moosh in indy.

Right now people are reading this hoping for scandalous pictures of me shaking my money maker completely sober out on a dance floor that were taken last night. But alas they are going to be stuck reading this (I’m not sure yet what adjective to use here) note to you.

Just now when you left to go back to school to continue your adverse possession of the law library I squeaked out a “Please don’t go.” through snot and puffy teary eyes. I wanted to say it to you, but I know school is where you need to be and I know if I would have said it to you, you would have stayed. But I’m so grateful for the hour you came home to be with me tonight that I can’t go getting selfish.

Now don’t worry, this isn’t me getting sad. This is me missing you. This is also me so damn tired from shaking my money maker last night that my ears are buzzing, by eyes are burning and I’m beginning to hear voices. Unfortunately I don’t think there’s a single person (including you) that wants to hear my voice and my constant nose blowing right now. But the blog never cares what hour it is or what I’m wearing or how many tissues pile up next to it.

I love you so much I feel like half of my heart is missing, locked up in a law library at the corner of West and New York for 18 hours a day. I know it’s only a couple more weeks. And I know as soon as I get a good nights sleep I’ll sound and act a whole lot less crazy. But for now you’re all I can think about. How I’m even more in love with you now that that moment on your couch I knew I was going to be with you forever over seven years ago is beyond me. But I am.

Keep on doing what you’re doing.

Only one more year of school.

I’m so proud to call you my husband. And honored that you ever chose me to be your wife and the ruler mother of your child.

And even though you’ll be at school for 55 of the next 72 hours please don’t forget that my birthday is on Monday. Law school’s important, but not that important. Duh.

Loce,

Redbeth

(Oh, and by the way, those scandalous pictures? Right here baby, right here. Promise I’ll get to that after I recover from all this love I have for Cody.)

I know I’m not the only one who leaves town for two weeks and comes home to this.

Right?

“OH! But it’s just an exercise bike and a weight bench!” you say.

Yes, it is an exercise bike and weight bench.

Hanging.

From.

My.

Ceiling. (and walls.)

And in case your worried about coming to my house and having an exercise bike fall from the sky and render you unconscious, don’t worry, it’s being held in by SIX BOLTS AND A CHAIN.

After seven years I’ve come to expect nothing less.

I’m so in love with someone so unbelievably odd.

********

I guess I should explain the stuff hanging on the walls…it kind of explains why I’m not peeved about it.

Whilst I was gone he found a big cherry wood desk on CraigsList for $100. (a $1500 desk mind you.)

The desk is so huge it took over where the fancy “home gym” used to reside. It also left six enormous holes in my walls and knocked out a door jamb. *sigh*

He got it so that he could come home at night and have a place to be with his “girls” when he studies.

So instead of him being at school from 6am to midnight I get to have him home a few extra hours and in exchange I get to have sporting goods on my wall. Both of which he can reach quite easily (my baby is all kinds of strong) and uses regularly. And yes, this really was the last (not necessarily logical) place to put the stuff.

Did I mention I married a packrat? Because I totally did, despite trying to beat it out of him for the last seven years the pack rat has clung on tight and refuses to die.

When Cody and I moved across the driveway of our first apartment into the one next door there was a morning where the food was in one apartment and the dishes were at the other. I was eight months pregnant and still vomiting quite regularly. I needed to eat within a half hour of waking up or my vomiting would get even worse.

Ah, pregnancy.

On this particular morning Cody woke me up and took me to IHOP immediately to feed me. I ordered some sort of pancake or french toast with no frills and Cody ordered some enormous plate of meat, cheese and eggs. My breakfast came with eggs also, but the very thought of eating an egg, even ordering an egg made me ill. Cody ordered for me and had my eggs poached so that he could eat them himself.

Fine.

Now if you’ve been to IHOP then you’re probably aware of the syrup caddy on the table, four different kinds of syrup for your enjoyment. When Cody got the poached eggs he picked up a syrup bottle, poured in ON THE EGGS and stirred them into a lumpy yolky syrup soup which he ate with a spoon.

A. Gross

B. When your wife is still violently ill eight months pregnant and dry heaves at the thought of cantaloupe, THIS IS EVEN MORE GROSS.

Thus began the great egg/syrup debate of the moosh family. I cannot, CANNOT, let syrup touch my eggs. Cody pours it on his eggs. My in laws don’t mind if eggs and syrup touch and I have a friend who won’t even eat them in the same meal.

So who’s the majority? Who’s the minority?

Eggs and syrup are one edible issue I have strong opinions on.

That and vegetables masquerading as dessert (I’m looking at you sweet potatoes.). But that’s an entirely different post.