Category: Daily

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’>

Open me! Open me!

It’s been a busy week at the Pudding house. As you know, we adopted Ramona last Saturday, and are now struggling with keeping her sequestered from Sidney (our other cat) as she gets over that whole Humane Society Upper Respiratory Infection thing. (By the way, I HATE giving medicine to a cat.)

Apparently, Luna’s death last year coupled with Ramona joining our family last week has really screwed with my head—specifically, my recognition synapses. I’ve spent the past five days calling Ramona “Fiona” and confusing Harper and Meredith. Last night when Jeff returned from New York, I called him Jim.

Next Tuesday is Harper’s fourth birthday, and Wednesday is Meredith’s sixth. Four and six. Holy smokes.

I have lots of stories I want to tell you, but not a lot of time. SO, here is a video from last week’s kindergarten performance. (Don’t be scared. It’s less than two minutes long.)

Meredith shone.

Meredith shined.

(I think both are correct, unless shined indicates that she made something shiny, in which case, she definitely shone. There was no chamois in sight.)


MC’s Spring Concert from Angela D. on Vimeo. ‘ ‘ ‘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’>

Four days only!

So, last year I made a video of myself writing all over my face for Easter.

About a month after I posted it, all hell broke loose.

Let’s just say this: There’s an amazing dead pianist out there with a crabby family who doesn’t appreciate his music being played while a complete idiot marks herself up with Clinique eyeliner.

With all due respect (or whatever you say when you’ve decided to flip the kindest of birds), I’m proud of that stinking video. Seriously! I had to write on my face backwards, and you know how tricky that is!

Because my feelings of invincibility tend to hit in 96-hour spurts, I’m putting the video up again, but will be taking it down on Monday.

Happy Easter to you.


Happy Easter from Fluid Pudding! from Angela D. on Vimeo. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Sew Far, Sew Good! Get it?! Pass the beans!

Two years ago, I decided it was about time for me to start sewing.

When I was in junior high (or middle school, tomato-tomahto), I took a home economics class and loved the unit on sewing. Just to illustrate how much I loved it, please know that I willingly (!) participated in the home economics fashion show. I wore a hand-sewn navy blue dress (paired with red clunky beads, earrings, and shoes because I was immersed in the eighties like that), and carried a Cabbage Patch Kid (officially renamed Arthur Jeffrey when I decided that Clive Belden didn’t really suit him) who wore a hand-sewn hoodie. The summer after my eighth grade year, I made several crop top/crop pant ensembles, and I must admit: At the time, I thought I looked Very Cute. And that thought hasn’t really crossed my mind since then. So, sewing breeds self-confidence and makes you lovely. Right? Right-o!

Anyway, two years ago. Christmas rolled around and my mother-in-law presented me with a Singer Prélude. I brought it home and quickly put it in our coat closet. A few months later, I took it out and watched the instructional DVD. I may have even threaded a bobbin! (I’m very enthusiastic when it comes to bobbins.) I then returned the machine to the coat closet, where it still sits. (On top of the sewing machine is a chimney sweeping log. For some reason, the thought of removing that log to get to the machine is sort of overwhelming. What if I start a fire? It all seems so dangerous.)

A few weeks back I stood up and whispered, “It is time. Time to remove the log.” I opened the closet door, removed the log from the top of the machine, and sat back down. A few days ago, the sewing urge turned into more of a fever when I saw the amazing things Juju has been sewing. (Incidentally, does anyone know where I can find Japanese pattern books? Is it strictly an eBay thing? I don’t want to sell my car for Pochee, Volume 6. But I do want to know that Pochee, Volume 6 is obtainable. Because Every Single Thing Juju Made is something I want to wear.)

Last night I ran away from home (that’s twice in one week, for those keeping score!) and tried to find the nearest Jo-Ann store. (My goal was to browse pattern books and make a list of start-up materials that I might need. Tiny steps.) As I often do, I put on an old episode of This American Life for the drive and then I quickly became disoriented and ended up getting a bit lost. After my blood pressure returned to normal and I finally found the store, I discovered that it is closed for renovations. (It looks like the renovations are coming along quite nicely, Jo-Ann. The store will reopen on May 8th, which is my friend Mitzi’s birthday. Everything continues to happen and happen, don’t you think?)

