You can call me Sweetheart.

Oh! That’s right! Fluid Pudding exists!

It appears that Thanksgiving has come and gone. I was all bitchy and sad on Thanksgiving day because the people with whom I’ve spent the past 42 Thanksgivings were in a cabin in Tennessee, and we didn’t join them. And I thought I would be okay with not going, but then Thanksgiving came. We spent the day with Jeff’s parents and his brother’s family and that was nothing but nice, but the fact remained that I was feeling on edge—as if something wasn’t quite right.

(Meanwhile, speaking of something being not quite right, out in Tennessee, someone tried to break into my parents’ cabin at three in the morning on their second night there, and someone actually DID break in on Saturday, and although the trespassers didn’t remove anything, they used the hot tub and plugged in the Christmas tree, and it definitely was NOT a housekeeping courtesy, so the family’s trip was cut short by a night due to the creepiness factor. Bummer. Even more of a bummer is the fact that the cabin rental place has not offered to reimburse them for the night that they lost. Maybe I’m expecting too much.)

I have an important announcement to make. I went to Old Navy today (it’s 40% off day if you have an Old Navy card) and, all-caps please, I FOUND SOME JEANS THAT FIT AND I DON’T DESPISE THEM! According to the Old Navy classification system, I am not a Diva, nor am I a Rockstar or a Flirt. I am a Sweetheart. And I think that has something to do with the shape of my butt, but I really don’t want to think about it much more than I need to. Much more than to which I think I need? I am a SWEETHEART.

Because of my newfound status as Sweetheart coupled with the fact that I didn’t shed even one tear in the dressing room, I celebrated the 40% discount by piling my cart with TWO pairs of Sweetheart jeans—one skinny and one boot cut. (They were only $18 after the discount!) And then I added pajamas for the girls’ Christmas Eve. (I give them new pajamas each year on Christmas Eve so they aren’t wearing ripped t-shirts in the next morning’s Christmas photos. Look at me manipulating the situation to make us look like we’ve got it together!) I finished up by throwing in a few shirts for the girls and moseying over to the checkout line (which was already VERY long at 10:00) where it was discovered that despite what I believe, I don’t actually HAVE an Old Navy Card. So, I held up the line by applying for one and I apologized over and over (and over, because being annoyingly polite is both my best and worst habit), and then I got an EXTRA 10% off because of my New Cardholder (Sweetheart) status. When I threw my (Sweetheart) fist to the sky and demanded that the checkout girl have a great day, she mentioned that she kicked off the day with a Frappuccino from next door, and any day that starts with a Frappuccino is always a great day. I was completely jazzed about the fact that I didn’t cry in the dressing room and even MORE sparked that I scored such a good deal, so I did what any Sweetheart would do. I threw my bags into the car, walked to the coffee dump, and purchased a $5 gift card. I then walked that card back to Old Navy and gave it to my checkout girl. And she was thrilled, and I was thrilled, and this completely erased my experience from yesterday which involved me trying to shove my butt into a pair of Jennifer Lopez jeans while staring into the mirror and chanting, “Don’t be sad. Don’t be sad. Don’t be sad.”

Sweetheart Skinny Jeans. Victory! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Vampires, Sparkling Lights, and Me Without a Patch

Have I spent the past two days watching the Twilight movies to prepare for this afternoon’s Breaking Dawn 2 viewing at the Cinema Suites? Yes! I have. (I read only the first two books. I’m slowly coming to grips with the idea of not ALWAYS having to read the book before seeing the movie. Please know that last weekend I saw Fellowship of the Ring for the first time ever. I haven’t yet read the book. And that’s OKAY. I read To Kill a Mockingbird and Revolutionary Road before seeing the movies. I read all of the Harry Potter books, yet haven’t seen all of the movies, and it’s all okay. I’m still a fairly decent person who doesn’t bear false witness against her neighbor, although I do covet some of their stuff. (And that’s NOT okay. I’m working on it.))

Where were we?

Veggies and Vampires

What you see here are my quesadillas (which were delivered to my seat) and my water (which I drank while lounging on a leather recliner!)! AND, although my gut instinct is to say something lame like, “Weight Watcher points don’t count when you’re sitting in the dark!”, deep down I know it’s just not that funny, and this evening finds me literally busting out of my jeans.

Seven Year Itch

These are the GAP jeans I’ve had for nearly seven years. They’re my absolute favorites, and now they’re broken. A very kind friend of mine told me that I shouldn’t fret, because the hole upgrades them to Cool. I quickly reminded her that I’m 42 and that wearing these seemingly cool jeans takes me back fourteen steps on my journey to look Polished. I need advice on jeans, my friends. I’ve been told by a VERY reliable source that those blingy jeans (I hate the word bling, by the way) with silver thread and baubles on the rear look absolutely ridiculous on anyone over the age of 30, so I don’t want to go in that direction, yet I’m also not quite ready to surrender myself to a pair of pants that shows the world that the back of my knees and my butt are becoming a bit closer with every trip around the sun. Suggestions are hereby solicited.

Last night was nearly perfect.

Santa is lit.

One of the local parks is getting ready to open their Christmas light display to cars and carriages, but they always reserve the first weekend for walkers. The four of us bundled up, walked through the park, and then visited the food trucks for hot chocolate and gooey butter cake. Consider the holiday season kicked off in style, despite the gap in my pants.

Saturday night's alright for gooey butter cake.

You're as cuddly as a cactus, you're as charming as an eel! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

“In order to live free and happily, you must sacrifice boredom.”

