Category: Daily

It’s National Sandwich Day, and if I could eat any sandwich right now I would eat a warm bagel with apple slices, melted Muenster cheese, and a touch of Champagne mustard.

The girls didn’t have school today because schools are sometimes polling places, and: Better Safe Than Sorry when combining townies with students. We took advantage of the free time by visiting the orthodontist in the morning and then spending the afternoon crafting with several of Meredith’s friends. At 4:00, I was poked in the arm with a drippy B12 syringe and then we came home and tried to figure out what happened to the dead bird that we had left behind at 10:45 this morning when we were running a bit late to the craft party. Perhaps the bird wasn’t so dead after all.

Before the orthodontist appointment, I dropped by the library to return some things and to pick up a few Lynda Barry books so I have something to look at until the new John Irving arrives on Thursday. (I wasn’t going to order the John Irving, but then I read a review that said the latest book is the closest thing to A Prayer for Owen Meany since A Prayer for Owen Meany. I ordered it at 3:47 in the morning, which I believe was two minutes after I stopped trying to help the Bubble Witch save her pets. The book shipped this afternoon, and the pets have still not been saved.)

Lynda Barry is flawed yet perfect and she speaks to so many parts of me.

I still spend time in the shower thinking about the things I should have said when my junior high librarian yelled at me for throwing paper out the window. I also regret some of the things I said to a classroom of seventh graders when I was in the ninth grade. I want a redo on a few conversations I had in college. So much anxiety about an unchangeable past.

The garage door is opening.
Jeff is home.
It’s time for burritos.
I’ll see you tomorrow. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

This is the time of year when my head rolls around with anniversary memories.

October 25 was the 19th anniversary of the Halloween party during which I got a little tipsy, sprawled on the floor to leg wrestle a co-worker, stuffed a bunch of marshmallows into my mouth, picked up pieces of paper from the floor with my tongue, and decided that I wanted to marry (or at least date) Jeff the Intern.

This photo was taken somewhere between the leg wrestling and the marshmallows:

October 26 was the 19th anniversary of the second and final time I ever went into a haunted house. I went only because Jeff was going, and I later found out that he went only because I was going. I held onto his blue jacket during the walk through the house because I was scared, I couldn’t see, and I wanted to feel the spark that results from touching the jacket of a future husband (or at least date). Before leaving his apartment that evening, I gave him a pumpkin. (That is not a euphemism. I gave him a pumpkin.)

October 28th was the 19th anniversary of being asked out by Jeff the Intern.

October 31st was the 19th anniversary of a happy hour that ended with Jeff joining me for diner toast and me joining him during an awkward interaction with his ex’s sister while a funk band blasted cover songs at a bar called Helen Fitzgerald’s. My sweater was unfashionably long, so I tucked it into my jeans and that damned sweater never did anything nice for me.

Yesterday was the 19th anniversary of our first date, which included a navy blue sweater on him and an embarrassingly see-through shirt on me (it was 1996 and I, apparently, was Madonna), and Thai food and an art museum film with the promise of a Lynn Redgrave sighting and coffee at his place and an allergic reaction to Luna, his cat, who enjoyed chewing on the buttons of my jeans.

Today is the 19th anniversary of our second date, which involved peach bread pudding and seeing a movie called Tromeo and Juliet, which was just horrible and inappropriate for a second date, but it didn’t stop us from having a third.

I could go on and on and I would go on and on, but this morning I was sitting at an appointment passing time with a book and I came across the following quote from “Tess of the d’Urbervilles”:

‘She philosophically noted dates as they came past in the revolution of the year; . . . her own birthday; and every other day individualized by incidents in which she had taken some share. She suddenly thought one afternoon, when looking in the glass at her fairness, that there was yet another date, of greater importance to her than those; that of her own death, when all these charms would have disappeared; a day which lay sly and unseen among all the other days of the year, giving no sign or sound when she annually passed over it; but not the less surely there. When was it?’

(Picture my eyes growing slightly wider and then picture me picturing the girls as adults listing their memories and including the day that I DIED and as much as I love thinking about death and what lies beyond (I know!) I also love NOT thinking about death.)

