Daily Archives : Page 58 of 110 : Fluid Pudding

Not raw, but clean.

A few days back I was bragging about dropping some pounds, and I said something like, “Let me know if you ever want me to talk about clean eating, because that’s what worked for me.”

A few people responded and said they want to hear about it, so I sat down to write this really long post full of directions and examples and chemistry and then I put myself to sleep.

This is what I did (on and off but mostly on) for the weeks during which I was determined to drop weight.

I ate nothing but unprocessed foods. AND, I forgave myself a lot for not being a wizard.

I went to the grocery store and bought fresh produce. When I wanted something like chips or hummus or anything that isn’t fresh produce, I read the ingredient list. If ANYTHING listed was something that I couldn’t easily find in the store, I didn’t buy it. Anything hard to pronounce? I didn’t buy it.

I chose a good time of year to eat clean, because:

(Fun Fact: This bowl of squash is sitting in front of me right now. How did I fix it? I threw it into the oven for 30 minutes at 400. I drizzled a TINY bit of maple syrup over the top along with sea salt and pepper.)

When I needed something sweet and an apple wouldn’t do, I mashed a banana up with a cup of oats, formed it into four cookies, and baked it at 350 for 15 minutes. (You can drizzle a bit of maple syrup (or honey) over the top. I know I did.)

I was never hungry, I felt decent, and although I’ve managed to eat something like 47 Tootsie Rolls in the past four days, the thought of eating a Ding Dong makes me cringe. (It’s very unusual for me to turn away from a Ding Dong.) In other words, my tastes have changed and I’m down something like 14 pounds now and All is Well.

A lot of people have rules about clean eating. I sort of made it up as I went along, as I tend to do. I didn’t eat cheese, mainly because I’m trying to avoid dairy when I can. I stayed away from bread and sugar. I had a martini, but I’m not saying you have to because that would be pushy and weird.

If you need guidelines, you can look here:

What is Clean Eating? (She says to include meats. I didn’t. AND, the thought of grinding up meat? Well, let’s just say I’d rather eat a Ding Dong.)

This site has seasonal meal plans!

How to get started. (Here are some rules you may (or may not) want to follow.)

So, that’s pretty much it. I usually let food be the boss of me, but I’m slowly getting it under control. (Example: Last night Harper offered me a Junior Mint and I declined. Instead? I ate some of this granola, because it’s BETTER THAN A JUNIOR MINT.)

Full Disclosure: I smell like patchouli and I’m drinking the tea this guy sells.

Something wicked this way comes. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Leaves become most beautiful when they’re about to die.

Every year the Pudding gang goes on a fall leaf adventure, and yesterday was The Day. We took a ferry to Grafton, Illinois and stomped around through Pere Marquette after learning that it’s really hard to be a vegetarian in Grafton unless you’re willing to eat a big greasy glop of cheese. (We took the girls to a restaurant/winery who claims they have the best burgers in Grafton. It’s a really big place with a really big meaty and boozy menu. When I asked if they have veggie burgers, the woman at the register just stared at me and shook her head. I ordered the big greasy glop of cheese, as you do when your only option is the big greasy glop of cheese.)

I could sit here and type things like “Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower” (Camus) or “I would rather sit on a pumpkin, and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion” (Thoreau), but you’ve heard it all before. Alternatively, I could make some sort of weird connection like Orange IS the New Black!, but we all know if I’ve never seen a Doctor Who episode or a Housewives of Whatever County episode, there’s a pretty good chance that I’m missing out on all kinds of good things on television, including OItNB and one should not reference things that one is not able to explain. Time is all around. So much stuff exists and I have no idea what’s happening! I’M ON INSTAGRAM, so you would think I would be more aware of THINGS.

As we walked through the park, our conversation turned toward The Hunger Games and the things you need to be aware of while exploring woody areas. Unmedicated monkeys. Owls with anger management problems. Lions in denial.

At one point I asked, “What if we turn this corner and there is another family of four and they come up to us and calmly say, ‘We are here to fight you.’? What should we do? Should we just start beating the crap out of them or should we say, ‘Listen. We don’t want to fight you.’?” Both girls agreed that we shouldn’t fight. Suddenly, I felt like a good parent (who lacks the energy to look up the rules about quotes within quotes, so I’m burping out punctuation all willy-nilly).?,”!

With that said, a few months ago, Meredith asked who Prince is. Last night we pulled up a Nirvana video on YouTube, and she asked if it was The Beatles. We still have a lot of work to do.

