Perhaps the sun reflected off of my sparkling mouth and blinded the guy in the truck.

This morning, while wearing my brand new sparkling lip gloss, I witnessed a car accident. And because I was running late for volunteering at Meredith’s school, I kept driving—feeling really crappy for not stopping. Because, seriously? These twinkling (and supposedly pouting) lips need to speak out! Especially in situations where insurance companies and police officers are involved!

As I helped a few of my kindergarten friends learn the difference between 12 and 15 (those numbers are especially tricky, and probably should have been named twoteen and fiveteen), I shimmered and set the plan of calling the police the minute I got home to tell them (using my glimmering mouth) that I saw the accident, and it was totally the guy in the white truck’s fault, and I’m sorry I left the scene, and I am now ready for my community service assignment. (My new glossy lips will really pop when I match them up with an orange jumpsuit.)

After the final kindergartener was able to identify the numbers with no mistakes, I drove to Walgreens to purchase a new set of tweezers. (When your lips are like diamonds, your brows beg for a proper taming. Girl, you know it’s true.) While in the parking lot I saw that a tow truck, holding one of the cars involved in the accident, was across the street at the gas station.

I crossed the street and let my flickering lips lead the way to the tow truck guy.

Me (sparkle, sparkle): Everyone from the accident is alright, right?

Tow Truck Guy (TTG): I’m not really supposed to discuss it.

Me (with lips like shining stars): I know. BUT, I saw the whole thing. And I want to make sure that everyone knows that the guy in the white truck was 100% at fault.

TTG (sort of hypnotized by my glowing yap): Yeah. The guy in the truck knows it was his fault. He’ll be responsible for the whole deal.

Me: Ohmygoshyouwanttokissmethisiscrazy.

TTG: Ma’am?

Me: YoucancallmeSheila. Nothing. Okay then.

So, justice is often served, men who drive white trucks might be all Greased Lightning but at least they’re also sometimes honest, I’m going to write President Obama about my twoteen and fiveteen recommendation, and my lips are luminous with no sticky or tacky feeling. Enjoy your day. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I was not attacked by the statue, but I did get a new comforter.

Last night I found myself sitting on a couch next to The Bloggess. We were guests on Oprah (obviously), and our mind-blowing creations were being celebrated. After a coin toss, Jenny revealed that she had invented a statue of Frida Kahlo that appears to be a normal twenty foot high stationary installment until someone in the room is being dishonest. Upon detecting a lie, the statue lights up from within, humanizes, and storms upon He or She Who Has Delivered an Untruth. Oprah then opened a curtain and revealed the amazing statue, who immediately began glowing and humanizing and chasing down audience members. It was terrifying.

When it was my turn to reveal a creation, I said, “Well, I really didn’t come up with anything, but I can work a Hooey Stick.” With that, Oprah shook her head and muttered, “I like your skirt.”

With that said, if you want to see my bedroom and how I was able to improve it with the help of BlogHer and JCPenney, join me over here. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

The Thoughts I Had While Watching “The Secret Life of Bees” With My Mother

We’re kicking it off with a four-year-old girl shooting her mother, and I can hear vampires in the next theater. Clearly, I am lost.

Alicia Keyes might be pretty and blah, blah, blah, but she certainly cannot act. Then again, I cannot act. Why do I insist on judging Alicia Keyes? I always judge the pianists, and that’s ridiculous.

I wonder how things would be different had Meredith shot me when she was four.

Okay. This is going to be a busy week. Play date tomorrow, volunteering and work on Tuesday, Harper’s assessment on Wednesday, Thanksgiving dinner Thursday and again on Saturday, church and book club on Sunday along with Twilight.

Wait. Is everyone’s voice muffled, or am I starting to have a panic attack?

(Me: Can you understand what anyone is saying?
Mom: I’m having a bit of trouble. The sound is sort of garbled.)

Whew. Okay then.

Sweet potatoes, marshmallows, butter, sugar, milk, crushed pineapple, peanuts, Cool Whip, cider vinegar, and green apples.

Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy, Joshua, Judges, Ruth. Lyle Lovett married Julia Roberts who was part of Charlotte’s Web with Dakota Fanning who is starring in The Secret Life of Bees. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

You can eat it with your fingers, and it leaves no residue.

My grandmother used to have a very annoying habit of saying things like, “Oh! If only you knew what I know about Blashenblash! But I can’t tell you. I promised not to tell ANYONE! But you would DIE if you knew!” On a similar note, I can’t help but become annoyed when people shout out something like, “I have a Major Announcement to make, but you will have to wait until next week to hear it.”

