I’ve noticed some twitching in my right eye over the past few weeks, and I’ve decided to not complain about it because 1) Complaining isn’t an attractive verb; and, 2) My sister’s eye has been twitching for a few YEARS, and she may have to see a specialist in a different town from where she lives to investigate her twitching. So, really, why in the hell would I bellyache about an infrequent twitch?! (I’m using twitch entirely too much. Time to pull out a grab bag of synonyms: Tic, Spasm, Vellication, Quiver, Paroxysm, Convulsion! I choose Vellication!)

Yesterday, along with the vellication, I discovered that my right eye was crying.  Every time I tipped my head, actual tears poured out and ran down my face. I was a little tea pot, short and stout! This actually came in handy when I took my car to the service station. As the mechanic and I reviewed his invoice, a huge tear jumped out of my eye, rolled down my nose, and dripped onto the paper.

Mechanic: …so, there might be wattage issues, but it’s nothing we’re concerned about.

My eye: (Drip, roll, drop, SPLASH!)

Mechanic: Dude. Is everything okay?

Me: I’m good. I might have wattage issues, but it’s nothing I’m concerned about.

Mechanic: There’s no charge for today’s visit.

My right eye cried all through Harper’s karate class last night. It cried as I made my friend Mitzi’s cucumber salad. It cried as I went deeper into The Girl Who Played with Fire. I have to wonder if perhaps the right side of my body is feeling sort of sad for reasons beyond my understanding. (Perhaps yesterday was a special anniversary for my appendix, and Right Side is mourning her loss. Of course, that doesn’t explain the vellicative behavior. Vellicative! Say it out loud and notice how it gives your tongue a workout! I love that!)

This morning, Old Rightie is no longer weeping and she hasn’t yet vellicated, meaning the Eye Doctor is probably going to stamp my file with the words Wooden Nickel as I leave his office. (Grab Bag: Two-Dollar Bill, Charlatan, Bunyip!)

I miss my appendix.

And I’ve got this happening twice each week.

I started my summer project.

(It will eventually look like this.)

And yesterday I made a blackberry cobbler. (It didn’t last long enough for photographs.)

Seven more days of school.

Only seven more days of school.
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The Puddings are drinking juice and rolling on the river! Come over here for a chance at a $50 Visa gift card from BlogHer!

For the first time ever, we now have Caller ID and Call Waiting.

I’m a terrible (TERRIBLE) phone person, which is odd when you consider that two of my very first jobs involved lots of telephone action. (While in college I was one of those people who called you during dinner to ask if you were interested in having Olan Mills take portraits of your family. I was oddly successful with that job, but the only real memory I took away from it was when my co-worker presented me with a six-pack of Fat Tire and a cassingle of “I Will Always Love You” by Whitney Houston. (She was paying me back for the bread sticks I often bought for her during our breaks. She was broke, and NOT very successful with the Olan Mills gig.) When I returned home that night, five people (3 roommates and 2 friends) were scheming in the living room. We quickly divided up the beer and listened to the cassette one time. ONE TIME.) (Please know that if you live in a house where Rage Against the Machine holds a permanent spot in the CD changer, Whitney Houston is definitely not invited to stay for very long. Also, please know that I rescued Whitney from the trash that night and kept her hidden in my car for those times when I found myself hoping that life treated you kind and that you have all you dreamed of. (I also wished you joy and happiness, but above all this, I wished you love.))

(Sometime I’ll tell you all about my roommates and how we once ate an entire turkey (minus the innards) with our bare hands (on the roof of our house!) to ring in the new year. Wonderfully stinking cretins we were!)

What were we talking about? Phone jobs! The second phone job I had (that’s starting to sound dirty, isn’t it?) involved fighting unemployment claims made by people who were fired from their jobs for misconduct. In other words, I can tell you (off the record, of course) entirely too many stories of Denny’s employees who actually DID pee into the coffee and movie theater employees who were found with their pants down when their pants should have been up (and fastened). Urban Legends Revealed!

