Let’s just get a few things straight.

Before embarking on NaBloPoMo (because I’m going to embark on NaBloPoMo), I need to try and release some guilt.

For the past year or so, I’ve been absolutely terrible at responding to comments. You guys have sent me recipes and words of encouragement and brainy things to think about and prescription recommendations and book reviews and I’m absolutely terrible at thanking you. If I’m going to do NaBloPoMo (because I’m going to do NaBloPoMo), I either need to turn off comments or let the guilt fly out the window like a happy flying thing that flies out the window. Happily.

I don’t really care to elaborate on the following, nor do I wish to reveal if any statements are connected:

Lately I feel that I smell like a poorly-maintained convalescent center.

I can’t believe I still haven’t read Still Life With Woodpecker. I’m going to change that as soon as I finish my current read.

When I’m sitting at my computer and I look out the window, this is what I see.

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Pretty soon it will all be orange and brown and crunchy, and I’ll be burning some sort of autumn-inspired candle and suddenly it won’t matter that I feel like I smell like I’ve been swimming in stuff that doesn’t smell very good.

Tomorrow I’m going on a solo adventure that involves bravery and being touched by a stranger. (I may remove my cardigan, but everything else stays on.) If all goes well, I’ll celebrate with a chai at the place my nose ring friend and I tend to visit after a switch-out.

Last night I spent nine dollars on a bottle of cranberry juice that contains nothing but the juice of cranberries. No water. No sugar. (I just accidentally typed wugar and then I laughed and laughed. Wugar.) No apple juice. No grape juice. (A lot of cranberry juices are cut with apple and grape juice. (Oddly enough, LSD is NEVER cut with strychnine, despite all of the whackadoodle LSD tales you might have heard. I’m here to provide mind-easing fun facts for my LSD buddies, none of whom actually exist in the real world.)) Anyway, the cranberry juice? It is terrible. BUT, I can manage the recommended three ounce dose if I put it in a shot glass (or tiny tiny coffee cup because I don’t actually own a shot glass) and pretend that it will help me see into the future. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

This is the story of my red right ankle.

Warning: This particular post will end with a photograph of my bloody ankle. I have not applied any filters to the photo, so the bright red blood you will see is the same bright red blood I saw in my car in the mall parking lot this afternoon. You have been warned and I know you’re smart, so please don’t act like you’re surprised that I’m shocking and awing you with a bloody body part. I told you it was coming. Proceed with caution.

Do you remember several months ago when we talked about school fundraisers? I finally talked to the right people and put together a fun run at our school, and it took place yesterday and it was SO much fun because as a team we ran from St. Louis to Atlanta by way of 3,765 laps around our school track. Students and staff and parents (and one grandparent) received a bracelet for every lap they ran and at the end of the day all of the bracelets were counted and whoosh! Exercise and excitement and community and $1,500 to go toward an outdoor classroom.

Because I was there all day, I spent most of my free time walking laps. (I did take time out for a Subway veggie sandwich because Jeff delivered it to me and That Is LOVE.) Do you remember all of those ridiculous stress fractures I dealt with last year? Only one of them was bugging me, and the air was crisp and I had a tumbler full of hot tea and this song shuffled three times on my phone:

Cannonball made me all Girl Power! and Keep Walking! and (ouch) and If I Walk 1,040 Laps We’ll Exceed Our Goal!!!

At 3:00 I packed it up and declared the day a success. You should have seen all of those kids running. It’s a wonder I didn’t start weeping while thinking in metaphors and symbols and What An Amazing World We Live In. (My endorphin tide tends to run high (unless it’s running low).) One boy who is clearly not a runner ran eight laps in 15 minutes. Eight laps is a mile. When I told him that he just ran a mile, he actually stomped his foot and yelled, “Oh my God I DID NOT KNOW THAT!” That was my favorite part of the whole day.

