SYTYCD

Friends, it's back.

My favorite show ever has just started its fourth season, and I'm one lucky gal to get to enjoy it all summer long. Say it with me--"So You Think You Can Dance"!

Last May, June, and July's Wednesday and Thursday nights found our tiny apartment packed with fellow "Dance" fans, from North and Shannon, my Judy Garland buffs, to Patrick and Bethany, who were really just there to hang out, to Billy and Heather, who loved chipping in on how lame certain costumes were. Okay, I cherished every moment of it. Even when I had to pause and rewind about a thousand times because the boys were talking so loudly over Nigel's criticisms and Mary Murphy's hot tamale train. Pure networking genius, I tell you.

And not just because I used to dance. But mostly because I used to dance. My Crohn's disease limited my athletic ability since my joints were so weak, so (go figure) I took dance classes instead of PE in high school. Pretty lame, since we only danced to praise music and did the same lyrical half-hearted moves in every number. But I loved dancing, so I pulled up my black spandex dance pants and tied my jazz shoes and clapped my hands and stomped my feet to the best of my ability.

Many years later, I suck at dancing but wish I could be amazing again. Although some might say that I was never amazing to begin with. Whatever. I was cool in my own head and that's what counts, right? Even if when I shake it I purse my lips like a duck trying to whistle.

Enter "So You Think You Can Dance". Pretty much the coolest couple of hours during my week. And even though I haven't had a houseful of buddies over yet, I'm enjoying every moment of this new season and it's fresh dancing meat. I may not be fun to watch it with (sorry Sarah), because I can't help but talk through the whole thing, but my giddiness and excitement is infectious. I promise. Enough to make my husband watch two two-hour episodes back-to-back with me until the wee hours of the morning. Someone loves me very much.

But my absolute favorite part? Marty and I have come up with our own dance moves that we get up and perform during the commercial breaks. His is that "junk in the trunk" dance that we always talk about but no one ever sees since he's kind of embarrassed of himself for coming up with it. And I call mine "screet dancing" in honor of one of last year's performers. And we are hilarious.

So head on over to the Moseley pad when it's on next, and you just might catch us prancing around like the idiots that we love to be. But come on, don't fault us. We just "Think We Can Dance".

the cookie curse is back...

I have officially taken on the "cookie curse".

My oatmeal cookies usually turn out perfectly, and taste like the heaven that they are. I'm even a little bit famous for them.

But the other night, while my family was in town and I thought it would be fun to make a batch, I was shocked and horrified at the cookie nightmare that ensued. Round, plump, chewy morsels were replaced by flat, crumbly discs. My excuse was that it was the first time I had tried making them in a gas oven. Our landlord blessed us with a beautiful new oven after the old one caught on fire, but it just doesn't make my cookies the same way. Though my husband was more than delighted when I told him he could have just "one" cookie before bed and I pulled this out of the oven:

Guess I'll just have to experiment with different temps and timing to get my cookies back to their beautiful selves. Beautiful and individual selves. That is, cookies that are actually cookies and not one giant glob of cinnamony oatmealy goo. I'll make batch after batch until they come out just right, and I can regain my "heavenly-oatmeal-cookies-maker" title.

Anyone want to do some taste testing?

movin' on up

So, our Pecauts moved last Friday. From their tiny apartment into an adorable house, complete with a huge backyard, their own garage, and a kitchen any chef would be jealous of.

The day started off on a rather small note--just Candace, Bobby and I were trying to load the moving truck ourselves. And I am NOT strong. So the tiny boxes were left for me to carry, while the Pecauts reached gladiator status by lifting some pretty crazy stuff. I did try to help with the couch, though, so I wasn't entirely un-helpful. Although as we were approaching the moving truck ramp, Candace and I, who were carrying the back end, realized that we wouldn't both fit on the ramp. We tried, but ended up getting pretty close and personal before Candace dropped her side of the upholstered beast. Trying to pick it back up was pretty rough, and I ended up carrying my side in crouched over like a Notre Dame hunchback. Poor Bobby was not real enthused.

