moosh in indy.

Fasten your seatbelts dear reader. I am a hormonal wreck with a blog.

The weather does this thing in Indiana, something I never saw in Utah.

It changes, quickly. I don’t even check the weather anymore out here because it has never, EVER been right. Ever.

A sunny morning could dramatically change to a storm in a matter of moments. When looking out the window at a storm with my kid I know in that it will pass over in fifteen minutes and that it’s not even worth rearranging our day or giving any consideration to.

If the rain sticks around for awhile we don ponytails, waterproof shoes, umbrellas and leave the white tshirts at home.

Other times we’ll be watching a storm and it will change dramatically. Tornado sirens go off. I worry about where our 72 hour kit is. How we would find Cody. What’s even worse is when these kinds of storms happen when I’m out driving alone. I have to choose between pulling off the road or risk continuing on.

Other times I find myself sitting in a downpour. But I can see blue skies just a few miles away. The cloud just seems to be following me around. Head a few minutes in the opposite direction and suddenly I’m under those blue skies, wondering what the heck I was so worried about and wondering if the storm that had me so freaked out ever really happened.

This is depression for me.

I never know when it’s going to sneak up on me. There’s no forecast for such things. And just like the weather there’s no way to prevent it or move it along if I’m just not in the mood for crappy weather.

When I’m in the thick of it I really only have two choices. Pull off or keep going, risking the consequences.

I know it will go away. But when? Sitting under that raincloud staring out at blue sky that is so close is soul crushing sometimes.

Why am I one of the ones stuck under the cloud without an umbrella?

I hate that I will always have a fear of those stupid storm clouds no matter how blue the sky is.

Dear tiny gramma,

the moosh is just like me. Go ahead and gloat.

Need examples?

Well first there was the “I want a new mom.” debacle of May 2009. Apparently asking her to get dressed was not in the mother/daughter manifesto leaving her to fire me only to rehire me after she realized she couldn’t pick her new mom up at the airport without the aid of her old mom.

So apparently I get to stay the mom by circumstance.

Which is to say as soon as she can make eyes at some boy who can drive her to the airport where they keep the new moms who don’t ask their kids to get dressed? I’m out of a job.

She also fired Cody the other night because she didn’t get any mail. But that’s beside the point, because Cody is ruining my child and when I say Cody is ruining my child I mean that the bar is ruining my Cody which in turn is ruining my child.

He leaves early and stays late to study. the moosh claims she cannot fall asleep without a hug from her dad (tender right? IT’S ALL A PLOY, I’m onto her little game) which in turn leaves her hysterically sobbing into the phone to Cody while she squeaks out,

“DaaDaadddy…I…*hiccup*…miii*hiccup*sssss…*gasp*…yooouuu. sob.”

Last night I had the brilliant! idea of giving her a picture of Cody to hold while she fell asleep.

But the only one I could find was a leftover engagement picture.

From 2000.

Nothing really says “go to sleep little darling” like a picture of your parents when they were 18 and 21.

I gave her the picture anyway since we still do resemble our previous selves (uh, enough.)

“MOM! CUT YOU OUT OF THIS PICTURE! I ONLY WANT DADDY!”

ouch.

“You can deal with looking at me, I’m not cutting it up. Good night, go to sleep, I love you, no bedbugs and all that jazz.”

This morning?

Yeah. There you have it. My existence in my daughters world can be negated with a well placed Barbie sticker.

Enjoy the quiet satisfaction that she is only four and is already stabbing tiny hot pokers of teenage angst into my weary heart.

xoxo-

Your youngest and most favorite daughter that could have never possibly caused you this much heartache and grief,

Casey

Happy Birthday America!

Part of what makes you so great is your food.

Now I’m not going to get all “who owns what food stereotype” on you because I did that with Green Jell-o a few weeks ago and it got ugly. Only because I was totally right (that Mormons OWN the Green Jell-o title) and the Lutherans, Methodists and whatever else religions that thrive on pitch-ins, potlucks and linger longers are sore losers. (Whoops. Sorry. Smack talk.)

Anyway the Indy Star picked up on my suggestion of Frog Eye Salad and totally featured it in their pitch in article.

Regardless of the whole religious aspect, I feel confident in knowing that I know my pitch-in/potluck/linger longer food.

Which is why today I bring you moosh beans.

Normally they are called Mormon Beans, but since I’m all about culinary equality here at moosh in indy they have been renamed moosh beans.

