and now a message from my right butt cheek.

Hi there. This is Casey’s right buttock.
one of these is not like the other

How are you? Me? I’m feeling a little cheeky.

It’s not everyday that I get to be the most expensive body part. I mean, under most circumstances I have to share equal glory with lefty over there. BUT NOT TODAY.

I’m going to be telling you about the money shot I got today because frankly Casey is so darn grumpy it’s actually comical and not entirely safe for her to be set loose on unassuming people at this moment in time. (Her words, not mine.)

Want to know why she’s grumpy?

this is what we call NO BUENO in the house of moosh.

Yeah. When you can actually SEE the angle of the sharpest part of the needle? Yeah.

It was really big with really thick goopy crap inside so it took awhile to unload all the goods. It has actually left the rest of Casey’s body a pretty weird kind of sore and in a general state of ticked offedness but to make matters worse bellybutton had to get in on the “annoy the everloving crap out of Casey” act too and GET INFECTED.

Drama button.

Yeah, so when bellybutton was sodomized last month they stitched her shut a layer down and glued the top layer shut.

Well the stitches aren’t dissolving but instead trying to work their way out of the incision.

Really it’s just a party in Casey’s general abdominal area which Casey never really asked for or expected.

At the doctors office Casey told the nurse she needed to get a shot of the money shot. The nurse being a sweet lady was trying really hard to keep her from seeing JUST HOW LARGE the needle was that was about to be used.

“Uh, are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure, it really is for the greater good. Besides, it’s not very often I get to have something worth more than my car shoved into my butt. I’d like to document that.”

Needless to say after Casey saw the needle she was lucky to even remain upright, let alone remember how to operate a camera.

Thankfully the literature that accompanies a Lupron Depot shot is so completely ridiculous that Casey was able to channel her anger to this image instead of all the searing pain going on in our respective pants.

people who write/design pharmaceutical literature make me want to kick puppies.
congrats i'm in medical menopause? hmm...
is the smiling woman with roots necessary?




Dear Maker of Lupron Depot,

Save the money on the cute picture with the model I want to punch, fancy package inserts and instead enclose a $5 gift card to Baskin Robbins.

Thank you,

Platinum Cheeked Casey

(It’s time to use your imagination again! I had a photo of me similar to the one on the Lupron Depot package with me uh, doing something unsavory with my middle finger. I felt bad about it so I didn’t post it. BUT IT WOULD HAVE BEEN FUNNY! Alas those darn morals won out yet again.)

some fire, way more fizzle.

I don’t have the energy level it requires to maintain a complaint.

I get very complacent very quickly and so when I burst into passionate annoyance or over the top dissatisfaction I rarely have the gusto to follow it up. Then I just feel like a jerk.

Getting angry about stuff takes too much energy.

Besides I usually cry about it so much in the first place (or last place or middle depending on the situation) I’m pooped before I even have a follow up argument. And then I get into that whole hurting people unintentionally with my ardent outrage.

Sorry about that.

A majority of you know I don’t like swears and that I avoid the use of them at all costs. Those of you even closer to me know that when I do swear it’s because I. MEAN. BUSINESS. Cody knows darn well that if that one word comes from my mouth in conversation it’s time to drop whatever he’s doing and save whatever or whoever is in my warpath. (Most recently it was our banker. *ahem*)

I do not abuse this power.

If you have ever or do ever hear me swear? You’d better believe it’s because something inside my mild mannered spirit has snapped.

I got into a rage tonight on twitter about the fact that after all of this health insurance LET ME HAVE MY BODY BACK  so that maybe JUST MAYBE one day I can get pregnant again I find out that we are most likely not going to be able to afford maternity coverage for a few years.

*insert swear word that references the poop of a very large horned mammal here*

See. And now I feel bad.

The good news is that my husband is a lawyer (at least he had better be as of October 2, 2009 at 8:31 a.m. EST.)


The bad news is that he’s also a lawyer.

I won’t get into it. I don’t have the energy for it.

We are just at the lowest of low points as far as this whole stupid transition into adulthood will get for us (hopefully.)

