John Calvin was a French theologian, but this has nothing to do with that.

Yesterday I found myself at a bookstore stocking up on birthday gifts for Meredith (Henry Huggins! The Boxcar Children!), as she will be turning six on Wednesday. Before leaving, I decided to stop by the magazine rack and check out the latest Bust. (This may or may not be important: I was wearing a denim flared skirt which is probably no longer in style, a lime green (kind of tight because it’s been a rough winter) t-shirt, my fuschia shoes, and my Superhero necklace.)

A man approached, and I use the term Man sort of loosely, because he looked to be in his early thirties, and I still don’t really consider myself a Woman at almost forty. I typed this entire entry referring to him as Man, but I will now change Man to Calvin. Just because.

Calvin: So, is Vogue a French magazine?

Me: Well, I don’t believe this particular issue is written in French, because I can read it. And I don’t speak French. And it looks like the cover says British Vogue. My vote is Not From France.

Calvin: You’re right. It’s just that I was recently in France, and it quickly became clear to me that fashion really does begin in Paris. The people there are so beautiful. Walking muses.

Me: Interesting. I’ve never been. (Starting now, the words I stick in parentheses will consist of the stuff I was thinking, but didn’t say.)

Calvin: One of my very favorite writers writes for Vanity Fair magazine, and I believe he also contributes an occasional article to Vogue.

Me: Christopher Hitchens?

Calvin: Yes!

(At this point, I was 83% happy that I could scream out Christopher Hitchens’s name and be correct. That rarely happens! (15% of me just sort of wanted to grab the Bust (no pun intended) and run. 2% of me is pretty much always thinking about nothing but string cheese.))

Me: My husband is a big Hitchens fan. (Notice how I dropped the Husband thing just in case Calvin was flirting! You’re welcome, Jeff!)

Calvin (Not deterred in the least! Perhaps my brain was more appealing than my butt! That is not a bad thing!): Hitchens is a wonderful writer, and I love that he comes from a place where free speech isn’t encouraged! I mean, you’re paying your tithe to the queen and all! HA HA HA!!!

Me: Jeff (I’m now calling my husband by name, because we’re all friends here, Calvin!) recently read To a God Unknown.

Calvin: Do you mean God is Not Great?

Me: Yes. (Shit. Wrong answer. Oh well. At least I was able to bring Steinbeck into the mix, which means this Superhero necklace is really doing the job! Dostoevsky! Rachmaninoff! My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard!)

Calvin: As much as I like Hitchens, I was disappointed in that book. I much prefer The God Delusion. (He then held up a copy of The God Delusion. Seriously. I suddenly felt like our entire conversation had been scripted like some sort of unexpected infomercial that I hadn’t signed on to do. (I had string cheese in my purse, but I didn’t pull it out. Looking back, I probably should have.))

Me (not really wanting to go down the religion road with Calvin): I’m not familiar. Actually, my very favorite Hitchens book is The Missionary Position! (It’s the only one I’ve read!)

Calvin: Ah! Mother Teresa! Mine will always be Letters to a Young Contrarian.

Me: Actually, I loved that one, too. (I never read that one, but suddenly I’m pretending I have. I’m like that sometimes.) You know, one of my all-time favorite quotes came from an interview I saw with Hitchens several years ago. He mentioned that a good writer will always beat a cliché as if it were a rattlesnake.

Calvin: He definitely knows how to avoid the banalities!!!

Me: (Okay, Calvin. Uncle.) That he does. Well, enjoy your Vogue! (Strike a pose, there’s nothing to it.)

Calvin: Oh. Er, okay.

(Apparently, I’ve still got it, Ralph Malph.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Open me! Open me!

It’s been a busy week at the Pudding house. As you know, we adopted Ramona last Saturday, and are now struggling with keeping her sequestered from Sidney (our other cat) as she gets over that whole Humane Society Upper Respiratory Infection thing. (By the way, I HATE giving medicine to a cat.)

Apparently, Luna’s death last year coupled with Ramona joining our family last week has really screwed with my head—specifically, my recognition synapses. I’ve spent the past five days calling Ramona “Fiona” and confusing Harper and Meredith. Last night when Jeff returned from New York, I called him Jim.

Next Tuesday is Harper’s fourth birthday, and Wednesday is Meredith’s sixth. Four and six. Holy smokes.

I have lots of stories I want to tell you, but not a lot of time. SO, here is a video from last week’s kindergarten performance. (Don’t be scared. It’s less than two minutes long.)

Meredith shone.

Meredith shined.

(I think both are correct, unless shined indicates that she made something shiny, in which case, she definitely shone. There was no chamois in sight.)


MC’s Spring Concert from Angela D. on Vimeo. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Even doves have pride.

The sound of children singing has always given me the creeps. Even when I WAS a kid, my flesh often crawled during the elementary concerts when I had to stand on the risers and sing with the other kids my age. Those scary movies that feature kids warbling hymns as the final credits roll? Yeah. The guy in charge of that decision nailed it.

This scene from Kids Incorporated was actually based on one of my many recurring nightmares.

Last week during my kindergarten volunteer time, I found myself walking down the third grade hall as the kids were taking a break from their MAP testing. During my stroll toward the kindergarten classrooms, I noticed at least five signs in the hallway reminding the kids to always do their best, eat a good breakfast every day (the cafeteria provides a free breakfast for every student, believe it or not), and stay silent while in the halls.