“BUT WHY WERE THEY CALLED MORMON BEANS?” you ask.

Because these beans utilize everything that encompasses Mormon cuisine short of sour cream, cream of chicken/mushroom soup and rice. However it does use bacon, food storage cans, a crock pot and a random smattering of ingredients all put together in said crock pot to produce a massive amount of tasty tasty shareable food.

Get your crock pots ready folks, because here we go. (double it if you have to share.)

In your crock pot add:

2 15oz. cans of pork and beans

1 15 oz. can of dark red or white (cannellini) kidney beans (rinsed and drained)

1 c. salsa (I always use Mrs. Renfro’s Black Bean Medium Salsa)

3/4 c. brown sugar

1.5 t. dry mustard

1 t. salt

1 T. apple cider vinegar

now in a saute pan:

brown 1/2 lb. ground beef (add to crock pot)

saute 1 large chopped onion (add to crock pot)

brown 1/2 lb. thick bacon, cut into thin pieces (add to crock pot)

Stir it all together and let it do its crock pot thing until you have to go. (High about an hour, low up to 4 or 5 hours, stir regularly please!)

Eat with cornbread.

You’re welcome.

Last year just before BlogHer I had my hairs done. Not only was it the best hair did session I had ever had, I had also finally found someone. Someone who I could just sit down in her chair and say “FIX THIS” and she did. Perfectly.

The stylist ended up breaking her shoulder about a week after she did my hair. I was one of her last clients. (Try not feeling really guilty about that. She’s the one that breaks her shoulder and I’m the one that’s boo hooing because she won’t ever be able to do my hair again.)

One of the most shocking things about this haircut is that she actually thinned out half of my hair. I have a ton of it, it is naturally curly (hello, have you seen my kid?) but it is very, very fine. Having all that extra weight gone was liberating. And the color? I did nothing less than glow for months. It was through this haircut that I met Whoorl and it was through this hairstyle that we came up with the “Let the moosh whoorl your hair contest extravaganza” (Long story short, I won a $1000 gift card and decided to pay it forward by holding a contest and sponsoring another lady to have a complete hair makeover. Because good hair days? WORTH EVERY PENNY.)

Oh. Speaking of pennies.

We just bought a house. With a broken pipe that flooded the ceiling and turned my kitchen into Lake St. Moosh. And it’s infested with carpenter ants. And it’s currently painted in all the colors that were rejected by Chuck E. Cheese and It’s a Small World. BUT OOH! HOME OWNERSHIP! My husband also just graduated from law school. Which means all those people that funded law school are going to want their money back in a few short months.

With interest.

Guess what the first thing to go is when you have to give up “luxurious spending?”

Personal care.

And then I started going bald.

Seriously.

From PCOS.

So I had my hair thinned out on purpose, and then I started going bald.

And then I started to cry a lot.

The time came that I needed to get a trim on my thinned balding head of hair.

On a budget.

Which landed me at a mall “salon” with a salty older woman named Charlotte.

$18 hair cuts really do look like $18 hair cuts with my hair.

Charlotte decided that “blending in my bangs” meant “bring them back to life, only when they are reanimated make sure they are in the ’90’s style of big swoop bangs.” Oh, and then she just trimmed the rest all even without blending the layers so I ended up with a sort of mullet with a puff on top.

There are very few pictures from this period of my life. Most involve ponytails. And headbands.

But this one survived.

This was after Charlotte, twenty minutes of tears and an hour with a straightening/curling iron.

Even my mother in law concurred that I pretty much looked worse than before the haircut.

So maybe you’re thinking “It’s not that bad.” Which I agree, it’s not that bad.

But I know what good hair can do for a girl. And for her outlook on life.

My hair has roots. It’s not a flattering color for my skin. It’s too heavy in places, too thin in others. But I have hair. And it’s not falling out anymore. It smells pretty good most of the time. It’s healthy. And most importantly it’s growing from my head instead of my nipples (you PCOS girls out there are all AMEN TO THAT.)

Why make such a big deal out of my hair? Three reasons. One? I’m having a giveaway based on all things follicular. You want to win. Promise. Find all the details here.

Second? Susan of Friday Playdate, Heather of No Pasa Nada, Danielle of Foodmomiac and Sparrow Hair in Chicago are having a little hair makeover contest. And I’d kinda like to be able to be in the nimble hands of Sparrow Hair and Whoorl all while being in the company of Susan, Heather and Danielle. I’d like to spend my BlogHer weekend with fancy new hairs. (Hello best swag ever.) And also? If I don’t enter for this opportunity? I’ll be destined to “Charlottes” because when it comes down to it? Functioning plumbing really is more necessary than fancy hairs.