I get scrappy at low points. Or when I’m pissed off, backed into a corner or worse yet emotionally drained. Cody would have you believe I get scrappy on days that end in y and during times that end with o’clock.

We have made it through the last three years together. However ironic that it is that a great majority of the last three years was spent alone and away from each other.

No more studying until 2am.

No more finals.

No more tests.

No more school.

No more bar.

I finally have him back.

And really honestly and truly that’s *** good enough for me.

(***CRAP I SO BADLY WANTED TO PUT THAT WORD UP THERE. You know, so you’d all know how serious I am. BUT I JUST CAN’T DO IT. So put it in there with your mind will you? Okay. Good. Thanks.)

getting pregnant may not be an American right, but feeling better is.

Sit right down folks because I’m about to get all TMI on you (seriously, again.)

I have found that going through this kerfuffle to make moosh 2.0 has been a blessing in disguise.

I was so focused on getting that baby in me and getting it out of me that I failed to realize just how messed up my body had become. I ignored screaming signs and symptoms that something really was wrong, infertility was just a side effect and the only thing that opened my eyes to just how out of control my insides were.

When I was pregnant in the beginning, barfing over a dozen times a day, I figured “this is morning sickness, this is what so many people talk about, why there is an entire stereotype around it.”

Barfing 12 times a day is NOT normal. But I didn’t want to look like a complainer for mentioning it to anyone else.

For the last 12 years (gah, 12 years) I figured it was perfectly normal to double over in cramps each month, take vicodin for them and miss days of work due to crippling pain associated with my period. All those Midol commercials must have been talking about what I was going through, I was just a wimp and needed prescription drugs and a day off to make it through.


I spent all of BlogHer on my period. (TMI ALERT TMI ALERT) It wasn’t just a pretend period either. It was a burn through super tampons and overnight pad in less that four hours period.

I didn’t feel a thing.

Not a cramp.

Not a twinge.

Not an ache.

You have no idea how pissed I am that I spent one week every month for pretty much the last decade in pain, no one ever even suggested endometriosis as a possibility. I’m pissed that I never spoke up for myself and said “YOU KNOW WHAT DOCTOR? MY PERIOD HURTS REALLY BAD AND I’M SICK OF IT. SOMETHING IS WRONG, I KNOW IT.”

I’m not going bald anymore, I sleep better, my emotions are in check, I’ve lost 9 pounds, I don’t retain water like I used to, I don’t get headaches like I used to, I don’t have constant dull stabbing pains in my abdomen, my depression is better, MY SKIN IS BETTER and SWEET NAKED ANGEL BABIES IN HEAVEN I DON’T HAVE MENSTRUAL CRAMPS ANYMORE.

Now I’m not saying that if you have the above symptoms you too can be magically healed by bellybutton sodomy. But I can say that if you chronically don’t feel good? TALK UNTIL SOMEONE LISTENS.

Being on the panel with other bloggers who write about their diseases opened my eyes, even patients who KNOW something is wrong, who KNOW what is right and best for them can back down when someone in a white coat acts as if they know our bodies better than we do.

I’m ashamed that I’m the one that said “If someone says they’re not doing well, listen.” and yet I let doctors tell me what was best for me for years, when it was me that had to live in my wonky body.

Being healthy and having control of my body for the first time in years feels spectacular.


Suddenly I’m not so worried about getting a baby in there, I want to see what this body can do when it’s not overproducing this, underproducing that and going bat crap crazy over there.

I angered some people when I mentioned that the follow up shots to my surgery were not being covered by my insurance. (Which they are now FTW!) While I can see how some people don’t feel infertility a valid medical concern worthy of coverage by a health plan, I hope they can understand that while my journey began to get pregnant, it has since turned into a journey to reclaim my body. To have it back in working order. Had I never gone it with the intention of getting pregnant I would have never come to where I am at today. And today? I feel good.

If $6K worth of shots will keep me in working order and preserve the benefits of a $17K surgery, why not cover them? Why run the risk of my symptoms returning resulting in more costly doctor visits and perhaps another costly surgery?

