If someone came over to our house and forced Jeff and I to prioritize the factors that are influencing our relocation, it wouldn’t take much time to come up with a list. At the same time, I’m one of those weirdos who is constantly looking for signs. (Signs from the universe. Not traffic signs. Yesterday afternoon I accidentally ran a stop sign in a burrito parking lot and a woman who could have been 104 years old flashed her middle finger at me and I got all flustered and I almost followed her to her final destination so I could apologize for being a jerk, but I didn’t want to freak her out any more than I already had in the burrito parking lot.) If signs are falling into our laps, they can’t be ignored.
Sort of a sign: Last week was Meredith’s fifth grade recognition ceremony, and 23 of you just yawned when you read “fifth grade recognition ceremony” but I can assure you that it was NOT a yawn-inducing event. It’s a talent showcase and some of these kids can SING and some of them are fearless and I sat in that cold metal chair and thought about how we’ve known some of these kids since they were three years old and now they’re running sound equipment and playing instruments and some of them look like ADULTS, which I’m assuming can be blamed on milk hormones, but I can’t blame milk hormones for everything because at some point HUMAN hormones kick in and Ack! Meredith is starting middle school next year.
This is not going to be a post about a weepy mom (me) and how they (kids) grow up too fast. I’ve seen way too many of those posts in the past week, and I lack the energy to make it work. Yes. Meredith is not two anymore. BUT, I’m glad that she’s potty trained and that she’s a good egg and that she’s finally starting to stand up for herself a bit more. All good things. I’m in for the ride.
After the fifth grade recognition ceremony (WAKE UP OUT THERE, YOU!), Harper said the following words: “I’m sad that I won’t be at this elementary school in fifth grade.” I responded with the sort of crap that you’re supposed to say to a child who is afraid of change. “WELL, just think of the friends you’ll make at the NEW SCHOOL!” Sadly, but not so sadly, Harper is smart. She knew exactly what I was doing. She wants her own room, but she wants to stay where we are. During all of the talks about moving, Harper has always been the one to express excitement about being the new kid. This is no longer the case.
Sort of a sign: I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: You can’t swing a dead cat without thwapping a gifted kid in the head. Gifted kids are everywhere. Because I don’t like to drone on about it, I’ll just say this: 1. Both of my kids are in the gifted program at their school, and we could not be happier with the program. It’s amazing, and it continues in various forms until the kids graduate from high school. 2. I know I’m not using colons correctly in this entry. I don’t have much free time today, so I’m typing as I think and just puking it onto you without manners. (You look very pretty/handsome today.) Anyway, while researching schools in the areas where we’re thinking about relocating, none of their gifted programs have impressed us as much as the program we’re in right now.
Sort of a sign: Yesterday morning, one of the teachers at school told me that if we move, we’ll be missed. I know that’s a stock comment to say to someone who may be moving, but it was sort of a thing because I’ve never been told that I was missed or that I’ll be missed. I’m always just sort of a floater who is there or not there.
Sort of a sign: Can we talk about music for a second? Our school’s band/orchestra/choral program is a good one. A few weeks back, Meredith told me that she was asked to audition for a spot in the percussion program. In 1980, if you wanted to play the drums, you signed up for percussion. No test, no questions, you’re just in. Anyway, times have changed and yesterday we received an acceptance letter and invitation for Meredith to be part of the percussion program. Because I have always put music (and drummers) high on my list of LIKES, this was a huge thing. (We celebrated with Dairy Queen, which is never really a great choice, but it was Meredith’s choice, so there you go.)
Our realtor is coming over this weekend. I’m assuming she’s going to be bringing a Coming Soon! sign for our front yard. (So many signs!) I’m feeling so completely torn right now because we can get a lot more house for our money if we move 30 minutes west. (I’ve been consistently shocked by the size of houses we can afford out there, and the size of houses we cannot afford where we are right now.) I want our next house to be our forever house. I want to die in that house, and I want that death to occur sometime after I’m 75 years old. Honestly, Fluid Pudding is the perfect name because I’m physically unable to stand firm on anything lately. We can’t stay here because even though we’re selling this house as a three bedroom house, it’s not really a three bedroom house. (I hate that it feels slimy to call it a three bedroom house, but both realtors swear that this is what you do. I also feel weird about not disclosing the fact that the first woman who lived here either died and fell off of the roof or else she fell off of the roof and died.)
