moosh in indy.

Say hello to the Dentist and Attorneys of the class of 2008.

(Except for the really pregnant one and the one with me, they’re the attorneys of the class of 2009. *grumble* one more year *grumble*)

We all went out to treat ourselves to fancy dinner before heading off to different corners of the Nation to become grownups. (snicker) Our reservation was at what I think is the most famous steakhouse in Indiana. Imagine our surprise when they led us down into the basement to our private table in the wine cellar.

We’re all Mormon. None of us drink. Instead of giddy anticipation we were all overcome with a general sense of confusion at our surroundings. Me being the not wine drinker that I am badgered our waiter with all sorts of wine related questions (after I ordered a Coke of course)

“What’s the oldest bottle in here?” I asked

“That would be the 1902 blah blah something in French blah blah over here that sells for $8,500.”

Folks, that right there is a bottle of hundred and five year old wine that is worth half a semester of Law School.

Then I learned about the limited edition bottle of champagne that is promised to the owner of the Dallas Cowboys if it doesn’t sell by January 2009. It was only $8,000. And it came with a fancy box. That locked.

Then came the menu. The hunks of beef at this place weren’t cheap. BUT WHOO, they were good. (Sorry PETA)

I had prime rib. I had 32 oz. of prime rib. I ate 1/60th of my weight in cow.

Does anybody know about the legend of the tomato juice? No?

Well supposedly steak houses at the turn of the century would serve you a glass of tomato juice as an palate cleanser and to aid in digestion. The tomato juice supposedly helps your body digest steak. Did I say supposedly? IT TOTALLY DOES. Someone my size who is used to eating string cheese and Cheetos should have been miserable after that much cow. But I felt just dandy. Even Cody, the self proclaimed meat eating champion of 2000 couldn’t even keep up with me.

If I was anemic before Saturday night, I guarantee I’m not anymore.

So that was our dinner.

I’d be letting you down if I didn’t tell you what the server’s face looked like when he realized that the enormous table IN THE WINE CELLAR ordered nothing but water, Coke and lemonade.

It was somewhere between a kid who got coal in his stocking on Christmas and someone who’d just been told his Pony Christol had died.

So my little friends, looks like I’m not the only Twitterdork.  So allow me to explain Twitter in my own words.

Let’s say the internet is High School. Every time you post on your blog it is the same as standing up and giving a report in class. All eyes are on you and for a few (sometimes painful) minutes you are the star and you get the feedback, the praise and a “grade” on your presentation.

Well if your blog is class, Twitter is lunch period. Everyone all together meandering in and out of conversations when they have the chance. Contributing when they want, starting new topics when they want and announcing general craziness when needed. Twitter is just like the worlds longest mass text message ever. Twitters show up, one after another as people post them. They just keep going and going and going. Sometimes they are responses to other Twitters, sometimes they are questions and sometimes they’re general observances. Regardless, once you do it, even just once, you’ll “get” it. (I should also mention that you can pick and choose whos Twitters you follow, so you can keep up with friends and favorites easily.)

It’s awful really, yeah,  awful fun. Sometimes all you want to put out there is that two chocolate chip cookies with a bunch of frosting smooshed in the middle is really really tasty, but you’re not quite ready to devote a whole blog post to the topic of frosting stuffed cookies. So you Twitter it. The world knows of the pure sugary bliss that is cookies piled with frosting and you are off the hook of trying to figure out how to make frosting smooshed cookies sound interesting enough to devote and entire post to.

Does that help you Twitterdorks want to become my Twitterhos? Hope so. Does it also make you want a frosting smooshed cookie? Because you totally should.

Well I’m glad you like it. Thank you very much. I’ve mentioned before it’s a small miracle that it still appears every day, especially on days after I messed with it. What I’m coming to realize is that there is an awful lot that you crazy kids are participating in out there on the interwebs and I’ve been left huffing in your dust.

But I am pleased to say that I have joined ranks and now have a Stumble Upon profile, I’m somewhere in there on sk-rt, and tonight-I LOST MY TWTTERGINITY. That’s right, my first ever Twitter took place at exactly 9:58 pm EST.

And at 9:59 EST I realized I still don’t get it.

But I do get that an awful lot of you cool kids are hip to the SU Twitter jive, so will you be my friend (my fan? my follower? my groupie? my twitterho?) I’ll be sure to return the favor. Call it painful memories from high school but when you join up with these things they always ask to raid your email address book so they can instantly make you a fan (a friend? a follower? a groupie? a twitterho?) of three hundred and eighty seven people, but no one is a fan (a friend? a follower? a groupie? a twitterho?) of you. So you’re left feeling like the fat kid with braces, pigtails and mustard stains in the bleachers decked out in TOTAL TEAM SPIRIT that no one will sit next to.

I’m here to be your twitterho, let’s twitterho it up. And now I’m just looking for excuses to type twitterho.

Thanks.

Bah. More like DUMP DUMP DUMP BIG NASTY MARCH STORM.

Oh well, at least we have cute boots.

Please send your love and prayers to these ladies who need them now more than ever.

