Prenatal Vitamins. WHAT THE?

When I get into heaven the person who invented the epidural had better be sitting on a plush golden throne with massagers and personal waiters. I will go up to them kiss their feet, offer them cake and show them my boobs. (Okay so maybe not the boobs.)

However when and if I ever come across the the MAN who came up with prenatal vitamins? I will kick him in the crotch, throw lemon juice in his eyes and run in the opposite direction. Only a man would make a woman swallow something the size of their thumb when pregnant or trying to get pregnant.

“Oh but they’re not the size of your thumb!” you say.

Whatever.
prenatals. cruel joke or not?
THUMB.
Lest you think I have teeny little thumbs lets compare the same pill to a big’ol quarter.
prenatals. cruel joke or not?

Next I had a box of samples that claimed to be small.
prenatals. cruel joke or not?
See that? SMALL FILM COATED PRENATAL VITAMINS.
My thumb says otherwise.
prenatals. cruel joke or not?
The quarter takes the pills claim of being small, gives it the bird and a big B.S. YOU STUPID PILL.
prenatals. cruel joke or not?
As if the horse pills weren’t enough there has been a new development in the prenatal vitamin front since I was pregnant.
Not one horse pill a day but TWO! BONUS!
prenatals. cruel joke or not?
prenatals. cruel joke or not?

Now back in the day I would divide my prenatal into halves, quarters, sixths, hell I’d even stick it on a toothpick and suck on it all day like lollipop. With the introduction of the horse pill’s evil gelatinous brother I’m afraid that prenatals are dead to me.

REALLY! I’m not even pregnant and the thought of swallowing these things makes me ill. 

Dear pharmaceutical companies. If the Flinstones can make a small tasty chewable vitamin when they still drive with their feet why can’t you make a tasty prenatal. SRSLY.

barren uterus, full heart.

Here goes nothing.

Up to this point I have not had anyone get medically involved in my fertility issues outside my yearly spread ’em, scrape ’em, squeeze ’em. I didn’t have insurance nor was I completely sure that eight babies during law school was the best idea (wait, you mean not everyone that goes through fertility treatment gets eight babies? Bummer.)

This past Monday after a Blissful weekend I finally went in to see a doctor. I was in a jovial mood and joked about how I’d make him famous if he could get a litter into my uterus. We joked back and forth about the baby making process and about the appearance of stray body hair (Did I ever mention that I had PCOS? In addition to the occasional RUPTURE of a cyst on my ovary I had dark thick whiskers that grew from every crevice? I didn’t? Wonder why…)

When it came time for the actual exam, results and the real questions his face turned grim. I could tell he didn’t want to have to tell me what he found and what would have to be done about it.

I’m not ready to go into those details yet. With my upcoming travels through February and March it delays  what needs to be done due to timing. And focusing on what I’m going to have to go through will only cause me more heartache.

But let’s just say the answer is not as easy as a prescription for Clomid accompanied by a few months of hot flashes, scheduled sex and hormonal surges of crazy.

I’m going into this hoping to find the humor in it, for some reason I though being able to get pregnant would be natural. Like hunger.

You get hungry, you eat a cheeseburger.

You want to have a baby, you make out.

I’ve had so many sweet people email me thanking me for helping them through their own fertility issues. Some send pictures of their miracle babies, others send me photos of the little kids they were blessed to have through adoption.

I know there’s still some of you out there who can’t get babies where you want or need them to be. I can’t give up and lie to you about how much I’m hurting.

Because I am.

And I cannot be ignorant to all the kindness my readers have shown me. You don’t need to read this stuff, no one makes you. The world won’t stop if you don’t read my blog. But you do. And I’m grateful for that. Grateful that you take the time to send me hugs and kisses and chocolate.

@mooshinindy if it’s hell you have to go through then we will all go with you holding your hand. -@Adrienne

Thank you. All you faceless people and people whom I’ve had the honor of meeting. Thank you for letting me throw my little snit fit pity party.

Business as usual tomorrow? I’ll be discussing prenatal vitamins. If we can put a man on the moon and Apple can make the iPhone, why the hell can’t we make a prenatal vitamin smaller than the state of Rhode Island?

P.S. I’m leaving comments open as long AS NO ONE SAYS “I’M SORRY.”If you can’t think of anything to say besides “I’m sorry” then tell me your favorite kind of sandwich.

P.P.S. Oh, also, if I depressed you enough and you are an emotional eater HAVE I GOT THE GIVEAWAY FOR YOU! Martinis and Chocolate over at my review blog, you’re welcome.

What Michael Phelps, Little Debbie and I have in common.

I have confidence in saying that the party starts when and wherever I show up.
Kicking Guitar Hero Trash and Taking Names.
There are dozens of other photos on dozens of other memory cards out there that can confirm this fact. (If you have photos from closing night karaoke? mooshinindy (ta) gmail (tod) com.)

Little Debbie (which thanks to a weekend in Nashville I can’t say without a Suthun’ drawl) was one of the sponsors of Blissdom and they provided the snackage after  one of the panels. They had two marketing executive men there pimpin’ Little Debbie, they were either in heaven being surrounded by so much estrogen or scared witless. Actually I’m pretty sure they flip flopped between the two extremes. I know I did.

