Dear Socks Without Partners,
I know. I Know!
I used to feel like I'd be alone forever, too.
Hanging out and eating grilled cheese and chili by myself in old smoky diners, wandering around with no one to call...
Let me just say this: I'm now nearly 38, and I'm NEVER alone!
In other words, don't waste your time coming down on me, Socks.
Instead, celebrate your individuality! At this moment in time, there is no other sock like you!
And you're right. It's MY fault that there is no other sock like you.
Here. I promise to give each of you a partner before the end of the year.
Will that work for you?
Think of it this way: You will not be alone for the holidays.
In the meantime, get out there and go sock crazy!
And while you're at it, get ready to meet a new member of the swinging singles club.
(Before the end of the week he'll surely be catching all the field mice and bopping them on the head.)
I know. It's once again time to consider one of these.
Your desultory creator,
FP
Utterly Odious!
Do you remember way back when Meredith was collecting soaps?
Yeah, me too. I loved those days. Our house was filled with soap! Meredith smelled great! There's nothing annoying about a kid who claims that Irish Spring is her best friend!
Sadly, Meredith has stepped away from her soaps and has now entered the nauseating world of magazine perfume samples.
And just so you know: Perfume Shop has replaced Freeze Tag as My Least Favorite Game Ever. (Freeze tag leaves me slightly winded. Perfume Shop finds my bowels attempting to disengage. And I know you don't want to know that. But now you do. April showers bring May flowers!)
I have never been much of a perfume fan. The only thing I spray on myself is watered down Bath and Body stuff. (Incidentally, my natural body odor is Burnt Toast. I don't reek of it, but if you stick my forearm up to your nose and breathe me in, you'll definitely crave a knife for scraping followed by a jar of apricot preserves.)
Anyway, now that our house reeks of perfume samples (She has 23! Thanks for sending them in, Relatives!), I've been walking around in a dry-mouth haze--constantly battling with my innards, who are practicing for an explosive and badly-timed hoedown.
That whole Love is Patient, Love is Kind thing I mentioned last time? Yeah. That definitely applies here, too.
I'm going to sit down and write a long letter to Neil Young, too.
The April NaBloPoMo theme is Letters. And I think I'll jump on board for it, because my April is filled with all sorts of letter writing possibilities.
April 1 is the birthday of my dead dog Thumper. He had a stroke and bit off his tongue! I really should write him a letter, don't you think?
April 9 is my former boss and good friend's birthday, and also the day I'm taking a class on mitered knitting. I'll be making one of these!
April 19? Passover. The perfect day for writing a letter in celebration of The Fiddler on the Roof. Dear Topol, Stay clear of Lazar Wolf! The butcher is trouble!
April 21? Science Fiction Twin's birthday!
April 25? Anzac Day, of course! Rolled oats! Coconut! Syrup! Dear Australia and New Zealand, Thanks for the anzac recipe! (And for the Gallipoli thing, I suppose.)
April 28? Harper's birthday.
April 29? Meredith's birthday.
Seven days on which letters practically write themselves, no?
If I can come up with 23 more occasions, we're solid.
Feel free to make recommendations.
Hell, if I find myself stirred and tormented, I might put pen to face for you.
You'll be the grandest lady in the Easter parade!
Inked!
I know how tired that whole "From the Mouths of Babes" thing is.
Seriously. Bill Cosby and all of the parenting magazines and blah, blah, blah, my kid said the funniest thing today! Yeesh.
Now that you know that I KNOW, I have to tell you what Harper said.
I know.
Please be aware that although she's nearly three and supposedly has the verbal skills of a six year old (according to a potentially unreliable testing mechanism invented in 1932, yet still utilized by Parents as Teachers), Harper often has trouble getting her mouth to form words correctly.
Scene: Early afternoon in the pediatric eyeglass shop, located on the first floor of St. John's Mercy Medical Center
Background Information: Meredith fell off of a mini-tramp and busted her glasses, so we had to go to the office for an Emergency Repair. I wore my Andrew Bird shirt. Meredith wore a shirt with a cat on it. Harper wore a shirt with a cat on it. I hate dressing them alike, but when one kid wears a cat shirt, it seems that the other wants to as well. Whatever.
