Daily Archives : Page 57 of 110 : Fluid Pudding

Searching for the Next Nest

We’re slowly coming to the realization that although we often talk about moving, nothing is going to happen unless we actually look at houses. (I would do just about anything to have someone send us to Jackson Hole for a week and then tell us that they’ve moved us into a decent three bedroom house. Honestly. I WOULD DO JUST ABOUT ANYTHING.)

This afternoon we went to see a house that’s less than three miles away from our current house. It’s about 50 years old, has four bedrooms, and I immediately fell in love with it because it was clean and it smelled good and the back yard was fenced in.

This is a crooked photo of the staged master bedroom bed.

I love seeing beds that are made. (We don’t make our bed.)

This is what I loved the most about the master bedroom:

It’s a super soft rug that looks like grass. If we were to make an offer on the house, this rug has to be included.

As we explored the house, Meredith yelled, “MOM! You HAVE to check out the soap in the bathroom! Does the soap come with the house?!” The girls would love to have their own rooms. They would also love some nice soap.

I know we have a LOT of work to do before we can move. (Honestly. A LOT OF WORK.) I really wish it was possible to buy a house and move in at a rate that allows us to clean this house as we go. So much clutter. So much stuff to be donated. And because the thought of it overwhelms me to no end, I never even begin to fill up the very first bag.

Our five year house has turned into a ten year house and we’ve outgrown it. BUT, my next door neighbor is right. I’m lazy. Also, completely lost on where to start.

EDITED TO ADD: I read this at least once every six months. I need to stop reading it and start living it. (Jennifer is brilliant in so many ways.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Saturday!

I don’t have much to report for today. Drank coffee, finished some freelance, took a shower, baked a sweet potato, watched The Hunger Games with Meredith to prepare her for the release of Catching Fire next weekend (She’s read the books.), ate some pumpkin pie, folded some laundry, and decided to pinwheel the hell out of some puff pastry.

I took that pastry out of the freezer, thawed it, spread a bunch of pesto over the top of it, and tossed on some stir-fried mushrooms. I then rolled it up, sliced it into wheels, and baked it at 400 for 15 minutes. Dinner.

I ate three wheels before making eye contact with this guy:

I’m sure he’s delicious, but as all of the cool kids say: I Just Can’t. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. (I Just Can’t is in a heated competition with the inappropriate use of the word So for number one on my List of Overused Annoyances. She was SO FIRED. I JUST CAN’T.)

In my mind, Francis Pinwheel has spent many years driving a smelly cab in New York. He speaks with a lisp, he doesn’t take crap from anyone, and as soon as his youngest kid moves out he’s going to pack his bags and try to make it work in Seattle. (That’s where his internet girlfriend lives with her cat, and she likes Al Pacino movies just as much as he does.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Organs are for more than music!

Today was a No School day for the girls, so we spent it doing what ALL kids wish they could do on a No School day: We went to meet my new gynecologist! Wahoo!!!

Good News: After spending the past two months wondering if I’m dying or going batty, I finally have a possible (completely tame) diagnosis. Adenomyosis! In other words, my uterus is sort of turning itself inside out (not really, but sort of, but not really) and because it’s all huge and swollen (enjoy your dinner!), it’s invading my bladder’s personal space.

You don’t want to hear any more details, so let me fast forward through the No Pants stuff and just say this: I now have a prescription for birth control pills. (I had my tubes tied back in 2011, so I’m hoping that the two forms of birth control don’t cancel each other out. (I don’t have any more love to give right now.)) I also have a prescription for Vicodin, and the fact that I mentioned Vicodin means that I just brought in some traffic from junkies who are looking for Vicodin! Welcome! (Note to junkies: I will fill the prescription only if necessary. In other words, do not come to my house. There’s nothing to see here.)

Side Note: Another big welcome goes out to all of the curious parents from our elementary school who have noticed that my e-mail ends with a fluid pudding dot com. (That’s what I get for volunteering!) “What is fluid pudding dot com?” you may have asked yourself before coming over. And now you’re feeling a pinch of regret. (It smells like cloves.) I really need to get a professional e-mail address. Please don’t think less of my daughters. They’re good eggs.

After the doctor appointment, the girls and I traveled to Fizzy’s for a chocolate soda, a wedding cake soda, an orange dream soda, and burgers (dead cow for them, veggie for me). Two of the local radio stations are playing Christmas music and that jazzed us to no end and led us to purchase a pumpkin pie on the way home from lunch. It’s a good day to be a Pudding, for we’ve grown a little leaner, grown a little older, grown a little sadder (not really. don’t worry.), grown a little colder…

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Next up? Scalpel!