My promise to you: I will be sewing before the end of the summer, and my short-term goal is to make a dress that the girls are willing to wear. (I’m so disappointed in the dresses we’re finding in stores. Why would anyone put an almost six year old in a dress that has a jeweled hole near her chest? Yikes.)

Any words of recommendation/advice would be welcome. (Unless your advice is “Put the log back on the machine.” Who are we if we can’t support one another with our crafty goals?)

Wait. I think I need a skirt made out of this. Imagine the possibilities, Diddy!

Edited To Add: Okay. I just broke down and ordered Pochee, Volume 6. Look out, World! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

‘Cause I’ve Got a Hand for You, Darius.

This morning I took a break from the freelance madness and ran to Sephora to stock up on the stuff that has run out. I had about fifteen minutes to spare, so I decided to go to the book store. However, I never made it there, because I tripped and nearly fell down, and then I started feeling sorry for myself for being all awkward and unable to carry a Sephora bag and walk in regular shoes at the same time. (By the way, I was wearing these shoes, and I’m still in love with the fact that Heather B. shot a photo of my shoes, so now I’m shouting “La la laaah! Heather B. shot a photo of my shoes! Look at it!” And I should probably start another parenthetical aside for this thought, but since we’re already here: I’m most likely going to be name dropping a lot in the coming months. I’m once again doing that all-too-predictable “I’m Not Going” salty-teared dance, so my mind has been spending quite a bit of time hopping back to July 2008. Close parens here? Yes. Here.)

Anyway. I almost fell. And it suddenly occurred to me that I’m in a really awkward phase of life right now. (Bear with me. I sometimes get a little drippy. Do you have a napkin?) I’m not quite to the age where I really need to consider covering my knees, but I’m beyond the age of arm warmers with short-sleeved shirts. (At least I think I am. Am I? I think I am.) I’m no longer comfortable in social situations that involve hoards of teenagers standing in line to see their favorite band, yet I’m willing to bite the bullet (and look like everyone’s mother) if Ben Folds comes to town. I still sing really loudly when I’m in the car alone, but do you know that I’m singing along to the soundtrack from Chess?! (Okay. I’m stretching the truth a bit. But still. That stretchy bit is barely stretched.)

The other day I was indulging in a bit of self-pity browsing when I saw these. I often say, “You really have to know yourself before choosing a ring tone or committing to a favorite flavor of ice cream or espousing a spouse etc.” I’ve once again reached a point where I’m not sure I know myself enough to say, “I can definitely carry off the big shiny earring thing.”

I need your help. When I wear these earrings, am I pulling it off? OR, am I everyone’s Aunt Marie who wears globby lipstick and big silver balls of yarn on her ears because she works part-time at a yarn store?! (And I already know that at least one person will say, “No. Do Not Wear Those.” And immediately, I’ll doubt the people who say, “Yes! Wear those!” (I’m nothing if not a bungling blend of Fragile + Impressionable.)

I tried for nearly twenty minutes to get a photo of myself wearing the earrings. When I pulled out my camera, I kept coming up with photos of my shoulder or the top of my head with no earrings in sight. When I pulled up Photo Booth, the earrings became lost against my (very cluttered) refrigerator. Solution? Put my hands behind my ears in the style of a really awkward blowfish. (I refuse to make a Hootie joke, although this would be the perfect spot for one.)

Photo 229

Blackbird, I’m counting on you to talk some sense into me.

And I’m also counting on you.

Help a sister out? ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

FafPuhBuhPah! It’s catchy! (And it smells good.)

When I was a kid, our family ate lunch at my grandma’s house every single Sunday after church. Grandma would cook a full lunch for ten people, and all of her kids and the grandkids would gather around the table and stuff themselves before wandering out to the driveway where the older kids would shoot baskets and the younger kids would burn ants to a crisp using a magnifying glass and the sun. (I was in the ant burning group, but I tended to shift my focus toward leaves.)

When I was 23, my grandma stopped hosting the weekly lunches. Suddenly, I began to realize that people get old and lose energy and eventually die. (Honestly. I remember when the whole Mortality thing really hit me. It was a sad day back in 1993.) Anyway, for Christmas that year, I asked Grandma to write a cookbook that would hold recipes of the stuff she would often make for Sunday lunch.

This is the first page of the cookbook:
Hot Potatoes

(Please note that Hog Potatoes are listed as “Angie’s Favorite” and the last line of the recipe is “After you eat these, you will look and feel like a hog.” Interesting.)

