Category: Daily

If you were sitting in a room filled with random people from your past and you had to choose one person along with a song to which that person is required to dance, would you humiliate someone by making them dance to a song like Crazy Little Thing Called Love  by Queen (no one looks good when they dance to that song), or would you match your chosen person with a song that complements their style with the hope that someone will do the same for you when choosing your dancing song?

I always play music while I’m getting ready in the morning, mostly from a playlist I created titled May I Have Some?, which holds 665 songs and is 42 hours and 17 minutes long. (Please don’t tell me how playlists are supposed to be curated. Everything I do is done deliberately.) I have never been a person who dances, but if I was required to dance, I would be okay with dancing to any of the 665 songs from May I Have Some?.

This morning while getting ready, I took a left turn and listened to an Apple Music playlist titled ‘80s Soft Rock Essentials. As the music played, I started thinking about the room filled with my people, and I began to dance (because you should always be prepared, and you never know, and better safe than sorry, and don’t get caught with your pants down).

Here is a list of the ‘80s soft rock essentials to which I danced while getting ready this morning:
The Best of Times by Styx: I felt a little awkward dancing to this song, because I was including shoulder rolls that I don’t believe conveyed what Styx had in mind when they performed the song back in 1981. (Did you know that Dennis DeYoung wrote the song as an expression of the fear felt in America after Reagan was elected in 1980? Forty five years later, I still know all of the words and HOLY SHIT I CAN RELATE TO THE FEAR! GAH! I, too, wish the summer winds could bring back paradise, Dennis DeYoung!)

The Way It Is by Bruce Hornsby & The Range: I’ve hated this song since the first time I heard it back in 1986, but I can dance to it if you make me. (If you’re curious, other songs I hate from the ‘80s include You Belong to the City by Glenn Frey, Lady in Red by Chris de Burgh, and Into the Night by Benny Mardones—a song about a man in his 30s who wants to have sex with a minor.)

Time out. Have you seen the video of Tonight’s the Night by Rod Stewart? Yeesh.

True Colors by Cyndi Lauper (Most of the movements during this dance came from my eyes instead of my arms, which I believe was a very effective decision. When my arms DID move, it was surprising. Eye-catching. Impactful.)

In the Air Tonight by Phil Collins (If you want to humiliate me, make me dance to this song. The tempo is impossible, so I found myself acting out the lyrics instead of cutting the rug. If anyone had seen my interpretation, they might assume I was making light of Phil Collins’s painfully heavy situation. Very inappropriate.)

I come to you today after a three month absence because I was driving down the highway yesterday and it was raining and I was listening to Ione Skye’s memoir and I saw something out of the corner of my eye and when I turned my head I discovered that at least 50 rolls of toilet paper were lying on the side of the road soaking up the rain next to the body of a dead raccoon. I thought I needed to talk about it, but now I’m wondering what else there is to say.

I know you don’t wonder what I’m up to when I’m not here, and that’s the way it should be. But I feel the need to tell you. Let’s work backwards.

Today I met a cat named Milkshake, and I fell in love with him. (He’s wearing a red collar because he’s feisty and mouthy—two qualities I’ve always admired.)

Several months ago I ate breakfast tacos while sitting at a table with a friend and his mom. One thing led to another and now I have a loom. (My friend’s mom is a weaver and a knitter and a writer and a traveler and an artist and an inspiration.)

I turned 55, which is really fucking dumb. So I conclaved.

I took a photo of myself being 55 on the day I turned 55 and I posted it to Instagram using Ol’ 55 by Tom Waits as accompaniment because the alternative doesn’t suit my style.

I spun some yarn and stitched some notebooks.

(The bottom one isn’t finished. Her sweater needs a sweater.)

Finally, I went to a thing at a church and I thought this would be an appropriate thing to wear, but once I got there I felt like maybe it wasn’t. (Honestly, I feel that way every time I put on clothes and go to a place, so it really doesn’t matter what I pull over my head. Plus: This shirt. It’s a good one.)

