Last night my father reminded me that I had not written anything at Fluid Pudding in over a week.
“Oh, yeah. Fluid Pudding. Heh. Oh.”
I must thank all of you who sent messages last week after reading the story of Meredith and The Plastic Bag. After I put that up, I received an e-mail from the school principal telling me that he spoke with the recess monitor and although she refuses to admit that she yelled at Meredith, she has agreed to apologize for yelling. I immediately punched myself in the head until I fell asleep at my desk. And then I puked out a return e-mail about the tone of voice not being an issue. It was the message. The message. Not the tone. And then I sat back with my imaginary martini in hand and bitched about the whole thing to the fairies in my head. And then I started knitting one of these sweaters with the goal of finishing it sometime around Thanksgiving. And then Harper threw a huge tantrum this morning and Meredith was running a temperature of 103.5 and it’s Spring Break! Aren’t we supposed to be at the zoo or something?! I was sort of losing my mind, so I picked up my knitting project bag and ripped out all of the work I had done on the sweater. I have no idea why I do that sort of thing. It’s sort of crazy, really. “Things are going sort of shitty, so I believe I’ll make it even shittier! Let’s turn up the shitty to SHITTY!” (For those keeping count, Shitty has just scored 4.5 points. (I gave an extra half point to Shittier.) And now we’re up to 7 points.) (By the way, I also kicked a castle made of blocks across the room, but I’m way WAY too embarrassed to tell you about that one. If I was in a rock band, I would surely be spinning around with my leg in the air and destroying a hotel room right about now. Do you want to come over? If you do, I’ll tie you to a chair and throw flaming baked potatoes at you.)
I missed the Andrew Bird show on Sunday night, and I’m still a little bummed about that, too.
Wow. You don’t hear from me in over a week, and I immediately start screaming at you. I’m a joy, no?
A few days ago I was working at the yarn store and I saw a man and wife walking side-by-side down the street. The wife was loudly whistling (seriously, like scream-whistling) “Memories” from Cats, and the husband was sporting a look of mild discomfort. And all I can say is “That’s LOVE. Or, that’s a guy who has totally given up.” And I’m sort of leaning toward the latter.
One last thing. If I see or hear one more commercial for yet another new stinking television reality/contrived smells-like-a-cheese-sitcom show about parents and kids and quirky situations and nannies or no nannies and too many kids or switching places with other kids or parents or whatever, I’m going to throw my television through the window. (And then I’ll tidy it up and put it right back on the stand so that I can play Animal Crossing: City Folk. Because I love fishing without actually having to touch a fish.)
Wait. One MORE thing. I’m 97% certain that I will not be attending BlogHer this year.
Wait. Did you hear that noise? I just exploded. In fact, if you find a tiny stain on your pants later today, it just might be part of my hippocampus!
(And, yes! I realize that this entire brain-to-fingers-to-you exercise consists mainly of sentiments that make you want to pull out the tiniest of violins. Poor baby, and whatnot. I know. I know! And recognition is the first step to healing or something.)