So, anyway. Up until now, I either answered the phone or I didn’t, and whoever (whomever? I can never get it down.) was calling either left a message on our machine or they didn’t. It was all so serendipitous and twirly! But now that has changed, because I KNOW it’s you (if I actually get up and look at the phone) and there are four people I do not wish to talk to right now (five, if you count the owner of a local Roly Poly whose employees took me to a level of anger yesterday that led me to type a terribly mean e-mail that I later regretted sending. Oomph.), and those four people currently think that I’m never home, but now they know that I KNOW. (And I  know they know I know et cetera!)

And this adds a whole new flavor to the mix: I just now received a call, and the caller ID thing said ADA. Could it be the American Dental Association (I have a dental appointment on Monday!) or perhaps the American Dietetic Association (Just this morning I was thinking about nutrition, and there is no such thing as a coincidence!)? Because curiosity always kills me, I picked up the phone. It was the American Diabetes Association, and they were thanking me for my contributions and wanting to know if I could send letters out to everyone in my neighborhood. When I told them that I was really strapped for time in the coming weeks, they tried to talk me into finding extra time in my schedule. (Believe me, I’ve looked for extra time! Unlike the Whitney Houston cassingle, it’s nowhere to be found!) When I reached the point where I could feel my voice shaking, I finally hung up on them. And now I’m feeling an unpleasant blend of Guilt and ShouldHaveSaid.

The mailman just delivered, and I’m steaming potatoes covered in dill. (And because of my poor sentence structure, you’ll never know if it’s me or the potatoes covered in dill. Use your imagination.) Harper is taking her first karate class, and Meredith has finished two of her homework pages.

Most importantly, I now own three different types of basil plants. It’s the beginning of an excellent summer.
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I’m still going strong with the Tropicana Juicy Rewards Program. (AND I’m giving away another $50 Visa gift card!) Follow this link!

I bought Rocket the Nissan in September of 1999 after my Honda Civic died on the streets of Nashville, Tennessee. Barely one year old, Rocket had one owner before me—someone who wore artificial fingernails. (She left one in the side pocket of the driver door. I found it when I was digging for a map. It had skin on it. I’m still cringing.) Anyway, that car made it through our wedding, the move back to St. Louis, the switch from apartment to house, and the birth (and progression of car seats) of MC and Harp.

I won’t bore you with the details, but: Rocket started showing signs of death a few months back. When her “Service Engine Soon” light came on, we were told that it would cost more to fix her than what she was worth. (Stinking Death Panels! Bah!)

Last night we packed the family into Rocket and I slowly drove her (with dignity) to the dealer, where we traded her in for a Sonata. And as we drove off the lot in BluLu (Harper’s name for the new ride), I looked back at Rocket and said, “I bet Rocket is yelling, ‘Hey! Wait! Family?! Where are you going?! Hey! Don’t leave me here!!! Family?’” And then Rocket really DID seem sad. And then my eyes started watering. Stupid allergy season.

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Would you please consider voting for SLLIS to receive an equipment grant that will go toward building a playground? (It’s as easy as clicking a button, and you can vote once each day until March 31.) I do love you for doing this.

Me: So. Is this what 39 is going to be like?

Jeff: You KNOW I don’t like APPLEBEE’S!!!

(He didn’t really say that. Jeff recognizes the importance of eating good in the neighborhood.)

Internet, may I ask a favor of you? (I always feel weird doing this, and I try not to do it often.) Two friends of mine have kids who attend the St. Louis Language Immersion School (SLLIS). The school is currently in the running to receive an equipment grant that will go toward building a playground. (I absolutely hate the idea of kids not having a playground.) I will not ask you to donate cash, but would you please consider voting for SLLIS to receive one of these grants? (It’s as easy as clicking a button, and you can vote once each day until March 31.)

I offer you my deepest thanks, along with the promise that this act of kindness will not get you punched in the jaw.

I wasn’t going to share this with you, but I suddenly feel like I should: Meredith was recently accepted into the gifted program at school. After consulting with us, her teacher recommended her, she tested surprisingly well, and Wham! Every Thursday morning she now reports to the middle school where she has her own locker and she changes classes along with an entire hallway of first and second graders who are also in the program. And I’m being intentionally vague, because it’s such a thin fence between bragging on your kid and not bragging and I suppose it’s not wrong to brag about your kid, and gheez. It’s just sort of new to me, but I will say this: Meredith LOVES her Thursdays, and I like to think of it as her song to sing—not mine.