Anyway, this has nothing to do with anything, but it seems oddly related to the First Annual Fluid Pudding BreadPuddingAlong (Also known as FAFPBPA, which is pronounced FafPuhBuhPah!) (Funny. The whole cookbook story is really not related to FAFPBPA at all. The book contains a recipe for peach cobbler, but no mention of bread pudding. Go drink something while I indulge in a little disorganized reminiscing, okay? Okay.)

Anyway, since Grandma’s recipe isn’t available, I went ahead and used the recipe from Moms Who Think.

The result?
Bread Pudding!

Very tasty for my first bread pudding!

A few participants have e-mailed links and photos, and I’m positively giddy about how we’re making the world a better place One Bread Pudding At a Time! (I’ll try to add everyone to the list as you submit your puddings! There is no cut-off date for the First Annual Fluid Pudding BreadPuddingAlong!)

Participants in the First Annual Fluid Pudding BreadPuddingAlong:

Caloden

Star Monkeybrass

SueBob

Canned Laughter

Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

My Dad!

Poppy Mom made Curried Bread Pudding!

Nichole

Carole’s Onion Pudding ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Too many irons and fires and pots and kettles and so forth.

Last night my father reminded me that I had not written anything at Fluid Pudding in over a week.

“Oh, yeah. Fluid Pudding. Heh. Oh.”

I must thank all of you who sent messages last week after reading the story of Meredith and The Plastic Bag. After I put that up, I received an e-mail from the school principal telling me that he spoke with the recess monitor and although she refuses to admit that she yelled at Meredith, she has agreed to apologize for yelling. I immediately punched myself in the head until I fell asleep at my desk. And then I puked out a return e-mail about the tone of voice not being an issue. It was the message. The message. Not the tone. And then I sat back with my imaginary martini in hand and bitched about the whole thing to the fairies in my head. And then I started knitting one of these sweaters with the goal of finishing it sometime around Thanksgiving. And then Harper threw a huge tantrum this morning and Meredith was running a temperature of 103.5 and it’s Spring Break! Aren’t we supposed to be at the zoo or something?! I was sort of losing my mind, so I picked up my knitting project bag and ripped out all of the work I had done on the sweater. I have no idea why I do that sort of thing. It’s sort of crazy, really. “Things are going sort of shitty, so I believe I’ll make it even shittier! Let’s turn up the shitty to SHITTY!” (For those keeping count, Shitty has just scored 4.5 points. (I gave an extra half point to Shittier.) And now we’re up to 7 points.) (By the way, I also kicked a castle made of blocks across the room, but I’m way WAY too embarrassed to tell you about that one. If I was in a rock band, I would surely be spinning around with my leg in the air and destroying a hotel room right about now. Do you want to come over? If you do, I’ll tie you to a chair and throw flaming baked potatoes at you.)

I missed the Andrew Bird show on Sunday night, and I’m still a little bummed about that, too.

Wow. You don’t hear from me in over a week, and I immediately start screaming at you. I’m a joy, no?

A few days ago I was working at the yarn store and I saw a man and wife walking side-by-side down the street. The wife was loudly whistling (seriously, like scream-whistling) “Memories” from Cats, and the husband was sporting a look of mild discomfort. And all I can say is “That’s LOVE. Or, that’s a guy who has totally given up.” And I’m sort of leaning toward the latter.

One last thing. If I see or hear one more commercial for yet another new stinking television reality/contrived smells-like-a-cheese-sitcom show about parents and kids and quirky situations and nannies or no nannies and too many kids or switching places with other kids or parents or whatever, I’m going to throw my television through the window. (And then I’ll tidy it up and put it right back on the stand so that I can play Animal Crossing: City Folk. Because I love fishing without actually having to touch a fish.)

Wait. One MORE thing. I’m 97% certain that I will not be attending BlogHer this year.

Wait. Did you hear that noise? I just exploded. In fact, if you find a tiny stain on your pants later today, it just might be part of my hippocampus!

(And, yes! I realize that this entire brain-to-fingers-to-you exercise consists mainly of sentiments that make you want to pull out the tiniest of violins. Poor baby, and whatnot. I know. I know! And recognition is the first step to healing or something.)

Now. Who wants to come over and make bread pudding? ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>