The Sparkling Scrotal Steed

The girls have been playing with the most annoying unicorn purchased by my mother at a garage sale a few years back. (And that sentence is funny, because it now sounds like my mom often purchases unicorns at garage sales. The one in question was voted Most Annoying by the army of unicorns that are currently filling our home with sparkling rainbows and magical happiness and blue eyeshadow and whatnot.) When you press the eyes (or perhaps the ears or the horn or something) the unicorn begins to belt out a song that goes something like this: “I’m a something-cal unicorn something something glowing horn. We’ll have lots of fun today something something something play.” The only part of the song that really intrigues me is the “I’m a something-cal unicorn” phrase. For the life of me, I cannot figure out what the unicorn is saying. Yesterday as we rode to the store, I turned down the radio and sang “I’m a PRACTICAL unicorn” to see what sort of response I would get.

Meredith: No. I’m a BEAUTIFUL unicorn.

Me: I don’t think so. I’m a FUNCTIONAL unicorn?

Meredith: That doesn’t make sense. I’m a FESTIVAL unicorn?

This morning, Harper rode in on the unicorn singing the most perfect interpretation ever.

“I’m a testicle unicorn.”

Harper wins.

Testicle it is.

(Perhaps I should record the unicorn’s anthem and ask you to help us with the lyrics? Also, I’m in the mood to give away some muffins, so we could make a contest of it…) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I like to think I was born to run, but I’ll take what I can get.

Last week I took the girls to my folks’ house to spend the day with my twelve-year-old nephew who was in town for the week. Justin, my nephew, is one of those kids who can pick up a video game he has never played before and pwn it. (Suddenly, instead of actually gaining worldly-wise points by using “pwn” I believe I’ve just morphed into your dead Aunt Gladys who used to smile through gloppy smeared lipstick and ask, “So, are you sweet on anyone? Hhmmm???”) Anyway, the game of the day was Mario Kart for the Wii, and before I could throw my keys onto the couch, I was challenged to a race. And although only two of us were racing, I actually came in sixth. (I’m still not completely clear on how that happened.)

MC: Mommy, sometimes I think you were born to lose.

Later that afternoon as I lost my balance and fell down while trying to rotate the lazy susan, I was once again told that I was born to lose. A few hours later, when I asked the girls to put their shoes on because it was time to go to the bathroom (I meant time to go home. Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if you could actually feel parts of your brain infarct. I’m imagining it’s not unlike Pop Rocks just inside the back of your skull.), it came up again. “You really WERE born to lose! Ha Ha HA HA HA HA!!!” And even at 39, when you’re told over and over (and over) again that you were born to lose, well, it begins to affect your mood. Maybe they’re right. No, they’re not right. Maybe they are. No. Maybe.

Later that evening, Jeff took the girls to the YMCA to swim, and I drove to the nearest bookstore to pick up a copy of Infinite Jest. Yes. I am one of the many who have ambitious plans to participate in Infinite Summer, and although many may believe I was born to lose, this is something for which I am fully determined to pass muster. (I recently learned that it’s Muster and not Mustard. Apparently, you can cut the mustard, but you must pass muster. Four synapses just began firing again, and it feels like butter melting behind my ears.)

As soon as I can figure out how, I’m going to add some sort of progress update to my sidebar (below the ad thing, of course, because I’m wearing a XXL “Plays by the Rules” jacket) so I feel a pinch of accountability. Please feel free to update me on your progress, as well. Even if your progress has nothing to do with anything I’ve mentioned to you today.

Speaking of improvisational dancing, my final Sports Active update is up. If you go here and then click on the line of text right above the photo, you’ll be directed to a super secret location where you may cast a voyeuristic peeper upon me in a skirted swimsuit. This is a once in a lifetime experience, internet friends. Born to lose, indeed. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Who says?!

It’s no secret that I went to the gynecologist a few weeks ago. It’s also no secret that I’ve been taking estrogen-free birth control pills for the past four years. (Seriously. Anyone who has spent five minutes with me knows that I’m on estrogen-free birth control. It’s my “How’s the weather?” ice breaker!) Wait. You know what else isn’t a secret? My gynecologist believes that I’m ready for some estrogen! (Did you know that estrogen promotes wound healing in both humans and mice? This comes as good news, for I am Wounded.) ((I’m not really Wounded.))

