Cucumbers aren't always cool. Archives : Page 4 of 8 : Fluid Pudding

The Story of the Cake Fall

Fact: When I was a kid, my mom took my sister and I to school every morning and picked us up every afternoon.

Fact: Every year in the fall (no foreshadowing pun intended), our elementary school would hold a Family Fun Night. And that Family Fun Night included a cake walk.

Fact: My mom used to be quite a cake maker. She has been known to create wedding cakes. No joke.

One afternoon when I was nine and in the fourth grade, I ran down the hill from the elementary school to my mom’s car and found that the front seat on the passenger side was covered with towels surrounding and protecting a lovely white-iced three-layer cake. My mom told me that the cake was for Family Fun Night, and she had been waiting for me to get down to the car so we could carry it up the hill to the gymnasium.

Because nine year old kids tend to be a bit over-confident, I begged my mom to let me carry the cake up to the gym by myself.

My mom then made the worst decision of her life, which is a huge deal when you consider the fact that she once purchased and wore a blue polyester jumpsuit with red and yellow stalks of wheat painted at hip level.

“Well, okay. But be careful.”

I got out of the car and Mom reluctantly handed me the aluminum foil wrapped piece of cardboard with the three layer cake balanced on top.

I slowly took off toward the gym, concentrating on the cake with every step I took.

Right foot.

Left foot.

Right foot.

You get the idea.

So, then this happened: The barometric pressure suddenly changed and I fell down. And when I fell down, I dropped the cake. And it stayed on the cardboard platter thing, but the top two layers shifted quite a bit. I quickly looked down to my mom’s car and noticed that she was talking to another mom and hadn’t seen my fall. SO, with tiny rocks embedded in my hands, I pushed those cake layers back so they were lined up, wiped the icing from my hands onto my pants, and delivered the cake to the gym.

The mother’s club volunteer took one look at the cake, looked down at my hands and pants, and asked what happened.

Get this. I told her that my mom isn’t a very safe driver, and that the cake fell off of the seat onto the floor of the car.

“Mom says it’s fine for the cake walk.”

I then turned around and headed straight to the bathroom to clean myself up before returning to the car.

Thirty years later, payback arrived when I hurled last week’s brownies across the school parking lot and had no one to blame for my gracelessness. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I threw a cake when I was nine. I’ll tell you that story later.

As you know, I had to take a food item to school yesterday for teachers to snack on during the Parent/Teacher Conferences. Harper and I went to the store yesterday morning, and quickly decided on a cheese and sausage platter with crackers.

When we returned home, Harper looked at me with her big brown eyes and said, “I wanted to take brownies to the teachers because I wanted to MAKE brownies for the teachers.”

Hhhhh. Let’s make brownies.

We had less than an hour to make brownies and still get Harper and the snacks to school on time. Combine brownie mix, eggs, oil, chocolate chips, etc., spread in a greased foil throwaway pan, bake for 42 minutes, take brownies out of the oven, apply plastic lid, shove hand into oven mitt and carry brownies out to the car with the cheese, crackers, and preschooler. Done.

Know this: We bought new boots for Harper a few weeks ago. They’re pink and suede and awkward. (Awkward = Foreshadowing!) Okay. Back to our story.

When we arrived at school, I had less than five minutes to deliver the snacks to the office before delivering Harper to preschool pick-up. I parked the car, wedged the cheese and crackers into the crook of my left arm, shoved my left hand into the oven mitt and balanced the hot brownies on my left hand. (Can you tell that something wicked this way comes?) I then opened Harper’s door with my right hand, and she undid her seat belt and started to climb out of the car. As she climbed down, her boot got caught on the front seat (I *told* you they’re awkward!), and she started to stumble. When I went to steady her with my right hand, my ankle did that thing that ankles sometimes do when they suddenly give out and you lose your balance. When my ankle did that thing, I accidentally chucked the hot brownies like a frisbee across the parking lot.

Me: Shit.

Harper: You can’t say that.

Me: Yeah. Okay then. I just did.

I retrieved the brownies from across the lot (they were all cracked and bent up like they had been hit by a car (surprisingly, the plastic lid stayed on)), returned them to the passenger side of my car, and Harper and I ran in and delivered the cheese.

Super Nice Lady in the Office: Oh! Thank you so much for the cheese and crackers! This is great!

Me (in constant need of both praise and a good confession): Thanks! I just fell down and hurled brownies across the parking lot.

