Because I tend to flip out with this sort of thing, I quickly called Jeff and asked if HE would like to participate in Lessons and Carols Sunday by reading one of the lessons. He was all over it, as he tends to be.

After I replied to the original e-mail with some sort of strange dance in which I committed Jeff or myself to do one of the readings, I received the following response:

“Thanks, Angie – we are grateful for another woman reader! Here are the TWO readings we would love for you to share with the congregation. They are printed in the bulletin. See you on Sunday.”

WOMAN reader. Yep. That would be me and not Jeff. Eleanor Roosevelt once said, “Do one thing every day that scares you.” Deep breath.

TWO readings. Yes! I can once again feel my heart beating in my eyeballs!

Wait. Remember this?

Those are my eyeballs! (Can you tell that I was thinking about J-Lo when this photo was taken? I’m just kidding!!!) I love that the MRI tech gave me a CD of my brain scan. It just might come in handy at a time like this, when we’re having terrible luck scoring a decent Christmas card shot.

Evidence:

Why is Scout the only one smiling?

Anyway. Back to church.

I opened up the attachment and found that my very first reading contained the question, “How can this be, since I am a VIRGIN?” (The all-cap effect is mine, by the way.) I immediately took my terror to Facebook, where one friend suggested that I wear a cone bra. Another recommended that I read the virgin line while “employing an arched eyebrow and Dr. Evil pinky at the corner of your mouth.” A third simply said, “Wear lace gloves. You’ll be fine.”

Because I know myself better than I know anyone else, I immediately recognized the need for Self-Confidence Virgin Gear. To Kohl’s I went (I know.), where I eventually found myself in a dressing room with no less than five shirts, two dresses, two pairs of pants, and a skirt. I tried on the first outfit, looked into the mirror, and asked, “How can this BE, since I am a virgin?” Second outfit. “How can THIS be, since I am a virgin?” (Please know that no one else was in the dressing room.) Third outfit. “HOW can this BE, since *I* am a VIRGIN?!” Score.

Black Daisy Fuentes pants. (Daisy is NOT a virgin.)

Apt. 9 Red Pleated Chiffon Tank. (Because it’s Christmas.)

Black Apt. 9 Shrug. (To hide the dingle dangling of my upper arms.)

Dansko Midoris. (Because I tend to not fall down when I wear them.)

Let’s pick up the speed here, shall we? After being The Crabbiest Mom in the Universe yesterday morning, we arrived to church on time. I did both of my readings without falling down or giggling, and afterwards an elderly woman with a walker told me that she is rarely able to hear the speakers on Sunday mornings, but she could hear me. My first thought? “Oh, man. I must have SCREAMED about the virgin.” My second thought? I did Just Fine, Eleanor.

Example: I love singing in the car to this song. BUT, when I get to the 2:48 mark? I lose it. AND, when the cat sings, “I know you’re strong”? I nearly have to pull over. (Confession: I just dragged the arrow to figure out where the “I know you’re strong” line is, and as soon as I heard it, my eyes welled up. I haven’t even listened to the rest of the song! I’ve become squishy.)

Another One: The Caterpillar Song. It starts off silly, and it ends with me burying my head in my hands and running my car into a tree. I know. (“I can’t crawl but I can fly. Wanna come for a ride?” That part destroys me. I can’t sing “Climb on.” I can’t even think about “Climb on.”)

Last night I learned that lice makes me cry. Hard. Really hard. AND, the combination of lice (chemical-RESISTANT lice, by the way) coupled with fresh dog poop in the hall? I start off like this, and I end up like this. (I was going to make a reference to Glenn Close crying in the shower during The Big Chill, but she had her clothes off during that scene (it hits at 1:57 if you’re curious), and at no point last night did I cry naked.)

I *did* cry again this morning when I came across an unwrapped Milky Way as I was throwing away a bunch of stuff in the girls’ room. I plopped down on the mattress that still reeks of Anti-Lice Spray, and I sobbed and sobbed as chocolate, caramel, and nougat dripped down my chin.

It’s going to be a long and smelly weekend. (Tonight we’re all going to bed with mayonnaise in our hair and shower caps on our heads. And I’ve been trying so hard to go vegan. Why is my lip starting to quiver?!)