I have an hour to pack boxes before I’m volunteering at school. Someone talk some sense into me. (But please be nice because I’m also sort of oddly hormonal right now, and I don’t think anyone wants me to put on a diaper and drive across the country fueled by Funyuns and Mountain Dew Code Red just to give a mean person a piece of my soggy mind.)
I have been absolutely flooded with kindness this week. I turned 44 on Monday, and that’s weird because Jackson Pollock and Billie Holiday both died at 44. I don’t plan on dying at 44, and now that I’ve said that I really hope that I DON’T die at 44 because then everyone (and by everyone I mean you guys, because you’re my Everyone) will come back to this post and your eyes will go wide because of the creepy foreshadowing. I really need to paint more and sing more and write more and knit more. (Also, pack more and talk to carpet guys more and pull weeds more. Our “Coming Soon!” sign is coming soon!)
Because of the generosity of others, I’ll be ordering a few books (recommendations are always welcome) and spinning camel fiber and eating a few sandwiches and drinking a few coffees and blowing the foam from an icy mug of root beer. Along with a heaping amount of TLC, my family presented me with a pair of shoes that I haven’t taken off since Monday. They are the sized up twins to my very first pair of Birkenstocks—purchased in 1993 when I was working in a hospital as an intensive care unit secretary and a bagger of the dead. I ruined that first pair after leaving them in a hot car during the summer of 1999, and I still haven’t forgiven myself. (In my world, when you pay more than $50 for a pair of shoes, you TAKE CARE OF THOSE SHOES. Actually, in my world, you take care of all of your things. Because: Personification is one of my endearing glitches.) Anyway, I love these shoes, and I love that the pedicure I treated myself to before my surgery matches them perfectly, and I would post a photo, but I’m not a foot person, and the last thing we need here is a bunch of new people saying foot-related things that make us all cringe.
Recovery Update For Those Who Want One: I removed my surgical tape and two of the four incision sites aren’t pretty. Also, I have an infection that requires antibiotics and that sucks because I’m not good at antibiotics. What does all of this mean? I’m not exactly sure, but I do know that I require lots of naps with sporadic Orange Berry Antioxidant juices from Jamba Juice.
I’m reading The Middlesteins and liking it. I don’t mind the Oprah Chai, but I wish it wasn’t called Oprah Chai. My family has chosen incentive spirometry over electronic devices.
1. I was asked to pee into a hat and was told to not empty the hat. I filled the hat in the middle of the night, so I called my nurse in.
Me: My pee hat is full.
Nurse: Okay. I’ll empty it.
Less than an hour later, I walked into the bathroom and found that my pee hat was still full. I dumped out the hat and put it on the floor because I was TIRED of dealing with a hat full of pee! I then used the toilet and NOT the hat and INDEPENDENCE! When I told the nurse that I dumped the hat out, she seemed a little angry. (I’m still feeling slightly guilty about the whole pee hat thing. It occurred to me afterwards that pee in a hospital is like a diamond in a jewelry store. Things like clarity and color need to be documented so the pee’s worth can be estimated.) So much talk about pee. Let’s move on to blood.
2. I woke up and blood was soaking through my dressings and through my gown. I called the nurse in, and she asked if I wanted to change my gown. I told her that I did, but that changing the dressings seemed more important, because they looked a lot worse than the gown. She then taught me how to change my own dressings, and I felt like we were at a slumber party doing each other’s hair, except I was dealing with tape and gauze and nobody walked away with a sloppy braid. The next morning when the surgeon visited, he asked, “Why is there gauze on the incision sites?” He didn’t seem happy, so I said, “I might have done that.” He said, “I asked your nurse to remove the dressings.” That’s when I may have said something like, “My bad.” (I typically don’t talk like that. Morphine.)
3. I woke up and heard my kids talking about dinner and I remember feeling stressed out that they would want me to prepare something for them, because there I was in a hospital bed zonked out on morphine and anesthesia and my only supplies were saltines and an emesis basin.
4. I sent Jeff to the store to buy an enema. I don’t need an enema, but it’s sitting right here by me as I type this message to you. Like a tiki idol.
I’m still hazy, which I hear is the anesthesia wearing off. Apparently, it can take WEEKS, which is why I’m taking milk thistle pills and drinking detox tea. (I hate the fog.) Also, I’m just painy enough to require Percocet again, and that bums me out because Percocet makes me fall asleep at weird times. Other than that? All is well. (Except for a touchy subject that involves kids and texting and I would really like your opinion regarding what sort of texting parameters you would place on an 11-year-old girl. I have an 11-year-old girl. She’s a gem. However, we need to set up some rules.)
