Category: Cucumbers aren’t always cool.

Birthday party, cheesecake, jelly bean, boom!

On Sunday afternoon, I found myself at Starbucks ordering one of their shaken iced tea lemonades. The barista, who looks a bit like Dave Grohl, is my absolute favorite local Starbucks barista. (Wait. It’s not like I know all of them well enough to proclaim a favorite. I don’t. In fact, I rarely do the Starbucks thing anymore. I used to go every stinking day. Now? Maybe once a week. Why am I defending myself to you?) Anyway, this is the barista who yelled “Muffin Down!” when I was there a few months back. And I would link to that story, but now I can’t find it. Wait. Are you still here? Whitey Herzog!

Anyway, as I waited for my lemonade, I stood within earshot of a sixteenish-year-old girl who was trying her absolute hardest to flirt with the Dave Grohl barista. For the sake of convenience, let’s refer to the girl as Tawdry.

Tawdry: So, I was at the mall the other day and I saw a Starbucks shirt but the mermaid wasn’t in the middle. It was a photograph of Jesus and it said something like “Jesus loves you a latte.” And I was like, “How stupid is that?!” If you love Jesus, just get your ass to church and stop wearing shirts that advertise it. I don’t want to know that you’re a Jesus lover.

Barista: I’ve heard about that shirt, but I haven’t seen it.

Tawdry: Yeah, and I couldn’t even look at the other shirts because some lady was there with her screaming kid and she wouldn’t do anything about the screaming. And I was like, “Why don’t you beat his ass and make him sit on a bench until he shuts up?!” That’s what my mom used to do, and I turned out fine.

With that, Dave Grohl handed her drink over and waited until she had walked out before looking at me and declaring, “Ahhh. Fine is such a subjective term, isn’t it?”

Me: It’s a really large and confusing blanket. Also, did you hear that the shirt had a photograph of Jesus on it?

Barista: I didn’t realize they had cameras back then! I have a lot to learn. Wait. Did you want me to sweeten the lemonade?

Me: Nope. It’s fine. Slightly bitter. Just the way I like it. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Detailing the Pudding

How is it that I’ve spent 39 years thinking that “detailing a car” had something to do with painting thin swirly stripes down the side of it? A few days back I mentioned that no one really details their car anymore. Jeff mentioned that just because our car isn’t detailed is no indication that it doesn’t happen. (I also have a hard time imagining how the world existed before I was born and how it will survive without me. I’ll save that (not quite narcissistic, more like unable to engage in abstract thought) conversation for another time.) Anyway, from there we went into a side-splitting Who’s on First sort of routine.

Jeff: Wait. Before we go any further, please tell me what it means to detail a car.

Me: It’s when you take your car, which is probably an old van, to the place where the guy paints swirly stripes down the sides of it. And then maybe you get tinted windows as a bonus. And Keep on Truckin’ mud flaps.

Jeff: You’re not from around here, are you?

A few nights back I spent an hour or so of solo time with Mocha Momma. And I stepped away feeling terribly enlightened. And I’ve been lazily meditating on much of our conversation since I drove out of that parking lot. For whatever odd reason, I believe many people start questioning their writing and their website purpose and goals during this time of year, and this year I’m amongst the many. (I know! 83% of you just walked away! It really IS boring, no? Here’s an incentive to get you through. I will use some form of the word Tipple before signing off for the night.) I started Fluid Pudding back in 2001 when I was a single girl with an editing gig in Nashville, Tennessee. It was a pointless journal (the archives aren’t available at this time, but you believe me, right?) written by featherbrained me. (WAIT! I just found a bit of evidence!) I had absolutely no intention of ever turning it into something Bigger, and I finally realized on Saturday night that I STILL have no intention of turning it into something Bigger, because I sort of lack the talent and drive to DO that. (Is anyone else feeling a surge of pressure to do that? So much talk of branding and sponsors! I love it. I hate it. I’m sleepy.) ((One of my new favorite words is Lentitudinousness!)) And although I’m not at the 100% level of contentment with What Fluid Pudding Is, I AM 100% content with What Fluid Pudding Was. So I’m considering stepping back a bit. (Not quitting. In my mind, it’s actually more of an evolution than that.) And isn’t this paragraph just about the silliest thing you’ve ever read? My goodness. So much stuff going on in the world, and I’m all type type type me me me (Ben Folds) me me me (Ira Glass) me me. So anyway. I just bought an herb garden thingy, and I’m really digging the idea of Organic. (Basil! Oregano! Parsley! All living together in perfect harmony!)

