Hot: Day 7-Another rental car.

The first time the moosh and I cruised around in rented wheels it was in this stupid thing.

The second time was the same model, just not a convertible. the moosh was pissed. But we did have satellite radio. (Which simply means two hundred extra stations of crap.)

Today however we hit the motherlode.

A minivan.

Cheerios ground into the carped and everything.

It even smells like a minivan. A little sour milk with hints of Goldfish cracker highlighted with notes of “New Car Smell” air freshener tree.

I can only think of Bill Engvall calling the un-tinted driver’s side window of a minivan “the goober viewing hole.”

the moosh digs the minivan. She even volunteered to sit all the way in the very back. So far back in fact she kind of forgot to talk my ear off. And then there was the air vents. She didn’t trust the overhead air vents, kept giving them the stink eye the whole way home.

As if I didn’t feel goober enough driving a smelly minivan with only one child, the moosh requested SONGS! Without my iPod the only station we were able to compromise on was “Light Adult Contemporary.”

Light Adult Contemporary=John Tesh, Kenny G. and Aaron Neville

It’s really hard to maintain any sense of hot 26 year old pride when you’re behind the wheel of a rented minivan singing along (SINGING! ALONG!) to “Everybody Plays the Fool.”

To make matters worse? If a door is open and the minivan isn’t turned on? The left turn signal blinks. It’s as if it’s mocking my embarrassment by winking at anyone walking by.

“SEE THIS LADY? SEE HER! SEE HER DRIVING THE MINIVAN? YOU! LOOK OVER HERE! DID YOU SEE HER DRIVING ME? YEAH! ME! WITH THE TWITCHY LEFT BLINKER!” twitch blink! twitch blink!  twitch blink!

Hot: Day 6-Hot sit dance party.

Yes. Video has appeared with me shaking my can. BUT! Thankfully the cameras weren’t rolling when I busted loose to my all time favorite dance along song. You wanna see me do the sit dance in my car? Or your car? Or in the middle of the street? Or on the top level of Macy*s in the middle of San Francisco?

Turn on Christina Aguilera’s “Candyman” and watch my flubber fly. Go ahead, listen to it, see if you don’t do a little sit dance yourself.

So tell me. What is your sit dance song? I’m always looking for more to add to the “Hot Sit Dance Party” playlist on my iPod.

And if you want to see a bunch of ladies bust loose to Britney Spears (including me. *sigh*) Go here.

Hot: Day 5-Lowlights of my depressive history.

One of my friends let me know that she had heard my blog mentioned to day on a local radio station as a resource for depression. Phew. Nicole? Thanks for letting me know. And Laura, whoever you are? Thank you for thinking I know what I’m talking about.

I looked around tonight for my journals. I started one in 1994 when I had my first crush on Greg Shumway. I’ve kept one ever since. Uh, well, I kept one until I got a blog. So uh, welcome to my journal! My current crush is Cody, I think he’s sooooo cute. We share a bedroom together. The other day he said he thought I was funny. I think he’s going to ask me out. Gosh, he’s soooo cute.

Ahem. Anyway. As expected my journals are locked up tight in a Tupperware bin in the back of the closet of cluttery mysteries. And rightfully so. There are secrets and stories in those journals that can take hold of me like poison and drag me down before I can scream uncle. Cody has read them. I decided to reread them a while back and wondered why Cody was still coming home everyday after reading what was written in those pages. I was my own worst enemy. I hated myself. I destroyed myself. I was a hot mess.

One journal has an obituary I wrote out for myself, complete with picture.

Another has a piece of sandpaper I used to rub my wrists down to the bone with.

Many pages are filled with scathing letters to my family, mostly my mom. (HI! SORRY MOM! LOVE YOU! Whew! I was a stinker huh?)

One sentence reads “I was feeling ugly today so I called Chris (fake name) to make out (ahem) to feel better about myself.”

Many entries were written drunk.