The UPS man just delivered a box from Zappos. It’s addressed to Jeff, so I can’t open it. (It’s against the law to tamper with someone else’s mail. I once found out that one of my bosses in Nashville had thrown away some of my mail. When I jokingly reminded him (electronically) that what he did was a crime that is punishable by incarceration, he responded to my e-mail with a simple question: ARE YOU THREATENING ME? (I did not respond. He has since passed on.))
It looks like my surgeon implanted a chicken foot into one of my incisions. I would try to remove it, but it might be his surgical signature, and you should never scratch “Monet” from a wall of water lilies.
(Edited to add: And you should never credit Van Gogh for water lily walls. Thanks to Blackbird for the gentle correction.)
I wanted to check in and let you know that the surgery went well. The endometriosis was cleared, and all of the parts that were supposed to be removed were indeed removed. (Removed, indeed!)
Although it has been over 48 hours since I woke up and received a dose of morphine, my vision hasn’t yet cleared and I’m still sort of engaging in nervous jabber. I repeat myself and I repeat myself. (And I repeat myself.)
Anyway. Did someone just ask for photos?
This is me in the pre-op room. I took the photo as a lab tech was performing a pregnancy test. (Not on herself. She was CLEARLY pregnant.) My test was negative, so they quickly put me to sleep and rolled me away!
This is me several hours later after my family had gone home. Please know that Meredith’s DARE graduation is coming up at the end of the month, and here I am completely doped on narcotics. In my defense, I WAS in a hospital bed and NOT trying to drive a car. (Take note that I scored a backstage bracelet to the Drug Allergy show!)
Suddenly, it was really late at night and that’s a great time to take a solo trip to the restroom and then pull up Instagram and some saltines to celebrate my independence. (Bonus Fact: Those are the first socks I ever made. I knew I wanted to take handknit socks, so I wore the ones that were okay to get goopy. Because who knows what might happen?!)
At something like 3:00 in the morning, I woke up and started thinking about how much I love the photos that Stieglitz took of Georgia O’Keeffe’s hands. (If you click on that link, the photo that appears is the photo I took in when I had Georgia O’Keeffe’s hands tattooed onto my ankle when I was 22.) Anyway. 3:00 in the morning. Georgia O’Keeffe. Morphine in my IV and me with an iPhone.
And then the morning came, and it was time for me to call the food service department and order breakfast.
Food Lady: Food services, how may I help you?
Me: I’m in room 2316 and I would like to order breakfast.
Food Lady: What can I bring you this morning?
Me (realizing that I should have chosen food before making this call): Hamburgered eggs?!
Food Lady: I’m sorry?
Me: No! That’s weird. I saw hard-boiled eggs and scrambled eggs and I read it as Hamburgered Eggs.
Food Lady: Would you like eggs this morning?
Me: Ugh. No. Wheat toast.
Three hours later, Jeff picked me up, took me to Starbucks, and drove me home.
And because last night was a rough one, I decided to spend the day with zero pain medication. (I hate the haze. I struggle to make sense when I’m completely straight. I don’t need medication to make me more aware of my tendency to drone wackiness.)
And now I’m sitting in the rocking chair and staring at my old bug mobile and hoping that I heal just as quickly as everyone else is hoping.
Thanks for checking in on me. I’ll be back when I can.
I’ve spent the better part of this week (also the worse part of this week) tying up loose ends before I take the next 14 days to discover what life is like without most of my girl parts. (Side note: I accidentally typed “my girl party” and that struck me as very funny, mainly because I didn’t sleep very well last night.)
Anyway, this morning I delivered some papers to school and then I returned every single library book that will be due in the next two weeks (and that equals ALL OF THEM) and then I decided to treat myself to a soy caramel latte which is my second favorite drink at Starbucks (I didn’t feel that I deserved my first favorite drink.) before heading over to the license bureau to renew my driver’s license. The Starbucks lot was completely full, so I did the thing where I park in the bank parking lot next door and walk over. (I still wear a Fitbit, but I definitely do NOT want to talk about it.)