But amidst our pained efforts, we were able to take some time to just goof off and be silly like us Pecauts and Moseleys love to do. Enter curly wig and tricycle.

After a while, my sister Grace was able to join us, so having another person made a huge difference. Little Marty and Mr. Caeden got to play in a nearly empty living room, crawling around and picking up anything they could find from off the carpet. Pine Sol fumes aren't dangerous to infants, right? The swing out front got some use, too, and it was fun to load things into the truck and get to pass the babies on our way in and out. We were trying to see if we could get them to laugh just by making super-weird faces. I think Bobby's impression of my son takes the cake. It's borderline creepy. But the kids love it.

Eventually the moving truck and the Moseley F150 were brimming, so we headed over to the new pad to start unloading. Marty was able to join us after he got off of work, so his huge muscles were certainly appreciated. After Grace left, Candace and I stayed inside, unpacking boxes and stocking the plethora of kitchen cabinets while our hubbies brought things in.

Dinner was then bought and served--some delish taquitos and cheese-less nachos--and we enjoyed some time to sit and relax in front of some classic "Office" episodes. I think we just might have to have our own Duwali party this year. With awkward proposals and s'mores and everything. "Marshmallows, chocolate, and a little graham cracker. How hard can it be?"

For dessert, Bobby's famous margaritas were downed. We couldn't find the blender, so we went on-the-rocks status, but they were fantastic. The boys got tipsy while the girls looked on and laughed our pants off. No, literally, I nearly peed all over myself. Olive oil.

I really never knew that moving could be so much fun. Maybe it was the tricycle, maybe the porch swing. Though I'd imagine the margaritas made all the difference. O-ley!

Madness #12--dictionary needed

I never knew I'd start saying "baba" and "goob-a-loob" in everyday conversation.

And think I was perfectly normal.

my spidey sense

Confession. I hate spiders.

Now, I know most people dislike them, and do the occasional squirmy spider dance when they see one crawling across their ceiling.

But I'm pretty much terrified of the little hairy guys. To the point where I used to believe the movie "Arachniphobia" was based on my own life.

Which means that I'll spend all summer freaking out because it's hot outside and cold inside, and spiders somehow feel entitled to mooch off of our air-conditioning. But I have yet to receive any rent checks, or help with utilities. So when I see them, I squash them. Or in reality, when I see them, I scream and call Marty and say "bring a tissue" and he doesn't so he uses his shoe to kill it and flushes it down the toilet after shaking it off of his shoe but he leaves the spider guts remnants on the wall for me to see every time I walk by. Shudder.

In fact, yesterday I was grabbing a shirt out of the baby's "clean shirts pile" when I saw the biggest spider ever. It was seriously the size of my hand. Okay, my son's hand. But it was really big! I almost started crying, which started the baby crying, and our little spider dance ensued. My face probably looked like this:

I eventually recovered after Marty reassured me that the monster was long gone, flushed to oblivion. But the worst part of my spider fear is the thought that they could be anywhere. After the king-size spider debaucle, I'm imagining spiders everywhere. I picture one in the bag of animal crackers as I reach in to grab a handful for my son. I picture one in the finger of my dish-washing gloves, just waiting for my hand to discover it as I put them on. And I constantly feel like they're crawling all over me.

When I was little, I used to imagine that if I got one wish, if I could rid the world of any one thing, I'd choose stray hairs. Maybe it's time to grow up and choose something far more emotionally and mentally damaging--spiders. That or grow up and realize no one really grants wishes like that these days. But a girl can hope, right?

back to Junior High

I learned something about myself.

I am still super shy, despite feeling as though I've broken out of that shell years ago. But recently, that awkward, timid little girl in me has been rearing her ugliness when I'm in certain social settings. In big groups, it's often hard for me to know what to say. I always feel bad butting into people's conversations, so I end up just sitting there listening.

Which, mind you, can be very entertaining. By being the silent listener, I've learned a lot about people, and can probably surprise you with what I know and remember.