As I type this message to you, our mail carrier is driving around with an envelope addressed to me and inside that envelope is a hemostat. Imagine how my world will open up when I remove the hemostat from its packaging! Suddenly, when a surgeon looks at me and says “Clamp!” I can do more than stare at my shoes! I can remove a hook from a fish who has been searching the streets for a compassionate hemostat owner! I can crimp tubing on a shoddy homemade water filter! Most importantly? I can remove my nose ring when I don’t feel like wearing a nose ring. (Actually, the fish thing is the most important. I don’t want you to think that my nose opal outranks a needy fish!)

Here’s the thing. I’ve been listening to Roderick on the Line. When John Roderick expressed his fear of becoming a parody of himself (cool dad musician guy galavanting around Seattle in skinny jeans), my eyes opened wide and I looked (down and to the right) at my nose ring and then my gaze drifted down my left arm to the new tattoo and then I received an e-mail from ModCloth suggesting that I purchase some sort of Rockabilly dress and then The Decemberists shuffled on the iPod, and: Yipes. I’m 43 and so terribly unable to carry off the entire collection. Therefore: hemostat, arm warmers, and no more floopy dresses. Moderation is key. (The Decemberists can stay, mainly because I can’t get enough of January Hymn, which shuffles most often.)

I don’t think I will ever not love that song. And although several of the smartest people I know cannot read my tattoo, I don’t think I’ll ever not love it, either. AND, because I know a few of you are curious, please know that the vet shaved my cat this morning, and that is NOT a euphemism. Poor Ramona is walking around looking like she’s not wearing any pants. (I’d take a photo, but something about dignity and respect keep me from pressing the button.) The vet has assured me that people cut their cats all of the time.

Me: Not THIS person!

Vet: Believe me, it happens. She’s going to be just fine.

Me: Does someone want to give me a hug?!

Vet: What?

Me: I feel like I need to be punished and consoled all at the same time.

Ramona: Where are my pants?! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I accidentally cut my cat, and now I feel like the worst human ever.

Meredith had to be at school at 7:30 this morning.

My headache doctor appointment was at 8:20.

Jeff took Harp to school at 8:30.

I had an ultrasound at 11:45.

I accidentally cut Ramona (the cat) while trying to clean up her matted fur at 1:25. (She’s fine. I’m much more rattled than she is.)

I have a meeting at school tonight at 6:30.

Ramona goes to the vet tomorrow at 11:00.

If November was 36 days long, I would be roughly 1/3 finished with NaBloPoMo. It’s not tricky to stop by and write something every day, but I do feel like I’ve been horribly boring.

I cut my cat. Argh.

It makes me sad because our cats’ quality of life is not good. Because of the dogs (specifically, Henry), the cats tend to cower in the basement. (It’s a finished basement with couches and blankets, so they’re not exactly suffering when it’s time to nap.) Sidney (the old cat) hasn’t seen actual sunlight since August. I know. I KNOW!

Before we got Henry, we felt pretty good that all living things could get along upstairs.

I’ve heard stories of people who had to relocate their cats after they adopted dogs. I never really understood it until now.

Insert sound of a heavy sigh. Perhaps we need a trainer to work with Henry. Any advice is (mostly) appreciated. (We won’t get rid of the cats.)

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On Saturdays, we tend to celebrate babies.

We went to a baby shower on Saturday evening, and it was possibly the best baby shower ever.

What Made The Baby Shower A Great Baby Shower:
1. It was held in a cafe that featured 40 different types of desserts.

2. Free flowing hummus with vegetables and pita chips. Honestly: All You Can Eat, and it was probably the best hummus I’ve had. (I’ve had lots of hummus. You know it’s true.)

3. No games. NO GAMES! No guessing how many squares of toilet paper it would take to wrap around the new mom’s belly. No avoiding saying the word “Baby” in order to win a prize. No games!

4. Everyone received a salad that held candied pecans and cranberries.

5. My kids joined me and they’re finally at the age where they can sit down and enjoy themselves without fighting or screaming about how bored they are.

Before we left for the shower, Harper walked in wearing a really cute pink plaid shirt.

Me: That’s a really cute shirt.

Harper: Meredith said I should take it off.

Me: Why?

