And none for Gretchen Weiners

So, I've had some time to think about this particular topic, and I've spent enough time (24 years) doing some serious research to share the results of my findings. I'll call the study, "Disarming a Hottie: A Guide to Making Attractive Women Less Scary." And this isn't actually intended to help men pick up women (if you need help with that just see the footnote marked with a "*" and a "Don't be a jerk-hole") no, this is actually for women and all of their/our (because I'm female) crazy.

Let me 'splain. In order to give any credit to this "study" there are a few universal truths** you must first accept. If you are unwilling to accept these, stop reading and go back to browsing the interwebs, this is no place for you.
Truth #1: The majority*** of girls are intimidated by other girls
Truth #2: Truth #1 becomes exponentially worse when one of the girls is attractive (and they don't have to be a hard ten, I'm saying even 5's and 6's are included in this category).
Truth #3: Truth #2 becomes a fiery hell of animosity if BOTH women are attractive.
Women reading this should be shaking their heads in agreement, and men should be muttering, "chicks are crazy." If you don't fit into one of these categories, this is another invitation to quit reading. And while you're at it, you should probably just quit reading this blog because you're too mature/self-evolved to think it's funny anyway. Okay, so are we all on board? Let's move on.

I'm an immature girl, so I'll use myself as the subject of the study. When I meet/am in the same room with/see in passing an attractive girl, I immediately think, "Wow, she's so pretty, she's probably good at lots of things" (because somehow attractive equals talented...which is actually pretty ridiculous..."hey, you are so good at being pretty, and other things.") and then I just think, "I probably won't introduce myself, she's probably mean...and like...wears matching underwear and I just would never get along with someone like that."

So I've had all of these encounters with girls at the new studio I work out at and its the kind of place where girls who are already fit go to work out. So, that's annoying. And on top of that, a lot of them have been going for a while so they have trios of other attractive workout buddies, which then morphs into this force field of attractive scary girl-ness. But I'm going to this studio obviously to work out, but also because I need more friends that aren't 4 months old and pee on my dry-clean only blouses (what's up with dry clean? I want to figuratively burn the idea of dry-cleaning to the ground****). So I noticed during this class that I have a system, a system that apparently, I have been carrying out for years without knowing my brilliance (jk, I'm super aware of my wits). A system of disarming hotties, which gives them permission to like me, which gives me the opportunity for the occasional cordial adult conversation.

It's literally the easiest two-step process ever.
#1 Say something complimentary
#2 Be friends forever

Example:
I'm working out next to this girl, she's pretty. After class I say, "Your top is super cute." She says, "Oh my gosh, thank you, I got it from blah blah blah..." Boom. Friends. Now she wants to meet my baby.

Example:
Shopping with my sister-in-laws. I get up to the register and tell the employee her dress is darling (which it was, because it was crochet, hello). She is all, "Oh my gosh, thank you, blah blah blah." We walked out of the store and my sister-in-law said, "I feel like that girl was like eating out of your hands, she probably would have given you even more of a discount after you told her her dress was cute!" And then I realized. I have a gift.

I reject scary women. I also just accept that girls act a little/a lot/unreasonably crazy about some things, and meeting other girls is one of them. You know the cliche conversation between the man and woman?
Woman: Can you tell I've lost weight?
Man: Yeah! You're looking really great these days!
Women: So you didn't think I looked good before?
Well, this is kind of the same principle, in that it shows that girls are crazy sometimes.

I feel like at this point you may have had some/all of these thoughts:
#1 I think Kasey is interested in dating women
#2 I think Kasey is the antifeminist
#3 Kasey is so sad and insecure
Well, first let me just say that I recognize this post is a little bit weird and makes me sound a little bit insecure, but at times, I'm both, so I'm okay with that. And second, I'm happily married. And third, I am a little bit of an antifeminist, but that's a blog for another time (air-high-five to all my stay at home moms). But it is what it is, and I've said what Ive' said. So there's that.