Many pages are tear stained.

Some include pictures of old boyfriends, phone numbers written on matchbox covers and poems written to me by some boy trying to woo me out of my drawers.

I look back at what I allowed myself and others to do to my body. I felt sad and angry that my body, which should have only been given to my husband, had been through so much.

But supposedly your skin renews itself every three years and your skeleton renews itself every seven years. Which means that finally, after seven years of marriage, my body is my own again. Cody’s the only one who has ever been with this renewed physical body. And now that my body feels healed, my mind is having a much easier time recovering also.

And that? Feels good.

Hot: Day 3-Church.

I’ve found that some of you find it interesting that as a part of the LDS (Mormon) church (OOH! Religion! HOT TOPIC!) we attend church every week.

For three hours.

Yep. Every single week.

Three hours. 180 minutes.

Our first meeting is Sacrament, were we partake of bread and water in remembrance of the Savior. In this meeting we are all together. We sing a little, listen to talks and get any other important news about our congregation. For the second and third meeting, kids 18 months- 3 years go to a nursery class and children 3-12 attend a primary class. The second meeting for adults 18+ is Sunday school where we learn about and read scriptures. The third meeting is either Relief Society (for women) Priesthood (for men). Boys and girls 12+ each have their own Sunday school classes divided by age and their own meeting of either Young Women or Young Men. Each class is led by members “called” to the position for a small amount of time. (For example, I teach the 12 and 13 year old Sunday School Class, Cody teaches once a month in his Priesthood class.)

That’s roughly 156 hours of church a year (give or take some due to various and assorted church wide conferences.)

Considering there’s 8,760 hours in a year, that’s a very tiny portion of it spent at church.

We also dress up. Sunday best. Every week. This is also a hot topic of discussion.

The way I look at it, if I were Deity and I had done a whole lot to bless the lives of the people who have faith in me, died for them even, I’d appreciate it if for the three hours a week they came together to learn about me and sing songs about me, it would be nice if they’d get out of their jammies and comb their hair.

Right?

We also don’t (well avoid, sometimes it’s inevitable) shop or eat out on Sundays, we stay close with our families resting and relaxing, because dude? That’s totally what the God I believe in did on the seventh day. This makes Utah either the most awesome state in the Union or the lamest state in the Union come Sunday, depending on what you want to do.

As usual, I’m not asking you to agree with what I choose to do with my Sundays. If religion to you is weeding your tomato plants on a Sunday then get on down with your bad ol’ weeding self. I’m just putting a little more reliable information out into the internets about us (not so crazy) Mormons. So keep the meanness to yourself and take it out on those dandelions overtaking your lawn over there.

Hot: Day 2-Pea and Proscuitto Pasta

Mmm, dinner.

Ingredients:

12 oz. Fettuccine (I actually prefer long egg noodles if you can find them, TRADER JOE’S!)

1 tablespoon butter

1 large shallot, finely chopped (this is a shallot)
Pea and Prossciuto Pasta

1/4 c. heavy cream

about 2 cups of frozen peas (depending on how much you love the peas.)

8 slices of proscuitto (4 oz./1 cup) thinly sliced

1 large lemon which will turn into:

1 T. lemon zest

1 T. lemon juice

fresh parmasean

Pea and Prossciuto Pasta

Saute the shallot in the tablespoon of butter (in a hot pan) until softened (about 4 minutes) meanwhile boil your pasta (in hot water.)

Pea and Prossciuto Pasta

Add the cream, peas, and proscuitto and cook until peas are warmed through (hot).

Pea and Prossciuto Pasta

Add lemon zest and lemon juice, stir. Stir together with cooked (hot), drained noodles.

Pea and Prossciuto Pasta

Scoop it up, smother it with cheese and eat it, hot of course.

Pea and Prossciuto Pasta

From Martha Stewart’s Everyday Food: Great Food Fast Cookbook. (Damn you Martha and your pretty cookbooks.)

