Hi.

I’m not such a huge big fan of being the mom today.

I don’t even want to utter the two words that are befuddling my everyday life and filling it full of needless motherly stress and guilt. Let’s just say in involves redirecting the bodily fluids of someone small into an appropriate vessel of defecation.

Final score for the day:

Appropriate vessel of defecation- 1

Floor – 1

*sigh*

It doesn’t help that I’m going all out balls on this one and quitting the diaper cold turkey. Day and night. What’s a few more loads of laundry? A spare pair of panties in my purse?

As if it weren’t bad enough that the entire internet announced their overall general state of pregnancy, now it seems the entire internet is also announcing the fact that their children just decided one morning to get their bodily fluids in the right place with no problem.

Either you’re all liars or the world is out to get me.

Or both.

Why haven’t I read a single freak out post yet? HUH? WHY?

Why does nobody write about how exasperating it is that the small person needs a STRICT ORDER TO THINGS? A strict order that is ONLY to be performed by said small person?

I HAVE TO TURN THE LIGHT ON!
I HAVE TO PULL MY PANNIES DOWN!
I HAVE TO GET THE PAPER!
I HAVE TO FLUSH!
I HAVE TO PULL MY PANNIES UP!
I HAVE TO TURN THE WATER ON!
I HAVE TO GET THE SOAP!
I HAVE TO TURN THE WATER OFF!
I HAVE TO GET THE TOWEL!
I HAVE TO THROW IT AWAY!
I HAVE TO TURN THE LIGHT OFF!

Fast forward five minutes.

“MOM! I HAVE TO POTTY!”

Oh.

my.

H-E double hockey sticks.

I know this will all be over in the blink of an eye and I’ll look back someday with warm fuzzy memories and laugh at how wound up I was about this whole thing blah blah blah.

But why does nobody else come clean and tell you that the more independent your child gets the more pain in the rear they get? HUH? WHY DOES NOBODY TELL YOU THIS?

Here goes, the more independent your child gets, the more of a pain they are (only for a bit, thank heavens.) You see, they will want to do EVERYTHING by themselves, and you’re going to have to be the one to teach them how to do everything.

Only you’re not going to be allowed to help them.

At least not until they are a weeping ball of frustration lying on the floor.

And you’ll have to be the one to keep your composure and calmly explain why you can’t pull your skirt over your head and show the checker at Costco that you have Belle on your big girl panties. And then you’ll hear,

“BUT WHY?”

“Because we don’t show our panties in public.”
“BUT WHY?”

“Because they are not for anyone to see but you.”
“BUT WHY?”

“Because we keep our panties and our bums to ourselves.”
“BUT WHY?”

At this point you grind your jaw to avoid bopping your kid in the head or telling horror stories of kidnapped children.

And then you’ll say this, (which you swore you’d never say)

“BECAUSE I SAID SO. THE END.”

And then you realize you’re one step closer to becoming your mean grandma that you hated to go visit because you weren’t allowed to touch any of her stuff and the only thing she knew how to make was macaroni and cheese with lots of pepper.

The older the moosh gets the more I realize how lucky I am my mom didn’t leave me at a roadside fruit stand.

And maybe I’m not infertile, maybe my body has truce with my uterus I’m not in on.

“Uterus, you don’t let her get pregnant, then she won’t get even more bat crap crazy with two kids and I’LL LET YOU LIVE TO SEE ANOTHER DAY.”

That’s got to be it.

My kid got the coolest Christmas present ever from her grandparents and it’s NO THANKS TO TARGET.

Target, you can kiss my rear. You didn’t have Rose Petal Cottage when I needed it. Kmart did. You didn’t want to honor the rain check you gave me for Rose Petal Cottage. Kmart did. And Target? Your customer service people are royal BUNGHOLES. Kmart had nice people. Nice people without a hint of bunghole.

Target, I no longer love you. We’re through. Over. Done. It’s not easy. But it’s the truth. I only give my business to nice people who honor their rain checks, not bungholes who involve themselves with false advertising.

*phew*

So without further adieu, the coolest moosh toy EVER.

Welcome to my first ever book review.

I personally never read book reviews so this should be, erm, fun.

I finished reading the most recommended book by my darling readers titled Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen.

First of all, I remember clearly stating when I asked for recommendations to keep ’em clean since I am a bit on the prudish side. WHAT WOULD YOU PEOPLE HAVE RECOMMENDED IF I HADN’T SAID THAT?

Sweet tenderloins! There was swearing,liquor, strippers, prostitutes, murder and boobs galore!