If you can’t tell me something, don’t tell me how you can’t tell me something. Seriously. You’re wasting words. And words are not meant to be wasted.

And now I am guilty: I received some Big Happy News yesterday, and I spent a good part of today reading legal documents and signing away some rights. And I’m not allowed to tell you any specifics. But I CAN tell you this: If it is determined that I meet all eligibility requirements, I will be accepting a major prize valued at $1,000. And this prize has absolutely nothing to do with a Wii Fit and everything to do with me spending 30 minutes in my yard taking photographs of food and then freaking out in church about the fact that a peace sign and a Mercedes logo look oddly similar and then rushing home to redo the photo shoot in order to eliminate any potential shout-out to the kind folks at Mercedes, and that’s about all I can say.

I suppose the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it, Grandma?

I will say this, with the slight fear of releasing a rattlesnake: A picture is worth a thousand words. And when my prize arrives (if it is determined that I meet all eligibility requirements), I will post a picture.

And now I shall change the subject somewhat drastically. A few days back, Mercy Buttercup, using a popular social media program, announced that she had found The Most Comfortable Nightgown Ever. I took her recommendation to heart (because we own the same Wiggles guitar), and as I type this entry I am wearing The Most Comfortable Nightgown Ever. And now I shall showcase it for you, using my signature America’s Next Top Model pose.

Nightgown

A huge thank you to Mercy Buttercup. Because I’m never taking this thing off. In fact, Jeff just gave me the go-ahead to wear it to Thanksgiving dinner next week. Aces.

‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I chose a tiny bag.

I just took this evening’s muscle lallygagger, so I’ll keep this entry brief for fear that fifteen minutes from now will find me drooling and sputtering nasty tales. (And believe me…)

Anyway. Here are the facts.

I work part time at a yarn store.

The employees at the yarn store are allowed to keep a Hold Bag containing merchandise they will eventually purchase. Up until tonight, I did not allow myself to start a hold bag. Why? Fiber dipsomania, my friend. It starts with one skein. And it’s so easy to put that one skein into your hold bag, isn’t it? Three weeks later, you’ve shoved 3,482 skeins into your hold bag and in no time you’ve stashed away something like $80,000 worth of yarn. And then you have to decide what to return to the shelves. But you love all of it too much. And suddenly you can’t afford to have electricity in your home. And the kids are starting to look like they’re getting scurvy. And you are forced to make chili out of your cat.

Did you catch that whole “up until tonight” thing up there? Yep. Tonight I started my hold bag. Because I fell in love with this. And I’ll be making it out of this. (And, wow. That photo really hurts my eyes for some reason. Bright flash! Overexposure!) So, anyway. Let the madness begin.

Muscles? Relaxed. Time for vampires. Enjoy your night. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Could you also prescribe some laceweight silk yarn?

This morning I visited my headache specialist to figure out how to eliminate this ridiculous everlasting headache. After we briefly discussed my terrible posture and the fact that I get zero exercise each day (I really am a complete disaster), we had the following conversation.

Headache Specialist: Do you, by any chance, have a Wii?

Me (wanting to cry because No. No, I do not have a Wii!): No. No, I do not have a Wii!

Headache Specialist: The only reason I ask is because the Wii Fit has a good yoga routine, and a lot of my patients have found that it helps with their tension headaches.

Me: Prescribe one for me. Seriously. Will my insurance cover it? Let’s do this.

HS: If you already had a Wii, I’d probably suggest you get a Wii Fit. BUT, I can’t ask you to spend that kind of money on the entire system.

Me: Prescribe it. Do it. Let’s make this happen. I dare you.

HS: I think I’ll give you a muscle relaxer and ask you to get a basic yoga DVD.

Okay. I’ll probably take the muscle relaxers a few times. However, I know myself well enough to know that the DVD will get exactly six days of use. (I tend to lose motivation with exercise DVDs after six attempts. See, I really AM a complete disaster.)

Anyway. Starting tonight? Muscle relaxers and a second attempt at Rodney Yee, who wants to kiss me. (At least that’s what I pretend as he poses himself wearing nothing but leggings.)

(This is the headache talking. I don’t normally beg.) Oh, Nintendo. If I had a Wii Fit, my headaches might be cured! Seriously: You could heal a girl in St. Louis with the mailing of one complimentary game system! Is it time for you to Pay it Forward, Nintendo? Is it? Um, please? How’s this for an incentive: If you send me a Wii/Wii Fit combo, I’ll make a video of myself working out wearing nothing but leggings. (If that’s not an incentive, well, let’s just forget I ever typed that sentence.)