Her sweet little baby is in the hospital, again.

And her husband is in need of a Kidney. Have a spare one lying around somewhere in there? He really needs it.

“Is Daddy having a party? A birthday party? Can I make his birthday party? We need balloons, lots of balloons. Who’s going to come to his party? Only daddies can come to his party. I can come, because I’m a little girl, but friends can’t come and mommies can’t come because daddy’s a daddy and only daddies come to daddy parties.”

“Can mom come to his birthday party?”

“Um, yeah, you can come, you can bring him his cake. WITH THE FIRE! And we’ll SING! We need to get candlesticks for his cake. Is he having chocolate cake? Or chocolate cake? With frosting? I love frosting! Can I lick the spoon? Is daddy going to have a princess cake? NO! Just kidding. He’s going to have a football cake. A big brown football cake. A chocolate football. Can I help you make it? I’m going to need to lick the spoon. Let’s get balloons! Pirate balloons and Spiderman Balloons and Football balloons! Daddy’s a boy so he has to have a boy party. A Spiderman, football, pirate party, ARGH! Can I open his presents?”

“We have to wait until daddy gets home before you can ask if you can open his presents.”

“Oh. Can I have cake please?”

“We have to wait until after dinner for cake.”

“Let’s eat dinner!”

“We have to wait for daddy to get home.”

“Can I have cake while I wait for daddy? He won’t mind, he shares his cake with me.”

(Enter Cody)

“DADDY! Can I open your presents for you? (commences to tear them open and chuck each gift at him as she moves on to the next) ALL DONE! Time for CAKE! Daddy! I made you a football cake! With daddy beans in a heart! Happy birthday daddy. What’s your number? I’m going to be four, mom’s going to make me a princess cake, a Cinderella cake. She’ll sing, she’ll sing so beautiful. Is it time for cake yet?”

“the moosh, we have to wait until after dinner, if you ask one more time you won’t be having cake because I will have taped your mouth closed.”

“Oh, hee hee, sorry mom. I’ll ask daddy. Daddy? Can I have cake? Pleeease?”

*****

Birthdays are way more fun when someone’s around who actually thinks turning another year older is awesome.

I am a sweaty, sweaty person.

And not only when doing the conga at weddings on the beach in Florida mind you.

Yep, you can pretty much bet that if my heart is beating, my pits are sweaty.

They’re just especially sweaty on the beach. In Florida. At fancy weddings. Whilst dancing my can off.

Enough with the Florida/beach references?

Okay.

I have good news though! I’m not alone! And if you’re one of the secret sweaty come on over to Blissfully Domestic to read more pit talk out of me and find out what you can do about it!

We’re going to start the B.O. Mafia, our slogan?

“We will funk you.”

If you’re not to hip to the gushy love garbage that us married folk can dish out now and again CLICK! AWAY! I warn you! Because I’m about to get ten kinds of mushy towards the man I call husband.

Yep, there he is. Pretty sad that the only picture I have of just him is from last year. Someone commented awhile ago that I should post more pictures of him, or even GASP! a family picture. Brilliant idea I say but he’s just not around enough to accomplish such a task. The sheer absence of Cody from my blog should be enough proof that the man really is gone that much.

But oh! He’s gone working his tail off for us. For our family and our future and for the chance that one day the moosh will be able to go to school and not have to worry about all of these stifling graduate student loans. His work ethic used to annoy me when we first got married. He would never (NEVER!) take a day off. The only time (seriously, only time) he ever called in sick was after his second trip to the ER in a week for an abscessed throat and three doctors ordered him to take the night off.

Now his work ethic has him accomplishing every goal he set for himself in law school. I don’t have to worry about him dropping out, or finishing school and deciding “Huh, this really isn’t for me, I think I’ll give long haul trucking a try.” Despite the fact that he annoys the daylights out of the moosh and me any chance he gets, we know we are the center of his universe and he’d do anything for us.

Have you seen the hot Australian on American Idol? All scruffy and hot singing his hot hot songs? Yeah, I saw him too. And then I saw him again, only this time I though “Huh. He’s alright.” And then I saw him again. The spark was gone. Alli explained it perfectly on her Marriage Hacks site. “Research has proven that when we are in love we look at members of the opposite sex as less attractive.” Hence the reason the hot sweaty Australian lost points in my lusty love book.

That brings me to the whole theory surrounding the seven year itch. Well I’m at seven years and the only itch I feel is his tie tack when I loosen it at the end of the day. (Men dressed in slacks with their sleeves rolled up, collars unbuttoned and ties loose? Oh, mama.) I’m in love with this man who sings the Tigger song to the moosh at night, who saves me cupcakes from law school functions and who lets me have one night a week where I can walk out the door and be by myself as soon as he walks in it. Actually, I love him more now that I ever have in the past seven years. The only difference is we show our love now through constant annoyance and relentless teasing.

Sweet sweet love.

So there you have it. I’m smitten kitten in love with the man who also happens to be the father of my child, my husband for time and all eternity, the biggest pain in the arse I know and who also happens to be a year older today.

Happy birthday you hunk of delicious man meat.