This might seem like I’m changing the subject, but I’m not: Meredith gets car sick, and because of that, she can’t/won’t ride the bus. This morning I had to take her to the middle school at 9:00, pick her up at 11:00 (it was an early dismissal day), drive her to the elementary school, return home and feed Harper lunch, take Harper to the elementary at 12:30, go back to the middle school for the parent/teacher conference at 1:20, and then back home where I currently sit typingtypingtyping until 3:06 when I make my way back to the elementary to pick them both up. AND, because Jeff is in California and I slept like a horse last night (mostly on my feet, lots of fidgeting and swinging my tail at imaginary bugs), I’m feeling a bit raw.

And now I’m going to change into an even more opaque hat: Something was brought up at today’s conference that should have been brought up at last week’s conference with her elementary classroom teacher, and I’m currently stuck between a rock and a hard place (Ah! Clichés! Rattlesnakes!) because I feel the need to confront someone, but I secretly know I can’t because there’s a 17% chance that it might affect a friendship, and because I am who I am, this is going to bother me for days, and hey! I’m really liking that sick mom from American Idol, aren’t you?

After actually feeling tempted to taste goat meat last weekend, I am now 100% committed to learn how to cook authentic Indian food of the vegetarian variety. (Live long and prosper, Goats!) It seems that whenever Jeff and I get the chance to hit a restaurant, we always go for Indian. I’ve asked for cookbook recommendations on Twitter, and I’ve now added a few to my Amazon wish list. (Whee! A list of wishes!) I’m now wondering if you have any words of wisdom. What I really want is to figure out exactly how the place down the street makes their Delhi’s Chaat. From there? Saag paneer. And on and on until my house smells like an Indian Palace. (Don’t worry. I’m not going to go all Julie and Julia: The Indian Version on you. I’m not nearly that perky.)

Look. I knitted a hat and some washcloths for Meredith’s kindergarten teacher. There I go again, getting all twirly and knitting gifts for teachers!

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Tomorrow is the final day!
I spent a week driving a Lincoln, and if you check out my review you could win a $500 Visa gift card! (And more!) This is a really great giveaway!

This particular freelance project is all about animals and their diseases.

Tarantulas go bald. Birds have anorexia. Amphibians vomit.

Meanwhile, I have about 4,392 things running through my head—projects that need my attention, opportunities I want to explore, hair that needs to be cut.

While I’m here, I need to remind you:
In just a few days I’ll be giving away a $100 Visa gift card partnered with Six Months Worth of Eggs.

Also, I’m giving away a $200 Visa gift card, and it’s all about pizza.
Thus it is, and so it goes.

This is all I’ll say about that: I’m very sensitive about and very proactive toward Meredith’s vision issues. If you call me on the telephone to tell me that Meredith has “failed” your vision screening, laugh when I ask why I wasn’t aware of this particular screening, and then accuse Meredith’s ophthalmologist of not being 100% qualified to do his job, well, I’m going to go a little nuts on you. Maybe even more than a little. And if I feel it’s necessary, I will involve faxes in my fracas.

Now, nearly ten hours after my head spinning Linda Blairathon, my back is failing me.

Ride a painted pony, let the spinning wheel spin. Whee!

All of this to say: I’m giving away a $200 Visa gift card, and it’s all about pizza.
As it should be.

Also, don’t forget the eggs. (I’m giving away a $100 Visa gift card partnered with Six Months Worth of Eggs)

Yesterday, he was wearing the original hat, and I felt like I was pressuring him somehow to do something he wasn’t happy about. And we’re all adults, although my brain doesn’t really act like one, so I felt like I had to say something. (You know how I am.) I rolled down the window, and he said, “My wife was really happy with the hat, so thanks!” I came back with, “Great! And, hey! Please don’t feel like you have to wear the hat to school. I know you probably have warmer hats.” He answered with, “Honestly? They all feel the same.” And then I got really mad. (Not really. I just want you to know how my synapses fire.)

Let’s see.