But I'd rather be the one talking if I had my choice. Those of you who know me well know that when I have something to say, I'll usually just come right out and say it, even if it means talking your ear off for twenty minutes. I do great with close friends, or one-on-one with people. And now that I'm getting to know most of the moms in Moms Group, I feel really comfortable there, too.

So why is it that if you're someone I don't know very well, or if I'm part of a larger social gathering, I just stop sharing all of those millions of thoughts running through my head as I look on awkwardly? Why can't I seem to gain the confidence to just speak up and be a part of the group? If I do think of something funny to say, I usually spend so much time gaining the courage to actually say it that by the time I do, that conversation topic is over and done with. So my little quip stays in my head and makes me kick myself for not participating.

I really am a fun person. I really do enjoy getting to know people and making new friends. So if ever there's a crowd of people, and I'm off to the side just sitting and staring, come say hello to me. I promise it'll be worth your effort--I'm freakin' hilarious once you get me going.

Why Redding saved my life...

Yes, Redding has changed me.

Many of you know our story, and many of you probably don't. So for those who have not yet enjoyed the privelege of me blabbering on about my life and how we were brought to Redding, read on. The great thing about having it typed out for you is that you can skim at your leisure. You don't have to worry about me watching your eyes glass over with boredom.

Anyway, Marty and I got married in September of 2005, and promptly moved to Fresno for Marty's job. He got transferred down there by the mortgage company he was working for, as they were opening a new branch and needed a talented staff to fill all the empty desk chairs.

It was a stressful transition for us. I had never lived on my own before and was trying to figure out how to be a wife and roommate all at the same time. And we didn't know anyone in Fresno--no friends or family to rely on for our social entertainment. Needless to say, it got really hard. Our evenings were spent cooped up in our little apartment, watching tv and lamenting the distance between us and the life we shared during our dating years in San Jose. We knew that plugging into a church would help us connect, but the several churches we tried had pretty huge doctrinal issues that prevented us from really feeling comfortable attending regularly.

We managed to make friends with one couple, though, that we met through a Bible study. They happened to live right around the corner from us, so we enjoyed getting to know them during American Idol marathons and margarita nights. I swear, they are the reason we survived those two long years. Without their friendship and support, I think we would've gone a little crazy. I know that God provided Breanne and Brent at the perfect time. They even got pregnant just a month before we did, so we got to watch our bellys grow together and share in the joy of awaiting our firstborn sons.

But just as we began getting comfortable with the Hulstroms, hoping we'd get to experience parenthood together, we learned that our dear friends were moving to a little town several hours away from our little Fresno bungalo. It shook us up as we began to realize that the only good thing in Fresno would be leaving us.

Enter Marty getting laid off. We decided it was the perfect chance to start somewhere new, and leave dusty Fresno in the...dust. Enter Matt (Marty's brother) calling Marty and telling him that he should consider Redding. That he'd love to have us live closer. Enter a job offer from Pete and Benji. Enter my eight-months-pregnant belly agreeing to pack up all our things and make the seven-hour drive to our brand new life.

Since we already knew a couple couples here, it was a pretty easy transition. We enjoyed being able to call up some Shirleys or Browns and share a dinner party on a moment's notice. And once the baby was born, or cut out of me I guess, Matt and Anna, proud Uncle and Aunt, stopped by pretty frequently to play with the little guy. We felt kind of popular.

And that feeling of being HOME hasn't faltered one bit since the day we settled in. We love it here, and finally feel as though we've found our niche. I always joke that we love it so much we'll probably end up dying here in Redding, and being buried in the graveyard on Cypress. You know, the one that has fake flowers at every grave site, and always looks beautiful? I want mine to have tulips, please.

Sure, Redding isn't perfect. It's been hard to be farther away from our parents in San Jose, but we've managed to build ourselves our own little family here, with "aunts" and "uncles" and "cousins" for little Marty, and "brothers" and "sisters" and best friends for us. Who says you have to actually be related to people to feel related to people?

But really, thank you to all of you who have welcomed us with open arms. I never dreamed that we'd manage to feel part of a community. That we'd have friends we could hang out with every night of the week and never get sick of. That we'd feel needed and sought after. That we'd be included without having to invite ourselves places.