When I was pregnant my insurance refused to cover more than 21 anti emetic (anti barf my brains out) pills in a 30 day period. But they would cover my weekly trips to the ER to get IV fluids and a shot of the same anti emetic drug at five times the cost of giving me enough pills in the first place.

So many plans refuse to cover dental care. Having a $100 cleaning every six months is way cheaper than going without for five years and ending up with a $4K dental bill.

I am a firm believer that taking care of yourself is your biggest responsibility when it comes to your health. But there are times when diet, 64 ounces of water, exercise and getting enough rest aren’t enough.

This is where our healthcare system is failing so many of us.

I just want to be able to go to the doctor when chicken soup and orange juice fails me.

Not have to wait until I’m so sick that I require a hospital stay and perhaps even surgery to get better.

Is that too much to ask?

I will not be bought, only borrowed, occasionally.

My big ads are gone.

After staring at my site tonight  and being disappointed with the Internet in general I realized that I don’t even like Ragu, I like to take pictures.

Besides, I buy Prego (when I don’t make my own from scratch with organic homegrown tomatoes and herbs of course.) When I drink bubbles I choose Coke, not Pepsi.

I took swag this weekend that was offered to me. I didn’t fight anyone for any of it. Maybe no one else really realizes this but I won’t have to buy laundry detergent, soap, sponges, vibrators, pens, notepads, lotion, jump drives or shoes for a really long time.

My budget likes swag.

I am not friends with people based on what they can do for me or what they have to offer me.  After meeting George from Crocs and Rick from Tiny Prints, I’d much rather accost George and make inappropriate Jibbitz jokes rather than hang around him in hopes I’ll score a free pair of ugly rubber shoes. And believe me, as much as I love Tiny Prints (which I do and I can say that now because I’m not under contract to ANYONE but myself.) I’d much quicker take Rick down to steal his camera equipment than try and market myself to him in hopes of scoring some free Christmas cards.

(photo by Jeremiah Njoroge)

I did ask Jeremiah for an Eye-Fi card. Frankly because it’s something relevant to me (thanks J.) It’s something I will use and will talk about, but something like a Nikon camera or Nikon sponsored party? I shoot Canon. Not Nikon. Why would I have any interest in anything Nikon related?

(photo by Rick Bucich)

This was my third BlogHer conference. I would give up all the laundry detergent, all the shoes, all the trips, all the everything if the FTC told me to so I could keep my friends. Both near and far. All of you. So that I could keep this space where I can write and have people read and have people touched by what I write. (cheeeeeesy.)

There will never be any swag equivalent to someone coming up to me in tears telling me that what I wrote got them through ugly, lifted them when they were down, made them laugh or helped them learn. Money can’t buy stuff like that.

I will continue to go to conferences. I will continue to take and do stuff that is relevant to me because frankly it’s just dumb not to.

I’m not that proud of a person. Nor am I made of free-laundry-detergent-Wienermobile-riding resistant steel.

Now if you’ll excuse me I have an ad free corner to shiver in.

For the next two days my husband will be taking the bar.

The 16 hour test that will decide our entire future.

Too bad Xanax wasn’t handing out samples at the Sheraton.

Thankfully the Canadians brought chocolate.

(photo by Ali Martell, shocked background reaction by Avitable)


Chevy is a sponsor of this thing in Chicago.

They had a silver Camaro sitting on the expo floor.

I asked if I could sit in it.

Not only did they say yes, they said there was one outside THAT I COULD DRIVE.

The Dude Magnet.

And it was yellow.

So I did.

(turn up the sound to hear the car, squeals of ecstasy optional.)

In the time it took you to watch that Cody simultaneously seethed with jealousy, beamed with pride, rolled his eyes and cringed with fear.

(Oh, and in other news I won stuff, basically got President Obama’s phone number, cried, may have single handedly solved America’s sucky healthcare system with Loralee, cried some more, danced, won some more stuff, had a vibrator thrown at me by a table full of bawling women, spoke on the most amazing panel to ever be at BlogHer that thing in Chicago ever which resulted in some more crying. = GOOD DAY.)