As I headed out of the ballroom I headed straight for the Nutty Bars, picked one up and announced to no one in particular “GOD BLESS THE NUTTY BAR FOR GETTING ME THROUGH MY POT SMOKING YEARS OF HIGH SCHOOL.”

I turned 90 degrees to head down the hall and found myself face to face with Mr. and Mr. Little Debbie.

*ahem*

“Uh, hi. GO NUTTY BARS!” I said. 

And continued on my way.

****************************

I’ll be guest tweeting the living daylights out of twitter tomorrow (@mooshinindy) at the weekly #gno (girls night out) RSVP here!

Last week it was supposed to be about chocolate. I turned it into sex, body frosting and barium poop and I wasn’t even the guest tweeter.

Tomorrow is supposed to be about Photography. Heh. I have a feeling Mom it Forward will be regretting this.

moosh in nashvegas.

“I HAVEN’T HAVE ENOUGH BEERS TO DO THAT!” 

Do what?

Yes. That's me. And yes. I'm on the bar @ Coyote Ugly in Nashville. And yes I'm about to dance.


Dance on the bar at Coyote Ugly?
moosh in karaoke bar

Sing karaoke in front of a bunch of strangers?

STONE COLD SOBER?

You only have one life. I’d hate for you to look back and realize that you missed one of the best nights of your life because you were not drunk enough.

One night left in Nashville, who’s in?

Checking off Several of the Deadly Sins.

So there’s this thing I want to talk about.

But I don’t. Because I like you and I don’t want you to not like me because of the fact that you’re human.

Now if it were ten years ago and I didn’t like you so much (which would have most likely been the case given that I was a mean person) I would have already told you, rubbed it in your face and sealed it with lacquer.

When I was pregnant and barfing up my intestines women would look at me, tsk tsk and let me know HOW GLAD THEY WERE THAT THEY WEREN’T ME.

Thanks.

However, after I had given birth and came back to work with a 28″ waist and size 4 jeans all I heard was “I HATE YOU YOU LUCKY DUCK.”

Really?

Barfing your brains out is now considered lucky? Bring on the lucky toilet seat and I’ll display it proudly on my desk.

I would imagine the lame anxiety I’m feeling is similar to close friends of mine who tell me that they are pregnant. Or millionaires.

Here goes.

In exactly two weeks I will be flown to NYC at the expense of HP because of a review I have been doing on this little lovely. I will be put up in a swanky hotel on Times Square for three nights. I will have the opportunity to attend fashion week and a private party at Vivienne Tam’s boutique.

If I were not myself I’d hate myself too.

We humans, we’re such inherently jealous beings.

I can admit that I have watched other bloggers go on cruises, vacations, getaways, to private parties and receive swag that would blow anyone’s mind. And I fully admit to thinking “WHAT’S SO GREAT ABOUT HER?” or “I GET MORE TRAFFIC THAN HER.” or “I WOULD HAVE BEEN SUCH A BETTER CHOICE FOR THAT.”

Guilty as charged.

Am I ashamed?

Yes.

I was a jerk to think those things. I would have never wanted someone to think those things about me if anything spectacular were to ever happen to me. So I stopped being such a wench and started celebrating with others when they had reason to celebrate.

And then this opportunity came to me. An absolute dream come true. Remember how I feel about NYC?

And wouldn’t you believe it, I went poking around on the internet a couple of nights ago and found more bloggers getting things that I wasn’t. And the jealousy started to sink it’s teeth into my brain again.

I am so far from perfect it’s not even funny.

Blessed? Yes.

Grateful? Not as much as I should be.

Perfect? *insert manical laughter here*

So you’re not perfect either, right? *nervous giggle*

The 36″ denial.

I have this thing where I like to go into the moosh’s room at night and rock her while she’s sleeping. Kind of like that “Love You Forever” book but without all the creep. (Because that book creeped you out too didn’t it? Just a little bit? With the old lady and the grown man?) Anyway.

the moosh has not fallen asleep on me or in my arms in two years. TWO YEARS. The only chance I have to snuzzle that little sleeping ball of curls is when she’s already asleep. Trying to snuzzle an awake four year old will only end with a foot to your crotch and a knee to your neck.

Two nights ago I snuck in to hold my little kid. I picked her up, held her close and took a good long whiff of her lavender scented hair.

She sat up, looked at me, looked at her pillow, looked at me, pushed me away and curled back up on her pillow with her back to me.

DENIED!

And then I cried.

I have no little sleeping bodies left in this house to snuzzle. Sure I have Cody, but between the chest hair tickling my nose and the sounds and/or smells he emits while sleeping? Well…we’ll just leave it at that.

That lady in California had eight babies all at once when she already had six at home under seven.

I’ll tell you what, when I get to heaven I’m going to be sitting God down with a nice frothy mug of Hot Cocoa and I’m not leaving until I figure out his curious sense of irony and humor.

(Dear God, That is not an invitation to get me pregnant with octuplets. One at a time is good for me. Okay? xoxo-Casey)