This is an easy one.

I got married. (this time ’til death do you part)

June 2001

“Ooh, it’s like so hard being a size 4 and 19 years old.”

I was sealed. (this time for time and all eternity.)

June 2002.

“Ooh, my life is so hard at 20 with a handsome husband and my 28 inch waist. Pity me.”

Then I got fat.

Summer 2003.

“Hey? Who’s that fat chick next to Cody?”

Intrigued? Isn’t this the best NaBloPoMo you read?

I know right?

*Ahem* Sorry.

Stay with me and you’ll be rewarded with cellulite rich photos of my chubby summer year.

Okay so there’s really only one rule.

LEAVE A NOTE ON THE TABLE THAT SAYS “Dear wife, the moosh dislocated her elbow, she is fine, don’t worry, I took her to St. Francis at 7:30, be home soon. xoxo-Husband”

OR EVEN JUST “Don’t worry, the moosh is fine, at St. Francis, she dislocated her elbow. -Husband”

OR IF IT’S THAT HARD HOW ABOUT “moosh, elbow, St. Francis, fine.”

Instead I had to come home from a lovely dinner with friends to an empty house at 8:30 pm. Mom radar goes of when kids aren’t in bed at 8:30 and the car is gone.

Husband brain thinks “If I leave a Google page up with “Nursemaid’s Elbow” my wife will know EXACTLY what happened and will have complete faith in my parenting ability and won’t worry one bit.”

Wife brain thinks “Car gone, after bedtime, this can’t be good. Is there a note? NO! First, check for blood, nope, no blood trails, no blood in kitchen. Next, check moosh bed, blankets and woobie gone, must need soothing, maybe he left a note upstairs? NO! Computer, maybe he typed a note, take computer off screen saver, screen says “TAKE CHILD TO EMERGENCY ROOM IMMEDIATELY” MY KID IS SICK! MY KID IS HURT! I SHOULD HAVE NEVER GONE TO DINNER! I’LL NEVER SEE MY KID AGAIN! WHAT HOSPITAL? OH! WHAT HOSPITAL! Call, call hospital…Hello? Hospital? Is my kid there? NO! NO? WHERE IS MY KID? What other hospital? So it’s a dislocated elbow, it’s happened before, it can’t be that bad, BUT WOOBIE! WOOBIE IS IN THE CAR! THE CAR THAT HAS BEEN AT THIS SHOP FOR TWO DAYS AND IS GOING TO BE $1,600 TO FIX! $1,600, Seriously? That’s insane, they should have car repair insurance.THE INSURANCE CARD! HE DOESN’T HAVE THE INSURANCE CARD! HE DOESN’T KNOW HER SOCIAL! Has he ever taken her to the doctor? Oh, the medical bills, the car! I have no car! I can’t even go if I do find them. MY BABY IS SOMEWHERE CRYING NEEDING HER MOM AND I’M HERE! Call Elisabeth, she’ll let me borrow her car! What? Elisabeth isn’t home? SHE NEEDS TO CALL ME! Call hospital, maybe they just got there. Hello? Hospital? WHAT? THEY ALREADY LEFT? BUT YOU SAID THEY HAD NEVER BEEN THERE! How long ago did they leave? They’re not home yet! DID THEY DIE ON THE WAY HOME? Because they’re not home yet! WHERE ARE THEY AND WHY IS THERE NO NOTE!?!?!?!?!?!?”

Then they came home.

The kid is fine. The doctor gave her a pig and three Dora stickers. She got to stay up two hours past her bed time, in all reality she couldn’t be better.

Cody doesn’t get why I’m a little miffed.

Moms? Explain please.

Husbands? Take note. (Literally.)

Howdy! Welcome to part four in how the moosh came to be.

Need to catch up? Part I, Part II, Part III, and then there’s this whole hot drunken mess.

Feel like you’re ready to proceed? Here we go…

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

Cody and I hung out every chance we had. We had lunch together at work, watched every movie ever released, ate lots of food and basically just basked in the obsession we had for each other. The other six (SIX!) guys I was seeing (when I say seeing I mean using for meals and self esteem) dropped off one by one. None of them compared to this quiet gentlemanly Radio Shack boy.

Our first kiss on our third (third!) date (SQUEEE!!!), our bazillion kisses after that were a whole new kind of kiss for me. They were sweet kisses, they weren’t kisses trying to turn into anything more. This boy had morals, and had never done a thing wrong in his life.