I come to you today as a sassy snarling woman who wads up imaginary paper and yells, “Who says all birth control pills have to be the same?!” I am repunctuating my life! My carefree curly-haired Logical is having talks with my straight-haired (and argyled) Emotional! (They even play Toss the Pills together at 0:11! How cute is that?! Also, did you know that fewer periods equals cuter clothes? Everything I know comes straight out of the Seasonique ad!)

(WARNING: All hell is going to break loose around here during the week of September 6th. Just in time for Labor Day, Jerry Lewis!)

(If you’re interested, I’m shrinking a bit. Scroll down to the photo. Right above it is the Week 3 link.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Detailing the Pudding

How is it that I’ve spent 39 years thinking that “detailing a car” had something to do with painting thin swirly stripes down the side of it? A few days back I mentioned that no one really details their car anymore. Jeff mentioned that just because our car isn’t detailed is no indication that it doesn’t happen. (I also have a hard time imagining how the world existed before I was born and how it will survive without me. I’ll save that (not quite narcissistic, more like unable to engage in abstract thought) conversation for another time.) Anyway, from there we went into a side-splitting Who’s on First sort of routine.

Jeff: Wait. Before we go any further, please tell me what it means to detail a car.

Me: It’s when you take your car, which is probably an old van, to the place where the guy paints swirly stripes down the sides of it. And then maybe you get tinted windows as a bonus. And Keep on Truckin’ mud flaps.

Jeff: You’re not from around here, are you?

A few nights back I spent an hour or so of solo time with Mocha Momma. And I stepped away feeling terribly enlightened. And I’ve been lazily meditating on much of our conversation since I drove out of that parking lot. For whatever odd reason, I believe many people start questioning their writing and their website purpose and goals during this time of year, and this year I’m amongst the many. (I know! 83% of you just walked away! It really IS boring, no? Here’s an incentive to get you through. I will use some form of the word Tipple before signing off for the night.) I started Fluid Pudding back in 2001 when I was a single girl with an editing gig in Nashville, Tennessee. It was a pointless journal (the archives aren’t available at this time, but you believe me, right?) written by featherbrained me. (WAIT! I just found a bit of evidence!) I had absolutely no intention of ever turning it into something Bigger, and I finally realized on Saturday night that I STILL have no intention of turning it into something Bigger, because I sort of lack the talent and drive to DO that. (Is anyone else feeling a surge of pressure to do that? So much talk of branding and sponsors! I love it. I hate it. I’m sleepy.) ((One of my new favorite words is Lentitudinousness!)) And although I’m not at the 100% level of contentment with What Fluid Pudding Is, I AM 100% content with What Fluid Pudding Was. So I’m considering stepping back a bit. (Not quitting. In my mind, it’s actually more of an evolution than that.) And isn’t this paragraph just about the silliest thing you’ve ever read? My goodness. So much stuff going on in the world, and I’m all type type type me me me (Ben Folds) me me me (Ira Glass) me me. So anyway. I just bought an herb garden thingy, and I’m really digging the idea of Organic. (Basil! Oregano! Parsley! All living together in perfect harmony!)

Keith Olbermann is on my television right now, and if he were a drink I believe he would be a steaming salted caramel hot chocolate with a fat stirrer that held the words “Get tippled.”

Off to sleep I go! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

The Oh So Predictable Pudding

In 2006, I decided to go to BlogHer. Shortly after I arrived, my breasts blew their stack, which led me to spend all of my spare cash on a $54,383 cab ride to Walgreens where I purchased a $58,392 breast pump and a $1.39 box of Swedish Fish. I spent 94.3% of that weekend locked up in my room with a pump attached to my chest and Titanic on the television. (The remaining 5.7% of the weekend was spent feeling a bit overwhelmed and starstruck, which is one of my many tragic flaws. I realize the phrase “blogging heroes” is more than sort of squirrelly. Let’s just say this: I found myself in the company of many of my favorite web writers, and it made me feel all floofy and la la la la laaaaah!)