Anyway, because our next adventure involves dressing up like people we’re not and passing out candy from the back of our car, this afternoon’s list included: freelance (done), talk to vet about Henry (done), and search out Mockingjay pin at mall (done). The list did NOT include suffer a blister while wearing my favorite shoes.

(Done.)

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I know. Oh, and it bums me out because I LOVE those shoes! I’m starting to feel like I shouldn’t be allowed to own shoes that aren’t clogs. Any shoe with a back on it eventually leads me to Bloody Blisterville, and I can only assume it’s because of my protuberant thin-skinned tendon. Shoes would be easier if I knew what I was doing. How are you? Should we do NaBloPoMo next month? ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Preguntas.

Something happened on the evening of September 10th (it’s part of the 83% I’ll never share), and my mind has been spinning with questions ever since.

41 days filled with questions! Shall we explore a few of them? Please feel free to attack many or none!

1. Mascara on the bottom lashes. Is this still a thing? I still do it, but I’m not sure I’m supposed to. (The only thing that has changed in my makeup routine since 1985: I no longer light my eyeliner ON FIRE before applying it.)

17. I’ve tried the washing machine cleaning beady things. I’ve tried vinegar. Why do our clothes still smell sort of sour? Our washing machine will be eleven years old in March. Is it time for a new one?

23. Why do so many people assume that Vegetarian = Enigmatic? Honestly. I don’t eat meat. I don’t care if you do. I really don’t. It’s not difficult for me to find something to eat, and I’m so much more than Bewildering Girl Who Eats Plants. (Side story: Jeff and I went to an amazing vegetarian restaurant on Saturday night. The people at the table next to ours were definitely not vegetarians, and they had a lot of questions. “I want the tacos, but I like chicken or beef in my tacos. WHAT DO YOUR TACOS TASTE LIKE?!” “I’m headed to the symphony in two hours. Since I don’t know what your tacos are made of, I need to know that they are not cooked with a bunch of alcohol.” “You don’t have diet soda?! And you’re telling me that real sugar is better for you than sugar substitute?!” “They have beet fries but they don’t have French fries?! What’s wrong with potatoes?!” (Nothing. Nothing is wrong with potatoes.) I’m all for questioning everything and arming yourself with information, but why go to a vegetarian restaurant if you’re going to raise your eyebrows at every single thing that comes out of the server’s mouth? Also, how many ways can he explain Vegan Cheese before you just smile and either give it a whirl or pass?) ((My line is always, “I’m a vegetarian, but I’m not a jerk about it.” I know. I’m starting to be a jerk about it. I’m starting to be a jerk about a lot of things. Just ask Meredith how I responded this morning when she told me that it was too cold to do her homework. Fact: When I’m not in the mood for excuses, I can bring everyone in the room to tears in less than two minutes. You have no idea.))

26. I’ve been doing a lot of research. I’ll spare you the details (because the details include the words Ovary and Really Shitty Pain), but please know that along with research (online and printed because I’m thorough!), I’ve spoken to quite a few people who have had hysterectomies, and they ALL claim that the hysterectomy changed their life for the better. I went to the doctor last week, and she said that instead of doing a hysterectomy, she would like to inject a chemical into my butt that will fake out my girl parts into thinking they’re in menopause. We’ll then have six months to see how menopause will be for me before I actually start menopause in the next decade. I’m not a doctor, so I feel really weird about questioning the plan. (Beet fries?! Are you kidding me?!) BUT, what if the menopausal effects are actually side effects of the drug? How will I know the difference? Does this even make sense? It’s all I can think about lately because: Pain! Burning! Urgency! Endometriosis! Crying! Too much time spent in bed with a hot water bottle! How many cups can I pee into before we know what’s going on? (So far? Three cups in three weeks. This morning’s was actually paper instead of plastic, which felt like such a refreshing switch-up. Does anyone else ever feel the urge to pee into the cup and then throw that cup against the wall like Mötley Crüe? I never do it, and I probably never will, but The Urge Exists, and I picture myself doing it every single time.) (I did a cut and paste for those Mötley Crüe umlauts. I am not a keyboard wizard.)

