Daily Archives : Page 101 of 109 : Fluid Pudding

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’>

The Oh So Predictable Pudding

In 2006, I decided to go to BlogHer. Shortly after I arrived, my breasts blew their stack, which led me to spend all of my spare cash on a $54,383 cab ride to Walgreens where I purchased a $58,392 breast pump and a $1.39 box of Swedish Fish. I spent 94.3% of that weekend locked up in my room with a pump attached to my chest and Titanic on the television. (The remaining 5.7% of the weekend was spent feeling a bit overwhelmed and starstruck, which is one of my many tragic flaws. I realize the phrase “blogging heroes” is more than sort of squirrelly. Let’s just say this: I found myself in the company of many of my favorite web writers, and it made me feel all floofy and la la la la laaaaah!)

In 2007, I decided to not go to BlogHer. And when I started reading the words of the women who DID go, I became insanely jealous. (Okay. Insanely is a strong word. Perhaps what I was feeling was a river of remorse sprinkled with some bright orange self-pity torpedoes.)

In 2008, I couldn’t afford to go to BlogHer, so I decided to auction off a shawl and sell pre-ordered handknitted socks to fund the trip. Success. While there, I found myself to be terribly content. (Photos are here, if you’re interested.) I went yarn shopping and fish taco-ing with SueBob. I took a nap at the mall with Erica. I fell in love with Canadians. I was able to nervously read a blog entry in front of 3,502,496 people! Best of all, I got to be Someone’s Elbow!

When people started talking about BlogHer this year, I pretty much immediately knew that once again, I couldn’t really afford it. AND, the knitting socks thing just about killed me last year. (I know. Much ado about nothing, where much ado = “just about killed me” and nothing = “knitting socks”. With that said, I really did get a wee cramp in my right index finger. It’s a living hell, folks. A Living Hell.) I pretty much came to grips with NOT going, and then more people started talking about how excited they are to BE going, and then some party invites came my way, coupled with a most amazing housing option, and, well, I’m going. I don’t have a ticket (all tickets are sold out), but I DO have a Hyundai and an affinity for solo road trips.

While everyone else is enjoying the speakers? I’ll be hitting Loopy Yarns.

When it’s time to break for boxed lunches and swag? I’ll be browsing at Nina.

During high traffic lobby times? I’ll be in the lobby. High trafficking, and looking for Blackbirds. ‘ ‘ ‘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’>

I believe we’re going to see Up today.

Last night I had a dream in which I knitted an amazing turquoise lacy scarf for Ellen DeGeneres. When Portia de Rossi got wind of it, she threw a fit and told Ellen that the scarf did not suit her. I quickly ran to my knitting bag where I retrieved an old scrap yarn scarf. I knew I needed to weave the ends in, but I had no darning needle. Once I finally located a needle, the scarf had been stolen, and everyone in the room was eating roast beef and baked potatoes.

I have been completely meat free (except for that silly VFW Hall fish sandwich and a few odd shrimp here and there) for over 100 days, and I cry every time Ellen gives something away on her show.

A few nights back I tossed cheese tortellini in with chopped tomatoes, fresh basil, olive oil, and balsamic vinegar. I threw a fistful of feta over the top (feta festoonery!), and it quickly became the happiest dinner we’ve had in months.

(By the way, I really am working on a topaz Ishbel. But it’s not for Ellen. It’s for me. Unless Ellen contacts me directly and asks me for it. Then I’ll give it up faster than you can say “I cry every time Ellen gives something away on her show.”)

So, what’s new with you? ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Welcome to Summer Break!

First up? Making paper clip chains.
Next? God only knows.

Actually, one of my plans is to embark on a thirty day fitness adventure.
If you’re interested in more details, follow me over here. (Full disclosure: It’s a review thing! And it will eventually contain video footage of me working out!)

((We can’t go on together with suspicious minds.))

Most importantly, thanks for all of your kind words regarding the photograph of Harper in the fountain. I’m still learning the ins and outs of the camera. So far so good.

Thirty Days to a Firmer Pudding! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Rehearsing for the Summer

I always feel a bit of anxiety as the school year comes to a close. Meredith and Harper are already asking about play dates and what are we going to do this summer and can we have sleepovers and if Sidney dies can we get a dog? (Sidney is our “elderly” cat. She’s 100% healthy, and is quite insulted by the girls’ prayers for her demise.)

Today I took Harper to the Missouri Botanical Garden and over the weekend the girls and I went on a snow cone adventure.

Baby steps.

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It smells like an endometrium under my arms!

Because I’m nothing if not a scientist, I’ve been experimenting with deodorant lately.

Hypothesis: Anti perspirants make me itch.
Experiment: Apply Mitchum anti perspirant under arms.
Results: Ow! Ow! Itchy! Hand me the Golden Grahams! I’m going to kill someone!
Analyze Results: Itchy? Yes. The hypothesis is true.
Report Results: Hey, you guys? Anti perspirant makes me itch.

I’ve found that the only deodorant that doesn’t make me itch is Tom’s. A few days back I ran out of the lavender scent, so I headed to the store. They, too, had run out of lavender, so I settled for Calendula. When I got home, Harper demanded that I let her smell the Calendula.

Harper: What is this?

Me: It’s Caligula. No! Wait. Calendula.

Harper: Meredith, smell this. It’s Mommy’s uvula.

Me: Calendula! HA HA HA HA!

Me (six hours later, telling Jeff the whole story, because that’s what I do): And then, and then, and then Harper told Meredith to come over and smell my uterus! HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!

Jeff: I don’t get it.

Me: Wait! Uvula.

Jeff: Huh?

Me: Yeah. Anyway. Um, Ramona sneezed today. And on a lighter note, I folded towels. ‘ ‘ ‘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:

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’>