Anyway. Shortly after I read that quote, my doctor told me to stop drinking caffeine after noon. (I still can’t sleep but I refuse to take sleeping pills. I’m DIFFICULT, but she’s willing to work with me because I don’t believe that essential oils will cure cancer and I write with a fountain pen.) She then handed me a few brochures and sent me on my (completely healthy) way. My watch told me that it was 11:53, so I hauled ass to the mall for a caramel macchiato. (Having only seven minutes for caffeine and a mall coffee dump less than two minutes away felt like a hair tousle from the hand of God. Hearing Christmas music play as soon as I walked through the automatic doors was more than a tousle. It was the thrill of a blue jacket in a haunted house, and I mean that in the best possible way.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

One morning last week I celebrated the cool weather by wearing a handknit sweater to the grocery store. I stopped on the way for coffee, but that’s not really part of the story. Also, I was wearing clogs and eyeliner on the bottom, which I haven’t done in years. (The eyeliner was not on the bottom of the clogs, nor was it on my bottom. Dear Lord I need to practice so many things.)

I filled my cart with apples and bananas and butternut squash and power greens, and at least 17 people just rolled their eyes because I mentioned power greens. I get you. I rolled my eyes, too. (I no longer have eyeliner on the bottom.)

Because the self-checkout lanes were not yet open, I had to go through an actual lane manned by an actual man. (Running like hell out to the car with unpurchased produce was not an option, because I had trouble starting my car a few times last week and I don’t need to go to jail for stealing food unless I need to steal food.)

Older gentleman wearing a grocery apron: Good morning! That’s a pretty swakenfloosh you’re wearing this morning!

Me (knowing that my hearing tested perfectly last year, but still feeling doubtful that those results were accurate, and also feeling 92% sure that this guy is digging my sweater): Thank you! I decided it’s finally cool enough to wear it!

Aproned old guy: What? You only smile when it’s cold out?

Me (realizing that swakenfloosh equals smile and not everyone knows that a handknit sweater is a Handknit Sweater, and why do I always think I deserve a parade?): Yup. Pretty much.

It’s NaBloPoMo, and I’m going to try to snizzlefritz your swashenflotz like it’s November 9, 2010.

Another Day in the Life from Angela D. on Vimeo. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I spent a good part of this morning sitting at the computer in anticipation of the presale for the Twenty One Pilots “Emotional Roadshow” tour. Meredith is one of their biggest fans, and I know everyone is a self-proclaimed biggest fan of something or other (Me? Bread pudding!), but I really do believe that Meredith IS one of their biggest fans. (She will be attending their show in St. Louis on Halloween night, and I’m so excited for her because it’s her first big concert (if you don’t count seeing Drake when she was three).)

I’m just going to sit here for a second while you think about the fact that she was a Drake fan back in 2006.

Okay. Now I’ll tell you that it wasn’t DRAKE Drake. She was a fan of Drake Bell. (He’s quite good. Lots of Jellyfish sounds on his albums.)

Anyway. When Meredith started swimming around with Twenty One Pilots, I sat back in the corner eating pumpkin seeds and thinking about how disappointed my Fitbit must feel. Sometimes it’s about me.

And then things changed. We were riding to tennis camp one morning, and Meredith played the following song.

I thought it was okay, and then she said, “Josh and Tyler wrote that song about a little girl from their church who has Down Syndrome. She inspires them.” I believe that was the day that found me purchasing 34 Twenty One Pilots shirts and flags and hats, because these guys are edgy NICE guys, and edgy nice guys are some of my favorite guys!

If you care, this is my favorite of theirs, despite the vocal fry. (I typically am not a fan of vocal fry, although I admit that it sometimes works.)

Anyway, tickets? Purchased. Seats? Good. The show is in August of 2016, and if I had a uterus I could have a baby between now and then. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

“Mom, will you be a doll and make an iced water for me? Preferably in a Shakespeare’s cup?”
-Meredith, age 12

Meredith is now registered to take the ACT in December and the SAT in January. These tests are the first step in preparing her for a three week camp this summer. She is 12 years old. She has never been away from us for more than three nights. I ask your forgiveness in advance for the way I’ll be behaving during the entire month of June. (My mascara is not waterproof, Alice Cooper.)

I took a long walk this morning, I currently have a sweet potato in the oven, and for Halloween we’ll be handing out peanut-free and gluten-free candy. We’re doing this because the girl down the road has a peanut allergy, but also because I can’t trust myself alone in the house all day with peanut butter cups. Therefore, Dots for everyone! (Dots have been dead to me since 1982. The Dots are dead, long live the Dots.)

I’m not quite sure where my car normally idles, but right now it’s idling at around 1 and it sounds a little rough. Also, it took four tries to start the car last week at the grocery store. I’m telling myself that something wicked this way comes, so for the next several weeks I’ll be traveling only to places where a breakdown (emotional as well as vehicular) would be welcome. I’ve packed the glove compartment with a notebook, a pen, a knitting project, a generator, a Crock pot filled with butternut squash, and four pairs of underpants.

