moosh in indy.

I got an email from a reader the other day who happens to have a lot in common with my occasional bouts of crazy. She told me she started reading my blog when I posted “The Overdose“, the post I read at the Community Keynote at BlogHer ‘08. She is currently treading some heavy waters with depression.

This is what she said:

…And then there’s this: I guess I just wanted to say … um … thanks for posting that picture. Because right now, and in the past year or so, I really haven’t been able to begin to believe that one day…I might want to get up and dance. But there you are, and you’re dancing, and you’re rocking out. And it made me smile.

So thanks.

Miss A, these are for you.

My prayers are with you, and with anyone else who may be hurting.

xoxo

I met Abby Cadabby.

I cried a little. Sesame Street holds a very tender part of my heart. Abby even called the moosh and left her a message.

I cried a little bit more.
Then I got to make a DVD with Grover.
I KNOW! GROVER!

Abby found out that Kim and I were best friends and insisted on having our picture all taken together.

And then Kim got to make a DVD with Grover for her kids.

We both cried. Our cheeks hurt from smiling so much.
I love Sesame Street, always have.
And now I know that Sesame Street loves me.

Inspired by my fellow Community Keynote (holy crap!) speakers Angela and Schmutzie. A few things you may need to know before ever hanging out with me. You know, in large social gatherings and stuff. Maybe even one in San Fransisco. Or in Indiana, or even Utah. I’m not picky.

1. I am not the moosh. the moosh is my kid. I am Casey. Nice to meet you.

2. “moosh in indy” rhymes with “push pin Cindy” not “Mewsh fin slindly”. I say this because:

• A. the pronunciation of “mewsh” bugs me.

• B. I’m too nice to correct you if you do pronounce it “mewsh”, but I will then know you don’t hang on to every mother loving word I write on this blog and you will be dead to me.

Consider this a PSA. I also hate to be called Case. So don’t do it.

3. I have the voice of a little girl. Of course in my head it’s very sultry and appealing. Alas, out loud it comes off as squeaky and the next telemarketer that asks if my parents are home will be smitten with a sore curse.

4. I’ll be the one with the dent in my left shin. You know, from falling down the stairs in Chicago? If you ask I may let you see it up close, maybe even touch it. Heaven knows I won’t be able to feel it.

RIP shin nerves.

5. If I find out you are Canadian and that you did not bring me Wunderbars I will ignore your existence on this planet, eh?

6. I’m kind of kidding on most of these. Of course if you hang on to every mother loving word I write on this blog then you’d already know that.

7. I made my husband breakfast this morning. It involved raspberries, vanilla and a blowtorch.

Intrigued? Check the food blog, Linoleum Dynamite, and if you ever come to my house I will cook for you.