Harper: Meredith said that a sure-fire way to make a bad impression is to wear a plaid shirt to a baby shower.

(She wore the shirt, and to my knowledge, no one judged her.)

During the shower, I told Harper that eating this mint will put a baby in her belly. She believed me.

Harper is a good sport. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Saturday!

I don’t mean to make anyone angry, but I’m really close to being over halfway finished with my Christmas shopping.

Here is my advice: Tell yourself that you’re going to have surgery in December and you need to get this stuff taken care of so you can recover gently and happily on the couch with hot tea in hand and Meg Ryan on the television. Ready, set, go.

This is what I’m going to be doing five more times between now and February. Meredith has joined a co-ed volleyball team and I’m all high on it.

When I was a kid, my cousins and I spent quite a few Saturdays sitting on the driveway of my grandma’s house and burning leaves with magnifying glasses. This morning, Harper grabbed a magnifying glass and got to work on some leaves in our back yard. My grandmother would have been proud. (And then she would have offered up some chocolate cake with white icing.)

This arrived in the mail today, and suddenly I’m wanting to thank people for a thank you card. I know that Emily Post would probably shake her head at me, but still.

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Terrifying blood-sucking rodents!

Yesterday morning at approximately 11:00, Scout and Henry asked to go outside. They normally run around in the back yard for about fifteen minutes, and then they knock to be let back in. (They have manners.)

At around 11:30, it occurred to me that the dogs were still in the back yard. When I opened the door and yelled, “Cookie!” (as I do), Henry came running, but Scout remained seated in the corner of the yard. When I walked out to see what she was guarding, I saw what appeared to be a baby rabbit. AND THEN I SAW THE HUGE BLACK WINGS COMING OUT OF THE RABBIT’S TORSO. It was no rabbit. It was A BAT.

I screamed, “PEANUT BUTTER FOR PUPPIES! GAH!” and Scout reluctantly followed me into the house. I quickly called Jeff.

Me: It’s a bat. It’s a bat. In the back yard. I need to get rid of it.

Jeff: Okay. Settle down. Take a shovel. It’s probably dead and you can just flick it over the fence into the woods.

Me: Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay.

I grabbed the shovel and kept Jeff on the phone as I went bat hunting. Please know that I’m not necessarily afraid of bats, it’s just that I’m not kidding anyone. I’m terribly afraid of bats. AND, bats are the same color as autumn leaves and our yard is covered with leaves which means HIDDEN BAT.

Okay. This is what happened next. Please close your eyes (and turn down your volume) and know that this is what it’s like to be married to me.

It once was lost, but now was found.

After I stopped peeing myself, I approached the bat slowly with my shovel. I am brave. I am brave. I am brave.

It moves.

The bat was not dead. It was not dead. It was panting really quickly and my heart was sort of breaking for it and I stepped a tiny bit closer and then it raised its head and looked at me and then started flapping its big wings and flailing around. AND THEN IT LEFT THE GROUND!!!

The Bat Takes Flight

It flew about six inches into the air and then flopped back onto the ground and it took me about two seconds to throw the shovel and Flo-Jo (like A BAT OUT OF HELL) back into the kitchen.

Jeff arrived home from work just as the Animal Control officer was pulling up into the driveway. (I always call for outside help when I am freaking out because we the people, by the people, for the people.)

This is what I know:

1. The Animal Control officer walked around our yard with an empty Folgers coffee container for nearly twenty minutes before declaring that the bat was unable to be found.

Me: You can’t go!!! What if I come out later and FIND IT?!?!

Animal Control: Just put something over it like that plastic swimming pool over there and give me a call so I can get rid of it for you.

Me: A good friend of mine said that she would come over and hit it over the head with a shovel if it was suffering.

Animal Control: Don’t ever hit a bat over the head. When we test for rabies, we test brain waves. If the brain is smooshed, the bat can’t be tested for rabies.

(Okay. Time out. If the brain is smooshed, the bat can’t be tested for rabies. I can never remember if you feed or starve a fever, but I will remember the bat brain smoosh rule for the rest of my days.)

2. According to the Animal Control officer, bats are normally hibernating at this time of year, but they typically come out of hibernation once a month to feed. TO FEED.

3. I’m never stepping out into the back yard again.

(Please know that both Scout and Henry are completely updated on their rabies vaccinations. I’m more on top of that than I am of anything else in my life.)

Dear Lord. When I finished my parenthetical aside about rabies vaccinations, my word count was at 666. What on earth is happening over here?!?! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Breaking up is hard to do.