And there I was.

Realizing I was falling fast for a boy who could never possibly go for the “real” me, I decided to lay it all out on the line. (Because as any girl knows I had completely lied about my past to him so as to impress him and keep him from hightailing it in the opposite direction.)

So there we were, sitting on his couch, moment of truth.

“Hey, so, you know how I said I had never done this?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s a lie. It’s more like I’ve done it a whole lot.”

(I was braced for the worst.)

“Okay.”

(Really? No yelling? Okay, well, let’s see how you handle this!)

“Okay, so, you know how I said I didn’t do this?”

“Yeah.”

“Um, well, I pretty much do that all the time.”

“Okay.”
(Wha? Okay? You don’t think I’m the garbage of the Earth? I’ll fix that.)

“Okay. Well. You know how I said I did this?”

“Yeah.”

“I never did.”

Confession after confession came pouring out of my mouth.

Until I was out of secrets.

I had every skeleton in my closet out in the bright shiny open. Every ugly thing no one knew about me except for myself and my journal was right in front of his face. And these were ugly skeletons. His reply?

“Is that it?”

“Um, yep.”

“It’s fine. Just don’t ever lie to me again, okay?”

And that’s when I fell in love with a man who knew everything about me and still wanted to be with me.

**********

Think that’s the end? Well would you be wrong!

In the next installment, “How I went from a lush exhibitionist to a Mormon wife in three easy steps.”

“Easy” SNORT.

For those of you out there who wanted to know about all the cooking I do, is this the post for you.

Let’s go to a time when I was quite pregnant at the state fair. I decided I wanted to win ribbons, validation.

My mom had won ribbons for her photography, my dad had won ribbons for his woodworking.

I could make a pretty wicked cookie so I ran with it.

My Granny bought me a Kitchenaid for my birthday and I never looked back.

I totally won, 11 big shiny ribbons, most of them blue.

I branched out, never even knew I had it in me.

I expanded my baked horizons and realized I had a gift. I was a crummy cook when Cody and I got married. (CRUMMY.) I could burn chicken and somehow the middle would still be bloody and raw. I could burn chili to the point it tasted like the pot it was cooked in.

But one day it clicked, and I haven’t trashed much of anything since. In fact almost everything I touch turns to culinary gold.

(TOOT TOOT, that’s my own horn, hope you don’t mind.)

Take my Swiss Meringue Buttercream.

Chocolate Fudge Cake

Pizza

German Chocolate Cake

Baguettes

Blueberry crumb muffins.

Pecan pie, apple almond crumb pie, chocolate toffee cookies and chocolate chip cookies

Cinnamon rolls and brownies

And in case you’re thinking “Huh, I’m sure she uses a mix somewhere in there.”
You’d be dead wrong my friend.

Everything is from scratch. Everything. Don’t believe me?

Apples for my apple pie.

And I cracked, shredded and pureed my OWN COCONUT for a coconut cake.

A four layer coconut cake.

That’s right, bow on down.

So here’s a tricky little problem that comes along with baking.

Your kid reads cookbooks and tells you what you can make her.

(And if you want recipes you’re pretty much out of luck, I’m too lazy to write them out, let alone type them out. Okay, maybe someday I’ll do it. Okay, so I know my brownie recipe off the top of my head, so here goes, don’t tell me I never did you any favors.)

The Best Damn Brownies You’ll Ever Have

Melt one stick of unsalted butter and eight ounces of chocolate (milk, dark, semi sweet, take your pick)

Pour into a large mixing bowl and whisk in a cup and a half of sugar. Then whisk in four eggs, each one at a time.

Mix in a teaspoon of vanilla and fold in 3/4 cups of flour and a quarter teaspoon salt with a large spatula.

Bake in a 375 degree oven for 45-50 minutes. (Oh yeah, spray an 8×8 pan with cooking spray and line with parchment leaving a one inch overhang on two sides. Use the overhang as a “sling” to take the brownies out when they’re done)

See how horrible I am at writing down recipes? Good luck if you actually try them, promise I didn’t botch it up on purpose. They really are the best damn brownies ever.

********

Remember to catch up on the last couple posts, don’t want to leave you in the NaBloPoMo dust when the most twisted love story ever continues tomorrow.

Welcome to part three in how the moosh came to be.

Part I here.

Part II here.