Keith Olbermann is on my television right now, and if he were a drink I believe he would be a steaming salted caramel hot chocolate with a fat stirrer that held the words “Get tippled.”

Off to sleep I go! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

My butt is eager, yet not quite ready for its closeup.

When I was in college, I often found myself working out in my room using a Jane Fonda cassette I had made by sticking my cassette recorder up to the television as the VHS tape played. The recording was really crappy (or charming, depending on your perspective), as it featured several dog barks, a few door slams, and my mom asking, “Why are you recording this?!” (Of course, I answered with a sharp “Ssshhh!” which was also caught on tape.)

I’ll never forget the night I was working out in my room (with the door closed and locked, because as much as I loved my college roommates, I really didn’t want them to see me in those positions) and I suddenly felt the need to use the restroom. I ran from my room to the bathroom wearing a tan sports bra and green parachute shorts. Nick, one of my roommates at the time, saw me and yelled, “Hey! Angie! Damn, Girl!” (That’s an exact quote, by the way. It’s still bouncing around in my head.) You see, Nick thought I was working out topless.

Secretly, I enjoyed the fact that from that point forward, Nick probably assumed that I was in my room doing a topless Fonda every time he heard my cassette player kicking into action.

Fast forward something like seventeen years.

Last week I told you that I would provide video footage of me actually working out with the Wii Sports Active Thirty Day Bacon Lettuce Tomato Mustard Mayonnaise Crosby Stills Nash and Young Workout. Two nights back, Jeff actually shot some video of the workout, and it was shot from behind and it seems that my butt is a big old camera hog, and watching it almost made me cry and instead of showing it to you, I would much rather you assume that I’m working out looking all svelte-like with just a bit of glistening sweat providing a healthy and almost angelic (or vampire-esque, whatever you prefer) glow to my skin.

With that said, my “I’m Halfway Done” update is up. If you go here and scroll down, you’ll find the link to my notes right above the photo. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Which wert and art and evermore shall be!

One of my goals for the remainder of 2009 is to incorporate Wert into my vocabulary. Any advice would be appreciated.

On a similar note, I apparently created the word Morticum to replace Moratorium and have been using it incorrectly for at least a decade. No one has corrected me, and I’m mortified. Morticumified, even. With that said, I LIKE morticum. It has a Latin smell to it, no?

Confession: I slept through the first half of Up. It seems to be a nice movie, but I have no idea why the dogs speak, nor do I know why the bird’s name is Kevin. (I hope I didn’t just ruin the movie for anyone.)

This afternoon after I flashed Jeff (as I tend to do during the Strawberry Moon), he climbed (clombed? wert?) into the closet. He was looking for Murphy’s Oil Soap at the time, but still. Wait. It JUST occurred to me why one uses Murphy’s Oil Soap. Suddenly, I can barely type. (The laughter and all.)