SNLitO (pronounced Sin LIT Oh): Are you okay?

Me (doing the thing that I do): Oh! I’m good. And the lid stayed on the brownies, and they’re the kind of brownies that have chocolate chips on top. I Fell Down!

SNLitO (aka Dumbledore, because she’s so wise and forgiving): Teachers Eat Anything.

So I went outside, tried my best to bend the brownie container back into shape—a feat not completely unlike trying to bend a Cutlass Supreme back into shape—and turned them in to SNLitO. And she complimented their smell. Because she sees the good in everything.

I could learn a lot from SNLitO.

We all could. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I want to go to Canada for their Thanksgiving. Who’ll have me?

It’s cold and rainy today (which I love), and three of the four kids in my house (sometimes I count the cats) are sick right now. With that said, I had jelly on my toast and hot Earl Grey (with honey) for breakfast, so I really have no complaints. On the calendar for this evening is soccer, Reading Night at the school, and the possibility of knitting. However, none of us will be leaving the house for fear of spreading our germs unnecessarily. (Sometimes it’s necessary. We tend to lick the people we know.)

Let’s get down to business here. The reason I haven’t invited you over to my house is because we have really offensive pink carpeting in the front room, and I’m embarrassed by it. And I know that’s silly, but we choose our own humiliations, right? (I choose Pink Carpeting, and the time in high school when I slipped and fell in the hallway and accidentally threw my French horn into a group of football players! It has been 22 years, and I still haven’t healed!) Supposedly, that Pink carpeting is sitting on top of a hardwood floor that the previous owner swore was in good condition. However, the carpeting (which is very pink. Did I mention the Pink?) looked suspiciously pristine when we moved in, and the owner had a big guilty-looking old dog who appeared to be the type of dog who has zero bladder control in exciting situations. (I can relate. Jim and Pam’s wedding is tonight, by the way.) All of this to say: I want this carpeting out of the house SO badly, but I have a funny feeling we’ll lift it up and find spotty canine pee stains all over the wood. Pee stains that have been covered with cheap Pink carpeting for the past seven years. And suddenly it’s Christmas.

The previous owner of the house once greeted us while wearing a sweatshirt that held an airbrushed representation of the big old dog. I’m sure I would have found a companion tote bag had I looked under all of her yarn. This has nothing to do with anything.

So, Jeff’s aunt gave us a calendar last year for Christmas. She also went the extra mile and wrote everyone’s birthday on the calendar. (Hello, Bob and Susan. Are you aware that you have birthdays at the end of this month? Because I AM aware.) Anyway, the top of the October page contains the following poem:

Jams, puddings; teacakes, and tarts, roast beef in wine sauce and cranberry hearts chicken pot pie with biscuits and cream, French fries and chocolates and Apricot Dream. Blessed with Abundance each day all our own; there’s Love in the kitchen, the Heart of the Home.

For some reason, this poem pisses me off to no end. Other than the punctuation (I’m looking at you, “cranberry heart chicken pot pie”), it doesn’t really hold anything offensive. However, I read it every day and then I sort of roll my eyes into the back of my head and sigh. Okay. Wait. Full disclosure. The calendar also has this paragraph scrawled in a really crappy cursive font on top: “Running home from school on a crisp clear day, crunching as many leaves as possible with my shoes on the way, coming in the door, breathless and pink cheeked, slamming the books down and finding my mom in the kitchen pulling a pan of apple crisp from the oven. Smelled like, looked like, and tasted like love to me.” So, yeah. It starts off innocently enough with the day-way rhyme thing going on, then suddenly it’s nothing but a frantic run-on about how perfectly timed apple crisps represent love. And what’s going on with the book slamming? No apple crisp for book slammers in the Pudding house. (I believe I’ll cross-stitch that sentence and hang it in the hallway.)

I’m toying with the idea of change. Sadly, I don’t believe this is the way to go.

(I’ll probably stick the following at the bottom of every entry for awhile: I currently have three giveaway things going on. That has never happened before. Are you feeling lucky? You certainly look lucky.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Blame it on the rays? Yeah. Yeah!