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

Well, now that you know about my sordid past, you should know that there is no way that Cody and I should have ever ended up together.

While he was all

I was all

and while he was all

I was all

I knew nothing about this boy except that he worked at Radio Shack, his name was Cody and he made my heart go pitter patter.

And then he showed up at my house in this.

I know right?

STRIKE ONE.

I hated big trucks. Little guy syndrome, must be compensating for something, you know the type.

After hurling myself into the beast of a truck we decided on a place to eat and the awkward chatter started.

“So, why were you in New York?”

“That’s where I served my mission.”

(Internal dialogue) MISSION? MISSION! You’re a MORMON? I don’t go out with Mormons, especially ones that just got back from missions! That means you take this whole religion thing seriously. I SHAVED FOR NOTHING!

STRIKE TWO!
(External dialogue) “Oh. Huh. Where are you from?”

“Vernal” (A small town in Eastern Utah that just happens to sound a lot like an STD)

STRIKE THREE.

At this point he was lucky I couldn’t afford to feed myself and actually needed him to take me out to dinner.

Dinner was awkward, apparently I swore a lot. I had pancakes, he had biscuits and gravy.

We then rented a movie and headed back to his apartment.

As soon as he opened his front door the first thing I saw was an ENORMOUS PICTURE OF CHRIST ABOVE HIS COUCH.

STRIKE FOUR.

What’s WITH these religious people?

Strike five was the other ENORMOUS picture of Christ praying above his tiny single bed.

This boy wanted a wife, he wanted babies, a white picket fence,  he wanted everything I wasn’t.

But then he held my hand.

If I’ve ever had butterflies in my life it was at that moment.

He didn’t try anything, he walked me to my door.

He was a perfect gentleman.

I remember shutting the door and thinking “There is no way this could ever work.”

But I couldn’t wait for him to call again.

And he did.

To be continued….

So there’s quite a few of you who want to know what I was like before Cody came along. (My mom and dad are somewhere laughing so hard they can’t focus on their laptop screens. HI MOM! HI DAD!)

Truth be told?

I was trouble with a capital T.

We’ll just start at 15, because that’s when things started to get really ugly.

I started drinking at 14. WHOO! DID I START DRINKING. I maintained a 3.8 in high school and never dropped off the Honors List. I was in the National Honors Society, a cheerleader, Secretary of the Drama Club and in Dance Company. I knew if I kept up with my school work my mom, teachers and what friends I had wouldn’t have much proof that my behavior had gone off the deep end. (Hi mom! Again, SORRY.) But I drank any chance I had. And then came the boys. Boys, boys everywhere.

I got my first job at a restaurant and there is where I met the first big detour of my life. We’ll call him, Bart.

Bart was tall, handsome and much older. Bart and I were always together. Bart and I were going to get married! (oy, teenage brains) Bart and I went to every school dance together and eventually we ended up working together at another restaurant. Around the end of Junior Year, just after turning 17, I had really started to rub my mom the wrong way and one night she said,

“You can start obeying my rules or you can find another place to live.”

I packed a bag. Left, and never turned back.

I lived with Bart for a while until I found two roommates and the scariest little apartment in the world. It looked like a brothel, you think I’m kidding?

I’m not.

Brothel.

Things started to get ugly with Bart, I realized my new found freedom and realized I could now get away with a whole lot more now that I didn’t have parents watching out for me. I enrolled in my senior year of high school as an independent minor and worked my tail off to finish high school and worked nearly 30 hours a week so I could pay bills. (I didn’t do a very good job BTW.)

By the end of first semester I was a very heavy drinker.

After high school I moved in with different roommates and continued on with my destructive behavior. Boys, booze and a new pastime, drugs. I was becoming more and more irresponsible, more and more out of control. More and more dependent on chemicals and flammable liquid to get me from day to day.

Laced throughout this entire mess was a boy named Patrick. Yes, that’s his real name. Just hearing it, typing it, reading it or saying it makes my stomach sick after almost eight years. Patrick was the worst thing I ever did to myself. He was the only one that got away with breaking my heart. Not a day goes by that I don’t wonder what my life would have been like without Patrick. Would I be were I am? Probably not. Would I still be wounded? Yes, just not by him. Cody knows about Patrick. Cody knows the inexplicable mark Patrick has left on my heart and my mind. Patrick was bad news. In every way. But I was smitten. And I was burned, bad.