About a month ago, a little girl in Meredith’s class pulled Meredith’s glasses off of her face and destroyed them. (I’m not exaggerating. We had to order new frames. Yeesh! Luckily, the frames were covered under warranty for three more weeks. Have I ever mentioned just how lucky we are? $200 lucky!) Anyway, all parents were notified and the little girl was actually sent to a counselor which sort of boggled my mind, but who am I? A few weeks after the Incident, I met the girl’s mom, and she never even acknowledged The Breaking of The Glasses, and I wasn’t quite sure how to respond, but I knew better than to bring it up, because, come on. I hate confrontation, and I’m not living in a world where My Kid Is Perfect, and I know it takes two to fight (although Meredith still swears the entire scene was unprovoked). So, the mom talked to me for about two minutes (You’re Meredith’s mom, right?) and then handed me an invitation to the girl’s birthday party. (It’s a pool party, and I was encouraged to simply drop Meredith off at the pool, which is something I would never do at this age—especially since Meredith is not a particularly strong swimmer.) Anyway, I know that I tend to apologize to the point of annoyance when I feel like I or anyone in my family has done something to hurt or offend. I hate that I’m hesitant to send Meredith to the party because I’M feeling a bit miffed over the lack of recognition about the glasses thing. I know that I’m no better than anyone else out there. We’re all just trying to do our best, right? Ugh. I’m struggling with this one. (Meredith has stated that she doesn’t really want to go to the party, because the girl “can be mean sometimes.”) I’m holding grudges from when I was in the third grade. That, along with the wert thing, is something I definitely need to work on.

This morning at church, my thumb busted open (recent knitting injury involving a tiny crochet hook) and actually squirted blood onto my other thumb as we sang Holy, Holy, Holy. That, along with watching a fly buzzing around upside down on the floor last year, goes down as My Craziest Church Experience Ever. (Sadly, as the fly buzzed around on his backside, I found myself doing that ridiculous thing where I laugh so hard that I’m crying and my face is all contorted, and I begin to pray for a morticum on buzzing flies.)

(I’ve been encouraged to remind you that only a few more days remain for both the Snapfish giveaway and the Max Factor giveaway.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Monroe or Manson. Take your pick.

As you know, I got a new camera. And just like anyone who finds a new friend, I’ve been spending quite a bit of time getting to know her. The camera has been attached to me for the past seven days, and has clicked through quite a few car rides, cat jumps, bees on flowers, donuts dipped in chocolate, etc.

This morning was my annual gynecological visit. (Wait. You’re suddenly nervous about that camera paragraph, aren’t you?) Because I’m absolutely terrible when it comes to anticipating morning traffic, I left my house an hour early and ended up being 38 minutes early for the appointment. I considered treating myself to a coffee and I toyed with the thought of indulging in a fast food egg biscuit, but ultimately I decided to sit in the parking lot with a half-knitted scarf and my camera.

My camera has a self-portrait setting, so I decided to take some photos of myself in an effort to document what I look like before receiving (receiving? is that right?!) my annual pap smear. It turns out that I look not completely unlike this:
Gyno Chillin'
So, I’m sitting. I’m clicking photos. I’m wondering why the shadows on my face make it look like I’m wearing orange foundation. I’m posing with string cheese. I’m turning up the music and getting into this self-portrait thing. And unfortunately, I’m being watched. By my gynecologist. Yeah. She walked by and smiled as I was blasting Metric and getting goofy with my camera. So, that’s not really what I wanted to happen, but that’s what you get when you choose Gynecologist Parking Lot as a photo shoot location.

After about fifteen minutes, I entered the building feeling nervous and sheepish and self-conscious and all of the other things you tend to feel before participating in a pap smear. I had my blood pressure taken (it was returned shortly thereafter), I placed my pee in a cup, and I wrote my mailing address on a card that will be delivered to me next year on May 18th to remind me that it’s time for my annual pap smear. All ends nicely tied.

I was then led back to a room where I traded cotton and denim for paper and was given ten minutes to nervously sit in that paper while filling up on pap smear dread. (Am I the only one who gets worked up like this?)

My gynecologist (I really do love her) entered the room and asked what’s new.

Me: Nothing.

Dr. C: Nothing?

Me: Not really.

Dr. C: Well, I guess that’s a good thing.

We then discussed the weirdness under my arm and my Dermatologist Incarcerated (I get you, Amy Winehouse). We discussed my birth control pills and how I do believe I’ll stay on them forever. And then I put my feet up and all of the blood rushed out of my head.

Dr. C (pushing metal things into my own private Idaho): So, how old are your kids now?

Me: Four and six.