Redding pulled us out of the depression we were in. Out of the funk and loneliness that Fresno gave us, and into a life that's so full it overflows on a daily basis. It really did save our pathetic little existence, and remind us that we have so much to look forward to in the years to come.

You, friends, are the reason we're smiling.

Madness #11--new baby syndrome

Why is is that one minute I can be super frustrated with my son and swear off having any more children, and the next I'm pleading with Marty to help me make another baby?

I think it has to do with how cute babies are when they're really little. Their skin is so soft, and they fit so perfectly in your arms. They coo and smile at you like little angels.

And let's face it--I've never really had a small child. From the day he entered the world, Marty has been a big boy, and proud of it. He weighed in at ten pounds, four ounces, and hasn't stopped growing since. He never really fit in my arms. I always had to kind of prop him on one hip in order to carry him around the house without hurting my back. Funny, since I had a c-section, the doctors sent me home with the warning that I was not to lift anything over ten pounds. Just carrying my son to the car for his first ride home was breaking the rules.

And all the cooing is long gone. My son is not a huge fan of just sitting and cuddling anymore. He has to see everything, hear everything, touch everything, put everything into his mouth, no matter how long it's been growing stale on the carpet. His shirts are always covered with crumbs or boogers or formula or apple juice, and I find myself just stripping him down to his diaper most days because he won't lay down long enough for me to put on a clean outfit without rolling over. I never knew I was so horrible at wrestling, or that an infant could ever manage to overpower me. And those diaper changes! For some reason, now that he's discovered a certain manly part of himself, he HAS to touch it every time I take his diaper off, no matter how much poop has been smeared on it. So we are constantly washing hands, saying "no", slapping his wrist, taking unidentified objects out of his mouth. Where did that little baby go? The one who'd sleep for hours on end and never cry longer than a moment?

It gets me thinking about how fun it would be to kind of start over with another baby. To remember all those precious moments, like the pre-walking stages when he'd be entertained for hours just sitting in one spot with a fun toy. And it doesn't help to have friends (thanks, Sarah) who have adorable, mini-sized children that are so well-behaved and don't require constant chasing after.

But I'm counting my blessings. A walking almost-one-year-old certainly helps to shed any leftover baby weight I've been hanging on to! Maybe I can continue hoping that I'll someday get back to my normal size and normal self. Knowing my luck, though, that'll be right when I find out baby number two is on the way.

Then again, if I keep this up, I'll never be content with where we are NOW. So, crusty hair and poop smears and penis pulls aside, I think I'll just love the kid I've got.

Madness #10--daytime television

I caught my husband watching Oprah yesterday.

Madness. Guess she really does appeal to all sorts of audiences. That, or he was too tired to change the channel.

Madness #9--immaculate conception?

In high school I used to dream that I was pregnant.

I'd be freaking out in my dream, wondering how I was going to explain my pregnancy to my parents. Especially because I had never even kissed a boy, let alone "done the deed". I remember feeling embarrassed that I had become just another teen mom. Another statistic. And then I'd wake up and remember that my little virgin self had nothing to worry about.

But I think these dreams planted a sort of self-consiousness in my head about legitimizing my pregnancies to people. And okay, I know I look a lot younger than I am. But why do I feel the need to make sure people know that my son was born inside of wedlock?

When I first got pregnant, I was super excited, and would gush to all my customers at Starbucks (I was a shift supervisor for three years), feeding off of their excitement for me. Really, I was just high pretty much all the time. But one morning, when I mentioned it to this guy who used to come in regularly and order his grande two-pump nonfat no whip mocha or whatever, he just said he was sorry. Was my huge smile not evidence enough that I was happy about those two pink lines showing up on the stick I peed on? He thought I was just a teenage girl who got knocked up by her boyfriend.

Ever since that moment, I found myself flashing my wedding ring whenever I told people my news. And once that baby bump started showing, I'd say, "Yeah, my HUSBAND and I can't wait to be parents." As if it was my responsibility to make sure everyone knows my kid is legit. That we did things the right way.