The Lady Who Fixed Meredith's Glasses (TLWFMG): Oh! What a BEYOOOOOTIFUL shirt! What IS that on your SHIRT?
(I hate when people talk baby talk to my kids, by the way. So creepy.)
Meredith: It's a cat.
TLWFMG: What a BEAUTIFUL kitty!
Harper: I have a titty tat, too.
TLWFMG: I'm sorry. What do you have?
Harper: I have a titty tat, too.
TLWFMG: You have WHAT kind of tattoo?!
Harper (buying into the misunderstanding): A titty tattoo.
Me: She has a kitty cat, too.
TLWFMG: Oh!!! For a second there I thought--
Me: Yeah. Not until she's 18. Happy Easter.
Love in the Time of Influenza
Jeff has the flu. And that sucks because he had already scheduled a vacation day for today.
A vacation day during which we were going to have a family portrait made before indulging in some super deluxe kick-ass fun with the kids.
Me: Call work. Tell them you want to switch it over from Vacation to Sick.
Jeff (shivering, on the verge of being vomitious): It doesn't work that way. Blurgh.
So, Jeff has gone back to bed, and here I sit--all showered and ready to do something fun. Any suggestions?
Wait. While I'm here, may I share a few things that I'm really loving right now?
1. Jukebox the Ghost. (Music will start playing when you click the link. Be aware.)
Jeff told me about them a few days back, and I became an instant Fan Girl after downloading the Woxy.com performance from iTunes.
Do you have some time? Because here they are. Piano driven perfection!
woxy.com presents Jukebox the Ghost from Soft City Lights on Vimeo.
2. I love this shirt.
My friend Laura, who is the founding mother of the Mommayaya Fabulous Elf Slipper Store sent me the link a few weeks back. It has been a long time since I've fallen in love with a shirt. But love it, I do.
3. 73.6% of you will find this hokey, but: I love Angie the Pig Angel. I relate to Angie the Pig Angel. I AM Angie the Pig Angel.
Children throwing snowballs instead of throwing heads.
As you may (or may not) know, my brother-in-law underwent surgery ten years ago for the removal of a cancerous brain tumor.
After several months of chemotherapy and radiation, he was finally declared Cancer Free.
My family is having a party for him tomorrow afternoon to celebrate his ten year Cancer Free Anniversary.
And because his head is colder than a well digger's butt (my grandma's words, not mine), I knitted up the Jackyll and Hide (their spelling, not mine) hat from Knitty.com to celebrate his decade of being on this side of the cancer fence.
And now I want to keep it for myself.
Because how could my neighbors turn me down when I ask them to help me shovel snow while wearing this?
1 2 3 4--Tell me that you love me more.
1. Meredith is now registered for kindergarten. And I did the whole, "You're a Big Girl Now" celebration thing by taking her to registration, to the soap store for a celebratory lip gloss, to Buffalo Wild Wings for lunch, and to Walgreens for candy corn. And last night I told her how proud I am of her and blah, blah, blah. And she was all, "Okay. OKAY! I'm going to go play with my balloons now." (I guess I'll cancel the marching band I had hired to perform in our back yard on the first day of school. Apparently I'm the only family member who stands knee-deep in the hoopla.)
2. Sheri at The Loopy Ewe had a Wollmeise sneak-up this morning, and I was able to purchase two skeins. (Get this: Two hundred skeins of yarn sold in less than five minutes. Wollmeise is like The Beatles of yarn right now!) Believe it or not, I was screaming and giggling like a little girl who just ate chicken and purchased lip gloss after registering for kindergarten.
3. I just came across Andrew Bird's Soldier On EP, and I'm loving it. Because according to my ears, it's Andrew Bird holding hands with Jeff Buckley.
4. I met Jen this past weekend before the Ira Glass performance (Performance? Reading? Lecture? Lovefest?), and she was lovely and SO kind. And next month I have plans to meet Liz! And I'm totally going to crash Blackbird's Middle America Gathering. Don't tell her I'm coming. I'm telling myself that showing up unexpectedly = A Slight Inconvenience. BUT, showing up unexpectedly with a suitcase full of waffles and gooey butter cake = A Very Pleasant Surprise!