Hot: Day 1-Feed the Burn

Something possessed me to participate in NaBloPoMo for August. (Meaning I’ll be posting every day in August in honor of National Blog Posting Month.) This normally happens in November, but everyone has the option to do it each month following a theme.

The theme for August? Hot.

So in honor of Hot and NaBlaPoMo, I’m going to shove my feed down your throat.

 Subscribe in a reader

Why? Because there’s a flame! And flames are HOT!

So click that cute little picture up there, subscribe if you’re not and sit back and let the HOT moosh in indy action fill your reader.

HOT. HOT. HOT.

So here we go kids.

Everyday.

For a month.

Anything HOT you want to know about us here at moosh in indy?

Heaven knows I’ll be a HOT mess trying to come up with HOT topics to blog about in the HOT month of August.

Now’s the HOT time to ask.

Hottie.

Rawr.

Trots E. Cheese

the moosh’s first trip to Chuck E. Cheese was today for a neighbors birthday party.

the moosh learned about the trots about an hour into the party.

the moosh had to leave her panties behind in a garbage can.

We had to leave early.

Mommyblog haters hate it when mommybloggers write about poop.

Hate away haters, I’ll have Chuck E. dig out those Cinderella panties and send ’em to you.

That’s all I have to say about my day.

You?

Dropping eggs and shoving fat kids.

In my head is a little room that I keep all my post ideas in. It is currently quite full, and yet there is a fat kid blocking the door so none of the posts can get out.

That fat kid is this post.

You may have noticed me talking about pregnancy the last few days. A few newer readers assumed I was trying to ease you all into a little secret known as “I’m totally pregnant.” Alas, that is not the secret, as much as I wish it was.

It is me trying to remember all I can about the one pregnancy I had in case in doesn’t happen for me again, it’s dawning on me that this is a huge possibility. At least once a day the moosh asks about her brothers and sisters and wonders where the heck they are. I simply tell her it’s not my turn yet.

It may never be my turn again.

82% of monogamous couples who participate in unprotected sex will get pregnant within 9 months. It’s been over three years for us. To that? I say, “bah.”

This is where I get a little crazy. While I would never wish a miscarriage upon anyone, and I myself have never experienced the heartache that surely results from one, I almost wish it would happen to me.

To give me some sort of twisted assurance that my body is still capable of getting pregnant.

Crazy right?

Alas, with all this focus on not being able to get pregnant, I forget this whole thing called Hyperemesis Gravidarum (HG) that is quite likely to happen again if and when I ever do get pregnant. It was bad enough the first time and I only had to worry about myself. But now I have the moosh to worry about and I’m thousands of miles away from any family.

So before I even worry about the stress (and blessing of course) of having two children, I have to worry about staying alive for the 9 months it will take to bake the second one. I don’t have 60 pounds to lose this time.

I’d like to be all faithful and thankful that it’s not happening because it’s just not our time yet. And yet having babies born around me all. the. time. makes me a little jealous and huffy. Why is it everyone else’s turn? Their oldest kids are younger than the moosh in most cases. Meh.

I’m able to hold on to that faith for a while. A sweet woman at church wrote me a random note saying that it’s not my fault that I can’t get pregnant, the Lord needs me just the way I am for now so that I can do His work. And it’s true, I couldn’t do a lot of what I do with a second mop of curly hair in tow.

It’s really hard to throw myself a pity party when I look at it that way.

Yet at the same time, it’s so easy to look at it in the sense that I’m just not stable enough to handle two.

So actually the Lord is doing everyone a favor and keeping me a mother of one. Heh. You’re welcome Cody.

Pessimism, optimism, I can go either way depending on the day.

As for adoption? While I greatly admire those who choose to adopt, we have yet to feel that adoption is what we personally are meant to do.

There may be more on this subject later. But I’ve pretty much shoved the fat kid through the door. We’ll see if he parks it on the stoop now or scrams.