I’m in between jobs right now, so maybe you’ll see more of me.
I have so much to share with you.
Here’s an example. In the sixth grade we were asked to memorize a list of 20 being verbs, and because brains are so weird: Am Are Be Been Being Can Could Has Have Had Is May Might Must Shall Should Was Were Will Would.

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Holy shit with the measles and tuberculosis and job cuts (and also eggs, since everyone is talking about them) and it’s impossible to keep up, and depending on where you get your news you’re either really fucking terrified or you’re perhaps placing your palm over your heart and singing, “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord! He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored. <<Sing the next part to yourself because I’m done typing this song until we get to>> HIS TRUTH IS MARCHING ON!”

The past several weeks have been filled with highs  and lows. Sadly, my baseline is down a few notches because I have eczema on my eyelid—meaning I’m hyperaware of every blink made by Left Eye. I blink roughly 15 times per minute and I get about five hours of sleep at night. That comes out to 17,100 blinks that carry me into a state of morbid unhappiness until I allow Mr. Sandman to turn on his magic beam.

Let’s not talk about the lows. Here are some of the highs:
I tabbed my Chicago Manual of Style. Black as the night may be, I will always be able to quickly find information about subsidiary rights, along with confirmation that I’d’ve is an existing (and perhaps my favorite) contraction!

It is not death and war that make life a tragedy. What makes life a tragedy is NOT experiencing what it is like to struggle against the whims of a purple tulle robe on a windy day in below freezing temperatures! Forsooth!

I met this little guy a few days ago. I told him he was handsome. He just nodded and said, “I’m the cockatiel of the rockatiel.”

I wore pants that look like corn to a musical about corn! I sort of assumed everyone there would be wearing yellow and green, and I was completely wrong.

On February 12, I celebrated my 20,000th day on Earth. 20,000 days of eyes blinking and tongue tasting and kidneys filtering and hair growing.

Here’s to 6,000 more!

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Several years ago, a friend told me that I would make a good Catholic.
(It was not an insult.)

Less than a week later, a different friend gave me a Virgin of Guadalupe candle from New Mexico.

Was it a sign that I had a long talk with a friend about Catholicism and a few days later a different friend gave me a prayer candle? I guess we would have to ask someone who knows the difference between a sign and a coincidence.

Just so you know: The Virgin of Guadalupe is a crusader for social justice. Her image has become a symbol of empowerment for the Mexican and Mexican American communities. People pray to her for comfort, for protection from illness, for guidance, and for solidarity with the vulnerable.

I’m just as Catholic as anyone else (unless they’re actually Catholic, in which case they’re way more Catholic than me), so I decided I’d light Guadalupe up. I lit her when a friend was going through a potentially ugly divorce. I lit her when my dad had his quintuple bypass surgery. I have lit her at different times for each of my kids. (Please know that “I have lighted her…” is also grammatically correct, but because I’m not officially Catholic, I’ll go with the more palatable present perfect.) The Virgin burned when a friend was interviewing for a job. When I was going through some stuff. When a friend’s mom was dying. When a different friend’s mom was dying, and when her sweet dog died a year later. When I was going through some more stuff. A few weeks back I lit her for a friend’s wife who had Covid, and when I went to blow her out I discovered that she was waxless and cold.

I don’t know where you’re at with the whole Despot in DC thing, but I’m not doing very well. Although I’ve now stocked up on super sized Virgins, I think it’s going to take a lot more than candles to get all of us through the next four years. We’re going to need some modern day Guadalupes to step up.

This is where I’ll say “And let it begin with me…” but anyone who really knows me also knows that I have the bones of a bird. I’m going to need some help.

I’ve got a vinyl cutter, an oversized heart (figuratively), a French horn, and insomnia. Let’s Guadalupe the shit out of all things Guadalupe-able.