Darn practicality.
Third? The only appointments I’ve had the past two months have involved doctors, gas, bloating, blood, narcotics (so this one’s kinda funny), nausea, pain and my vagina. I’d like one that didn’t involve any of the above. And for the pity vote?

That’s not a baby. That’s C02 from my laparoscopy. And that’s also a ponytail. And a headband.

See? I don’t lie.

*kiss kiss* to the judges. I don’t envy your task.

(going to BlogHer? You can enter too as long as you do it by tomorrow. See aforementioned sites for all the details.)

***this is the post that is going to be known as corngate ‘09. this post is for THOSE people. who burn boiling water. who have to call their sisters to find out how to make canned tomato soup. who think frozen waffles are fine dining. true corn lovers know that grilling is the best way to cook corn. But I feel this post is needed, because THOSE people? Should never know corn can be cooked by an open flame. I’m only trying to save the innocent ears.****

It has come to my attention Internets (serious eyes) that the Fourth of July is coming up and a lot of you don’t know how to properly cook corn on the cob.

THIS IS NOT OKAY AMERICA.

(To the rest of the world, bear with me, I’m about to set America straight.)

As a Midwesterner I feel it my duty to know how to prepare corn. Just as it is a Texans duty to know how to prepare brisket or a New Englanders duty to know the proper care and preparation of chowder. After spending a year learning how to choose and prepare corn and a year to practice I feel safe in saying I. HAVE. IT. DOWN.

First? Quit husking your corn at the grocery store. QUIT IT. While you’re at it, DON’T EVEN OPEN IT. Just feel it. It should be heavy for its size and firm. (I know, BUT WHAT ABOUT BUGS? Corn begins losing its tasty tasty sugars as soon as the kernels are exposed to air, so buy a couple of extra ears and deal with the possibility of bugs. In three years? I’ve had maybe three bugged ears and they were all redeemable. It’s called a knife.)

(Also? Don’t buy corn out of season. Part of your carbon footprint involves eating what’s in season where and when it’s in season. If possible keep your eye on the corn bins during peak corn season, when they refill the stock? BEST PICKINGS EVER.)

Okay.

Now you have your corn. While your boiling a huge pot of salted water husk your corn and rinse it off. (I’m not OCD about the silks, you shouldn’t be either.)

As soon as the water is boiling add the corn.

Let the water return to a boil, put a tight fitting lid over the top, remove it from heat (turn it off please, I know there are those people out there) and set a timer for five minutes.

After five minutes take out your first serving, leaving the rest in for up to 10 more minutes.

Butter (real butter please,) salt (kosher sea salt please) and enjoy.

Also this week in honor of America’s Birthday?

The proper way to make pie crust (cherry for us!) and the proper way to make baked beans.

You’re welcome founding fathers. Really.

****
What are you obligated by geographic location to know how to make?

I finally learned all the right words to “Silent Night” tonight. It’s the moosh’s favorite bedtime song along with “Baby Mine.” Since December I’ve hummed and la la la’ed through verses two and three when I wasn’t entirely sure of what went next. And let me tell you, the moosh has no problem letting me know when I do something wrong.

“What song do you want tonight?”
“What songs do you know?”
“I know Baby Mine, Stay Awake, Tarzan, Child of God, Silent Night, Rock….”
“No you don’t.”
“No I don’t what?”
“Know Silent Night.”

Schooled yet again by my four year old. Tonight I got up, dug out the hymnbook and made myself learn the proper words to “Silent Night.” I’m nervous that when the moosh gets to school kids will laugh at our version of “Patty Cake.” (I didn’t know the words so I made them up too.)

Patty Cake Patty Cake Baker’s man,
Bake me a cake as fast as you can.
Roll it, and smash it, and PACK IT WITH CHEESE!
Put it in the oven for mooshie and me!

I’ve always known my little kid is my life and it is a true blessing that *I* of all people get to be her mom. The past week has punched me in the face. Changed me in its own way. I’d like to say I treasure every moment, but treasuring entire bottles of pomegranate juice spilled on the clean blanket I happen to be sitting on is still a little out of my league. Then there’s the guilt. Heather will never find Maddie hidden in a corner eating an entire bag of Milano cookies and drawing on herself and surrounding areas with a permanent marker. Where is that line? The line that separates gratitude that I have a small marked up person who smells of cookies and Sharpie and the raging horror at myself that I let her get a Sharpie and a bag of Milanos and even worse that she was smart enough to know EXACTLY what to do with them?