Dr. C (swabbing and swabbing): Four and six. That’s so hard to believe. Wait. I can’t remember your oldest daughter’s name.

Me: Marilyn.

Dr. C: Meredith?

Me: Yes. That’s correct. Wow.

Marilyn. God only knows where my head goes when I’m trying to escape from the moment.

As the doctor was getting ready to leave the room, I somehow found a way to bring up turkey basters.

Seriously. Don’t ask. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Miss Crazy in Prison with the Makeup

I stopped by the Crazy Lady Starbucks last night on my way to work. While there, I asked if they experienced any sort of customer disturbance on Saturday morning at 9:45ish. And they had! Apparently, the woman who yelled at me in the parking lot entered Starbucks and started acting all crazy and screaming out her drink order. The manager wanted to avoid a scene, so she escorted Miss Crazy (I know, that’s mean. But I refuse to keep calling her “the woman”. Wait. Let’s call her Beyoncé just to add some sparkle to the story.), I mean, the manager escorted Beyoncé to the head of the line where Beyoncé continued to yell out inappropriate things to the employees and the other customers.

After getting her coffee, Beyoncé sat in a corner and talked to herself for nearly an hour. And here’s the part of the story that haunts me: She didn’t bring her child into Starbucks with her. In other words, I really should have hung out a bit longer, because Beyoncé left her child in a car seat in a van in a parking lot (in St. Charles, in Missouri, in the United States, in North America, continue to pan out, etc.) for an hour while she sat inside muttering battys and whatnots. Hhhhhhhh.

Funniest Thing The Starbucks Guy Said to Me: Yeah, thanks for waiting four days to check in on us. If she had been swinging a knife, we would still be bleeding while you were “out there” doing your ugly hair thing!

Insert seamless segue right here, would you?

So, I’ve got this fresh thing under my arm (you WANT me to spare the details.), but I can’t go see my dermatologist BECAUSE HE IS IN PRISON. (So, I’m going to see my gynecologist instead. Monday morning. 8:15. Don’t worry.) By the way, did I mention that my dermatologist is in PRISON? I do hope they crown him Dermatologist Amongst the Prisoners, because he did cure the ugly batch of eczema on my hand (Remember when I had to wear the gloves? Yeesh.), and I’m a firm believer in requiring dermatologist prisoners to palliate the perplexing pustules of their prisoner peers. (I know. I’m making light. And the reason he is in prison is so completely horrible. Unforgivable, really.)

Another segue here! You’re getting good at this!

I’m giving away a hefty amount of Max Factor stuff over here. And even if you’re not into scoring makeup, you should at least jump over and witness the disaster that is me after applying 39 years worth of makeup in one sitting. (My mom doesn’t have any photographs of me playing with makeup as a child. Now she does. You know, minus that whole Child thing.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I should have stuffed the jumbos. Instead, I embed.


Last year, to commemorate the anniversary of my birth, I stuffed quite a few marshmallows into my mouth to see if I could get past a dozen without choking. This year I fully intended to do the same thing, but really. How many marshmallow stuffing videos does the world need? (Plus, I’m wearing my new favorite scarf right now and I can’t risk the slobber. You know how it is.)

Enjoy your day, especially if you have either graham crackers or chocolate in your possession. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

The woman had bad roots, but I didn’t call her on it.

zombie
Yesterday morning I was a bit bummed out because Meredith has been having stomachaches that are a bit more like STOMACHACHES(!!!) and they hit her quickly and she immediately starts to cry and sometimes she throws up, and I would do just about anything to suffer through them for her. So anyway, she had a bad one yesterday morning and the doctor couldn’t get her in before 10:15, and I had to be at work at 10:00, so Jeff had to take her in, and well, I wanted to be there, but I couldn’t.

Since I was running about five minutes early to work, I stopped by Starbucks for a coffee. As I left the building with my drink and started walking to the car, a woman (who was unbuckling her child’s car seat) backed away from her car, looked at me, and yelled, “What an ugly haircut! What ARE you?!?!” Since I was the only other person in the parking lot and she was looking right at me, I couldn’t really pretend that she wasn’t talking to me. SO, I pretended that perhaps she thought she knew me and that she was being all jokey. I sort of smiled and continued to walk to the car.