For some unknown reason, I spent the entire weekend dressed up as Petulant Pudding. I’m choosing to blame my foulness on the stingrays we visited at the St. Louis Zoo Saturday morning. I have to blame my ire on something, you see, and because the stingrays are now loaded up and on their way to Phoenix, I think it’s safe to blame quite a few things on them. I sat on the couch growling yesterday instead of attending the church picnic because of the stingrays. I was quite unsocial at Meredith’s soccer game yesterday afternoon because of the stingrays. I almost threw up my breakfast yesterday morning because of the stingrays. (The fact that my milk had curdled had nothing to do with it, I’m sure. Stinking stingrays.)

I wish I had an entertaining story for you, but, well, it appears that my cat has herpes. Apparently, herpes in a cat is not a serious thing. In fact, it’s quite common. According to the veterinarian, when a herpefied cat (my term, not his) is put in a stressful situation, the herpes will flare up and will often manifest itself in the form of sneezing fits and drainage. Apparently, the overnight stay at the vet office last week stressed Ramona out a bit. As a result, she sneezed something like 3,284 times last night. And because she sleeps at the foot of our bed and her sneezes come out as cute little high-pitched screams, we didn’t get much sleep last night. (It’s hard to blame our exhaustion on the stingrays, but Ramona insists we do so.)

A few weeks ago, my kids ate spinach, beans, and bread. And we shot a video. And now I’m giving away $100 plus a year’s supply of Wonder® bread! Follow me over here if you’re interested. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

All I wanted was to dance to a Milli Vanilli tune. Thwarted again.

As you know, I went to my high school reunion last year. As a result, I’m now once again in touch with all of my favorites from high school (via Facebook, of course). Actually, I take that back. I’m in touch with my favorites who are actually on Facebook. I’m still looking for this guy and the guy in the crop top. If you know where they are, please let me know. Also, does anyone have an update on W. Warden? Okay then.

Jeff’s reunion is coming up in a few weeks. When he told me about it last month, I quickly made plans to lose 25 pounds, grow out my hair, and memorize ten witty one liners. (My favorite? “If all the girls who attended the Hazelwood prom were laid end to end, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.” (High five, Dorothy Parker!)) The 25 pound thing? I failed. The hair? Shorter than ever. The one liners? Yeah, probably a waste of time when you consider the fact that I spoke to less than five people at the neighborhood party last weekend. So, anyway. Here we are. Sort of dreading the reunion. Not really looking forward to going through this again. Feeling like a frumpy wife with no quips.

Last night, Jeff went out with three of his friends from high school. When he returned, I was told that none of the friends’ wives are attending the reunion and that I now fall into that “none of the friends’ wives” set. Immediately, as I tend to do, I turned my exhaustion at the thought of GOING to the reunion into anger at NOT being able to go. Isn’t that pretty? I’m a whirling dervish, but not nearly as awesome as the authentic dervishes! I’m happy! I’m so sad! I’m sweating for no apparent reason! I love you! I despise you! Let’s eat marzipan!

Take Note: The girls called a family meeting, where the following announcements were made.

Meredith is no longer Meredith. She is Claire.

Harper? She shall switch off (with no warning) between Jordan and Daisy.

No one calls me Mommy anymore. I am Vanessa.

Jeff? Tom Roger. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I’m eating my hair. I’m eating my hair!

So, I’m about to update my website software to the latest version, and I’m shaking in my boots. My hair is curling, my flesh is crawling, my blood is running cold, et cetera.

Confession: I am scared to death of driving around in a big city. I’m no good at it. I make lots of mistakes. (You can ask my Chicago companions how many times we were almost killed last week simply because I insisted on driving. I’m ridiculous!) Anyway, this Updating of the Software thing? Let’s just say I would rather be dropped in the middle of Atlanta rush hour traffic in a smoking crap Gran Torino than deal with this. (Ask Mr. Deal. He’s totally aware of my ignorance. We actually talked on the phone once, and I’m still feeling stupid about how stupid I can be!)

If something terrible happens, please know that I love each and every one of you for reasons only I will ever know. Blackbird? I know we’ll meet some day. This is just another bump in that road. Finslippy? You always ALWAYS make me laugh and laugh. Emily? We WILL have coffee. Amy? I finished your socks this afternoon, and they’re currently soaking in a lavender bath! I should join them! (Don’t worry. I won’t join them.)

Wait. Why is everything fading? Hhhmmmm. I believe I’ll start walking toward that light in the distance…

Seriously, all. Wish me luck. IhatethisIhatethisIhatethisIhatethisetc.