The stupid thing is, I still do it. I still make sure to mention that I'm married. Guess this is a part of motherhood I never knew I'd deal with, since I'm such a young mom to begin with but look even younger. But do people really care to know that I saved myself for Marty? Do people really need to know that I'm justified in my motherhood? In my mind, I guess they do.

So if you see me around town talking about how much my son looks like his father, my HUSBAND, or trying to get the light to hit my wedding ring so it sparkles and becomes blatantly obvious, just smile at my insecurity. I'm probably simultaneously making fun of myself in my head.

a child of the 70's

So, you know how everyone has those adorable new wide-leg pants?

I've been wanting to get myself a pair. Sarah approved the look on me, so from that first moment she said, "Yeah, you could pull that off", I've been convinced I need some. Candace looks fantastic in them, and she's tall like me, so I figured they'd work on my super long legs. And Anna wore a "real" designer pair on Sunday that flattered her smaller frame, so I decided they'd look alright on my skinny twig legs, too.

So when my son gave me a shirt on Mothers Day that didn't really work, I set out to exchange it for the wide-leg pants I've been wanting. You should have seen me wandering aimlessly through Macy's, pushing the baby in his bright green umbrella stroller with a dozen pairs of jeans hanging off the back, dragging on the floor. I was determined to find the right pair even if it took me all day. But after about an hour, Marty started getting anxious, so I took him into the dressing room to try everything on. Funny how some of the super-flared jeans look wide-leg-ish. Ew.

A couple whines and several tears later (not to mention my fussy son), I found the perfect pair. They're comfortable, and a size smaller than I thought I'd need, and plenty long. And I only spent twenty bucks! Yeah, they're a cheap knock-off brand, but they're MY cheap knock-off pants. I'm so proud.

But when I got home and modeled them for my husband, after gushing about how good my butt looks in them, he said, "Wow. Who knew that bell bottoms would come back in style?" Okay. Not really what I was looking for in the line of compliments.

So disco diva or not, at least I'll be smokin' hot. Groovy.

goodbye, Durango

So, anyone interested in a 2003 Dodge Durango? We're trying to sell ours, and kind of counted on getting rid of it in order to make ends meet. Marty tried shopping it around to some local car dealerships, but they were only offering about half of what we'd like to get for it.

See, we still owe quite a bit on it, so we're looking for about $12,500, but are willing to negotiate. I know it's a lot, but that's less than Blue Book, so it's a good deal on a great car. It's been good to us, and hasn't had any problems with it since we bought it a couple years ago. It seats five comfortably, and has plenty of storage space in the back--great for groceries or other Mommy duties. It's still in almost perfect condition, with air conditioning and a CD player, airbags, a locking system for carseats. Good car.

If you know anyone who's looking to get something that will last a LONG time, let us know. You can call me at 559-908-7044 or email at mamamoseley@hotmail.com.

Madness #8--the squirts

Fact: little baby diarrhea, or "diaperrhea" as we call it in our house, smells worse than anything I've ever smelled in my life, including, but not limited to, cat poop, husband poop, or any poop for that matter.

Madness #7--Mr. Clean?

Fact: little baby vomit will stain just about anything, like a neighbor's carpet, favorite shirt, or hand-made quilt from Grandma.

Madness #6--WinCo shminco...

Can I just say that I abhore going to WinCo?

But you just can't beat those prices. Yeah, Safeway is a lot nicer--they actually bag your groceries for you and offer to help you to the car, which is great for moms like me--but can I really justify spending twice or three times as much? Now that Marty and I are on a pretty strict budget, I have to keep our grocery bill under $250 a month. And I can spend that much on "just a couple things" at Safeway.

