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

Maybe you’ve heard of Jessica Gottlieb? She was my gracious host in L.A. We’ve gone our rounds. She makes really good ribs. She describes herself as prickly. I describe her as brutally honest and just plain lovely.

If she were ever made into a superhero?

She’d totally be Scarlett.

“Scarlett is confident and resilient… it’s remarkable that a person so deadly can still retain a sense of humor.”

(Cody is so proud he spent all that money for me to get a design degree so I can do things JUST. LIKE. THIS.)

Tim said a trip to the emergency room on Saturday revealed that Michele had six to eight brain tumors. Upon hearing that news, the Web site was immediately flooded with messages of support.

Graddy’s friends even put together a meal program, house cleaning schedule and yard maintenance for her family.

Michele’s sister, Teresa Harman, said she used to be skeptical about Michele’s online friends, but not anymore.

“This is hard to even wrap your mind around. These are real people,” Harman said. “These are true friends.”

I just received word of this story from a friend and those words “online community rallies…” hit me in the most vulnerable part of my heart. Michele Graddy was an incredibly active member of an Indianapolis Mom’s networking site, MomsLikeMe. I hate to say was. She passed away from vicious and fast moving breast cancer leaving behind her husband and four children.

She was diagnosed less than a month ago.

I have never seen cancer first hand.

But I have seen loss first hand in the most achingly and devastating way possible.

I’ve also seen loss online. Too many losses to count.

But all of these losses have had one thing in common.

An online community rallied.

And while no online comminuty could ever fix what went wrong, we can rally, help, offer words and help to a greiving family.

And we do.

And that’s what makes us so great.

A facebook group has been set up to help the Graddy family.

Donations are being taken through any Huntington Bank Branch.

Fundraisers are being organzied.

Strangers are rallying.

And through this strangers are becoming friends.

And friends can make anything better.

Even something like this.

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.

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.)

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?

So it’s been about two and a half days since my innards were spelunked and I currently feel as though there is a very full puce colored balloon in my tummy that just has to be full of very nasty noxious gut gas. Got a visual on that? Good.

Just imagine the worst gas of your life but not being able to get it out the front or the back.

(Which reminds me. What did the stomach say to the burp? Give up? “I’ll let you out the back if you go quietly.” HA!)

So far the shoulder pain that a lot of you warned me about hasn’t been much of a bother. Of course from the way my last post reads and the way a lot of my tweets have been sounding I’m not sure I’ve felt much of anything over the past 48 hours let alone been coherent enough to comprehend any of it.

So I hurt. A lot. But my spirits are spry as a spring chicken.

Know why?

Because I have an answer! A timeline! HURRAH!

Now if any of you want to fill in the blanks because you’ve had this happen to you as well I’d appreciate it. I’d go out googling it but last time I did that I found out about teratomas and OH MY GOSH my doctor pulled a teratoma out of a girl a few weeks ago that had AN EYELID WITH EYELASHES IN IT.

The plan is to shut down my reproductive parts for six months with some sort of shot. (I got this news from Cody, he said “it sounded like something like, uh, Dem-uh, I don’t remember but it’s a shot.“) Now I won’t get the official MEDICAL definition and description of what’s going to be next until my follow up appointment but I can tell you that I like that where Dr. SallyForth is going with this. To know that for six months I can just live my life, let my little uterus get her freaking act straight and then assault her like a rabbit in heat when all is healed and taken care of. (Did you get a good visual on that too? YOU’RE WELCOME!)

Things I’ve learned while being laid out and gassed up?

Daytime TV stinks.

Simply willing food to appear in front of you does not work.

Many many women have all sorts of nasty things done to their uteri.

AND?

It takes approximately 23 minutes for narcotics to hit my system and make me ten kind of floppy fingered fun.

mmm. breakfast. (and lunch, and ironically dinner too.)