In 2007, I decided to not go to BlogHer. And when I started reading the words of the women who DID go, I became insanely jealous. (Okay. Insanely is a strong word. Perhaps what I was feeling was a river of remorse sprinkled with some bright orange self-pity torpedoes.)

In 2008, I couldn’t afford to go to BlogHer, so I decided to auction off a shawl and sell pre-ordered handknitted socks to fund the trip. Success. While there, I found myself to be terribly content. (Photos are here, if you’re interested.) I went yarn shopping and fish taco-ing with SueBob. I took a nap at the mall with Erica. I fell in love with Canadians. I was able to nervously read a blog entry in front of 3,502,496 people! Best of all, I got to be Someone’s Elbow!

When people started talking about BlogHer this year, I pretty much immediately knew that once again, I couldn’t really afford it. AND, the knitting socks thing just about killed me last year. (I know. Much ado about nothing, where much ado = “just about killed me” and nothing = “knitting socks”. With that said, I really did get a wee cramp in my right index finger. It’s a living hell, folks. A Living Hell.) I pretty much came to grips with NOT going, and then more people started talking about how excited they are to BE going, and then some party invites came my way, coupled with a most amazing housing option, and, well, I’m going. I don’t have a ticket (all tickets are sold out), but I DO have a Hyundai and an affinity for solo road trips.

While everyone else is enjoying the speakers? I’ll be hitting Loopy Yarns.

When it’s time to break for boxed lunches and swag? I’ll be browsing at Nina.

During high traffic lobby times? I’ll be in the lobby. High trafficking, and looking for Blackbirds. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

My butt is eager, yet not quite ready for its closeup.

When I was in college, I often found myself working out in my room using a Jane Fonda cassette I had made by sticking my cassette recorder up to the television as the VHS tape played. The recording was really crappy (or charming, depending on your perspective), as it featured several dog barks, a few door slams, and my mom asking, “Why are you recording this?!” (Of course, I answered with a sharp “Ssshhh!” which was also caught on tape.)

I’ll never forget the night I was working out in my room (with the door closed and locked, because as much as I loved my college roommates, I really didn’t want them to see me in those positions) and I suddenly felt the need to use the restroom. I ran from my room to the bathroom wearing a tan sports bra and green parachute shorts. Nick, one of my roommates at the time, saw me and yelled, “Hey! Angie! Damn, Girl!” (That’s an exact quote, by the way. It’s still bouncing around in my head.) You see, Nick thought I was working out topless.

Secretly, I enjoyed the fact that from that point forward, Nick probably assumed that I was in my room doing a topless Fonda every time he heard my cassette player kicking into action.

Fast forward something like seventeen years.

Last week I told you that I would provide video footage of me actually working out with the Wii Sports Active Thirty Day Bacon Lettuce Tomato Mustard Mayonnaise Crosby Stills Nash and Young Workout. Two nights back, Jeff actually shot some video of the workout, and it was shot from behind and it seems that my butt is a big old camera hog, and watching it almost made me cry and instead of showing it to you, I would much rather you assume that I’m working out looking all svelte-like with just a bit of glistening sweat providing a healthy and almost angelic (or vampire-esque, whatever you prefer) glow to my skin.

With that said, my “I’m Halfway Done” update is up. If you go here and scroll down, you’ll find the link to my notes right above the photo. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Which wert and art and evermore shall be!

One of my goals for the remainder of 2009 is to incorporate Wert into my vocabulary. Any advice would be appreciated.

On a similar note, I apparently created the word Morticum to replace Moratorium and have been using it incorrectly for at least a decade. No one has corrected me, and I’m mortified. Morticumified, even. With that said, I LIKE morticum. It has a Latin smell to it, no?

Confession: I slept through the first half of Up. It seems to be a nice movie, but I have no idea why the dogs speak, nor do I know why the bird’s name is Kevin. (I hope I didn’t just ruin the movie for anyone.)