I will never be perfect, whining will still make my ears bleed on bad days. However I can and will take the time to learn the words to “Silent Night.” To draw a heart in her peanut butter sandwich (remember circa 1986 JIF commercials? My sister and I DEMANDED hearts in our PBJ’s.) To stop off at the animal shelter to pet cats. To stand at the top of the stairs and blow bubbles down to her. To wake up (to her clobbering me) with a smile and a hug before demanding “FIVE MORE MINUTES!”

Most of all, I want her to know that her true friends and family are more valuable than anything else in this life. And I hope that I can instill in her strength, compassion and confidence so when the time comes for her to care for one of her friends more than she has ever cared for herself, she will be able to forget herself and go to work.

The only thing in this life that increases when we give it away is love.

Lucky for me I have lots to go around.

These are the days that puzzle me the most.

I wake up from restless sleep, begin my day only to become more and more anxious as the day goes on. Feeling overwhelmed, incredibly frustrated. I look around and realize that I’m doing the same thing I do everyday. Picking up the same messes, washing the same laundry, putting away the same toys, cleaning the same dishes. Dealing with the same tantrums, the same schedule, the same frustrations every day. Yet there is the occasional day that putting away the same t-shirt for the 37th time causes me to look around and realize I accomplish nothing great on a day to day basis. Everything I do today will be misplaced, dirty, eaten or unfolded by the end of the week and I will start all over again next week. And for the next many many weeks to come. This in turn causes me fall to the floor in a heap and cry.

It’s so dumb.

This is my life that I chose, and most days I’m happy with it.

But some days I want to throw it all in garbage bags and start over.

Tomorrow the piles won’t look so big, my imperfections won’t glare so harshly and I’ll wonder what ever happened to me yesterday. I just have to get to tomorrow first.

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.

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

Do you have any idea how much better my brain functions at 78 degrees? Or 85 degrees if a swimming pool is nearby? Way better. The last time I was blindsided by depression was in February. Blah, icky, gloomy, stupid February. And I also have a confession to make.

This last little bout?

Totally more or less my fault.

Someone forgot to call in her refill request. A week went by, constant thoughts of “OH I SHOULD GET THAT REFILLED” went through my head. But I always found something to distract me. Blah blah long story short I bottomed out awful quick and when I finally called in my refill request I was smacked down with a whole bunch of BS NO HEALTH INSURANCE BUREAUCRACY.

Side note.

Dear Cody,

If you take a job that doesn’t offer benefits you will be eating Spaghettios and rye bread until the day you die. I will make sure of it.

xo-Red

Apparently I needed to go back and have my level of crazy re-evaluated. I tried to explain to them that I felt fine, the medication that was prescribed to me last time was working wonders, I didn’t have any insurance coverage that would allow me to come back in at a price we could afford and IF THEY DIDN’T GIVE ME MORE I WOULD END UP BAT CRAP CRAZY SO GIVE ME THE DRUGS!

*ahem*

I guess in my current lucid condition I can see why they may have suggested a re-evaluation instead of handing over prescription medication.

Long story short. I’m not any more crazy than I was four months ago, or even four years ago. The meds stayed the same and I will be calling in refill requests a month in advance. I may even just stockpile them. Along with thousands of hand sanitizing wipes and packets of stolen Sweet & Low. And then I’ll get a bunch of cats and yell at kids who play on my lawn. I could easily become that lady.

In the meantime I am taking good care of myself. I am surrounded by lovely friends who also take good care of me. I have one that stands at my door and sings me songs at the top of her lungs, I have another one who offers copious amounts of cupcakes along with babysitting services, I have yet another one that promises to drag my sorry rear out to dinner and feed me until I can’t think let alone feel. I got dozens of sweet sweet emails, many with funny stories to take my mind of the garbage my brain was trying to pull over on me. I even have one friend who called just to make fun of me.

Thanks you guys.

I am in a wonderful place.

Short of baking my kid to a crisp today at the pool (seriously, has anyone ever heard of one kind of sunscreen negating another kind and actually inviting the burning rays of the sun to suck all life out of tender flesh? Because I swear that’s what happened.) I had a very good day.

I even took my first Pilates class. Yeah, you should be laughing.

Do they sell cores at Costco? I could really use one.