*ahem*

However, it was a very good book. And it has a pretty cover. Sure I say I picked it because it was the most recommended, but truth be told when I was facing the fiction section at the bookstore it all boiled down to which one was the prettiest.

Dear Marketers,

SUCKER FOR PRETTY PACKAGING ***RIGHT HERE***

Sincerely, Casey

Since the moosh’s favorite movie lately is Dumbo, and Water for Elephants takes place at a circus, the similarities between Disney and Ms. Gruen are plentiful. (Well, after you take out the swearing, strippers, prostitutes, murder and boobs. Surprisingly there’s a bunch of liquor flowing in Dumbo. Pink elephants anyone?) I never knew what a roustabout was until reading the book, I just sang along to the song blissfully naive of roustabouts drunken rich history. And I also get it now why an elephant in a circus is such a big deal. Who knew?

What else goes in a book review? Can I even call this a book review? Well, I can ask that if there are any books on my big list that may be too much for my tender brain to process give me a little warning, you saucy book readers you.

It kind of sucks.

Sometimes.

And when it does suck it’s up to you to fix it.

It’s AAALLLL on you.

Now if you enjoy this kind of pressure, then self hosted is for you.

I personally don’t dig this kind of pressure so much, but alas, I am probably the foremost authority in blog sadomasochism.

If you only knew how many times I tried to change something simple and ended up turning my blog into an enormous error message at 2 am you’d probably snicker at the poor girl who can barley keep her blog bananas together. Just tonight I tried to post something and got this,

Fatal error: Allowed memory size of 33554432 bytes exhausted

(tried to allocate 79800 bytes) in /home/mooshini/public_html/wp-includes/cache.php

on line 48

 

Who knows what THAT means? And why they have to use the word “fatal” is beyond me, it’s so doomsday pessimistic.

Thankfully I called some boy (who sounded like a smokin’ hottie) at LiquidWeb who happened to have his wits about him and he fixed my problem.

How?

I dunno.

But he did.

Those LiquidWeb guys probably know me as “that moosh lady who deletes her blog all. the time.“

And yet they are nice enough not to treat me like the amateur bozo that I pretty much am.

 

A lot of you ask me how I went about being self hosted.

I was forced at gunpoint had my hand held by two very lovely ladies at BlogHer last year.

If it weren’t for them, I’d still be a blogspot casualty.

So unless your husband or best friend is a whiz at this kind of stuff and has no problem bailing you out of the pits of despair when you try to mess around with your template and it only results in a deleted blog at 2 am in a crazy batch of insomnia, don’t do it.

 

Although I must say being self hosted is incredibly spectacular when everything is going swimmingly.

So maybe you should do it.

 

If you do do it (do be do be doo) use LiquidWeb and use GoDaddy. And use this tutorial here.

And don’t come crying to me when you turn into a big error message.

I told you it kind of sucked, sometimes.

 

Pardon my absence but I’ve been making out with my kitchen gadgets.

I missed them.

And did you know that you forget about what clothes you left behind when you live out of a suitcase for two months? It’s like coming home to a whole new wardrobe of stuff you’d actually buy for yourself. (Well, because you did, but that’s not the point.)

And I haven’t had to put lotion on in four days. No more squiggling around on the carpet or against sharp corners trying to soothe the itch that is caused by the desert in winter, or summer. Or spring or fall for that matter. I hate being itchy.

Strike #82 against Utah.

I also forgot what it was like to grocery shop for yourself. For now it’s fun, haven’t done it in a while. But I’ll be back to swearing about it shortly.

Back to my kitchen gadgets.

I may have a dumpy kitchen but it’s what’s on the inside that counts, right? I am pleased to say that I would have no shame in letting Alton Brown cook in my kitchen. I am that well equipped.

For example I have five thermometers.

And I love and use every single one of them.

I also use my digital scale all. the. time.

This little trio of love and stainless steel helped me make car cakes today.

And the moosh and her little blond friend handled decor.

(In case you go thinking I’m some sort of wondermom who has CRAFTS! and SUPERDUPERTREATS! at my play-dates and that I’m only trying to make you feel inadequate, you’d be wrong. I just got a new cake pan and wanted to use it, that’s all.)

Because of my love for my kitchen and all things gadget my parents lovingly hand over gift cards during all gift giving seasons to aid in my addiction collection. The latest gift card came from Grandma Flower and Grandpa Fish to Williams-Sonoma.

Williams-Sonoma is akin to porn for me.

I came home with a Microplane grater to match my Microplane zester.