Not only was the Starbucks LOT completely full, but the Starbucks STORE (store? location? box?) was completely full. I ended up in line behind a woman who was typing an e-mail on her iPad AND talking on her phone (with one of those no-hands doohickies) all at the same time (while standing up!). There were eight people in line ahead of us, and six of them were doing something or other with a screen. (One was doing something with a baby. One was wearing a yoga costume.) When the woman behind the cash register was ready for iPad/Phone lady to order, this is what happened.
Cash Register Lady: I can take who’s next.
iPad/Phone Lady: Blah, blah, blah, showings at noon and two.
Cash Register Lady: Next in line please!
iPad/Phone Lady: I don’t even want to talk about that. We’ll discuss that on Tuesday.
Cash Register Lady: Next!
I decided to walk around the iPad/Phone Lady to order my drink, because sometimes my actions speak louder than my words. Then this is what happened.
iPad/Phone Lady: Wait. I’m next!
(I stepped back.)
Cash Register Lady: What can I get for you today?
iPad/Phone Lady: Hold on just a second.
She then dismissed the person on the telephone, closed down her iPad, and stared at the menu for 73 minutes before ordering her beverage. (73 minutes was probably more like 7.3 seconds, but by this point I WAS COMPLETELY DONE WITH HER SHENANIGANS.) ((Her drink was VERY specialized, so deep down I knew that she was completely prepared to order (two AND A HALF Splendas?! do you have any idea that I’m stink-eyeing you in my head right now?) and was just wasting those 7.3 seconds to get back at me for taking one step forward and two steps back.))
Her name was Andrea. She had a lot of cat hair on her pants. (So do I.) Judging by her conversation and her e-mail (that I read over her shoulder because I didn’t have much else going on), she has a very busy day ahead of her. And I found myself thinking things like, “Why in the hell can’t people just drop their screens for ten minutes so that the line can keep moving?” And then I remembered that I’m parked in the bank parking lot, so who am I to try to push my rules on other people? I have no business to handle at the bank! I grabbed my drink, scored about 200 steps on the walk back to my car, and headed toward the license place.
I know it’s a thing to complain about the license office because most license offices provide a lot of things about which to complain. When I entered the building, the skies opened up and I was able to go right up to the “put your forehead against the paper” machine for my vision test. Suddenly, it was time to take my photo and I’m not sure why I had forgotten that part, but I had, so I started stressing out about the amount of lip gloss that had transferred from my face to my soy caramel latte cup but I didn’t want to take the time to actually find the lip gloss, so I sat down and waited for the flash as instructed, and here is the photo that I’ll be walking around with until 2020.
I’ve seen worse, although I have no idea why the lack of lip gloss caused my right eye to nearly fall out of my skull. (Also, I’m not really sure there’s a bear seal on a Missouri license, but in my mind, there’s a bear seal on a Missouri license.) ((Also, that high school weight thing? If people try to find me based on the weight listed on my driver’s license, I will stay hidden forever.))
Finally, I’ve considered live-blogging my surgery next week, but I think we all have more important things to do than tune in for:
11:30 First incision made. Things are about to get spooky all up in my organs.
12:45 This is not my house.
15:27 I have now told the nurse that I’m a vegetarian 492 times. I have also told her to not bring me a turkey sandwich no matter how much I beg for it. I’m like a gremlin, but nothing like a gremlin.
I once found myself at the student health services building while attending the University of Missouri. I don’t remember why I was there and I don’t remember why they would have measured me, but I DO remember that I rang in at 5’7″. I remember feeling very proud about my height, because I had recently read an article (probably in Sassy magazine) that said something like “The minimum height for a model is 5’7″.” Don’t get me wrong. I never thought that I was fit to be a model. BUT, I liked thinking that if the world turned upside down and “socially awkward pear-shaped girls who stare at the floor and fall down a lot” became The Thing, my height would work in my favor.
This Proves How Strange I Am: After measuring in at 5’7″, if anyone ever asked my height (at doctor’s offices or pizza joints or on the streets, et cetera), I would answer with 5’6″. It felt like I was bragging if I admitted to being the minimum height for a model. “I liked The Communards before they were popular. I just forfeited a piano scholarship because 7:40 is entirely too early for me to drag myself to a composition class. I’m the minimum height for modeling.”
Last week I had to have a bunch of pre-op blood drawn. Before they stuck me, they measured me.
Nurse: 5 feet, 5 1/4 inches.
Me: No. 5 feet, 6 inches. (But really 5 feet, 7 inches. Because I’m the minimum height for modeling.)