I couldn’t help but notice that the kids looked a bit stressed out. A few were yawning as they waited to use the drinking fountain. Three or four were releasing some energy by doing jumping jacks. Some were simply staring at the floor—waiting to be corralled back into the classroom to fill in more squares with a No. 2 pencil.

Seeing the kids looking so worried affected me. In my world, third graders are not supposed to be stressed. They’re supposed to be cheery! Everyone is happy! We’re all friends! No war! No plastic toys! No peanut allergies!

And then I heard it. As I continued down the hall to Meredith’s classroom (believe me, it’s a really long walk), I heard a tiny voice singing Lovebug by the Jonas Brothers. (Parenthetical Confession: I don’t hate that song. iTunes can back me up on that. I know.) As I passed the next drinking fountain, I saw that the voice was coming from a tiny little girl who looked to be about Meredith’s age. As I walked past her, she smiled at me and the voices in her head told her to start skipping down the hall as she continued to sing. Yes. She was skipping.

Anyway, seeing the third graders looking a bit distressed and then hearing this little happy voice and the sound of her feet as she skipped away from me coupled with the smell of pencils and crayons and, well, kids? My eyes welled up and I got a lump the size of a (freakishly large) potato in my throat. (Actually, I have the lump and the eye thing right now! I can’t even tell the story without puking Velveeta!!)

Something has shifted within me, Internet. I’ve gone soft.

And the worst news of all? Tonight is Meredith’s kindergarten spring concert. While the other parents kick back and check their watches as the kids sing songs about fairy tales, I’m going to be the lady in the third row who suffers facial spasms as she tries to fight the urge to weep. I’ll surely lose the battle if they sing anything that even remotely resembles The Second Star to the Right. In fact, I can’t promise that I won’t sink to the floor and reenact the Glenn Close shower scene from The Big Chill. (Obviously, I’ll keep my clothes on, because I’m sort of classy.)

I’m hoping to share a bit of the video with you tomorrow. If nothing else, you’ll find out what it sounds like when Pudding cries. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

How was our Easter?

As you can see, it was partly sunny with a 75% chance of wicked storms.

Typical Pudding Weather: 25% Sunny, 75% Sullen

At least the girls had an absolutely delightful morning.

The Yin and the Yang

Such a beautiful day. I simply couldn’t stop smiling!

Easter During The Great Depression

(Although it was something like twelve degrees below zero this afternoon, Jeff wanted to take a family photo after church. Meredith was freezing, Harper was ready for a nap, and the only thing keeping me from killing our neighbor was that whole Love Thy Neighbor thing sprinkled with a bit of Thou Shalt Not Kill. After taking this photo, Jeff mentioned that the three of us were channeling those heart-ripping photos of mothers and their kids during The Great Depression.)

Happy Easter, y’all. Time for bed. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Four days only!

So, last year I made a video of myself writing all over my face for Easter.

About a month after I posted it, all hell broke loose.

Let’s just say this: There’s an amazing dead pianist out there with a crabby family who doesn’t appreciate his music being played while a complete idiot marks herself up with Clinique eyeliner.

With all due respect (or whatever you say when you’ve decided to flip the kindest of birds), I’m proud of that stinking video. Seriously! I had to write on my face backwards, and you know how tricky that is!

Because my feelings of invincibility tend to hit in 96-hour spurts, I’m putting the video up again, but will be taking it down on Monday.

Happy Easter to you.


Happy Easter from Fluid Pudding! from Angela D. on Vimeo. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Care to follow me down a side road?

So, I posted the following few paragraphs and reviews earlier today, and then it seemed weird to be posting anything in light of the terrible news about Madeline. (You can donate to March of Dimes in her honor by heading over here.) Anyway, I’m always completely speechless in these situations, and then I read what Velma wrote about her own daughter. And she summed up my feelings so perfectly.

My book club is meeting next week, and for the second month in a row, I have not yet read the book. Instead, I’ve been reading The Household Guide to Dying. And I’m loving it, and I talk all about it right over here.

Also, I’ve been eating yogurt. And I made a video of myself eating yogurt (follow this link to see), because sometimes that urge just strikes, don’t you agree? Actually, I believe we should pick a day and all make videos of ourselves eating our favorite food. Would you be up for it? (I choose Delhi’s Chaat (#11 on the menu), and I choose May 12th, for obvious reasons.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

You inspired me, Internet!

I just returned home from the fabric store, where I purchased the following items:

Simplicity!

I’m setting the goal of having one dress completed before Mother’s Day. Apparently, the really good scissors go on sale for Mother’s Day, and if the sewing is going really well, I can almost justify purchasing really good scissors!

And then I’ll set the goal of cutting the girls’ hair. Because when you have really good scissors, you can cut hair, right? And then I’ll start giving perms to the ladies on my street. And then I’ll start making my own ketchup, because it seems like the next logical step after permanently waving the street lady heads. (My grandmother made her own ketchup (and root beer) and she died four years ago today. I think she would be happy to know that this evening I purchased fabric, thereby getting a semi-early start on the long road to Ketchupville.)

Edited to Add: The cutting of the hair with the good scissors thing? I’m just kidding, Internet. I would NEVER. (I learned that lesson years ago when my mom was the owner of good scissors. Incidentally, my mom’s good scissors are sitting in my kitchen drawer right now, and they sometimes cut through flower stems! Sorry, Mom.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>