Patrick, wherever you are in this life, I should hate you. But I don’t. AND I DON’T KNOW WHY. But I want to. I want to forget you. Please, find some way to let me be. I wish that were possible.

……………………..

Huh, wasn’t expecting that.

Curse you NaBloPoMo.

Well, anyway. After Patrick it was all just booze boys booze drugs a few tattoos and more booze until that phone call to the boy from Halloween night in 2000 that changed the course of my life forever. (FOREVER I SAY!)

******

Part I in how the moosh came to be here.

Welcome to Part II.

******

“Radio Shack, this is Todd, how may I help you?”
“Hi, uh, is Cody there?”

“Yes he is, one moment please.” (Pause)

“Thank you for calling Radio Shack, this is Cody, how may I help you?”

(***SQUEEE!!!!***)

“Uh, hi, Cody? This is Casey, from Fredericks down the hall? (Yes, I said Fredericks.) Um, I was just wondering if maybe you wanted to go out sometime?”

“Uh, sure. Let me get your number.”

(SQUEEE!!!!)

(number exchange takes place)

“I’ll call you when I get back from New York next week.”

SQUEEE!!!! New York? He must do something really cool and important to be going to New York! HE’S GOING TO CALL ME! SQUEEE!!!! I asked out cute Radio Shack boy. La la la. I’m going on a date.

Just then a nosy customer in my store piped up. (I say my store because I was manger. I say nosy because who cares what she has to say? I was going on a date with RadioShack boy.)

“Good job, that’s how I met my husband.”

(Internal dialoge) WHAT? SHUT UP! I don’t want a husband! Are you kidding me? They require maintenance and a COMMITMENT! I don’t do commitment. NO HUSBAND. They get FAT and DEMANDING. And the commitment! OH THE COMMITMENT. Nope. No way. Just lookin’ for a little action, not the ol’ ball and chain.

(External dialoge)”Uh, congratulations. I’m actually not in the market for one of those just now.”

Tuesday came, and he called. (SQUEEE!!!!)

To be continued…

*****

Your questions? OH! Your questions. I LOVE THEM. November is going to be the BEST MONTH EVER, thanks to you. (And you, and you over there, and you back there with the screaming toddler.) In fact I love them so much I’m going to start with this one from Schrodinger’s Cat. (I don’t know how to do the dots. I don’t even know how to properly spell umlaut. The o is supposed to have umlauts, adjust accordingly.)

If you were to get infected with rabies: list people you would bite.

So if you watch the office you’ll know the off color jokes I have at my disposal. But guess what? There really IS a rabies charity, THERE’S AN ENTIRE WORLD RABIES DAY.And guess what EVEN MORE? When you get rabies or they think you have rabies you have to get like a bajillionty (expensive! Hi Erica!) shots IN TENDER AREAS OF FLESH.

So I wouldn’t bite anyone. Rabies is the foaming barking killer. With lots and lots of thick juicy shots in soft fleshy areas. Darn, that wasn’t nearly as fun as I thought it would be.

Hello all.

How are you?

Me? I’m good, can’t complain. Have you tried the French Vanilla 3Muskateers? Mmm, pretty good. I think I prefer the large sized ones, more chocolate to nougat ratio. However, What? OH. Yes, I have favor to ask.

In an effort to keep my posts EVERY DAY IN THE MONTH OF NOVEMBER interesting (because we all can’t be her, sheesh) I’m putting a call out for,

QUESTIONS!

INQUIRES!

NOSINESS!

Let me have it people, all you lurkers, I see you there, well Sitemeter sees you, I see Sitemeter,

Middlemen.

Humph.

What do you want to know? What do you want to see here on moosh in indy? Think I could wittily approach the subject of pirate ballerinas wearing undies on their head? (BTW, totally saw one last night) Ask and ye may receive.

Other things you can look forward to in the month of November?

An eBay sale of legendary proportions!

How Cody and I ended up making babies together!

A pilgrimage to my hometown!

More off the moosh runway!

and…

Tongues! (well, a tongue, mine specifically. Maybe a little moosh tongue.)

So tell me dear readers (lurkers, LURKERS! HEY! I’m looking at you!) please ask away, otherwise my posts may start looking like this by November 20th:

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You know?

Me just slamming my head on the keyboard? (Or letting the moosh blog, same idea.)

Don’t let it come to that.

Happy November.