Nurse: No, it’s 5 feet, 5 1/4 inches.
Me: Write down what you want, but I won’t accept that as truth.
The normal size of a uterus is said to be 8cm x 6cm x 4cm. This means I’m going to be even shorter next week.
At this rate, I’ll probably be 4 feet tall in about 3 years. And that’s why I need to start wearing heels. And that’s why I just added these shoes to my list of wishes.
Supposedly, Michael J. Fox is 5’5″.
Supposedly, Shakira is 4’11″.
Everything is going to be alright.
EDITED TO ADD: Except everything is NOT going to be alright. Because I cannot figure out how to get my single quotation marks to go proper for measurement purposes. And this will keep me awake tonight.
I just looked into our kitchen trash can and saw a paper towel that had been employed to wipe pizza off of a face before it was crumpled up until it looked EXACTLY like Dwight D. Eisenhower. I thought about taking a photo of it, but that seemed all weird and bloggy which made me think Weird and Bloggy, so I decided to Kum Bah Yah.
Tomorrow morning at approximately 9:20, Harper will be nine years old.
She used to look like this:
And now she looks like this:
(We had a little party at Krueger Pottery over the weekend. Such an amazing place. If you’re local? Go there.)
Harper is currently finishing the second Harry Potter book. Her favorite color is orange and her favorite meal is homemade crazy bowls—hamburger, corn, and black beans thrown on top of rice. She is a pianist, she is a writer, she is very good at math, and she is a second place winner at the school’s science fair. She loves Minecraft, and she makes really fun videos of her stuffed animals having adventures. Best of all, she is funny, creative, patient, and kind.
On Tuesday morning at approximately 2:03, Meredith will be eleven years old.
All of her baby photos were lost when our computer crashed in 2004. BUT, here is a glimpse of Meredith during The Early Years.
And here we are now.
(How funny am I?! That’s NOT REALLY MEREDITH! (It’s Henry.))
Okay. Here we are now.
I know you can’t really see her face in that shot, but look at those spaghetti arms! She’s almost as tall as me and she wears lady shoes! Meredith loves music and she’s really itching to read the Divergent series and if I didn’t put a limit on it, she would spend hours each day texting with her friends. (The Current Rule: 15 minutes per day, and use them wisely. I know.) Meredith is also a great pianist and a talented videographer. She is her school’s spelling bee champion. She’s creative, smart, and WISE, and she’s a very patient friend.
These kids of mine? They are gems. And they’re growing up awfully fast. And so am I. (I found weird new veins on my ankles this evening. It was very distressing. BUT, this is not about me.)
Happy Birthday, Harper Rose. (And Happy Birthday, Harper Lee.)
Happy Birthday, Meredith Claire. (And Happy Birthday, Uma Thurman.)
(I don’t think I’ve ever typed Uma Thurman’s name before. April is a month for trying new things.)
I just spent nearly fifteen minutes typing out a paragraph full of things that I need to accomplish in the next twelve days. It was terribly boring, as it contained phrases like “write script for field trip” and “recycling event” and “dog vacation?”. Anyway, after reading through that 3,293 word paragraph and barely being able to stay awake, I decided to triple click and delete. Your time matters to me.
Why twelve days? In twelve days, a local man will be slicing into me (like one would slice into an Easter ham, except no spiral slicing—just three one-inch-wide gashes, so nothing like an Easter ham at all, really) and pulling out my uterus and my right ovary. He also said something about stitches in my vagina, but I’m not sure how he finished that thought because I was too busy rocking back and forth in my paper gown and screaming out the lyrics to Madeleine.
Anyway. Surgery. Two weeks from today. I’ll be in the hospital overnight, and I’ve heard the recovery goes anywhere from two to four weeks, but a lot of it depends on the amount of endometriosis, and there’s so much stuff to do between now and then, and hardly any of it involves eating good food and laughing about good times. (And by Good Times, I didn’t mean the show, but after typing it, I now have the theme song in my head. And you can have it, too.)
Quick thought: Because we’re hoping to move, we decided to not take piano lessons this summer. Writing that e-mail made me feel sad. I’ve had to write four sad e-mails in the past few days, and sad e-mails they say so much, Elton John.
We went to six open houses last weekend. I really need to stop looking for the perfect house, because the rest of my family is starting to become a bit discouraged with my habit of barely walking through the front door of a house before inhaling deeply and saying, “No. This is not our house.”