So I guess it's the really low grocery bill at the end of my WinCo visit that makes it worth my time. I mean, now that I'm a mom, it's a pretty big deal to restock our fridge and usually naked pantry. I have to work around my son's sleeping and eating schedules, so he's not whining the whole time and causing other moms to stare at me with that look of disapproval like I have no idea what I'm doing. So once he's rested and well fed, I have to load him into the car along with a bottle, toys, diapers, wipes, a bib for that unexpected throw-up, snacks--you name it, I've probably got it. I then get to drive across town to go to a store that makes me uncomfortable. I get to deal with people touching my son's hands and feet without asking permission, then watch as little Marty puts that same hand or foot into his mouth. Yuck. You just never know when people have showered last, or washed their hands. And the cart is always so full that my tiny little self has trouble dragging it around the store. I have to almost throw my body against it to get it where I want it to go. And believe me, steering around the people that just stand in the middle of the aisle is pretty dang hard. So I wait in a fifteen minute line, then spend another fifteen minutes bagging all my groceries while people glare at me for taking so long. But when I have to attend to my fussy son who's tired of sitting on the hard metal seat for so long, I will take all the time I need to make sure he's okay. So sue me for caring about my son more than about being "bagger of the year". Then I drag the heavy cart out to the car, take forever loading it myself, and try desperately to avoid putting the gallon of orange juice on top of the potato bread. When I get home, I take the baby into the house first and try to distract him with a fun toy or piece of cheese to munch on so he doesn't try to get out every time I open the front door with a new load of grocery bags from the car. It usually takes me about ten trips back and forth to get everything in the house. And I'm not strong. So when I overdo it and try to carry in more than I'm able, I get angry and get determined to prove something to myself and carry it in anyway, no matter how much my arms are burning, and how many times I scrape myself. And the cats always try to escape, so I have to close the door behind me every time I go in and out. It makes for a long unloading process. Tonight I had half a mind to call Billy (our neighbor) and ask him to help me. But even if I had an extra set of hands, I still have to actually put everything away. In the fridge, freezer, or pantry. Of course my anal self has to sort things by category and go through everything we already have, throwing out the bad stuff to make room for the new. Really, I hate when food gets shoved into the back of the fridge or pantry and we don't know it exists until it's rotten. So I try to rotate things in and out. Really, it takes forever. The whole ordeal just takes freakin' forever.

Anyway, needless to say I don't enjoy grocery shopping as much as I used to when I had the luxury of just hopping out of the car and walking in to the store. I didn't have to worry about finding a cart whose little seat belt actually works, or about avoiding aisles with suspicious-looking people in them so my child stays germ-free.

But hey. I'm trying to look on the bright side. It's a great workout, with all the packing and lifting and loading and unloading and pushing and sorting and such. So to those who think moms just sit around and do nothing all day, eat your shorts. "Sitting around and doing nothing" is not as easy as we make it look.

Take THAT, WinCo. You may be my Everest, but no matter how grueling the journey, and how many times I curse grocery shopping along the way, I always win in the end.

scooter smiles

So, you've heard about our disappointment regarding scooters not being delivered the day they were promised. Well, after endless hours of waiting and nervous anticipation, a big ol' truck drove up to our little house yesterday afternoon with early Christmas presents for Bobby and Marty. Friday was officially "scooter day".

It took a while for the boys to help the delivery guy unload the huge packages (okay, have to say it--"that's what she said"), but it was fun to watch them prance around a bit like little boys on the first day of summer vacation. Seriously, I don't think I've ever seen two grown men giggle like they did. They couldn't get those scooters assembled fast enough.

Despite a couple hiccups along the way, both scooters were put together in no time. The proud wifey-s looked on with cameras in hand and babies on hips, as Candace so accurately put it. It was a monumental moment as we counted down to the actual turning of the engine keys. But nothing happened. A discussion about throttles and chokes and kick starts ensued, as Candace and I just sat and stared, lovingly listening to our precious boys talk like men. An hour, a trip to the gas station in a "girl car" as the neighbor boy put it, and some sore legs later, engines were purring and we tearfully waved goodbye as our husbands rode off into the sunset. Nevermind that they were back two minutes later to complain that the bikes just were fast enough and needed more air pressure in the tires.

It may have taken a while, but last night Bobby and Marty slept peacefully knowing their little matching scooters and new matching "big boy" helmets (voted on by the wives for improved safety) were finally home.