It IS abnormally long. (My tongue. Not my hair.)
As you know, every three months or so, I travel to Kirkwood for my seasonal shearing.
Last week, I had positive results.
When I returned to the house, Meredith, who lately has been perfecting The Art of the Insult, greeted me with the following.
"You look like a boy."
Me: I can see why you would say that. A lot of boys have short hair. But a lot of girls do, too!
Meredith: You look like a dog.
Me: Um, I can see why you would say that. A lot of dogs have short hair. But a lot of dogs have long hair, too!
Meredith: You look like a dirty dishes scrubby sponge.
Me: That's a good one! But OUR dirty dish scrubby thing is green. So, no I don't.
Meredith: You look hideous.
Me: Uncle.
And then I morphed into a Goliath frog and I ate her.
And today I can barely walk.
Yesterday morning at 8:00, we had about a half inch of snow on the ground.
Yesterday afternoon at 3:00, we had over twelve inches of snow on the ground.
Yesterday afternoon at 3:30, Jeff called to say he was going to leave work shortly and perhaps I should start shoveling or praying or something.
(Of course, I'm making that part up. He would NEVER suggest that I shovel (or pray). He's chivalrous (and keeps his prayer requests to himself)! And he knows I have the upper body strength of a fryer hen (and that God has better things to do than deal with a slippery Nissan.))
Anyway. I looked outside and saw the neighbor to my left finishing off his driveway using TWO snowblowers.
The neighbor to my right had finished his driveway and was helping Mrs. Across the Street with hers.
I felt very good about joining the neighbors for a bit of shoveling. It takes a village!
No Exaggeration Whatsoever:
I put on Jeff's boots and coat and grabbed the shovel.
The folks with the snowblowers (TWO snowblowers) finished their driveway, lit cigarettes, and turned toward my driveway. With their bodies. Not their snowblowers.
I shoveled. I shoveled. Whew! I have absolutely no strategy when it comes to things like this. Am I supposed to go back and forth or up and down or a clever mixture of the two? I'm the girl who always mops myself into a corner, you know. This is tough work! I've shoveled sidewalks before, but never a driveway/hill combination! Heavy breathing! And where is this snot coming from?! I'm really a disaster!
Neighbor to the Right finished up with Mrs. Across the Street and went back into his house.
Snowblower folks continued to watch me.
Because Meredith and Harper were in the house by themselves, every ten minutes or so I would trudge up to the door to check on them. So, I'm trudging, I've got snot pouring down my face, I'm shoveling, I'm clearly struggling, and I'm being gawked at by the two men with the blowers. (Did I mention that I once baked a dozen pumpkin muffins for them? FOR ABSOLUTELY NO REASON?!)
Okay. Bear with me here. You know how sometimes when you're shoveling you hit an uneven part of the concrete and you sort of jar yourself? I did that. And I jarred myself so hard that I knocked myself backwards, and Jeff's boot (along with my sock) fell off. So now I'm standing there with one shoe on and the other foot exposed to the elements, and I'm having to bend forward all yoga style to retrieve the boot and the sock, and I happened to look up toward the door, and I saw Harper. Wearing nothing but a diaper. Apparently, she wanted to help me but she couldn't find her snow suit, so I suppose she decided that the next best thing to a snow suit is a birthday suit. And she's screaming and jumping up and down like a spider monkey.
I uttered a very brazen "%&#$ this!" and went back into the house.
Get this. Less than two minutes after I returned to my house, Neighbor to the Right carried his shovel through my half-assed driveway and over to Neighbor to the Left's house, and helped shovel the remaining eighth of an inch that the two(!) snowblowers couldn't penetrate. To me, this was the equivalent of passing a hungry person on the street to deliver a pie to someone who spends their days baking pies. Or muffins. Or something like that.
I threw Jeff's coat and boots back on and stomped back out into my driveway. Where I shoveled. And I shoveled. And thank God for Mrs. Across the Street, because she came over and helped me. AND she filled me in on all of the neighborhood gossip--tales of infidelity, children born out of wedlock, and octogenarian affairs. Very fun. AND!!! BONUS!!! When her husband came home from his job, he gave me a dozen doughnuts. Vanilla Long Johns! Chocolate Long Johns! Cinnamon Rolls! I love Mr. and Mrs. Across the Street! They restored my joy!