*Don't be a jerk hole.
**This is in my universe, and they are true here. If you don't agree, my universe is full anyway.
***I'm qualifying this as the majority because yes, I accept that there are beautiful women out there who are kind and loving and feel so comfortable with themselves they just live their lives without any threat of other women. And when I say I accept it, what I really mean is that I reject it. Boom. Blowing your mind.
****Do you like how I used "figuratively" instead of "literally?" I recently read that is a top ten pet peeve, that is, the wrong use of word "literally." Which seems kind of stupid, because why aren't we more concerned with the growing number of names that include multiple apostrophes?

"Sick? Who's sick?"

So here's the thing. "What's the thing, Kasey?" Well, I'll tell you.

The thing is, since I've been busy making life and all that, I've had to make a few*** adjustments to my life, one of the biggest being work. When the time came to go back to work, it just seemed impossible. I couldn't leave the world's most high maintenance baby with anyone. I'd have to pay them like triple. And by triple, I mean like the standard going rate, and then a promised 1,000 smiles a day from the baby who doesn't actually know he's sick.

The job description would be something like:
*Sick baby needs competent caregiver for 13 hours, 3 days a week.
And if that didn't get the prospective employee to flee there's this....
*Must be able to administer 3 medications 8 times a day.
*One of the medications, if given incorrectly, can have permanent neurological side effects, K?
*Also, he'll gag and vomit all over you when you try to put the bottle in his mouth, but don't worry, its even worse when you try to give him his meds. He literally will turn blue and gag for like 5 minutes. So...I guess you'll just have to work that out.
*When making his formula you have to add .5tsp, 1 tbs, 2/3c, and then add 24 ounces of water, shake, add more water, shake, let settle, add a little more water, and then it has to be chilled because bro don't do warm milk.
*He must be held upright for 30 minutes after eating.
*When you change him you must be extraordinarily meticulous as any sort of wrong swipe and boom, UTI. You're fault.
Am I missing anything?
*Oh, oh and don't tell him he's small, he hates that.

But anyway, the point was actually that my boss is letting me work one shift a month which is amazing and is probably the best arrangement that could possibly ever be.
Manager: "Think you can just stay on for one shift a month?"
Me: "Yeeeeeeeeahhhh...I think I can swing that."

Hurrah for awesome things like that happening to me. And hurrah that I get to be the neurotic full-time caregiver of the BEST baby ever.

***Few? I literally want to punch you in the face if you didn't say, "a few, that's cray!"

So You Have...

I have a theory that I could improve the quality of the ER's discharge instructions. Typically the format includes a bold diagnosis at the very top so you can't leave and say we never told you what was wrong (people claim this happens all the time-and weirdly-they don't think to ask before leaving). So here's my idea-before each diagnosis is the precursor, "So you have..."

It'd look something like this:
So you have Pelvic Pain
So you have Gall Stones
But then it gets better
So you have Anxiety
So you have Mental Health Disorder
But then it gets better
So you have Chlamydia
So you have Herpes (or "The Herp" to make it sound less scary)
But then, then it gets even better
So you have Foreign Body Removal

See-sounds way better, huh?

And then I was like...

Dead...D.E.D....Dead

     So we've been in our house for about 4 months now and our front yard is a disaster. One side of it was all gravel and the other a wilderness of little trees, shrubs, weeds, etc. The gravel portion was taken care of a few weeks ago when Rob posted "Free Gravel" on craigslist and I woke up one morning to a random hispanic man in my front yard shoveling away. I tried to tell him that seemed like a less-than-ideal situation but he just went on and on about what a "pleasant fellow" he was. So there was that. Anyway, so we were going to hire someone to take care of the little wilderness but I was feeling ambitious and thought I could tackle it myself. For the record, it was way harder than it looked. There were a few mini palm tree things and then these other horrible "Elephant Ear Trees" (no idea what the actual name is but for the purpose of the story the leaves are HUGE...hence the name) which required much more than just the wee bit of strength I have in my biceps, so I got a shovel and went to work.