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As you know, the holidays came and the holidays went. We ate food and we drove cars and we wore socks and we sat in chairs. We wrapped things in paper and we removed paper from things and we took our pills and we fell asleep. We’ve now entered a new year and we’re all feeling energized because we’re finally going to see the world all standing hand in hand and we’ll hear the echoes through the hills for peace throughout the land and we’ll see skies of blue and clouds of white and bright blessed days and dark sacred nights. Apple trees and honey bees and snow white turtledoves! What a wonderful world. So hopeful we are!

(I love this photo so much. Happy Easter 2009!)

Enough about January 6th.
Let’s go back to December 24th.

Setting: Christmas Eve. Ten of us were sitting in a circle at my aunt’s house. Large room. High ceilings. Lovely decorations. Cozy. On my lap was a plate that held a slice of port wine cheese ball, a few crackers, and some slaw. I wore jeans with a black sweater. A necklace. Brogues.  

My aunt (to my mom): Do you ever feel sad that we don’t know more of the old family stories?

My mom: Not really. I mean, we know most of the weird ones.

Me: Weird ones? Keep talking!

The next hour was spent listening to fantastically horrible tales about relatives who had missing buttons and loose screws (and are now dead).

Because we established a Circle of Trust, I cannot use my words to share the particulars. However, going around the barn to show you a few drawings doesn’t violate any terms.

My lips remain zipped.

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I know exactly what you’re asking yourself.

“Can Angela at Fluid Pudding install a bidet?!”

The answer to that question is: Yes! Since last we spoke, I installed a bidet (with modifications!), fixed a garage door opener, replaced a showerhead and a halogen bulb, purchased bannister brackets, and medicated a guinea pig.

October had an ear infection, so twice each day for fourteen days we had to wrangle her out of the cage, wrap her in a blanket, and force a syringe full of antibiotics down her throat.

Also, a few weeks ago I fell in love with a baby sticker that was affixed to the changing station in a taco dump that was serving up fried bologna tacos.

We really have so much to talk about, but let’s hold off for a bit and just spend some time looking at Claude McGee, who was executed at the Missouri State Penitentiary back in 1951 at the age of 39.

(Claude robbed a house and killed a guy back in 1935, and then in 1948 he killed the guy who helped him kill the original guy by beating him in the head with a hammer.)

I know times have changed (Cole Porter even wrote a song about it!) since 1951. With that said, this was me at 39.

I had decided to grow out my hair (we make our beds and we lie in them…), so I was holding paper behind my head to show how I was floppy on the top and shaved on the sides. I hadn’t yet made any kills. I didn’t own a hammer, but I knew the lyrics to Divine Hammer.

Fact: The last execution at the Missouri State Penitentiary took place in January of 1989, when I was starting the second semester of my freshman year at a university 30 miles away from the gas chamber. I had just gotten my right ear double pierced, and my grandma told me it made me look like a lesbian (and not in a good way). I had forfeited my piano scholarship and was learning how to smoke clove cigarettes. I was a big fan of The Sugarcubes.

Honorable Mentions in the category of Hammer Songs I Know:

For the record, I’m against the death penalty and for looking like a lesbian.

This afternoon we went to the St. Louis Ballet’s performance of The Nutcracker. (My friend’s daughter is completely magical as a dragon dancer in this year’s production.) Although photos weren’t allowed during the ballet, I managed to take this one during Act I.

As you can see from the photo, Clara is really digging the nutcracker that Herr Drosselmeyer gave her. (Times have changed since 1892 when I guess it was okay for a creepy guy in a shiny cape to show up at a party, raise a little hell, and give a girl a nutcracker. I know normalizing things is big right now. Can we please normalize Pulling a Drosselmeyer?)

I had never seen The Nutcracker before this afternoon, and the St. Louis Ballet’s performance was really beautiful. My only criticism is that I wish they had employed a live orchestra instead of using recorded music. (Thanks, Obama.)

Here are answers to some of the questions I had during the show.

Has the choreography changed since the original production in 1892?
Yes, because dancers and their bodies have changed since 1892. Also, different versions of The Nutcracker are being developed every year. There are versions where Clara and the nutcracker (who I’ll call Nutty C just because it makes me laugh) kiss, versions that were Americanized to remove any hint of the original German setting, a version that depicts the struggles of African-American people in Philadelphia, and even a Revolutionary War-inspired version with George Washington as Nutty C and King George III as the mouse king.