EDITED TO ADD: Okay. You can all relax. I think I did it. I think. And the funny (?) thing is, I just looked to my right and noticed a big smear of blood on the wall. I have no idea where THAT came from. (Really. I have no idea. Blood on the wall!) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Stock up on the Northern! It’s FAFPBPA time!!!

Do you remember back in March when I threw my fist to the sky and invited you to participate in the First Annual Fluid Pudding BreadPuddingAlong (also known as FAFPBPA, which is pronounced FafPuhBuhPah)?

Six months have passed, and I think it’s time we have ANOTHER FafPuhBuhPah! But this time? Let’s shake it up a lot more than a little, shall we?!

It seems that Wednesday, September 9th will find me knocked out (and rolled over) as I undergo both an upper endoscopy (to rule out ulcers) AND a colonoscopy (to rule out Crohn’s). Wheee! I’m not particularly rattled about these procedures, because the people driving the tubes around my insides do this stuff every single day. (Except maybe Christmas and/or their own birthday.) (I wonder how many times a tube-driving doctor has jokingly muttered “I shoulda taken that left turn at Albuquerque” while performing a colonoscopy. Because that is very (very) funny. To me.)

What I *am* a bit puckered up about are the events that have to take place the day prior to the procedures. Let’s call a duck a duck, shall we? I am dreading the idea of “bowel prep.”

This is where you come in. Wait! Get back here!!!

It’s the First Annual Fluid Pudding BowelPrepAlong (also known as FAFPBPA, which is pronounced FafPuhBuhPah)!!! On the morning of Tuesday, September 8th, which is Two Weeks from Today So Mark Your Calendars, we shall not partake of any solids. It’s a clear liquid day! AND, at four o’clock in the afternoon, the shivaree shall commence with the swallowing of four Dulcolax! One! Two! Three! Four Dulcolax!!!

Thirty minutes later? We shall drink a half bottle of Miralax mixed into a 32-ounce jug of Gatorade! At 8:00 in the evening? Yes! ANOTHER half bottle of Miralax mixed into a 32-ounce jug of Gatorade! According to my calculations which are nearly always incorrect, it looks like we’ll be ingesting three weeks worth of laxatives in four hours time! We are living the bulimic dream! It’s FAFPBPA!

I’m trying to decide if I should liveblog the event. I mean, seriously. If people can liveblog the Grammy Awards, why can’t I liveblog the clearing of my colon?

Okay. Who wants to design the shirts?

(CROSSING MY Ts, IN ALL CAPS, NO LESS: YOU EXPRESSLY UNDERSTAND AND AGREE THAT YOUR USE OF THE FLUID PUDDING WEB SITE AND THE INFORMATION THEREON IS ENTIRELY AT YOUR SOLE RISK. ANGELA PUDDING AND HER AFFILIATES AND LICENSORS WILL NOT BE RESPONSIBLE TO YOU OR TO ANY THIRD PARTIES FOR ANY DIRECT OR INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, SPECIAL, OR PUNITIVE DAMAGES OR LOSSES YOU MAY INCUR IN CONNECTION WITH THE FLUID PUDDING WEBSITE, YOUR USE THEREOF OR ANY OF THE INFORMATION, DATA OR OTHER MATERIAL TRANSMITTED THROUGH OR RESIDING ON THE WEBSITE, REGARDLESS OF THE TYPE OF CLAIM OR THE NATURE OF THE CAUSE OF ACTION, EVEN IF WE HAVE BEEN ADVISED OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE OR LOSS. TO THE MAXIMUM EXTENT PERMITTED BY LAW, YOU HEREBY RELEASE AND FOREVER WAIVE ANY AND ALL CLAIMS YOU MAY HAVE AGAINST ANGELA PUDDING, HER AFFILIATES AND LICENSORS FROM LOSSES OR DAMAGES YOU SUSTAIN IN CONNECTION WITH YOUR USE OF THE INFORMATION CONTAINED HEREIN.)

Edited to Add: Who wants to design the shirts? Melissa wants to design the shirts! So she did! (This is EXACTLY why I love Fluid Pudding Readers!)
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I’ll drive all night just to buy you some shoes.

This morning I decided to be in the market for athletic shoes. (Would it look like I’m trying too hard if I said something like “This was no small feat!”?! I like to think that I’m cooler than that. Let’s shift focus a bit, shall we? It was one year ago tonight when Jeff and I found ourselves invited to attend a Bruce Springsteen sound check, and as if that wasn’t enough (We were the only “civilians” in the stadium! Seriously!), we got a personal tour of the backstage area, AND we went home that night with the handwritten set list. I’ve met some pretty amazing people through the Internet, Internet. I’ve been thinking about that show all day. Ah, Mr. Springsteen.)