Oh! Okay! Last Saturday our furnace stopped working. SO, the furnace man came over, changed the batteries in the thermostat, and suddenly everything started working again. Victory! And then Jeff left town on Sunday and the furnace stopped working! SO, the furnace man came over on Monday and replaced the thermostat altogether, and suddenly everything started working again. Hallelujah! And then on Monday night, the furnace stopped working! SO, the furnace man came over on Tuesday and replaced a metal thing that communicates between the flame and the blower, and suddenly everything started working again. Triumph! And then on Tuesday night, the furnace stopped working and I ended up on the phone (again) with the furnace guy and he talked me through lighting the pilot light and assured me that he would not ask me to do anything if it wasn’t safe, and I kept asking questions like, “Should I be wearing rubber-soled shoes?!” and saying things like “I need you to understand that I am alone in the house with my kids, and I can NOT explode right now.” And he said, “I’m going to send Mike over tomorrow to talk to you about your options.”

So, yesterday afternoon, the furnace guy’s estimating friend came over and we talked about my options (and the fact that he was peeing blood a few weeks ago. I’m 100% serious. I’m not sure why people feel so comfy around me). And after hearing the sentence “I thought I was pissing Sangria!”, I actually wrote them a check with a really scary number on it, and tomorrow at this time I will have a team of gentlemen in my home installing a new furnace and air conditioner. And please don’t ask me any questions, because frankly? I’m all furnaced out. I’m now having to drag myself downstairs to light the pilot light Every Time We Need Heat, which is often—because it’s currently 14 degrees outside, and the kids are suffering through their first snow day of the year, and furnacefurnacefurnace.

Two hours ago, the girls and I made ice cream out of snow. (Click on the photo for the recipe.)

Meanwhile, Jeff is in California doing things like this:

Yes. He actually shot that video as he drove from San Diego to Palm Springs yesterday afternoon. And Clarence Clemons never once stopped playing the saxophone to tell Jeff a sob story about kidney stones and bloody pee. Furnacefurnacefurnace,etc.

Yesterday I cleaned the girls’ room for the first time ever. It took over eight hours, and the final result is this: Three tons of toys have been donated to charity, another ton of (mostly broken) toys have been thrown away. Now? Every Toy has a place. That’s a huge deal for us.

As I cleaned and tossed (and grew more irritable than I care to admit), I came across a little plastic gem-like thing. As I threw it in the trash, Harper screamed.

“THAT’S MY DIAMOND! YOU CAN’T THROW AWAY MY DIAMOND!”

So, I pulled the gem out of the trash, handed it to her, and said, “I better not ever see that diamond on the floor again.”

Two hours passed, and I took a break from cleaning to fix dinner.

Harper entered the kitchen.

Harper: I think I swallowed my diamond.

Me: What do you mean you THINK you swallowed your diamond? DID you swallow your diamond?

Harper: Naybe.

(Both of my kids say Naybe instead of Maybe. I’ll never correct them. Also, Meredith says Renember instead of Remember. I love that.)

I called the doctor, told her that Harper swallowed a plastic object roughly the size of a nickel, and learned that an 18-month-old baby can swallow a quarter and pass it with minimal difficulty. (Interesting!) She told me the signs to watch for (difficulty breathing, unbearable pain, blood in the stool, etc.) and then said, “If Harper wore diapers, I would suggest you check her output for the gem. Since she’s not in diapers, I’ll just tell you to do whatever gives you peace of mind.”

This afternoon after lunch, the following cry echoed throughout the house:

“I THINK I JUST POOPED A DIAMOND!”

I ran to the bathroom and looked. I didn’t see a diamond.

Harper: I think it’s in there. Look! That one is shaped like a diamond!

Jeff: What are we supposed to do?

Me: I don’t see a diamond. I’m not sure how to proceed! Should we examine it more closely? I DON’T KNOW!

Meredith: You’re going to touch poop with your hands?!?!

Jeff slowly walked outside, retrieved a stick, and poked each of Harper’s creations to check for diamonds. No luck.

Jeff: I’m really glad I took vacation time this week.

Me: When your team asks what you did, be sure to include Poking Poop with a Stick.

Enjoy your holiday. Here at the Pudding house, we’ll be poking poop and crossing our fingers for diamonds.