Twitter. A place of unending entertainment.

Mother of a four year old. Another place of unending entertainment. (And stickers on your face to negate your existence.)

The other night I sent out this tweet.


Within a few minutes I had a few responses.


and then came the request for a picture.

can't narrow this down to one caption.

take a minute. soak it up. take it in.

It surely wasn’t what I was expecting when I opened the fridge to get a frosty glass of water.

After I posted the picture the tweets kept coming.


I then remembered why I had a Barbie in my fridge. She is a water Barbie. Her swimsuit changes color in the bathtub. To change her back she has to get cold. the moosh was miffed that she wasn’t changing back to purple quickly enough after her bath so I merely suggested (jokingly) that she could put her in the fridge.

I forgot that the moosh doesn’t joke.

Girl is all business.

By morning Barbie’s hair was frozen.

can't narrow this down to one caption.


Have any cold Barbie jokes you’d like to tell?

Now’s your chance.

(And yes, she’s underneath a Bob the Builder sippy cup. Wendy would be pissed.)

a chance to see my uterus and eating habits.

So. Lupron. Heard of it?

If not, allow me to school you.

Lupron is a shot that sends its victim patient into medical menopause.

Nothing like medical menopause at 27 years old.

I was becoming okay with the idea of a big shot to send me into crazy until I found out how much it was.

If a pharmacists gives you a serious look and says, “We don’t carry that in the pharmacy because it’s just too expensive.” what number pops into your head? $500 popped into mine.

I went home to research this overly expensive shot that would assure me weeks of hot flashes in the middle of an Indiana summer.

What I found was this.

Lupron Shots

That’s per shot people. PER SHOT. And I need three.

Apparently there is an entire “LUPRON DEPARTMENT” where they take care of insurance billing and what not.

I’ll bet there’s not many of you who have ever had a medication that had an entire department dedicated to it.

After finding out about LupronLand and realizing that a TWO THOUSAND DOLLAR SHOT was not going to make me rich, skinny or beautiful I did what any emotional eater would do.

I got creative.

the ultimate sandwich for emotional eaters.

That right there is a grilled peanut butter, chocolate and marshmallow sandwich. And it was my lunch.

Before visiting LupronLand I have one minor thing to get out of the way. I’ll will be referring to it as “that thing in Chicago” so as not to bother those who are unable to make it to “that thing in Chicago.”

I'll have the cleanest uterus at BlogHer '09

As of this moment Canada will not let Mr. Lady leave (for those of you who don’t know, I am considered Mr. Lady Light. All the awesome without the swears, body piercings or liquor consumption) And if Canada continues to hold Mr. Lady hostage I will be filling in as moderator at the “PatientBloggers – You Are Not Your Disease, You Just Blog About It” panel at “that thing in Chicago.” I’ll be sharing the stage with three lovelies in the blogging world, Loolwa, Kerri and Jenni. If you’ll be at “that thing in Chicago” it will be the third session on Friday from 2:45-4:00 pm.

Mr. Lady hand picked me to fill in for her in case she couldn’t make it. At first I though that I would never fit on a panel about illness blogging. (Unless the illness was an intense addiction to SYTCYD.) But then I realized I write about my personal health a lot on here. Depression. Infertility. RAINBOWS GALORE MOST DAYS.

It wasn’t until I was recovering from my surgery a few weeks ago that I went through and tagged all of my infertility posts as such.

I write about my bunk lady parts a lot. Like a lot a lot. Thanks for coming back despite the fact.

I figured the least I could do to thank you for all of your support and patience with me and my uterus I’d introduce you to the little wench organ. (I’m inserting it small. As a favor to you eating your grilled peanut butter, chocolate and marshmallow sandwiches. If you really want to see her? CLICK IT! IT EVEN HAS WITTY COMMENTARY FROM YOURS TRULY!)


So yes. There it is.

Let’s run down the optimistic list of why it is awesome to be infertile.