Anyway, my main goal for the athletic shoe thing was to get something user-friendly and perhaps brown. These were pretty much exactly what I wanted. To me, those shoes say, “I’m a climber of mountains. I could run if I need to, but really, I’m just strolling down the road looking for a chai and some chili.” Perfection.

As I drove to the shoe store, I set Sparky up to play the overture from Selmasongs. It’s sort of my own personal Rocky theme, and it never fails to stir up my much needed Invincibility Vibe. Drama! French horns! I am Flo Jo! (It was one of the songs that played as our wedding guests entered the church. (I absolutely LOVE the build up to 2:24. It makes my lip quiver every time.)) When I entered the store, I headed straight for the New Balance display. Sadly, the perfect brown shoes were not available in my size, and a wicked step sister I am not.

I tried on over thirty pairs of shoes this morning, and in the end, feeling weary and very vincible, I settled for something that ended up being over twenty dollars cheaper than The Perfect Shoes.

I suppose you could say that they’re silver, but deep down we all know that they’re white (actually, they’re >>>WHITE<<< and partly pink, even), and not at all chummy. In fact, they’re very standoffish, and after wearing them all day? My feet feel as if I’ve jumped into a vat of chattering teeth. As I type these words to you, the shoes are sitting in the corner quoting Kafka (in German, of course. Jackasses.) and tossing lit matches at the cats. Earlier this afternoon I found them spitting and whispering nasty things about my butt.

I believe I’m meant to sit barefoot on the couch eating sweet potato pancakes for the rest of my existence. Would you care to join me? ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Vanilla Long John Love with a Side of Fiona Apple

This morning I dropped Meredith off at school, returned home with Harper, made coffee, started a load of laundry, plopped down onto the couch, and remembered that I haven’t pulled up Fluid Pudding in over a week.

Whiny Paragraph: I barely made it through the evening of Meet the Teacher last week. Argh. I’m not sure if it’s my general lack of adult interaction or the fact that I’ve always been socially awkward, but any time I spoke to someone that evening, my lip got all quivery and my eyes twitched and I’m sure I looked palsy bound. I have no idea why I get so rattled. Is this why people take Xanax? Is this why people drink wine throughout the day? Is this why some people (namely, Angela Pudding) should choose to stay home and watch crap television instead of attempting to exchange a simple round of small talk? I really thought throwing on a cute skirt would give me at least an hour of sparkling confidence. The spooky trees failed me.

In Which I Attempt to Turn my Frown Upside Down (And, I Fail!): But enough about that! School is now in session! Meredith adores first grade! Harper is in love with Pre-K! I had sushi for lunch yesterday and Gokul for dinner! On a semi-related note, I’m back on Weight Watchers and am six pounds into my fourteen pound goal. (As much as I complain about Weight Watchers, it really does work for me. You know, when I actually do it instead of simply talking about it.) Jeff’s class reunion is coming up in a few months, and I already know that the room will be filled to the brim with Lovelies, and I also already know that there’s not nearly enough time for me to get the adequate amount of therapy that will allow me to be a social butterfly that evening. SO, at least I can try to fit into one of my favorite “sit in a corner and eat toasted ravioli” dresses. Also, spunky shoes might help. Yes, I said Spunky.

Something happened last Friday that has never happened before. As a woman from the lab took a bunch of blood out of my arm, she told me that I have super cute feet. And because I generally am not a foot person and always feel awkward in sandals (Wait. I truly AM a disaster, aren’t I?!), I decided to ramble a bit too much about how the color I’m wearing is OPI’s “Over the Taupe” and that Alison Sweeney wears it on Days of Our Lives and the more I talked The More I Talked. So, yeah. Over the Taupe. I love it in the same way that I love buying a new pen and a new notebook. It’s that GOOD kind of love. Vanilla Long John Love. (Although, I tend to prefer mine unfilled.)

(I bought fresh ginger yesterday! And the kind folks on Facebook taught me how to prepare it! Balance! Can you tell that I’m scowling more than usual today?! Meredith kicked the cat last night, and I’m still not really over it. Also, Seasonique? Yeah. It failed me this week. I will not elaborate. Ginger in my bok choy tonight!)