If you’ve never used a Microplane…well…then you’ve never grated something like God meant you to grate.

And the REALLY big deal?

Something finally joined my kitchen family that I have been WAITING for. Something I have wished for and coveted for years. (And here is where you get a glimpse into what a seething dork I am for all things culinary.)

Ladies and gentlemen, meet my 6 3/4 qt. Le Creuset Dutch Oven in Kiwi.

She makes me so happy. Oh, the roasts we’ll braise together.

If you don’t frequent kitchen stores then you’ve probably got a big glowing question mark above your head as to why I’m excited about a $295 pan. First of all, it is not a pan. It is a dutch oven, an enameled cast iron dutch oven. And I didn’t even come close to paying $295. I didn’t even pay half that.

I am a kitchen store bargain magnet.

Which adds to my excitement.

To add to the sad pathetic nature of my love for inanimate kitchen objects even more, this isn’t even half of my most beloved of kitchen items.

So here’s what I want to know, do any of you have a priceless piece of metal, plastic, steel, silicone or wood that you couldn’t bear to cook without?

Because I have about three dozen.

And I want to make sure I’m not missing any.

As I sit here with Mildred and Unis in all of our unpregnant and infertile glory we must say we are a bit peeved off with all you pregnant people. Just when I was getting over my last not pregnant rant half the links I check today assault me with “I’m 12 weeks!” “105 days to go!” “Baby Huey hugging my pregnant belly!” “Baby number 5 is a boy!” “I just puked again!” “I’m so emotional BECAUSE I’M PREGNANT.”

Ladies, seriously, with the pregnant talk? Yer killin’ me.

Just know that if and when it ever happens for me?

I WON’T SHUT UP ABOUT IT.

Gestational revenge. Bwahahaha.

Although not completely similar, this whole ominous EVERYONE IS FERTILE BUT ME vibe is reminiscent of my first (and only, thank you) pregnancy. I started barfing on April 12 (Cheerios, hall bathroom, white shirt) and had seven (7!) negative pregnancy tests up until my birthday two weeks later. Barfing continued. Certainty that I was going to die by choking on my shoelaces vomited out my nose continued. April 29th rolled around and I had gas so bad even my fattest of fat pants couldn’t accommodate the bellyache.

My friend told me to get one more test. Hey! When you’ve already had seven (7!) negatives ones in two weeks what’s one more? I stopped at the pharmacy after work. I didn’t even want to breathe a word of this to Cody due to the $15.99 nature of the previous seven (7!) pregnancy tests. As I stood in line, bloated as a cow left out in the sun, the woman in front of me turned around only to reveal an enormous womb full of child. Cursing my luck that I had to be the one to stand next to the glorious pregnant belly, I turned around, to look at the very normal looking not pregnant person behind me.

WRONG.

Stupid very normal looking not pregnant person had gone back for antihistamine and was replaced by very pregnant blond cheerleader looking person in pink. There I was, the gassy frumpy center to a cruel and stylish pregnant Oreo.

I bought my stupid e.p.t.s, went home, peed on the stick, covered it with toilet paper, picked a few zits, flossed my teeth and prepared myself for the inevitable disappointment that was awaiting me under that single square of Charmin.

Boy was I wrong.

Suddenly my puking was a badge of glory! I was pregnant! I was continuing the circle of life! Then it hit me, I was pregnant. I was going to be somebody’s mom.

HO-LEE CRAP.

I’m home, my trip, as far as planes, trains and automobiles was completely and utterly uneventful. The rest of the trip…well…you’ll see. First I have to acknowledge those who made a stab at the trip that was today.

Biddy came close to describing our drive, but she said it would be at 10 mph. Silly Texans, we drive at least 30 as long as there is under a foot of snow.

Emily came really close with her “no one will make eye contact with you in hopes you’ll evaporate” comment. Nope, no one did make eye contact with me, and they leaned away from me and my moosh cooties for they entire flight. And she was spot on with the two meltdowns.

Lou didn’t really come close but deserves mention because what she described was what I was expecting. (Delays, whinyness topped of with a barf kicker.)

Reese simply said that “At least you’ll have something to blog about…”

SO TRUE.

See, no one mentioned in their comment that I would start my period as soon as the captain turned on the “fasten seat belt” sign on the first leg of our journey.

Of all bad times to start your period. This has got to be one of them.