On Friday, I dipped 74 red velvet cake balls, and then I took those cake balls to an adult toy party if you know what I’m saying and I think you do.

Do you want to know what I purchased at that party? (Seven people just clicked away and might not ever return.) I bought this oil spray stuff (called Body Dew, and be warned that if you Google Body Dew, you might be led to the adult toy site! I just warned you!) that you spray on immediately after a shower and it smells good (because it’s filled with pheromones, naturally) and it keeps your skin soft and winter is coming and winter means dry skin. Body Dew!

This morning I sprayed myself with Body Dew, I participated (passively) in my annual mammogram, and then I went to Trader Joe’s to purchase chia seeds, roasted flax seeds, agave nectar, and jojoba oil because we are becoming the stinky  hippies that we used to make fun of. (I also purchased a cinnamon whisk. I have no idea what I’m doing.) Anyway, fifteen people followed me home from Trader Joe’s. Three of them just wanted to see if I live in a hut fashioned out of patchouli leaves. The remaining dozen are wandering around the house asking me to make out with them, and they have no idea why—because a semi-androgynous 42-year-old me clomping about in ill-fitting jeans and Birkenstocks is not normally the chosen brew of monkey love. (I like to dabble in challenging the minds of those who think they crush on The Lovelies.)

And the thing is, I know you want me to talk more about the toy party, but I can’t. Because I took a pretend vow. Just one thing: I can now say that I’ve seen someone I previously knew only on a professional level (can you tell how careful I’m being right now?) standing in front of a crowd holding a simulated organ (not the kind that plays music. Rest in peace, Ernie Hays.) up to her forehead, and for whatever reason, it seemed Okay.

When I was 18 years old, one of my very favorite people gave me a copy of Illusions by Richard Bach. That book came to me at exactly the right time, which always jazzes me to no end. In Illusions, Richard Bach wrote, “Every person, all the events of your life are there because you have drawn them there. What you choose to do with them is up to you.” Clearly, on Friday evening I chose to have a highly-respected professional acquaintance enter my extended social circle and put a fake penis on her head.

Enjoy your Tuesday. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

It’s funny to blame everything on your husband. (You know, if you’re ridiculous.)

Clinic Doctor Guy in Doc Martens (CDGDM): How are you today?

Me: I’m great.

CDGDM: It looks like you’ve seen better days.

Me: I have. I was just being polite.

CDGDM: What’s up with the leg?

Me: Stress fracture in my heel.

CDGDM: And I bet you have no idea how it happened.

Me: Actually, I do. I’ve had four stress fractures in the past year. All because of running.

CDGDM: You would probably be better off with swimming.

Me: If I knew how to swim, maybe. My chances of drowning are greatly decreased if I stay on dry land.

(I then told him about my sneezing and coughing, which is the reason I drove to the clinic in the first place, although the side trip to the store for butternut squash soup was a great excuse to leave the house, too.)

CDGDM: Is anyone else sick?

Me: You mean, like, in the world? Because, yes. You should watch the news.

CDGDM: No. In your house.

Me: My husband was sick.

CDGDM: So, this is his fault?

Me: Yes. What a jerk. Actually, no. I was sick first.

CDGDM: But it’s still his fault, right? HA HA HA HA HA!

Me: Maybe if we were living in a lame sitcom, but I like to think we’re more creative than that.

——————————————-

Did I vote yesterday? Of course I did!

(Parenthetical Trivia: How many times did the man behind us in line touch my shoulder and tell us that he plays the guitar? Three times! Please don’t touch me. With that said, Rock On.)

Am I happy with the outcome? I am.

Would I be happy if we were waking up to a President Romney? I would be. I’m just sort of happy. Mostly. (Knitting and spinning will do that to you. I’ve heard running does, too—if your bones aren’t made of porcelain.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I’m failing at adaptive evolution, Charlie Darwin.

Last Saturday, I was doing this.

No time for losers.

For the next three weeks, I’ll be doing this.

Left foot calls it.

(My left foot has become unbearably cocky.)

My heel and ankle were feeling sloshy as I drove home from the race. It’s gotten worse instead of better over the past few days, and in the evenings I find myself wincing and walking around on the ball of my foot. Diagnosis? Stress fracture, right heel.

Ortho Doc: You need to immobilize it in the boot for three weeks.

Me: This might sound crazy, but can I take it out of the boot for a few hours on the 17th to run another 5K with my daughter?

Ortho Doc: I think you know the answer to that question.

Me: Last year I had three stress fractures in my left leg. Now I have one in my right heel. What am I doing wrong?

Ortho Doc: Some people are prone to stress fractures. Your bone density is great and your labs are great. I think you’re just one of those people.

Me: Are you saying that I’m not graceful?

Ortho Doc: I would never.

So, Jeff will be running the Girls on the Run 5K in my place. And I’m bummed. Like, the most bummed I’ve been in awhile. (I just reached the point where I can run for thirty minutes without wanting to die. This stress fracture has squashed my delusions of invincibility.)

Go on with your day. I’ll be sitting over here in the corner eating Halloween crap and fighting the urge to take a nap in our hornet bed. Sort of like Macaulay Culkin in My Girl. But not really. (Know that I know that I’m being dramatic. I’m giving myself 24 hours for operatics. And Indian food.)

Oh, wait. One more thing. Please don’t tell me that I should probably stop running. My ortho doctor and I both disagree with you. My road to “Status: Runner” simply has more than the average amount of hiccups and blips. I’m not closing down my shop. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>