Eliminating My Active Infestation of Parasitic Brainworms: Stomp the Toxic!
It has recently come to my attention that I am most likely halfway done with life as I know it.
Wait! Don't leave! This realization is not as gloomy as it sounds, because I'm fairly pleased with the things I've accomplished up to this point.
Short List:
1. If given a few hours to practice, I can play a mean Chopin tune on the piano.
2. I can knit socks, sweaters, lace, and monkeys.
3. I found a gem of a husband.
4. My kids aren't assholes.
5. I can stuff twelve jumbo marshmallows into my mouth without choking.
With that said, when one realizes that the shadow is getting longer, one must take a bit of time to Stomp the Toxic!
1. I'm ready to stomp out all lofty career plans. Deep down, I know I'm no longer on the path toward being a power playing editor at a publishing house. I'm okay with the idea that I'll never need to purchase another business suit or pack a suitcase to attend a conference. (Please know that these are things I used to love doing. I know!)
2. I'm ready to attempt to stomp all insecurities regarding my weight. (This is something I've dwelled on for Many Years, so it's going to be tricky.) Full Disclosure: I've lost eight pounds in the past six weeks, and am two pounds away from my "goal weight." And whenever I speak of my image issues or use the term "goal weight" I feel like a big crusty zero. When I look in the mirror, I don't focus on the fact that I'm currently on a losing streak. Instead, I look at my C-section region and I scowl. And I look at my thighs and I wince. And I'm really getting tired of feeling so unstable about those things when there are much larger fish to fry. (Although I will not fry them. I will bake them and squeeze a lemon over them for a zesty flavor enhancement.)
3. I'm ready to stomp on time spent with those who consistently make me feel like I'm a prodigal parent who has birthed Veruca Salty children. I'm tired of passive-aggressive implications that I'm wasteful and that my kids have much more than they deserve. I'm tired of biting my tongue and I'm tired of feeling like a bad person. I'm not a bad person. (I can provide "She's a Good Person" references if you need them. I can actually think of five people who would give me a glowing review! No! Six!)
Care to join me in a Stomp o' the Toxic?
You have my full support, you know.
Did you see that? That was my hand reaching up to high five you!
Lethal and Young (at Heart)
When I was young and frisky, I could stick a dozen large marshmallows into my mouth without swallowing or gagging.
To celebrate my 38th birthday, I decided to test the elasticity of my cheeks (and my glossopharyngeal nerve) once again.
Enjoy.
(And just so you know, the background tune is Lethal and Young by Hawksley Workman. Look him up and buy his stuff. I think you'll like it.)
((Happy Birthday to both Sweetney and Kat, too! And Burt Bacharach!))
There can never be too many Cookes in the kitchen, Alistair.
After puking out excuse after excuse as to why it wasn't necessary for me to have a high school senior portrait made, I finally relented and allowed my parents to set up an appointment.
I was told to bring in three outfits and a prop.
Me: A prop?
Photographer: Yeah! Like, if you play basketball, bring a basketball! If you're a cheerleader, bring your poms!
Me: If I'm a band geek, I should bring my French horn?
Photographer: That would be great!
Me: What if I spend my free time pretending to be the host of Masterpiece Theater?
Photographer: I think we can work something out.
Thus it was, and so it went.
They're poopy and they're kooky, the Pudding family!
Harper told me that she wanted to get a few things off of her chest.
After completing the interview, she signed away all of her rights.
And then we changed her pants.
Tonight we'll reach for the stars. We'll rent expensive cars.
Tonight I will be getting another haircut. No further details are available at this time.
Tomorrow? A day of mental preparation. Also, chicken enchilada preparation! Delish!
Thursday? Tempe and I will be drinking martinis until we feel the uncontrollable urge to try on discounted prom dresses.
I normally stand firm on my belief that malls should not contain bars.
However, for this plan to fly, a mall bar is completely necessary.
Specifically, a mall bar that plants a freaking Hostess Ding Dong on the side of their chocolate martini glass.