  • I get to have pictures of my uterus.
  • I get to have x-ray pictures of my uterus.
  • We don’t have to use condoms.
  • DRGGZ!
  • I get to have shots that cost more per ounce than liquid gold.
  • Itchy glued on scabs. (seriously? The glue they used to glue me shut with over three weeks ago? WILL NOT COME OFF.)


Now if you’ll excuse me. There is a grilled peanut butter sandwich calling my name…

OH! And I got my hairs painted!

my new color job. (and cut, but whatever LOOK AT THE COLOR!)

Okay. Sandwich. BAI!

(Oh, P.S. Will you be at “that thing in Chicago?” Tell me if you are! Or just, uh, tell me what you had for breakfast if you won’t be able to be there. *ahem*)

about being a panda in a rabbit world.

Tiny Gramma told me one night a few months ago while I was sobbing into the phone “I don’t know why I was a rabbit and you ended up a panda.”

If you’ve ever watched Planet Earth (which if you haven’t you have no business being on any sort of technology whatsoever) you’ll know that pandas are like the worlds most unluckiest pro-creators despite being devastatingly cute. (Much like me in both respects.) Why can’t cicadas or sloths have crappy odds at procreating? Because I’ve seen sloths and I’ve seen cicadas and trust me the world needs no more of either.

In the passion and fury of my post yesterday where I segued into the whole infertility thing without meaning to I didn’t really acknowledge that I live in two different infertile worlds.

One is online. Where people understand. People get it. People talk about it. And the people who end up pregnant understand how much it means to me when they take the time to tell me before it hits the twitter fan. For those of you who have done that for me? A thousand fuzzy kisses (uh, yeah. I need to pluck a little more.)

The other world is what surrounds me on a daily basis. I am a member of a church that pretty much puts Catholics to shame when it comes to multiplying and replenishing the Earth, especially when we have the option of using birth control. (And no, we’re not told to make dozens of babies. Families are just really really important to us, so a lot of LDS people choose to have a lot of babies before they turn thirty. Personal choice. Not religious decree.)

I have watched…wait for it…over 60 pregnancies in the last three years since moving to Indiana. These are just people that live by me.

In the past week I have had three pregnancies made known to me from people that are in my congregation. That is not counting the previous two that already existed or the other two that just completed their nine month run. I have watched at least a dozen women be pregnant twice since living here and just this week I have now seen someone pregnant three different times within three years. After some of your confessions yesterday I don’t feel so creepy that I’ve kept count.

Outside the stereotypes of my religion I am abnormal. I was married just after my 18th birthday (and am enjoying it immensely thank you very much,) had a child at 22 and sometimes desperately want another before I turn 30.

Inside the stereotypes of my religion I am abnormal. I have been married for eight years and yet I only have one child.

My mom didn’t even have me until she was 32.

I find myself wondering so often “Why am I so worried about this? Is it because I can’t? Is it because the people around me are procreating at breakneck speed? I’m only 27 followed closely by OHMYGOSHIAMALMOSTTHIRTY.”

I’m very conflicted about being stuck between the “normalities” of these two very different worlds. I’d like to just be comfortable in my own little world. But there’s not enough medication for me to do that just yet.

Two of my closest friends are having babies before July is over. I have received news of other pregnancies of Internet/IRL friends as well, all of them giving me hope that one day it will happen for me. And for their miracles I can’t thank Heavenly Father enough for answering the prayers I’ve poured out in their behalf.

Sometimes my happiness for others is diminished by the irresponsibility, disrespect or overwhelmingness of it all.

(Which BTW? Dr. SallyForth? My old OB had the option of different appointment availability for infertility patients so I never had to enter his office face to belly with a room full of unwed pregnant teenagers. You *may* want to look into that.)

God doesn’t need/want me pregnant right now. For whatever reason. Today I’m okay with this. Tomorrow could be different.

But no matter what? If you have a little floater down there in your uterus? I want to know about it. And I want to know how I can help.

I just hope you can understand that some days are better than others.

I’m learning how to deal with this.

And sometimes it’s just very very confusing.


Please don’t take the panda personally.