Daily Archives : Page 57 of 110 : Fluid Pudding

I did not make the bread pudding.

After spending the morning dancing through a disappointing Fandango debacle, Meredith and I were able to see Catching Fire with a few friends. (Meredith wore her District 12 Tribute shirt and her Mockingjay pin, which means she’s now one of those people who dresses up for movies. I love that so much.)

After the movie, we went home where the coat I ordered a few days back had been delivered! (This is exciting to no one but me: Eddie Bauer told me that the coat wouldn’t be delivered until December 2nd. Because they were able to beat that day by nine days, I’m suddenly full of Eddie Bauer love. That’s how they get you.) ((Also, I feel the weird need to tell you that I did NOT pay anywhere NEAR $159 for that coat. Huge sale earlier in the week and I had a coupon code for free shipping, and I AM TRYING TO BE FRUGAL, DAVE RAMSEY!!!))

Next up? Jeff built a fire and the girls and I went on a soft boot adventure. We had no luck, although Kohl’s DID have a green screen and a downloadable app, so we were able to mess around with that for about three minutes or so.

After returning home, Meredith and I had bean soup leftovers, Harper had peanut butter and toast, and Jeff ate a salad.

I just described our entire day to you. I’m currently sitting here drinking hot tea and thinking about pajamas. Harper is practicing the piano, Meredith is reading, Jeff is watching the Mizzou game downstairs, the dogs are sleeping on the couch, and the fire smells amazing. (I’ll be in bed by 9:30.)

Tomorrow I’ll be returning to church for the first time in a long time. Afterwards? Brunch and browsing things that smell like the way I might want to smell followed by walking through a Christmas light display before it’s opened to automobile traffic. It’s the most wonderful time of the year, you know.

Twenty three down and seven to go, and I’m really not minding NaBloPoMo at all. Here’s hoping you’re not minding it, either. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Talk, talk, talk: the utter and heartbreaking stupidity of words, William Faulkner.

This evening after Meredith’s volleyball game, the four of us went out for dinner with my mom and dad to celebrate my dad’s 71st birthday. (Feel free to wish him a happy birthday. 71 is a big thing. 71 means that you pay for dinner and deliver rice krispy treats to the granddaughters, even though it’s your birthday. 71 means that even if you hurt your back earlier in the day, you still venture out to watch a bunch of fifth graders play volleyball. 71 is good.)

As we were eating our salads, my mom looked at me and said, “You’re showing a lot of Cleveland.”

Me: What?!

Mom: Cleavage!!!

Me: Oh! Yikes!

Mom: Yep. You’ve been showing cleavage all night.

Me: Sorry about that. I haven’t worn this shirt in over a year, but since it’s getting cold outside, this afternoon I decided to pull out my shirt and my boots.

Mom: Boobs?

Me: Yep. Boobs.

Mom: Hey! Yesterday I went to the makeup store, and when I put my stuff on the counter, the girl working the register said, “Nice bras.”

Me: What?!

Mom: Brows. Like, eyebrows.

Earlier this week, I told Meredith to drink water with her soup so she doesn’t get aphrodisiac. (Clearly, I meant Dehydrated.) A few years ago, I spent five minutes telling a story about a woodpecker, and throughout the entire story I referred to that bird as a peckerhead. On accident.

Apparently, my baking skills and sense of humor came from my dad, and my craftiness and inability to speak coherently came from my mom.

(Maybe someday I’ll tell you the story about that peckerhead and how he kept me up all night.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Bread pudding? Yes? Yes.

In 2009, we made bread pudding together.

We did it again back in March.

A dear friend of mine mentioned bread pudding yesterday, and: Saturday. Let’s put some time aside on Saturday for bread pudding. I’ll be taking Meredith to see Catching Fire with some friends that morning, and baking in the afternoon. Join me.

This is what I’m thinking about:

1. Christmas cards. (I know. 17 of you are SO ANGRY THAT I MENTIONED CHRISTMAS BEFORE THANKSGIVING!!!)

2. The latest Bridget Jones book isn’t sparking me the way I had hoped. It’s a bummer, because the latest Dave Eggers book didn’t spark me, either. I have high hopes for you, Still Life With Woodpecker. Don’t let me down.

3. My immersion blender saved my soup last night. I soaked the beans, I boiled the beans, I put the beans (and potatoes and onions and vegetable broth) in the Crock pot all day, yet they were still too firm at dinner time. Immersion blender. Bang.

4. I ran to Teavana last night while Harp was at Matilda practice. Two pounds of German rock sugar and four ounces of White Ayurvedic Chai. 30% off coupon. It really doesn’t get much better than that. (The 30% Friends and Family sale ends today. If you need tea, get out there!)

5. Freelance deadline. Seven chapters in six days if I don’t want to work over Thanksgiving. Challenge accepted. Reluctantly.

6. Meredith is really getting into the rainbow loom thing. I love when my kids get sparked, even if the spark is fueled by tiny rubber bands.

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I wanna feel the heat with somebody. In my parka.

Thanks for yesterday. Many of you validated how I was feeling, and many of you admired the knitting, and all of you are appreciated.

Today I finished a few freelance chapters, made navy bean soup for dinner, and shopped for a warm coat.

I currently have two coats. I really like both of them, but neither of them are very warm.

After much searching, I chose a parka that I really like. (I don’t believe I’ve ever owned a parka, nor have I ever used the word parka.)

Because Jeff and I are in the middle of getting into Dave Ramsey, I decided to turn the parka into my Christmas gift. He agreed that a parka would be perfect.

And after I cried about Siri’s use of whack, I thought of Whitney Houston.

And then I ate some bean soup. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Oh Butter! My Butter! Our fearful trip is done, Walt Whitman.

When you are (and when I say You Are, I mean I Am) suffering from feelings of inadequacy (long story, work-related), the best thing to do is eat fig marmalade with a friend and treat yourself (i.e., myself) to a butter keeper, also known as a keeper of the butter, also known as a butter crock. (Crock isn’t a good word for me today, as so many things could be described as being A Crock, and suddenly we lack creativity.)

It’s true that the vegan side of me rarely uses butter. (The clean eating side of me doesn’t mind it in small doses.) It’s also true that I’m intrigued with Little House on the Prairie stories of butter sitting around in a house all day and not getting nasty, where nasty = rancid, Miss Jackson. Anyway, in an attempt to rid my house of unnecessary things, I decided to purchase something that I won’t use very often! I am a walking contradiction (with soft and spreadable butter).

(You’ll have to cut me some slack. The whole Feelings of Inadequacy thing that I mentioned up there at the top has been weighing heavily all day. Lucky for me, I have a marmalade loving friend who presents worry stones with perfect timing and another friend who presents me with frequent knitting challenges. Also lucky for me is the fact that I don’t have to work in an office, so I can pepper my day with canine Wubba tosses. All is well.)

I visited a brand new book store in St. Louis this afternoon (before I became the owner of a butter keeper), and I’m in LOVE with it. Their journal selection was incredible, and they carry a really great blend of heady and quirky. Most stores in this particular location don’t last very long. I hope they are the exception. If you’re a local, please visit STL Books on West Jefferson in Kirkwood. Often.

Let’s talk about knitting tomorrow! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

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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