret Cody going to law school. He enjoys it and he’s damn good at it.

We’re still married. We still like each other. We’re actually never around each other enough to get sick of each other.

My illusions about a rich lawyer husband are smashed.

We have so much else to look forward to besides fast cars and diamond shoes. Like massive graduate school debt and a whole lifetime (well, 30 years) to pay it off. See that? How I made that a glass half full thing?

Law school has really helped my cynicism.

So hit me, let’s be optimistic about those pessimistic things in our lives.

Let me give you another example,

Cody’s gone at school all the time, but I never have to share the TV.

Your turn.

The one about the crazy lady (me) yelling on the plane (again.)

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.

Maybe if I sing Manilow classics through my nose it will happen…

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.



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.