Less than an hour into the play date, I noticed that I was sweating. So hot. Crazy hot. 84 degrees in the house. It didn’t help that I had been baking cakes and boiling chickens, but still. Shouldn’t an 18-month-old air conditioner be working better than this?!

I immediately did what anyone would do.

I stuck popsicles down my shirt and sent the kids downstairs to play. (It’s at least 15 degrees cooler downstairs.) ((By the way, do you see the look on my face? My kids know that look as the “We better turn this ship around and start puking random compliments at Mommy!” look.)) I’m sure seeing me with popsicles in my shirt made Friend downgrade my status from Okay to Junk. (Junk was her insult for Miley Cyrus, as in, “I think Miley Cyrus is junk.” I sort of like it, but toward things rather than people. “This fig dip is junk! Diet soda is junk!”)

Side story: At one point during the play date, I offered Friend some gluten-free cookies. She tried them, hated them, and then asked for one of my cucumbers.

Me: Really?

Friend: Yes.

Me: Okay. Do you need me to cut it or peel it or anything?

Friend: No, I’ll just take it.

Me: Do you need something to dip it in?

Friend: Ew. No.

I washed a cucumber, sliced off both ends, and handed it to her. She eats cucumbers like apples. She ate the entire thing. I’m 41 years old, and I’ve never seen anyone do this. Excellent. Anti-junk.

After Friend went home, I went downstairs and noticed that the air conditioner was all iced up. I called our trusty air conditioner guy and he told me to clean the filter and TURN THE AIR CONDITIONER OFF for two hours to let the ice melt. Jeff cleaned the filter and quickly took the girls to VBS—leaving me and the dog sitting in the heat. Scout, sensing how ruffled I was, quickly crawled under the table and took a nap. Me? I raged and cursed and stuck a few popsicles down my pants.

At ten o’clock in the evening, the air had cooled the house to 78 degrees, and this is nothing but good, because I had canceled all plans for today in order to sew a pair of popsicle underpants. Have I mentioned that I’m counting down the days until autumn? Only 72 more days! (My opinion: Summer is junk.)

My relationship with food is totally cracked. I weigh myself at least four times Every Single Day. If my number goes beyond what is most likely a perfectly acceptable number for me, I flip out. (I don’t really Flip Out, but I get bummed. Not noticeably bummed, but still. If my pants aren’t fitting, I tend to do the sad face. Inwardly.) I’m currently a vegetarian with vegan tendencies who is counting Weight Watcher points and attempting a daily raw meal. Healthy on the outside, nice and unstable on the inside, right?

I get all weirded out in social situations. I’ve always had a terrible time with eye contact, which often makes me look like I’m either lying and being all shifty, or that I’m suspicious and unsocial—or an unfortunate combination of the two. I’m always afraid I’ll say something ridiculous, so more often than not, I either avoid saying anything at all, or I get overly jokey and then I spend the drive home regretting 73% of everything I’ve said. (I once had a friend who paused at least ten seconds before saying ANYTHING. He told me that he took that time to choose his words in the most economical way. He always struck me as the most eloquent of our group.)

When I was in junior high and high school, I rarely left the house to hang out with friends. I can name the parties I went to, and they all fit on one hand! (Jeff’s hand with the amputated thumb!) I went to a dance, I went to a Halloween party, I went to a Christmas party, and I went to our class graduation party. Really. That’s it. Instead, I practiced the piano. I wrote in my notebooks. I sat on the floor in front of my radio and listened to Kurtis Blow and Phil Collins and Screaming Blue Messiahs (and The Communards and Falco and INXS).

Now that my kids are reaching an age where they’re making friends on their own, I’m finding that I’m actually feeling stressed out about THAT as well. I’ve never been good about putting play dates together (In fact, I sort of hate the term Play Date.), but I’m starting to realize that if I make my kids spend their childhood the way I spent mine, they’re never really going to be social creatures! (Evidence: Socially Awkward Me.)

A few weeks back, Harper’s friend’s mom called to say that they were getting a small group together to go to the pool and were wondering if Harp could join them. I 100% trust both of the adults who would be there, yet I still was a complete Dorito-binging mess when I dropped Harper off. (Harper had the greatest time at the pool, there were a TON of lifeguards there, I have no idea why I flip out about this… Wait. No. I do know. I’ll get to that in a second.)

Meredith recently took a call from her best friend. She’s back in town after a two week vacation, and is wondering if Meredith can come over, go to Dave and Busters, and then hang out at the grandmother’s pool. I immediately began puking out questions to Meredith.