I MAAADE IT!

my ugerus was in saaaad sorry shape but is almost all bethter now. neeesdels to say the goood drugcs have not left my ssystem and with binking being exhausign and lifing my head to find backspace nect to impossible typing is kind of abug fat joke.

But i had to say THAANNNK YOUUU to everyone for makeing me giggle and weke[[p dammit weep wih all of your supprot on teh twiters.

i hurt pretty bad. no sense in lying aboruht that. my anetsheisioloigrst was Hot. i wauss supposed to have some spry redhead lady with freckles and instelad i got dashingdocntor mcdashypants. he had sto see me pee in bag while i was all out and stuff. also szince i was om ny period someone else had to take off may grannie pannies. THE Y DIDN’t GIVE hEM ABACK! have yet to see if they arean on ebayy today. BIIDD HGIGH PEPOLE!

BEST NEWSAS EVER!>>??? i got to skop the lasf few days of my period with my cleanout!! OH WOWHICUPS HUUURT!

moosh 2.o is sitill like half a year awya. apparenlty there’s jthings jacked up in there thaft surgfury couldn’t fix.(EDNO MEtreIOSIS LIKE x 10.000! BOO!!)  more on that when i don’t feel like a swallowed a mylar balooomn.

xoxoxo

pazz the drugs pl.sz!

I’ll just let you know that administering two pills per my ONE VAGINA involved some advanced yoga moves Wii Fit doesn’t even know about and a MacGyver rigged tampon.

*ahem*

My belly is marked, the winning submission was “Please leave cleaner than you found it.” followed quite closely by “I won’t hate you if you take out 10 lbs.”

(spelling on your belly is hard, yo.)

On a more serious note (meaning one that doesn’t involve my vagina or drugs in any direct way) back in February during the Coyote Ugly Bar Dancing Extravaganza Blissdom ‘09 I met a little lady with a Suhthin’ drawl named Rachel. Cute as a button I declared that we would be friends immediately. And so we were.

On the closing night of Blissdom, Rachel and I were at a GNO shindig where they gave out some lovely door prizes. When they announced that one of the giveaways was a lavender pearl set from Peachbutt Design Studio I believe my exact words were “SHUT UP.”

Rachel and I bonded over our mutual love of pearls and how fancy they make us feel.

Rachel’s name was picked first for the giveaway.

I watched her walk over and pick out the lovely pearl set.

“Good! I thought. They’re going to a PROPER pearl lover. The only place pearls truly belong.”

Then I watched as she walked towards me and shoved them into my hands.

(Totally awesome picture of both of us by mom-e-centric. But don’t look at us, look at the sentiment! OOH! SENTIMENT!)

The day after I arrived home from Blissdom I had my first official “infertility appointment” with my new doctor.

I wore my new pearls.

I have since worn them to every fertility related appointment since. I rolled them in my fingers during my ultrasound. I held tight do them during my hysterosalpingogram. Today will be no exception. Well, except that I can’t wear jewelry during surgery so my darling Ami will be wearing them for me in the waiting room. Also? I can’t wear makeup. Not even a dusting of powder or a smear of mascara. Boo.

I figure if the pearls started out their life already being payed forward twice after being handmade? There’s got to be something to that.

And you’d better believe I’ll be wearing them the day moosh 2.0 comes spewing forth from my loins.

Thank you for all your virtual hand holding. Britt had a request to see #caseysuterus as a trending topic on twitter today. If that really could happen? It would probably be the most awesome thing ever. (You know, next to shiny clean ovaries and what not.)

xoxo my lovelies.

(Oh, and P.S. to my little kid. Thanks for letting me take your Pooh Bear with me today. And no, they won’t actually tear my tummy open and yes I’ll ask for Hello Kitty band-aids and no, anesthesia is not the same as medistasia (medicine + Cinderella’s wicked stepsister.))

****

Oh! And while I’m off zzzzing why don’t you enter to win a bedtime kit worth over $250!

bai!