I made a hat for a baby and no animals were harmed.

On Saturday, I watched a high school marching band perform Moonlight Sonata, and I’m still wrapping my head around how amazing it was. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Confession: I am not a fan of success stories unless the successful person is a charitable underdog. I don’t like when actresses talk about losing their baby weight. Most triumphs are just a blip to me unless the hero had to clear an obstacle without the help of looks or money. I would make a terrible NFL cheerleader. (For many reasons. I fall down a lot, I don’t understand football, and I don’t look good in a sparkle vest.)

Because I know how *I* respond to non-world-changing success stories, I’ve been stumbling with stutters and stops on how to write this entry. The only person who was helped in the following success story is me, and the person who helped me was paid. I am not special. I know my story is the type of story that makes my eyes roll, and I know that you and I are more alike than different. With that said, bear with me as I grab my horn.

(Remember when we didn’t require glasses to see? We were all so innocent back then, weren’t we? Remember the theme song to Ice Castles? So do I, Robby Benson, so do I.)

Six months ago I came over here and told a story about how I had reached the point where I no longer wanted to leave the house because my hormones were all jiggly and I had put on twenty pounds since my surgery and none of my clothes were fitting and I was unhappy in a lot of ways and spending a lot of time feeling sorry for myself and as I’m sitting here typing this paragraph I’m realizing how fun it must have been to NOT hang out with me back then.

When enough became Enough, I called Kathy, who is a Holistic Nutrition and Wellness Coach. After talking to her during the consultation, I knew this was going to be the adventure that sparked what needed to be lit. I quickly signed on. (Although this is a horrible comparison, over the summer I ate a doughnut that was infused with strawberry and mint and I’ve never had anything like it before or since, and it just makes me feel good knowing that the doughnut existed. I feel good knowing that Kathy exists.)

Fast forward to today. In the past six months, I’ve changed the way I eat, I’ve changed my relationship with food (I know that sounds weird to people who don’t really think about their relationship with food, but when you’re me, it doesn’t sound weird at all.), I’ve evaluated different areas of my life that need attention (career, spirituality, creativity, relationships, and so on), I lost 18 pounds, my clothes fit in a way that doesn’t cause pain when I button or zip them, I’m working, I’m walking, I’m knitting, I’m leaving the house, and I’m not saying the F word when it’s time to shop for bras or dresses. I’m happier and I’m better and I’ll continue to truck this way because It’s A Good Way to Truck.

Did I have to count points? No. Did I have to diet? No. Did I have to exercise? No. Did I have to crawl on my belly like a reptile while offering my throat to the wolf with the red roses? Yes. (No!)

Kathy and I talked every two weeks and we eventually figured out my personal magical formula for healthy eating which is something like low fat and no processed foods and limited dairy and very limited grains and no peanuts but lots of lentils and vegetables and fruit and almond butter. When I started eating this way, I immediately felt really good, and my body was like, “Hey! If you’re going to keep this up, I’ll help you fit back into your jeans!” Doughnuts have not been eliminated. If I want a doughnut I’ll eat a doughnut because I don’t want to spend the day thinking about a missed doughnut. Best of all, after I eat a doughnut I no longer feel like a jerk because I ate a doughnut. (I KNOW. Don’t even try to figure out how my mind works. Also, don’t make me look at a clock when it’s 3:13 because we’ll have to stand still until 3:14 so I can look at the clock twice.)

Some people do well with high fat and low carbs. Some people do best with no beans. Kathy is an expert at questions and tweaks and accountability and motivation. As she told me during our first phone call, I climb the ladder while she holds the bottom. And she’s the person you want holding your bottom, which sounds a lot dirtier than I intended, but I’m leaving it. (Because it makes me uncomfortable.) Kathy was everything I needed and was always there to answer questions or share ideas and recipes and support and sanity.

I can’t recommend her enough. (I’m actually singing songs from Beaches in my mind for her right now, because the past six months have been THAT GOOD.) Here is a link to her website. If you’re ready to make a commitment, she’s a great coach. Best of all, if you get started soon, she can help you through the holidays. (The holidays can be physically and emotionally rough if you’re anything like me, and I like to think you are. Maybe not with the whole 3:13 thing, but in other ways.)

This is where I should post before and after photos, but I don’t have any. Instead, I’m posting the photo I took on Friday after treating myself to a coffee and a walk around Home Depot where I purchased an Echinacea plant that was carrying a family of bees. Please know that right now I look like the flower at 2:00 who is doing her own thing and just seems happier than she used to be.