Me: Dave and Busters? Are the parents going to be hanging out with you the entire time? Because I’ve SEEN some of the adults who hang out there during kid-friendly hours. And, the pool. Will there be a lifeguard on duty? Because I’m not sure where the grandma lives, but I DO know that not all subdivision and apartment pools have lifeguards, and you are NOT allowed to go to a pool without an adult there, and ultimately, I want a LIFEGUARD there because sometimes adults get caught up in conversations and they lose track of kids and WAIT. DID YOU JUST HIT YOUR SISTER?! OKAY THEN. YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO GO TO THE POOL OR TO DAVE AND BUSTERS! EVER!

When I was in elementary school, a little boy from our church drowned at church camp. It affected me more than I like to admit. Because of that, I don’t swim. (I know it’s twisted. I know!) My kids have taken swim lessons and Jeff takes them to the pool every week or so, but I never join them because along with not digging the heat, I physically cannot handle the stress. Jeff’s parents have a boat and would probably love to take the girls out, but I can’t deal with it. If someone is drinking beer and driving a boat, I don’t want my kids to be involved. I WON’T let my kids be involved.

Perhaps this is why I love winter. (With that said, I once knew a woman whose only child was killed in a freak skiing accident.)

Please don’t tell me that I’m a disaster. I know I am. Please don’t tell me to take swimming lessons. The thought of it terrifies me, and I know that’s ridiculous. You can sing songs to me about never breaking cycles if you’re unwilling to make changes, and I’ll sing right along—as long as you’re singing in the key of D. (I love F# and C#.)

If you’re as unstable as me, feel free to sing it out. Afterward, we’ll high five one another while staring at the floor with our shifty overly-protective eyes.

Guess who will be lugging around a huge cooler full of water this morning from 9:00 until noon? Me! My official job is Water Relief, and I really should do some push-ups or something because I can barely move the vacuum around for three minutes before my arms start flashing the gang sign for Extreme Fatigue. The instruction sheet says, “Please walk around with the cooler and ask adult volunteers only if they would like a water bottle.” (The kids will have their own bottles.) Here’s hoping another parent has the assignment of asking me if I would like a cot! (Because I would like a cot! Or a scooter!)

The Water Relief shift will require more brawn than brains. To compensate for that, I’ll be spending the afternoon shift in charge of Gym Choice which involves Beach Volleyball, Basketball, and Beanbag Electronic Game. I’m cool with Beanbag Electronic Game, but I have absolutely no clue on volleyball or basketball. (The coach has provided detailed instructions, and I’ve been studying those and trying to picture it all in my head for the past hour.) Funny. I own three shirts that say Mid-County Volleyball Champion. The girls believe that I *am* the Mid-County Volleyball Champion. In reality, Jeff gave me those shirts nearly a decade ago. He was on the winning team. I was on the couch.

I wonder if I could shift focus and teach 500 kids how to crochet a bookmark or roll a cake ball?
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Please come over and comment! You could win a $100 Visa gift card! Now get over here and watch my kids brush their teeth!

We were instructed to bring three things to class: immunization records, a leash, and treats.

One puppy owner didn’t bring any of those items.

That particular owner (Shall we call her Eileen? Let’s do!) sat on a stool and watched her dog run up and hump every other dog in the class. As the rest of us were scrambling a bit to get the humper away from our dogs, Eileen simply laughed and yelled, “She’s been doing that to my Rottweiler all week!”

Note: Scout is not yet spayed. Her siblings are scheduled for their surgery on Friday, and her surgery will most likely take place in the next two weeks. Please know that we cannot officially adopt her until she has been fixed. Back to the story.

As our instructor talked to the class about basic disciplinary tools and how to use treats as incentives, Eileen approached me and said, “My grandkids are nine and they’re unschooled, and they’re reading a series of books that I can’t remember the name of, but they’re really great readers, and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, et cetera!”

What I wanted to say: Unschooled like your dog? The dog who is unleashed because you cannot follow instructions and is trying to get my puppy pregnant as we stand around and discuss something you can’t remember?! I paid money for this class!

What I did say: That’s great! I’m sorry, I just missed what the instructor said!