No one mentioned the raunch pot in the food court that would push me and loudly proclaim “UM, YOU’RE BACKBACK? IS LIKE, IN MY FACE.” and that I would reply:

“This backpack? I’m sorry, you mean the one full of toys to keep my toddler entertained on the plane so PEOPLE LIKE YOU WHO HAVE NO SOUL AND TRAVEL ALL BY YOUR MOTHERTHUMPING SELF DON’T HAVE TO GIVE ME DIRTY LOOKS IN FLIGHT?”

Well, that’s what I wanted to say…alas I did not, instead I apologized and tried not to cry into my quarter pounder. (All the while thinking “YOU ARE SO GETTING BLOGGED LADY.” Blog vindication saves yet another day.)

Wench. *ahem*

I made a post lunch potty stop to attend to the disaster that decided to make itself known five minutes after takeoff and was “changing the guards” Now ladies, think about the changing of your “guard”, you look down there right? You pay attention? Well, I was looking, paying attention, making sure I was doing a thorough job and there would be no disaster to blog about on my next (much longer) flight.

And then I looked up.

the moosh had opened the stall door,

to a waiting line of women,

all watching me change a tampon,

With food court wench at the helm.

I don’t even know what to say. How to finish this story.

.

.

.

.

.

Emily and Reese. You tie.

I’ll make you a blog header or I’ll send you chocolate chip cookies.

You pick.

I’m going to go hide my head in a hole for a few million dozen days.

What up 317? I’ll bet you’re so proud to have me back.

Cody and I fly out on different airlines at different times on Monday to go back home.

There is currently a storm over Utah the size of Nevada.

Getting to the airport from where we currently are involves a three hour (without weather) drive through two steep canyons and across a windblown snow covered reservoir at a very high altitude which is famous for its ten foot snow drifts. We will be driving a front wheel drive compact sedan with no snow tires and expired registration.

the moosh and I fly out Monday morning at 10:30 am.

We’re supposed to get home at 7:31 pm (I loathe flying West to East).

We fly through Denver. (read: in the direct path of Nevada sized storm.)

Treacherous drive. Storm following us the whole way. A lengthy history of delayed flights and ridiculous layovers.

Whoever can come the closest to describing our next 48 hours will win something. (Oooh! Something.)

And yes, Cody flies out before me but he’s flying ALL. BY. HIMSELF.

So who friggin’ gives a rat’s behind about Cody and any inconvenience he may experience?

I know I don’t.

See you back in the 317 Monday night (hopefully).

I am a fast reader.

A fast, obsessive reader.

For those of you who may not know, I read the first six Harry Potter books in a span of five days. I finished the seventh Harry Potter book in one night. I was a waste of a wife wandering around muttering spells under my breath, feeling like an utter squib because none of them worked.

My sister in law got all three Stephanie Meyer books for her birthday. I started the first one Friday night and finished the third one Sunday afternoon.

I have serious problems.

I need your help people.

I need books to read.

Please keep in mind that I am a bit prudish when it comes to violence and several four letter words. (I know, me? prudish? silly, I know.)

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

You guys?

ARE AWESOME.

I have taken all of your suggestions (left out the ones I’ve already read) and made a fancy schmancy list over at LibraryThing. Feel free to use it too. Because I? I have the best readers ever.

Without further adieu…the books that will be occupying all my time and it’s all your fault.
http://www.librarything.com/jswidget.php?reporton=mooshinindy&show=random&header=&num=75&covers=small-fixed-width&text=none&onlycovers=1&tag=alltags&css=1&style=5&version=1

Continuing on with the theme of period talk this week, allow me to discuss my boobs.

Named Mildred and Unis, respectively.

Managing Frederick’s of Hollywood I learned that “girls” (trying to lessen the google pervs here) rarely come in matching pairs. One is always bigger. (Or smaller, if you subscribe to pessimism.) The difference between mine is an approximate 3/4 of a cup size. Mildred is a D.25 and Unis is a C.5.

That is until the PMS comes screaming into town.

Mildred takes a full cup size upon herself while Unis only compensates with maybe a quarter.

DD.25 on the left. C.75 on the right.

I have to be careful how I bend or move due to Mildred’s inability to stay safely housed in my, ahem, over shoulder boulder holder. And they hurt too, whoo, do they hurt. And for some reason no better than to make me cry, the moosh has dead on aim with her enormous head when the girls are at their most tender.

What’s really depressing? This isn’t even my most uncomfortable malady whilst on my womanly journey.

Remind me again? We get periods, pregnancy, menopause and a higher percentage of body fat while men get…um…well, I’m sure there’s something.

Humph.

To pee standing up?

That hardly seems fair.