“No! Seriously!!! What ARE you?!?!”

She continued to scream out at me until I was feeling the adrenalin rushing behind my eyeballs. I jumped into my car, quickly locked the door behind me, started my car, and drove away as she stood and watched me with a crazy angry look on her face.

Who does that? Who singles a stranger out on a parking lot and starts screaming insults at 9:50 on a Saturday morning? Part of me is sort of proud that I didn’t say anything back to her. But, seriously, I know myself better than that. I would NEVER say anything back. (I talk a good “I Should’ve Said”, but I think we all know that I’m much more flight than fight.) Part of me is a bit disappointed that I DIDN’T respond in some way. But what would I have said without compromising a bit of dignity?

“Seriously!!! What ARE you?!?!” I think I’m still bothered by the whole thing not only because of my tendency to be a bit on the self-conscious side (I have looked at my hair several times today, and I do believe that it’s Just Fine), but because her child was sitting right there in the car seat watching the whole thing.

May I ask what you would have done?

Also, so I don’t leave you hanging, Meredith has been diagnosed with GERD. We dealt with it when she was a baby, and it seems that it’s back, and it’s stirring up all sorts of anxiety because she doesn’t want to get sick at school, and I can’t even tell you how happy I am that school’s almost out. Three more weeks. That’s it. Less than twenty days. But anyway. Today we had to leave church less than twenty minutes in because her stomach started hurting and she freaked out, and she has been crying on and off all day, and any reflux advice would be appreciated, too.

‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

John Calvin was a French theologian, but this has nothing to do with that.

Yesterday I found myself at a bookstore stocking up on birthday gifts for Meredith (Henry Huggins! The Boxcar Children!), as she will be turning six on Wednesday. Before leaving, I decided to stop by the magazine rack and check out the latest Bust. (This may or may not be important: I was wearing a denim flared skirt which is probably no longer in style, a lime green (kind of tight because it’s been a rough winter) t-shirt, my fuschia shoes, and my Superhero necklace.)

A man approached, and I use the term Man sort of loosely, because he looked to be in his early thirties, and I still don’t really consider myself a Woman at almost forty. I typed this entire entry referring to him as Man, but I will now change Man to Calvin. Just because.

Calvin: So, is Vogue a French magazine?

Me: Well, I don’t believe this particular issue is written in French, because I can read it. And I don’t speak French. And it looks like the cover says British Vogue. My vote is Not From France.

Calvin: You’re right. It’s just that I was recently in France, and it quickly became clear to me that fashion really does begin in Paris. The people there are so beautiful. Walking muses.

Me: Interesting. I’ve never been. (Starting now, the words I stick in parentheses will consist of the stuff I was thinking, but didn’t say.)

Calvin: One of my very favorite writers writes for Vanity Fair magazine, and I believe he also contributes an occasional article to Vogue.

Me: Christopher Hitchens?

Calvin: Yes!

(At this point, I was 83% happy that I could scream out Christopher Hitchens’s name and be correct. That rarely happens! (15% of me just sort of wanted to grab the Bust (no pun intended) and run. 2% of me is pretty much always thinking about nothing but string cheese.))

Me: My husband is a big Hitchens fan. (Notice how I dropped the Husband thing just in case Calvin was flirting! You’re welcome, Jeff!)

Calvin (Not deterred in the least! Perhaps my brain was more appealing than my butt! That is not a bad thing!): Hitchens is a wonderful writer, and I love that he comes from a place where free speech isn’t encouraged! I mean, you’re paying your tithe to the queen and all! HA HA HA!!!

Me: Jeff (I’m now calling my husband by name, because we’re all friends here, Calvin!) recently read To a God Unknown.

Calvin: Do you mean God is Not Great?

Me: Yes. (Shit. Wrong answer. Oh well. At least I was able to bring Steinbeck into the mix, which means this Superhero necklace is really doing the job! Dostoevsky! Rachmaninoff! My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard!)