It has been twenty one years since I was semi stood up for my junior prom. (Did I ever tell you that story?)
AND, instead of going to my senior prom, I went to a Cardinal baseball game. And I don't even LIKE baseball!
Wait. Let's go ahead and get this out of the way.
You: You don't like BASEBALL?!
Me: No!
You: What is WRONG with you?!
Me: I don't know!
You: You are obviously not an American.
Me: 'Cause the players tried to take the field; the marching band refused to yield. Do you recall what was revealed the day the music died?
You: Okay then.
Anyway, this is the time of year when I often feel the urge to put my hair up and squeeze into something floofy.
So, yes, kids. You WILL regret not going to your prom.
(No you won't. Believe me. You won't. Wait. Why am I crying?)
If I can get the proper release forms signed, I will be taking photos at this event.
AND, if the martinis are particularly effective, I will be pinning a corsage through my bare skin just to prove that I'm hardened when it comes to high school disappointment.
Cheers.
Talc Radio at its Finest.
Last night Jeff and I packed the kids up and shipped them thirty miles south so that we could attend This American Life Live, which was being shown at two local theaters—both within 15 miles of our house. (Incidentally, I have now (essentially) been in the same room with Ira Glass twice in the past eight weeks, with plans to see him again in September. At this rate, I will have spent more time with him than I spend with most of my relatives. And I'm okay with that.)
Anyway, we arrived at the theater, paid for our tickets, grabbed a coffee (non-fat sugar-free almond latte, if you're curious), and found The Best Seats in the House. What made our seats The Best Seats? The fact that we had bars in front of us (perfect for the resting of the feet), and two seats down from me was a man whose resemblance to Santa Claus was completely uncanny. (By the way, I don't believe the opposite of uncanny is canny. Are there any other words whose un- partner does not form the opposite?! The world is a crazy place.)
We got comfy, I knitted on a sock because I'm one of Those People who can't really sit still unless I have something to do, and we watched the crowd roll in.
Fluid Pudding Fun Fact: When technology is involved, I am a huge Doubter. When I first learned that this show was happening, I really didn't believe my local mall theater would be able to pick up on the broadcast and put it up on the screen with no problems. I hate that my glass is half-empty in these situations, but there you go.
And I was right. When the show started, the live coverage was shot up to the screen, but there was no sound. And I was pissed. And everyone in the theater was pissed. And the thing I found to be sort of funny was the fact that the audience was comprised of fifty or so NPR fans. These folks don't really strike me as the ass-kicking type. But, like me, they ARE quite passive-aggressive. So, although no punches were thrown, many idle threats were made. Threats like, "If they don't get it rolling soon, I'm going to politely ask for My MONEY BACK!"
(By the way, I once again became annoyed when the audio started working. Instead of shutting up and watching the show, the audience erupted into a loud cheer that made me miss the first fifteen seconds of sound. But anyway.)
((I'll never be happy. You know this, right? Hold my hand.))
The show itself was wonderful, yet hard to describe. We saw an amazing animated short illustrated by Chris Ware—the guy who does the Jimmy Corrigan books. We saw a raw cardboard-animated video of a pornographic story written by a twelve year old. (It sounds a lot racier than it was. The dirtiest line, which was also the best line, was "I Frenched him. Completely." I'm going to incorporate that into my frequent sayings, by the way.)
We saw clips that were deleted from the This American Life television show, we saw clips from the upcoming season, we met David Rakoff, there was a Q&A session... Wait. What is that noise? More importantly, what is that SMELL?!
Oh! It's Santa Claus! And he has fallen asleep! And he is snoring SO loudly. And I suppose, since I am sitting the closest to him, that it is My job to wake him. But I can't get myself to do it, because every time he exhales, it smells like baby powder. (And I wasn't even sitting THAT closely to him. But seriously! Every time the guy exhaled, the theater smelled more and more like a gigantic fresh-out-of-the-big-boy-tub baby.)
Santa did the open mouth sounds-like-a-bear snoring for the final thirty minutes of the show, and by the time we left the theater, my diaper rash was gone.