And I know what you're thinking. "You didn't help anyone ELSE shovel. Why in the %&#$ing hell do you expect them to help YOU?! Feeling a sense of false entitlement much?!?! I cast stones!"
And you're right.
So there.
Scene.
The Glass is Never Half Empty.
Dear Ira Glass,
In four short days, we will find ourselves sitting in the same room. Sure, it's a very large room. An auditorium, even. But a duck is still a duck.
If our eyes happen to meet (which they probably won't because I'm in Row XYZZZ or something), I have a hunch you will feel a burning desire to know my Story. (I'm telling myself that girls with fresh haircuts, gray ribbed cardigans, and hand-knit socks stir up interest in people like you, Ira Glass. I could be totally off on this assumption, but I doubt anyone corrects me.)
Anyway, I'm sorry. No can do. Saturday is my husband's birthday, so I am not going to be able to meet you for coffee, pizza, or dialogue.
I do believe, however, that I need to take a bit of time to tell you about the room in which we will sit.
It was in this room where I first offered Diet Coke and frozen Ding Dongs to a sunburned trumpet player who later purchased my very first alcoholic beverage for me. Long Island Iced Tea!
It was in this room where I stole a dancing girl's umbrella during a thunderstorm. Please know that I never used the umbrella. You see, staying dry during my walk home was not as important to me as knowing that a highly regarded dancing girl who was always a bit hateful toward the band members was slowly transforming into Wet Rat status during the stroll back to her sorority house. I have lost nearly twenty umbrellas during my lifetime, Ira Glass. However, I still have that blasted girl's umbrella. It's like some sort of messed up tell-tale heart! And I still feel guilty whenever I see it. I actually tried to give it to a homeless guy not too long ago, but he turned down my offer. (The umbrella is maroon with little paisley things on it. It's actually quite ugly--like my soul.)
It was in this room where I scored a
piano scholarship to this university. I forfeited that scholarship
nearly a year later when I decided to be a nurse. And a year after that
I decided to forget Nursing and study Communications. And a few months
later? Elementary Education. After that? I swore I wanted to be a
dietician. I blasted my way through seven majors before ending up with
a degree in Psychology. And today I'm, um, a very notable Stay at Home Mom.
(Actually, not quite so notable. But I AM staying at home. Actually, I
stay at home quite often! I wear white slippers!)
It was just north of this room where my friend Steve and I sat on a bench after a long night of complaining about boys at Shattered. While taking a brief rest before we completed our walk home (we were very decrepit nineteen year olds), I bent over and vomited all over the sidewalk. Steve then looked at me, frowned, and said, "Poor Angela. You had spaghetti for dinner." And he was right.
It was in this room where I watched Ladysmith Black Mambazo perform. And Vinx. And Chick Corea. And Noam Chomsky. And Parliament. Those are pretty big acts to follow, Ira Glass. But I tell you what. I think there's room for you under my umbrella.
Ella. Ella. Eh. Eh. Eh.
Yours,
A.L.R. Pudding
The Von Pudding Family Singers
Because I'm wanting my life to be a bit more like those depicted in musicals, today is the day during which I will not recognize words unless they are sung to me.
The kids are hating it, because "I want some milk." needs to nightingaled in a "I WANT some MILK!" manner before the drinks are delivered.
(Please know that any words typed in all caps are sung very loudly in a confident operatic tone. Try it using the phrase "I'm OFF to the BATHROOM! And I NEED some PRIVACY!!!" Fun, right?)
Just between you and me: Tomorrow I will not recognize the children unless they are both singing their words AND doing a gentle shuffle.
Early next week, we'll be scrubbing the floors and singing about our hard knock lives. In Spanish!
And don't think that Jeff is off the hook.
By the time our tax refund comes in, I fully expect us to carry this off, complete with monocle and feathered sequined headband.
(Just so you know, I can barely watch that Minnelli/Grey video without feeling sick to my stomach.)