I’ll be back soon. We’re finishing up our fall break today, which means burrito lunch with friends and the possibility of bath bomb construction. NaBloPoMo starts in two weeks. So many things are going on and going on.

Thanks for sticking around. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

When the phrase “Japanese Cherry Blossom” starts looking like “Pajama Cheesy Balloon” it’s probably time to schedule an eye exam.

This morning I drove to Trader Joe’s because last night Jeff mentioned that he has heard good things about this stuff:

(I purposefully filtered the hell out of the photo to make it look stupid because partially popped popcorn IS stupid, yet also very tasty.) I opened the bag, tried it, and then stuffed it into the pantry because I have less than two weeks left with my health coach, and I don’t need partially popped popcorn to untie my stamina shoes.

After Trader Joe’s, I drove to Starbucks where the parking lot was full and I could have parked at the bank but I really don’t like the morning crowd at Starbucks, so forget it. I took off for home with my zombie book on the iPod and the chilly air in my face.

It’s cardigan season, and today I went with this one.

(Zombie fiction. I’m currently reading The Girl With All The Gifts. I started it because I thought it was nonfiction and about gifted kids, and I’m the first to admit that I’m not as sharp as I used to be.)

When I turned onto the road by our house, I saw a guy with what could have been a tennis racquet in his backpack, but it also could have been a baseball bat or a roll of wrapping paper or a gun. (Please re-read the first sentence of this post and know that I just left a message to set up an appointment.) Anyway, I started thinking about yesterday’s school shooting (the 45th school shooting of 2015) and how the odds of being shot right now seem so much higher than they were when I was a kid and if anyone in my family is going to be shot, I really hope it’s me and not them. (I don’t have a gun. I will never have a gun. I don’t trust myself enough to know that I wouldn’t make a mistake or stay completely sane in a situation where I might need to use a gun.) And how sad it is to have these thoughts jumping around while I’m wearing a spiffy cardigan and listening to goofy zombie fiction and surrounding myself with partially popped popcorn and raw cheese. We need to be louder. I need to be louder.

Today I’ll be spending a bit of time with this guy. I started the wrap in 2008 and I’m really tired of not getting things done. I hope your weekend is a good one.

‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Although I quit band before I finished high school, I picked it back up in college. (I was a piano performance major, and some sort of ensemble class was a requirement. I couldn’t see myself in the orchestra, so: Marching Mizzou!)

During my sophomore year, Marching Mizzou traveled to Denver to march at a university football game and a Broncos game. I packed up all of my overnight stuff, I packed magazines and books for the bus ride, and I packed a few tiny bottles of alcohol. (Looking back I really have no idea how I did that because I was only 19. Maybe someone gave me a few tiny bottles of alcohol? Maybe I’m making up the part about the alcohol.)

When our bus broke down in Kansas, a friend of mine joked that we should grab our instruments and practice our show in the corn field beyond the smoking bus.

This is a photograph taken at the exact moment when I realized that I had left my instrument in my best friend’s car back at Mizzou.

Because my timing is impeccable, I chose to approach our band director when he was on the phone trying to charter another bus.

Me: Mr. Ruebling?

Mr. R: I’m on the phone, Reiner. What do you need?

Me: Well, I need to tell you that my instrument is back in Columbia and I—

Mr. R: YOU will take care of this. YOU will get a replacement instrument. I don’t want to hear another word about it.

I don’t remember much about the rest of the ride to Colorado. I’m sure I spent it staring out the bus window and trying to figure out how in the hell I was going to conjure up a mellophone, which is a marching French horn in case you are curious. (A French horn’s bell faces the rear. The mellophone twists that bell around to the front so the horn player is now blowing through what looks like a fat trumpet.)

After the university band director in Colorado welcomed us to their school, I approached him and asked if I could borrow a mellophone until the game was over.

Colorado Band Director: You’re really lucky. We typically wouldn’t have an extra, but one of our mello players is out with a foot infection. You can borrow his horn!

(If you know me at all, you know that I don’t want to talk about feet. I especially don’t want to hear the word Foot buddying up with the word Infection. AND, I don’t want to put my mouth on someone else’s horn, much less someone with a Foot Infection, but I was stuck.)

Me: That is awesome. Thank you!

(I won’t bore you with the rest of that day, although I WILL tell you that I celebrated something or other that evening by singing with a Mariachi band as they strolled around a Mexican restaurant. My memory is fuzzy.)