EDITED TO ADD: Jeff just called to express his concern about the muscle relaxers. “Wouldn’t it be weird if it went straight to your bowels? Like, you’re still feeling a bit stiff-necked, and then All of a Sudden! Whoops! What the…?!” So, yeah. Now I’m afraid to leave the house. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Banner, Schmanner. David, Schwimmer.

It’s sort of funny.

After putting up the Fluid Pudding Hippo Banner, I quickly received six e-mails saying, “I’m really hating that hippo banner.”

One of my six unsolicited banner judges even said, “I don’t think I can come back here as long as you have that hippo banner.”

Yesterday I woke up and said, “You know what, Hippo Haters? I’m not really liking the hippo, either.”

So, I put up a photo of my hand getting ready to make out with a zombie. And that banner sort of sucked, too.

Please be patient with me as I learn to work with banners. Better yet, go visit Secret Agent Josephine. While you’re there, go ahead and nominate me for her free monthly web graphic drawing. Look at me over here. I’m all naked, severely unperky, and in desperate need of something adorable to cover my top.

Because it’s Sunday, I’m about to leave you with some words of wisdom. Last night, Meredith called me into her room and said the following: “Mommy, you can’t just keep getting a new cat and then letting it die and then naming your next cat after the dead cat so you always remember the dead cat. The best thing to do is make a picture book with a million pages to help you remember your dead cats. Fill out a page every time a cat dies, and then you can name your new cat whatever you want.”

(Meredith did not hear us joking about cat chili yesterday. I honestly have no idea where the million-paged dead cat notebook idea came from. But I DO think that everyone needs a million-paged dead cat notebook. Wait! I have just unstumped you on the holiday shopping for the Person Who Already Has Everything, haven’t I? You’re welcome.)

Quick! Get thee to Secret Agent Josephine! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Conversations with Jeff

Jeff: Today is the day I make chili. Italian Sausage Esquire Magazine Chili. The only ingredient we need is meat.

Me: Wouldn’t it be weird if we used Sidney?

Jeff: Yeah. That would be weird. Like, “Okay, Folks! The weather guy said it might snow today!” And because there’s a tiny chance that it could perhaps snow, the Puddings go all DEFCON-1 and make chili out of their cat.

Me: And then it doesn’t snow after all, so we pop open a bottle of Fresca and invite the neighbors over.

Jeff: “Hey! Guys! Yoo-Hoo! Hey you over there across the grass from our house over here! You wanna come over? Something is happening! We just made chili out of our CAT, for God’s sake! You gotta get over here and help us eat it!”

Me: “Hey! You thought you hated us because of our Obama bumper stickers?! Scratch that one! WE JUST MADE CHILI OUT OF OUR DAMN CAT!”

Jeff: “The kids LOVED that cat! Heya! Who’s bringing the oyster crackers?! Cat Chili! Ding-a-ding-a-ding!”

(Just so you know: We went to the store and purchased Italian sausage and Pancetta. Sidney is resting comfortably on the couch with no idea that we were planning on eating her for dinner.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

5 Reasons Why I Might Be On Day 10 of a Migraine

1. Coming soon to a public place near you? Harper and The Tantrums!

2. Meredith’s eyes were dilated today. She’s been crying about The Potential for Dilation (my next book title) for nearly a week now. And when I say “crying” I mean that Meredith may or may not be performing with Harper and The Tantrums in a public place near you.

3. I have started 483 more knitting projects, including a mystery shawl (the first clue comes out next week!) named Mystic Ice. Starting Projects coupled with Never Finishing Projects seems to be a seasonal trend for me. I swore I wouldn’t do it this year. But there I went. Oh, 2009. I am sorry.

4. Someone just told me that Christmas is less than six weeks away. And six weeks is too soon! With six weeks to go until Christmas, it almost feels like Christmas is over. Oh, Steve Miller.

5. I’ve eaten too much cheese. It’s just that simple. Specifically, Swiss cheese and mustard sandwiches, often followed by a snack of more Swiss cheese.

I have an appointment at the headache clinic on Monday morning, where the following conversation will surely take place.

Headache Doctor: Have you been doing your exercises?
Me: No.
Headache Doctor: Did you sign up for the yoga class I was telling you about?
Me: No.
Headache Doctor: I hate you for never listening to me. Is this how you treat everyone?!
Me: Wow. I think it is. Will you drill a tiny hole into my head?

Wait. Estonian Lace! Also, Tyrolean Stockings!! Sei Shonagon Pillow!!! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>