During the entire class, Eileen paid little to no attention to her own dog. Instead, she asked Jeff to help her figure out how to e-mail a photo of Scout to her son. Also, she yelled out to random store employees to bring her a pet gate, a jogging vest, and a leash with neon paws on it for her dog. (They didn’t have the leash with the decorative paws, so her puppy remained leashless. Leashless and Humping.)

All of this to say: I have zero patience for flaky folks who don’t pay attention.

Also, I will never appreciate unschooling after hearing about it from Eileen.

Meanwhile, Scout is learning how to drive a car. Because she’s brilliant, and I’m becoming one of Those Puppy People who say things like, “Coot Widdle Pahpee.”

(I promise to not sing more songs about the puppy in my next post. You’re welcome.)

The End.

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Please come over and comment! You could win a $100 Visa gift card!Now get over here and watch my kids brush their teeth!

The second time was today. I’ve spent the past eight or so hours feeling incredibly sorry and guilty and, well, stupid. And although I had my Xanax prescription refilled over the weekend (for the first time since 2009! I am not a junkie!), I can’t find that bottle of pills anywhere! AND, I refuse to call Walgreens or my doctor because I ALREADY feel Stupid, and I really don’t want to keep rolling that feeling around in the snow.

Also, my cat is sick. Because she has herpes (really, I’m not making this up), she tends to respond to stress by having really intense sneezing fits. Every time she goes to the vet for an annual exam, she spends the next four to seven days sneezing. On Saturday morning, she got her head stuck in a bag handle, and when she took a step and the bag hit her in the butt, she took off running 392 miles per hour. When I finally tracked her down and cut the bag off of her, she stayed under the bed for three hours, and has been sneezing ever since.

I want to thank each and every one of you for the backpack suggestions. I’ve taken so many notes in the past few days regarding different websites and organizations, and it makes me feel good to know that I was right: Fluid Pudding Readers Know What’s Up. I’m going to take this information back to the school and see what they would like me to do. Thanks for being so amazing.

Because the second of May continues to jab me with rusty forks, please know that my glasses fell off of my face and into the litter box earlier this evening. I have since washed the heck out of them, but as I sit here at the computer, I can’t help but feel like my eyes are smelling sort of flowery. Littery. Luckily, the glasses fell as I was making one of those zen stone garden designs in the clean litter with the shovel. (I believe it helps the cats to achieve enlightenment each and every time they do their business.)

The kids are in bed, and I have no idea if it’s safe to turn the television back on. I think it’s a good night for knitting on my migraine doc’s shawl and listening to a knitting podcast or two. (By the way, Ellen rolled her eyes a bit at knitting earlier today. I almost felt like she was rolling her eyes at me. Really. It has been that kind of day, Annie.)
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I want a Fluid Pudding Regular to win this one!
The Puddings are eating vegetables and giving away a $100 Visa Gift Card! Leave a comment for your chance to win!

I quickly corralled the girls into the car, loaded their favorite Selena Gomez song onto the iPod, and slowly backed down the driveway. When I was parallel with Suspicious Vehicle and Man Inside, I made it clear that I was writing down his license plate number in one of the 38 tiny notebooks that I keep with me at all times.

I dropped the girls off at school and called Jeff, who took down the plate number and description of the car and the guy. He then alerted the police, because we’ve already had one person die at our house, and Better Safe Than Sorry.

I killed fifteen minutes (The drive to school takes about five minutes.) before re-entering our subdivision. The car was Still There. Instead of turning onto our street, I drove straight and looped around until I found myself in a Dairy Queen parking lot.

Me (to myself. Soliloquy!): Okay. I need to keep driving by the house to see what he’s doing, but I’ve got on this bright yellow sweater thing (which seems severely unflattering lately. Perhaps I should give it away?) and these black glasses. I need to shake it up to become unrecognizable so the guy doesn’t notice me driving past him every twenty minutes!

Me (on the phone with Jeff): Do you know of a place that can alter the appearance of our car in less than fifteen minutes?

Jeff (always dealing with me in the nicest way possible): No.

I then did what anyone would do in this situation. I took off the top half of my clothes in the Dairy Queen parking lot, removed my glasses, and tousled my hair until it looked exactly the same, only a bit more AWESOME. I then put my black t-shirt back on, sat up, and drove back to the subdivision.