Calvin: As much as I like Hitchens, I was disappointed in that book. I much prefer The God Delusion. (He then held up a copy of The God Delusion. Seriously. I suddenly felt like our entire conversation had been scripted like some sort of unexpected infomercial that I hadn’t signed on to do. (I had string cheese in my purse, but I didn’t pull it out. Looking back, I probably should have.))

Me (not really wanting to go down the religion road with Calvin): I’m not familiar. Actually, my very favorite Hitchens book is The Missionary Position! (It’s the only one I’ve read!)

Calvin: Ah! Mother Teresa! Mine will always be Letters to a Young Contrarian.

Me: Actually, I loved that one, too. (I never read that one, but suddenly I’m pretending I have. I’m like that sometimes.) You know, one of my all-time favorite quotes came from an interview I saw with Hitchens several years ago. He mentioned that a good writer will always beat a cliché as if it were a rattlesnake.

Calvin: He definitely knows how to avoid the banalities!!!

Me: (Okay, Calvin. Uncle.) That he does. Well, enjoy your Vogue! (Strike a pose, there’s nothing to it.)

Calvin: Oh. Er, okay.

(Apparently, I’ve still got it, Ralph Malph.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Even doves have pride.

The sound of children singing has always given me the creeps. Even when I WAS a kid, my flesh often crawled during the elementary concerts when I had to stand on the risers and sing with the other kids my age. Those scary movies that feature kids warbling hymns as the final credits roll? Yeah. The guy in charge of that decision nailed it.

This scene from Kids Incorporated was actually based on one of my many recurring nightmares.

Last week during my kindergarten volunteer time, I found myself walking down the third grade hall as the kids were taking a break from their MAP testing. During my stroll toward the kindergarten classrooms, I noticed at least five signs in the hallway reminding the kids to always do their best, eat a good breakfast every day (the cafeteria provides a free breakfast for every student, believe it or not), and stay silent while in the halls.

I couldn’t help but notice that the kids looked a bit stressed out. A few were yawning as they waited to use the drinking fountain. Three or four were releasing some energy by doing jumping jacks. Some were simply staring at the floor—waiting to be corralled back into the classroom to fill in more squares with a No. 2 pencil.

Seeing the kids looking so worried affected me. In my world, third graders are not supposed to be stressed. They’re supposed to be cheery! Everyone is happy! We’re all friends! No war! No plastic toys! No peanut allergies!

And then I heard it. As I continued down the hall to Meredith’s classroom (believe me, it’s a really long walk), I heard a tiny voice singing Lovebug by the Jonas Brothers. (Parenthetical Confession: I don’t hate that song. iTunes can back me up on that. I know.) As I passed the next drinking fountain, I saw that the voice was coming from a tiny little girl who looked to be about Meredith’s age. As I walked past her, she smiled at me and the voices in her head told her to start skipping down the hall as she continued to sing. Yes. She was skipping.

Anyway, seeing the third graders looking a bit distressed and then hearing this little happy voice and the sound of her feet as she skipped away from me coupled with the smell of pencils and crayons and, well, kids? My eyes welled up and I got a lump the size of a (freakishly large) potato in my throat. (Actually, I have the lump and the eye thing right now! I can’t even tell the story without puking Velveeta!!)

Something has shifted within me, Internet. I’ve gone soft.

And the worst news of all? Tonight is Meredith’s kindergarten spring concert. While the other parents kick back and check their watches as the kids sing songs about fairy tales, I’m going to be the lady in the third row who suffers facial spasms as she tries to fight the urge to weep. I’ll surely lose the battle if they sing anything that even remotely resembles The Second Star to the Right. In fact, I can’t promise that I won’t sink to the floor and reenact the Glenn Close shower scene from The Big Chill. (Obviously, I’ll keep my clothes on, because I’m sort of classy.)

I’m hoping to share a bit of the video with you tomorrow. If nothing else, you’ll find out what it sounds like when Pudding cries. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>