This afternoon after I flashed Jeff (as I tend to do during the Strawberry Moon), he climbed (clombed? wert?) into the closet. He was looking for Murphy’s Oil Soap at the time, but still. Wait. It JUST occurred to me why one uses Murphy’s Oil Soap. Suddenly, I can barely type. (The laughter and all.)

About a month ago, a little girl in Meredith’s class pulled Meredith’s glasses off of her face and destroyed them. (I’m not exaggerating. We had to order new frames. Yeesh! Luckily, the frames were covered under warranty for three more weeks. Have I ever mentioned just how lucky we are? $200 lucky!) Anyway, all parents were notified and the little girl was actually sent to a counselor which sort of boggled my mind, but who am I? A few weeks after the Incident, I met the girl’s mom, and she never even acknowledged The Breaking of The Glasses, and I wasn’t quite sure how to respond, but I knew better than to bring it up, because, come on. I hate confrontation, and I’m not living in a world where My Kid Is Perfect, and I know it takes two to fight (although Meredith still swears the entire scene was unprovoked). So, the mom talked to me for about two minutes (You’re Meredith’s mom, right?) and then handed me an invitation to the girl’s birthday party. (It’s a pool party, and I was encouraged to simply drop Meredith off at the pool, which is something I would never do at this age—especially since Meredith is not a particularly strong swimmer.) Anyway, I know that I tend to apologize to the point of annoyance when I feel like I or anyone in my family has done something to hurt or offend. I hate that I’m hesitant to send Meredith to the party because I’M feeling a bit miffed over the lack of recognition about the glasses thing. I know that I’m no better than anyone else out there. We’re all just trying to do our best, right? Ugh. I’m struggling with this one. (Meredith has stated that she doesn’t really want to go to the party, because the girl “can be mean sometimes.”) I’m holding grudges from when I was in the third grade. That, along with the wert thing, is something I definitely need to work on.

This morning at church, my thumb busted open (recent knitting injury involving a tiny crochet hook) and actually squirted blood onto my other thumb as we sang Holy, Holy, Holy. That, along with watching a fly buzzing around upside down on the floor last year, goes down as My Craziest Church Experience Ever. (Sadly, as the fly buzzed around on his backside, I found myself doing that ridiculous thing where I laugh so hard that I’m crying and my face is all contorted, and I begin to pray for a morticum on buzzing flies.)

(I’ve been encouraged to remind you that only a few more days remain for both the Snapfish giveaway and the Max Factor giveaway.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I believe we’re going to see Up today.

Last night I had a dream in which I knitted an amazing turquoise lacy scarf for Ellen DeGeneres. When Portia de Rossi got wind of it, she threw a fit and told Ellen that the scarf did not suit her. I quickly ran to my knitting bag where I retrieved an old scrap yarn scarf. I knew I needed to weave the ends in, but I had no darning needle. Once I finally located a needle, the scarf had been stolen, and everyone in the room was eating roast beef and baked potatoes.

I have been completely meat free (except for that silly VFW Hall fish sandwich and a few odd shrimp here and there) for over 100 days, and I cry every time Ellen gives something away on her show.

A few nights back I tossed cheese tortellini in with chopped tomatoes, fresh basil, olive oil, and balsamic vinegar. I threw a fistful of feta over the top (feta festoonery!), and it quickly became the happiest dinner we’ve had in months.

(By the way, I really am working on a topaz Ishbel. But it’s not for Ellen. It’s for me. Unless Ellen contacts me directly and asks me for it. Then I’ll give it up faster than you can say “I cry every time Ellen gives something away on her show.”)

So, what’s new with you? ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Welcome to Summer Break!

clips

First up? Making paper clip chains.
Next? God only knows.

Actually, one of my plans is to embark on a thirty day fitness adventure.
If you’re interested in more details, follow me over here. (Full disclosure: It’s a review thing! And it will eventually contain video footage of me working out!)

((We can’t go on together with suspicious minds.))

Most importantly, thanks for all of your kind words regarding the photograph of Harper in the fountain. I’m still learning the ins and outs of the camera. So far so good.

Thirty Days to a Firmer Pudding! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>