Still there. Once again, I went straight instead of turning. This time, *I* called the police, and a woman who was in NO MOOD for chit-chat told me that an officer was on the way. (I suppose I’m sort of glad to know that the lady who dispatches the calls doesn’t like to spend time gabbing on the phone with people like me.) I headed straight to the Kentucky Fried Chicken parking lot, where I noticed a manager unloading a few boxes from his truck. (What could he be bringing in from home? Straws? Lids? Those Delicious Biscuits?!)

From the KFC lot, I called my neighbor to let her know what was going on. She said she was going to get a better look at the guy just in case we would need to identify him at some point.

People, this was getting Exciting. In my world, where the biggest adrenalin rush occurs when I have lunch plans AND a batch of cake balls that need to be made, having a potential menace in front of my house is Heavy and Invigorating. I drove into the subdivision again. Still there. Still There! (This was about thirty minutes after I spoke to Mrs. No Nonsense at the Police Department.)

Me (on the phone with Jeff): Damnit! He’s STILL THERE! And I think he saw me. I’ve driven into the subdivision THREE TIMES NOW, and I’m supposed to be meeting my mom for lunch in less than an hour and I’ve been driving AROUND for nearly an hour and I STILL HAVEN’T APPLIED MASCARA! I NEED TO GO HOME!!!

Jeff told me that he would place a sane follow-up call to the police to see what was going on, because really: I’m sure our fish is a small fish compared to the other fish they have to fry.

I slowly drove back into the subdivision and wound my way around until I was parked on a side street where I could see Potential Danger, but he couldn’t see me. (I really need to have a hat made that says Bird Dog to wear during my imaginary super sleuth adventures.)

Suddenly, my phone rang and scared The Crap out of me. It was Jeff.

Jeff: Go home. He’s a detective.

Me: He’s a what?!

Jeff: All they could tell me is that he’s a private detective and at this point you’re being doubly protected.

Me: Doubly Protected?! What is he DOING?

Jeff: Well, I told them that I didn’t feel good knowing that a detective is parked in front of our house, but they assured me that everything is okay.

Over an hour after I took the kids to school, I returned home—wearing completely different clothes, no glasses, and with screwed up hair. When I looked down at the guy in his car, he rolled down his window and quickly flashed his badge at me. I cautiously approached him. (Probably not so cautiously, actually. Cautious is hard to manage when your lashes are in need of definition and you’re carrying your clothes. Embrace Your Whimsy.)

Me: Yeah, so, I’m sorry I called the police on you. It’s just that I HAVE DAUGHTERS.

(Really. I said that.)

Detective: I get it.

He then rolled up his window, which told me that he didn’t have time for my breeze shooting.

And that’s HIS loss, because I was going to offer him some cake balls. (If you give me an inch, I tend to take a yard.)
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I want a Fluid Pudding Regular to win this one!
The Puddings are eating vegetables and giving away a $100 Visa Gift Card! Leave a comment for your chance to win!

Me: Oh! A sheep shearing?! How wonderful! I had no idea!

Me: Oh! I have latrine duty?! Fiddlesticks! I probably should have read the message boards!

Me: Oh! We’re doing a real life version of The Lottery?! Hrm! I’m not quite sure this is what I signed up for, but really? I don’t know WHAT I signed up for! PleaseGodDon’tMakeMeBeTessie.

I do know that at one point during the registration process I paid $25 extra to NOT have to sleep on a bunk bed (really! I’m that kind of person!), but then the camp location changed to a place that doesn’t have bunk beds (hooray!) and DOES have a microbrewery on site (what?!). In other words, UPGRADE! I’ve also heard rumors that an outdoor movie will be shown, and that the movie may be Mamma Mia! (Please know that the exclamation point used in that last sentence is not intended to indicate my own excitement about Mamma Mia! being shown. Seriously.) Anyway, since Hell for me involves spontaneous singing and dancing and high-five lady hug crazyville, there’s a good chance that if the movie is a mandatory event, more than one hundred knitters are going to witness this before the end of the night.

Perhaps it’s time for me to start a warning thread on those message boards…
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I am drinking Tropicana Pure Premium and giving away a $100 Visa Gift Card! Leave a comment for your chance to win!

I went shopping at Walgreens, and now I’m giving away a $100 Walgreens gift card! Come on over!

Glass Half Full: I started off my day with some exhilarating outdoor exercise. Also, I fixed the toilet and showed the middle school kid next door that I Am Human.