29. Let’s take a break and talk about happy things. This sandwich is my very favorite sandwich right now. Also, this is my favorite ink color. A few years ago, I won a contest that involved designing a Pringles can. (I know. Life is weird.) One of the prizes was an iPod Touch. Because I already had one, I gave it to Jeff. Anyway, my iPod touch (first generation, six years old) died last week while playing the Teen Beach Movie soundtrack for Harper. (I really wish it would have gone out on a higher note.) Because he’s a gem, Jeff cleared off the Pringles iPod and presented it to me last night. I then spent nearly an hour putting music I love onto the “new” iPod. It was the most fun I’ve had in weeks. (I no longer pretend to like every single Andrew Bird song, and how freeing is that?!) This morning I dropped the kids off at school and headed out to pee into a cup while listening to a shuffle of my very favorite songs. It felt like Christmas and beet fries. Beet fries! Imagine the possibilities!

31. A friend of mine wrote this. It’s perfect and it honestly explains what I go through every time I pick up the telephone or sit down to write an e-mail.

34. I just realized that I’m not really writing questions at all. Guess what? As I type this post, a doctor at a vet school is formulating a homemade diet plan for our poor itchy Henry. In less than two weeks, I’ll be cooking vegetarian meals for Jeff and I, meaty meals for the kids, and God knows what for the dogs. (I had to fill out a checklist of foods I’m not opposed to cooking for Henry. Venison was on the list, as was lamb. I love my dogs, but I couldn’t check those boxes. I checked millet. Lots of beans. Cow stuff. Bird stuff.)

38. I have carrot cake in the refrigerator. Vegetarians can eat cake! (And lots of it, Betty Crocker.)

41. You’re so pretty and patient. I can’t remember the last time I sat down and puked up over a thousand words. And here we are. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Sluts and Influenza

This morning I headed out for a flu shot and as I was listening to the radio, I heard the word Slut and it occurred to me that I can’t remember the last time I used the word slut. High school, maybe? Anyway, it then struck me that I haven’t visited Fluid Pudding in at least a week, so here I am! Thank you to sluts for the prompt.

My week of clean eating was a success, if success can be measured in Weight Loss and Lack of Tantrums. I’m down eight pounds from last month at this time (with absolutely zero exercise because an object at rest tends to stay at rest), and nearly four of those pounds can be attributed to a week of eating unprocessed foods (plus one caramel apple martini). The clean eating thing might seem unappetizing until I tell you something like “Right now I’m baking up a mixture of oats and pumpkin and cinnamon and you should smell my house.” (It’s a true statement. It’s been baking for nearly a half hour, and it smells delicious. The recipe is here. It was suggested by a friend and the only thing I’m doing differently is substituting coconut milk yogurt for the cottage cheese.)

Anyway, the challenge ended at midnight last night, yet I’m soldiering on to see how long I can last. It’s good to know that I can have an Oreo if I want it. Right now I don’t want it.

Meredith had a glorious time at fifth grade camp, but it appears that camp is a lot like Vegas. I haven’t heard many details beyond so-and-so winning a contest for having the longest tongue and the pizza wasn’t greasy like typical school cafeteria pizza. No stomach pills were taken, and everything that left the house returned to the house.

As I sat and worked on a sleeve cuff yesterday evening, a family of mosquitoes feasted on my right ankle. Every one of them hit a vein, so I’m sure my veiny leg has been added to the prime destination list for all bugs who bite. The mosquitoes are really bad in my neighborhood, and the woman next door has a theory that I’d share with you, but it contains words like Raw and Human and Feces and it’s lunch time. You’re welcome.

I’ll be picking the girls up in about an hour so they, too, can get their flu shots. According to my calendar, it’s National Children’s Day, and I can’t think of a better way to celebrate. (They’re not old enough to enjoy caramel apple martinis.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>