In about three weeks I’ll be making my annual trip to Chicago to buy yarn. My goal is to buy a silk/wool blend to make a black one of these and perhaps something neutral with a lot of drape to make one of these. I’m also keeping my eyes open for something black and shiny to make another one of these. Also, there will be grits. And two nights in a hotel. The possibility of a martini. And because it’s a road trip? Nutter Butters and coffee—the perfect road trip snack.

Two hours have passed since I first sat down at the computer. I just dropped Harper off at school, meaning I now have 2.5 hours to myself before I pick everyone up.

I love this song, and am now on a quest to find an audio file and some decaf Earl Grey. Enjoy your afternoon.

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Lack of Intestinal Fortitude, Chapter 43

While we were at Trout Lodge, something crazy happened that led me to call my doctor once again for the Mystery Abdominal Thing. Long story short? We scheduled a CT scan!

Lady at Scheduling: Your test will be on Thursday at 3:30, but we’ll need you to be here at 2:30 for registration. AND, you’ll need to stop eating and drinking at 11:30 so we can get an accurate result.

Me: Okay and okay!

So, last Thursday morning I stopped eating at 11:00 (Can you guess how many microwave s’mores I ate between 10:50 and 11:00? The answer is Three!), and I parked the Hyundai at 2:22. (I remember the time because I tend to make a wish when I look at the clock and it’s 11:11 or 2:22 or 4:44 or something similar. I’m four years old!)

Registration Lady: Go ahead and fill out these forms, and one of the nurses will bring you something to drink in just a minute.

Me: Excellent! I hope it’s root beer. (Did I mention that I’m four years old?)

RL: Heh.

This is starting to get boring, so take a deep breath and Here We Go!

It was not root beer. It was two gigantic cups of a barium cocktail that tasted like orange coconut poison and while I was drinking it, they called me back to start an IV, and I had no idea THAT was part of the deal, but I’m pretty flexible so whatever, and they started the IV in the crook of my right arm and I gulped the poison, and thirty minutes later they put me on the table and I had to scootch my skirt down to my knees because of the zipper, and when the nurse went to put the stuff into my IV, the IV didn’t work correctly and the stuff infiltrated and BURNING ARM! SO they went to start an IV in my left arm crook (I’m loving using the word crook, by the way), and my veins were rolling too much and YEESH! PAIN! They tried the top of my left forearm instead and still with the rolling and double the pain (maybe even triple) and YEEOWWW! So they called a nurse in from the main hospital who jabbed me on my right forearm (My skirt was still around my knees! Were you wondering about that?) and it worked, but as I was pumping my hand to give her some hefty vein action, my original IV site started secretly spurting and suddenly there was a fat puddle of blood all over my arm, and holy crap. Wooooozzzzzzzyyyyyyyy!

Nurse (pushing the stuff into my IV): I’m pushing this through, and you might feel a warm sensation that sort of feels like you’re peeing in your pants, but don’t worry. You’re not peeing.

Me: I think I’m peeing.

Nurse: You’re not peeing.

Me: This has been an incredible day.

Less than two minutes later, the entire procedure was finished. AND, I can’t really complain because The Pokers were all really nice people, and I suppose I can simply blame my ancestors for my weirdo veins, right? Right-o!

So, anyway. A few of you have e-mailed to ask if I’ve had my gallbladder removed yet. I have not! Because, according to the tests, Governor Gallbladder is an upstanding member of the Angela Pudding Abdominal Organ Population.

Side story: When all of this abdominal stuff started up, I said something to Jeff like, “You know, watch this be a really embarrassing diagnosis that involves one of the following terms: rectum, anus, stool, sphincter, fissures, or yucky vagina.”

When the doctor called with my CT scan results, he actually used one of those terms coupled with the word “abnormal.” (It was not Abnormal Yucky Vagina.)

So, yeah. Here we are. It’s nothing serious, so please don’t bother to wish me well. Just know that I’ll be seeing a gastroenterologist a week from Friday! AND, according to my research, he’s also a pianist!

This has nothing to do with anything, but it’s in my mind: I would give just about anything for a few tablespoons of horseradish right about now. What good is a cheese sandwich without horseradish?! It’s a living hell, I tell you. (According to my calendar, today is the Green Corn Moon, so we’ve got that going for us, I suppose!) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>