I don’t think I knew there was a 1993 movie with Macaulay Culkin as Nutty C. I’ll pass on that one. (I’m the only person I know who hates Home Alone. It’s a long and horrible story that’s part of the 17% I’ll never share.)

Did Tchaikovsky know he was composing the music for a dance production?
He did! He was commissioned in 1891 by the director of the Imperial Theatres to compose music for a ballet based on a story titled The Nutcracker and the Mouse King. The choreographer for the ballet was Marius Petipa, a guy Tchaikovsky had worked with three years prior when he composed music for The Sleeping Beauty. Petipa, who I keep wanting to call Pepita, knew precisely what he wanted for The Nutcracker, and was able to provide Tchaikovsky with the tempos and exact number of bars needed for each dance. Amazing.

While Tchaikovsky was busting out numbers, a friend of his challenged him to include a tune based on a one-octave scale.

Tchaikovsky: Ascending or descending?
Friend: It doesn’t matter. Whichever.
Tchaikovsky: Do you know that I’m Tchaifuckingkovsky?

So beautiful. What a badass.

(Also, in case you missed the news, I’m on Substack now. This makes me subscribable. This link will take you there…)

Posting at Fluid Pudding daily for the past 30 has reminded me just how much I enjoy posting at Fluid Pudding. I’m definitely not changing the world over here, but I am getting haircuts and helping my kid move across the state and voting and meeting up with old friends and eating toast and celebrating fugitive monkeys and cleaning off my bookshelf and giving myself shots and acquiring loose baby legs and trying to rock the Hindu Monkey God.

(Always put a photo above the fold, they say. This is me as a baby. I could only crawl backwards, so in this photo I am stuck under the couch.)

I also did things this month that I didn’t share with you. For example, yesterday I was preparing to ink a fountain pen, so I took the bottle of ink and began to gently shake it (because it holds components!) without noticing that the lid wasn’t screwed on properly and I continued to shake it until I felt ink dripping down my fingers and that’s when I looked around and saw splatters of ink on my (newish) sweater, the piano, several books, and two blankets. Imagine the words that came out of my mouth! After cleaning up the mess, I ate cake until I felt sick because sometimes life is bullshit.

My only complaint about November is that I’m unable to get my website to hold hands with my e-mail, and most style guides now prefer email over e-mail, but I’m not ready to lose that hyphen. This means I don’t see comments unless I actually look for them, which has become frustrating. SO, to celebrate 30 days of posting after several months of NOT posting, I created a Substack. If I understand it correctly, you can actually subscribe and receive e-mails when I post. On the flip, I’ll receive emails if you comment. Look how we’re both winning.

If you want to subscribe, just follow this link and then hit the Subscribe Now button at the bottom of the post. Please know that I’m never going to make you pay for anything unless I make the decision to not wear clothes, which is unlikely. In other words, don’t bother to do the whole pledge thing. (I’ll continue to post here, too, which means I’ll be double-posting, which means I’ll be creating work for myself but still not charging you unless I make the decision to not wear clothes. Which is unlikely.)

Some people have strong opinions about which woodcased pencil is better—the Mitsubishi Hi-Uni or the Tombow Mono 100. I ordered one of each because I enjoy getting to the bottom of things, which sounds dirty but it isn’t.

Obviously, the Mitsubishi is the better pencil. It’s a little bit harder than the Tombow, which makes it lighter than a liver spot. (Also, everyone I know has a pencil lead stuck somewhere in their body. I mean, you can tell me about yours if you want, but you can also save that story for another time.)

I took this photo of Meredith and her friends shortly before they moved out of their apartment and away from each other.

I decided to commemorate their friendship by carving them up.
And this is how that went.

Finally, Scout’s got a joke for you, but it’s horribly inappropriate.
(It’s about Hitler.)