Because our marching show had a Batman theme (of course) and I was good friends with the piccolo player who was portraying Batman in the show, he allowed me to “play” his piccolo at the Broncos game the next day, and although it looked silly to be a lonely piccolo in a line of brass, I was grateful.

Fast forward 26 years to yesterday.

Meredith’s band was scheduled to play God Bless America at the Cardinals’ final home game. We splurged on tickets, we bought Meredith a Cardinals shirt to wear, we packed our bag with snacks, and off we went.

When we were a little over halfway there (20 minutes into our 40 minute drive), Meredith announced that she had left her instrument at home.

We turned around, grabbed the instrument, and hauled ass to the stadium where Meredith and I jumped out of the car and ran to the entrance gate, rushed through security, ran down the ramp into the catacombs below the field, and eventually found the band right before their rehearsal started.

After leaving her with the band, I got lost trying to find my way from the catacombs to the main level. When I eventually located the ramp, I ended up right in front of a whiskey booth. (I know!) I haven’t had any sort of alcoholic beverage in 19 months. I almost broke that streak yesterday.

The band played beautifully. The Cardinals lost, but we were able to sit by friends and the weather was perfect so I have zero complaints.

Biology IS destiny, and Harper will begin playing the clarinet in less than a year. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

After struggling with crappy sleep for more than a year I’ve finally decided to brand myself as someone who no longer sleeps. I know they say that practice makes perfect and if I started practicing now, I could probably play Rhapsody in Blue on the clarinet in about a decade or so. I also know that I could trade in all of my shoes for skates, yet I will NEVER skate as well as Dorothy Hamill. I will die having never done a back flip. It’s time to just roll with every single punch and So Be It. I no longer sleep.

(My mother just got a CPAP machine and she’s sleeping like a baby (one of the babies who sleep) for the first time in years and Confession: I’m a wee bit jealous.)

At 1:58 in the morning, I found myself in the bathroom looking in the mirror and clicking my teeth to the Soul Asylum songs in my head. Less than ten minutes ago, I accidentally hit myself in the face with a seven pound bag of apples, and that bag of apples had no business being above hip level because I was simply trying to move them from one countertop to another.

Do you remember my new doctor? The one I love? (I really don’t expect you to remember anything you read over here.) I saw her yesterday, and: 1. She gave me exercises for my shoulders. 2. She told me to get regular massages. 3. She recommended physical therapy for my shoulders and neck. 4. She recommended Botox injections to deaden my shoulder muscles. 5. She doubled my Celexa in an attempt to lessen my shoulder tension. 6. She noted my “profoundly low” B12 level and will be giving me a shot tomorrow. (My mother has been getting B12 shots for a dozen years. She’s also a knitter and has very short hair.)

While I sit over here in the corner thinking about a Gehenna tattoo, please know that the girls have been showcasing Jeff’s DNA. This evening we’ll be attending Meredith’s National Junior Honor Society induction. Last week Harper told us that not only did she make it into student council, but she is now the PRESIDENT of student council. I will rest (un)easy knowing that as I high five Edgar Allen Poe for describing sleep as “slices of death”, 75% of my family is Lake Wobegon-ing. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Because I spend entirely too much time on Facebook, this week I made one of my smartest Facebook moves yet. (I’m making moves! On Facebook! Just watch me change the world!) Anyway, I visited the pages of each and every one of my friends and then asked myself the following question:

Does this person lift people up or tear people down?

If said person is mostly a lifter upper? They’re still in!
All tearer downers? Not unfriended, but no longer invited to hang their stuff on my wall.

After reading an article that Tempe sent this morning titled “The Rise of Victimhood Culture” I have determined that I mostly chill out in a dignity culture (as opposed to an honor culture). When aggrieved, I exercise covert avoidance, quietly cutting off relations without any confrontation. Some people may see my ghosting as a shitty way to handle relationships, but it has served me well over the years. Peaceful detoxification? Just as necessary as colonoscopies and flossing!

I’d like to take this opportunity to thank those who lift. The world needs more people like you.

Last week I finished my 2015 cardigan. It fits better than any cardigan I’ve made, which can only mean that I’m finally getting to know myself better.

This website of mine will be fourteen years old one week from today, and fourteen is my favorite number because it used to be Doug Wickenheiser’s number when he played for the St. Louis Blues. Anyway, half of my words are located here and half of them are spread out in other places and Fluid Pudding has taken me from my weirdo single life in Nashville, Tennessee to my weirdo married with two kids life in St. Louis. It is one of my very favorite things, and I want to thank you for stopping by. Let’s eat apples and wear cardigans and celebrate by lifting each other up. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>