    So there I am, digging up these trees.  And seriously out of nowhere, I found myself committing murder. I had dug up most of the little shrubs and weeds so when it came time to dig up those freakin elephants, I thought, "Oh I'll just snip off the leaves first so I have better access to the roots." And that was the first of it. I snipped off a leave and instantly felt this horrible guilt wash over me. What?! I've never been one to care about plants, trees...green things. But the second I cut the stem it was like, "What the tree killer!?" The stem snapped to the ground and the sap came oozing out like I might as well have stabbed it in a dark alley. And then of course I leaned in and it got all over me, looking guilty as ever...covered in the blood of an elephant leaf. I tried to ignore how awful I felt and kept on at the task at hand. I started twisting the leaves back to get a better view of the roots and the squeaking of the rubbery leaves I swear sounded like wild elephants being brought into captivity and tortured. As I pulled at the root the slugs creeping up the sides were just there, judging me so hard. They were like little tiny captains of the plant Titanic, determined to go down with it, staring the iceberg (me) right in the face. And then, to top it off, there was a crazy cacophony of these damn birds right above me sounding some sort of nature alarm to the death of a beautiful, living, tree. I'm sure birds everywhere were weeping. Somewhere, small children got wind of what was happening and wept next to their beloved elephant ear trees, wrapping the giant leaves around themselves for comfort and warmth.

    So anyway, now the remains are just laying there, waiting me to dispose of them. I feel like I need to go buy a bunch of Rubbermaid bins and sink them in a bayou to destroy the evidence. What's wrong with me? Is it the baby? This crap is ridiculous.

Jazz hands

I'm awake at a stupid hour and Rob² are sleeping so the only thing that makes sense is to write some form of a sad, self-deprecating blog. It's what I'm best at...I try not to fight it. So here goes.

I think I'll head in the direction of my pathetic attempt of a workout this past week. Fortunately, I made the stellar decision to not work out for my entire pregnancy, bringing the total number of months of moving as little as possible to 12...or as I like to call it, an entire freaking year. So now, to remedy the recent trauma I've sustained (I'm referring to the attack on my uterus that was, in my opinion, fought bravely with the occasional remark similar if not verbatum to, "this can't be right, this is like death," and "Are you sure it isn't a sucking chest wound-because I'm pretty sure I've been shot") Rob convinced me to try this fitness studio that combines ballet, yoga, and Pilates. And no it's not called Bayogalaties...but it should be. It does roll off the tongue. Anyway, so Rob found this place and convinced me to try it. "You'll be great," he said, "soon you'll be better than everyone,"
he said-but turns out...those were just the lofty words of a husband afraid that his wife is standing in the diabetes line just begging for a heaping order of sadness with a side of early mortality. So after a few weeks I warily obliged and went to my first class. I found a spot next to the oldest lady in the room with hopes of being less-humiliated than what I was sure was the inevitable. I ended up being both very right and also terribly wrong. The older lady next to me was a beast. A bionic grandma just killin it for an hour straight, all while keeping her toes unreasonably well pointed. So I was wrong in my choice of whom to park next to...BUT I was so right that the humiliation was imminent. I could hardly keep up and when I could, there I was just glugging around like a cylinder of cream of chicken soup after an edge gets free from the can. It was so awesome.

It's even worse because the ballet elements (that was originally auto corrected to say "baller elements," which I hope I don't regret correcting) are not even really ballet..or baller. You hold on to the barre for dear life until your knuckles turn white, you're only somewhat concerned with turn-out and if you have to bend your knees during a sequence-no big deal. My ballet instructor would have spilt blood over these things...my blood. Seriously. So that makes me nervous.

And just to round it out-the studio sells special socks that grip the floor and have their logo printed on it. So on top of my weak, asthmatic performance, I'm also wearing stupid pink socks just to be sure and brand myself an outsider.

Suck.