I’ve said, “This could be our house.” only two times in the past month. The first house was the house I told you about a few weeks ago. (It’s actually still on the market and I look at it every single day.) The second house was one we saw last weekend. The current owner is a builder of guitars and tables and all sorts of other wooden things and the house was incredible, except for the fact that a highway is being built less than 500 feet away from the back yard fence.
Walking through houses where people are currently living is such a weird thing. Last Sunday we met a dog named Mike, we almost lifted the lid from a slow cooker to stir the little smokies, we cringed at the sight of dirty toothbrushes, and we screamed and ran for our lives when we came across this face in a master bedroom.
We’ll be meeting with a realtor this week to see what we need to do to get our house ready. I’m really hoping she doesn’t mention the word that starts with a P and ends with Aint, because the thought of that makes me want to just say, “This could be our house. Forever.”
As we pack up our house, we sometimes find ourselves sitting criss-cross apple sauce (it is no longer called Indian style) on the basement floor and visiting the memories that spark us as we uncover our forgotten treasures.
Jeff: Wait a second. Isn’t that the swimsuit Meredith wore when she took baby swim lessons?
Me: It is. Check it out. This is the wool jacket I wore to that idiot girl’s farewell happy hour. Do you remember her?
Jeff: I do. Do you use these Pyrex lids?
Me: No. Donate them. I remember you actually LIKED the idiot girl, but I saw her as someone who probably had bugs swarming around her privates. Also, she pronounced your one-syllable name as two syllables, and I’ll never forgive her for that.
Jeff: Okay. Here’s a bag of make-up that looks really old. And sticky.
Me: Old and sticky like that vermin habitat of an idiot girl! Toss it. I hold in my hand three letters from friends. Two of the friends have passed away, and the other drove a really bright purple truck and adopted a great dog named Patty Fla-Fla. What does it MEAN?!
Jeff: Do we need all of these plastic glitter pumpkins?
Me: Can they be recycled? LONDON AIMEE MANN CONCERT TICKETS FROM 2002! We ate curry that night and I drank my first and final Red Bull!
We found many things in the basement, but these are noteworthy: Two of my favorite cardigans from the early 90s (I’m keeping them, even though I haven’t worn them in over 11 years.), a bunch of dried up baby bottle nipples (My kids never drank from bottles. Little weirdos. Why do I have so many nipples? Heh.), 84,922 strands of Christmas lights that no longer work (The Christmas spirit makes me feel hopeful. Perhaps someday I’ll plug them in and they’ll work. Like Carol Brady when she was able to sing on Christmas morning after not being able to use her voice for DAYS!), cold medicine that expired in 1998 (We moved here in 2003. That cold medicine should never have entered this house. Also, sometime I’ll tell you the story about how I met a potential meth addict last night.), and Meredith’s basket of soap and candles that she carried when she was two (She enjoyed sharing smells with us. Tone soap was her favorite.).
We did not find any money. And that’s a bummer, because buying a house is EXPENSIVE, Dave Ramsey.
Something huge happened last night at Fluid Pudding.
After thinking about it for a few weeks, I decided to remove the ads from my sidebar. I believe I started running ads in something like 2007, and of course I made that date up, but it may or may not be correct. It seems correct. Anyway: No more. For now. (I tend to make all of my decisions on a For Now basis. It allows me room to wiggle.)
Announcement: Please know that I contacted Birkenstock a few years back and told them that I would have their logo tattooed onto my thigh if they would give me a lifetime supply of shoes. Being that I’m still wearing the Birkenstock sandals that I bought back in 1999, a lifetime of Birkenstocks is probably just four or five pairs. (I refuse to live forever.) They thought the idea was funny, but then the crickets began to chirp. In other words, you do NOT have to be afraid that I’m going to start belching up a bunch of sponsored posts, because I really have no idea how to sell myself.
“Hi there. My name is Angela Pudding and I really love doughnuts and I volunteer to teach the world how to stay healthy yet eat a lot of doughnuts if you give me a fresh doughnut every day for the next five years.”
See what I mean? I’m not good at this.
Also, my last name isn’t really Pudding. It’s Downing. And unless we’re friends on Facebook, you didn’t know that. When I started this website back in 2001, privacy was a huge deal. Now that I’m ditching the ads and packing up boxes and having my lady parts ripped out through my belly button, I no longer feel the need to keep a bag over my head. All bras into the fire.