Let’s talk about hair. Last year I broke up with the woman who cuts my hair, and I still feel guilty about it. She had been cutting my hair from the time I was 17 until I was 42 and that’s a quarter of a century. Sadly, her schedule and my schedule started to not work out (she lives in Nashville and would come into town every month or so) and suddenly I found another woman who cuts my hair perfectly and I LOVE HER. How did I break up with my original stylist who had seen me regularly from 1987 through 2012? I just stopped calling her. UGH! Terrible! TERRIBLE! (Honesty: I feel guilty about it at least once each week, because that’s how I am.)

(She gave me this haircut, which made me look like a snide bow dress wearing Echo & The Bunnymen fan girl. Bring on the dancing horses!)

Let’s talk about my insides. My gynecologist first saw my innards shortly after I started dating Jeff (at age 26) when I realized that Jeff looked a little bit like the gynecologist I HAD been seeing, and that seemed weird. She delivered both of my kids. She tied my tubes. She sang songs to me about IUDs and Lupron and Depo-Provera and I held up my finger and said, “No, no, and no.” I then sang a song about a hysterectomy, and she held up her finger and said, “No.” And then I talked about not being able to speak during ovulation and she said “Here’s an Aleve.” In the past five weeks, I’ve peed into five cups (successfully!) and bad things are happening that I don’t want to talk about, and she’s done with returning my calls and I think we’ve reached a urethral impasse.

(These are my tubes. Tied.)

Anyway, I called a new gynecologist yesterday because she received 31 5-star ratings on a doctor rating website (I know.), and her name is VERY similar to my name, which means we must have a lot in common. Anyway, I took a few minutes to explain my symptoms to her nurse, and BOOM! I’m going in for an ultrasound on Tuesday and will be spending additional time with the doctor on Friday. AND, a good friend of mine (who also shares my name) actually KNOWS the new gynecologist and has nothing but nice things to say about her.

Two things:

1. I’m hoping to be uterus free in 2014! If you can dream it you can achieve it!

2. I’ve never met a bad Angela. (Please know that I’ve never met Angela Lansbury.)

Tomorrow I’ll be telling you why you should never hit a bat in the head with a shovel. (37 bats are high-fiving each other right now, because they agree with me. Wholeheartedly.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

These are a few.

It’s nearly seven o’clock and I almost forgot to write! Hello there!

Let’s see. The day started off fairly well and then it turned to crap and then it got a little crappier. BUT, I’m pleased to report that my crappiest day really isn’t that crappy in the scheme of things. You know. The scheme. Of things.

(In case you’re counting? Crap and variations thereof: 4!)

To cheer myself up, I’ve decided to share some of my favorite things with you.

I’m still in love with Modern Ritual. I’m currently wearing Optimistic and yesterday Harper and I both wore Social Butterfly. I recently added Autumn Blend to my wishlist, and I’m also looking at Love Blend 01.

The Create Bracelet. This is the bracelet given to me by a very special person and it led to me having the word Create tattooed onto my forearm last week. This is it. I LOVE this bracelet.

Ira Glass stretched out on a couch. Honestly, if I didn’t have Create tattooed onto my arm, I would seriously consider having this photo of Ira Glass tattooed onto my arm. I would want his arms repositioned so that he was playing my veins like a string bass, and I want him to stand in the crook of my elbow. (I know!)

I’m a mitten away from finishing my only Christmas knitting for the year, so I celebrated by starting a pair of arm warmers for myself. This yarn is kettle dyed and it reminds me of kettle corn and apple butter and fall leaves. I bought it several years ago and have been waiting for the perfect project to spark me. Picot arm warmers.

The girls gave me a flower loom for my birthday, and I’ve been making wool flowers. They might turn into bows. They might become ornaments. At this point they have no purpose other than looking cute on my computer table.

My dad shared his caramel pie recipe with me, and I’ve made four in the past month. Graham cracker crust, layer of bananas, layer of caramel, layer of whipped cream, cherries, chocolate shavings, and nuts if you have them. (I never do.)

Mr. Kipling Cherry Bakewells. We ate them in London, and in August we found them in a tiny shop ten miles from our house. I’m letting myself buy a box every six months so that I don’t get tired of them. I’m looking forward to February.

Scout on a shelf.

Scout makes herself at home on the kitchen shelf.

Harper’s ‘Just Like Meredith’ doll.

All better? All better. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>