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Sweet dreams are made of this.

Mom,
I had a very crazy dream on the couch. In the dream Henry was a horse and he took me and Scout to Subway and I must have been dreaming really hard because I ate something at Subway. What I ate was a sandwich with italian bread, not a foot long, and it had lettuce and ham. I was wondering if we could go to Subway for dinner.
Love, Harper

I love that she knew she was dreaming really hard not because she was riding to a restaurant on the back of a 50 pound dog, but because she actually ate something from Subway. (Harper is my picky eater. She won’t eat sandwiches.) Last night we made her dream come true, and she actually ate a ham and lettuce sandwich. ((Henry and Scout stayed home.))

This morning at approximately 3:00, Meredith shouted out for Jeff. She had just experienced a dream during which she threw up (in the dream).

Meredith: It makes me nervous because I’m wondering if my dream is trying to predict my future and maybe I should take a stomach pill.

Me: I was just dreaming that I was running on gravel because someone broke my fountain pen at a party and there were snakes and raccoons in the house. I hope my dream isn’t trying to predict my future.

Harper (half-asleep): Don’t worry, Meredith. I’ve had lots of dreams where I pooped in the bed, and it’s only happened once or twice in real life. Ha. Ha ha. HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!

(Meredith did not throw up. The only animals in the house are the ones we adopted. Harper hasn’t defecated in the bed since before she could walk. All is well. Enjoy your Sunday.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

The weighting is the hardest part, Tom Petty.

Every year I allow myself to gain ten pounds during November and December. THEN, every year I drop the ten before sweater weather ends.

2013 was different.

I put on the ten in November and December of 2012 (snickerdoodles! goofy balls made out of Oreos and white chocolate! pumpkin everything! have I mentioned the goofy balls?!), and when it was time to drop the ten? I couldn’t drop it.

I know things happen when you start dancing around in your 40s. I also know that Matthew McConaughey is my age and he can gain and drop weight for movie roles like it’s his job. (Because IT’S HIS JOB.) And another thing: Matthew McConaughey has a last name that is VERY difficult to spell, making cutting and pasting an absolute necessity for me. And, yes. Matthew McConaughey is a man with resources. He probably has an athletic trainer and/or a nutrition coach and/or a trusty supplier of marijuana. I have none of those things. Then again, I don’t NEED any of those things. (It’s fun to make drug references at Fluid Pudding. Do you remember the other day when I talked about LSD? I loved that.)

You know about my weirdo relationship with food and body image (and wool and alone time). I won’t go into details. Just know that it REALLY bothered me that I wasn’t able to drop the ten. When summer hit and my summer clothes wouldn’t fit? It did me in. I actually went out and purchased a $12 Sleeveless Dress of Shame in an attempt to “force” myself into DROPPING THE TEN. I ran a few times. I did yoga a few times. I sat on the couch (more than) a few times. (Alone. With wool.)

HHHhhhhhhhhhh.

On September 17th, I went into a place that reduces the number of degrees of separation between Jennifer Hudson and anyone who goes into that place. (I’ve talked about the place before.) I sadly stood on a scale and was told that I had actually gained not ten, but thirteen pounds in the past year.

Lady With The Scale (LWTS): What are your goals?

Me: Easy. I want my jeans to fit because I can’t stomach shopping for jeans. I have too much stomach for my jeans. My stomach! My jeans! PLEASE STOP ME BEFORE I CRY!

I decided to give myself five weeks to drop the 13. (And that’s sort of funny, because I had been trying to lose it for 37 weeks. Some people can cook up an entire BABY in 37 weeks!)

As of this morning I hit my goal with absolutely zero exercise. (Let me know if you ever want to talk about clean eating. Clean eating is what worked. 100%.) Hilarious coincidence: It’s November. Time to start eating like a jerk again! GOOFY BALLS!

Actually, because I’m old and I don’t really have anything in common with Matthew McConaughey, I’m going to try to NOT gain ten pounds during the holiday season. To help keep me motivated, I’m looking into a Fitbit Force. In order to actually get off of the couch, I feel like I need numbers and clicks and bells and whistles and graphs and apps and a social network made up of OTHER clowns who have Fitbits. (I also feel like I need a therapist, but I’m convinced that wool/alone time provides the same benefits as getting dressed and talking to a stranger (who is merely a friend I haven’t met yet, I suppose).)

Unrelated?: I’m following a new local donut shop on Facebook, and I’m in the beginning stages of planning a visit. If I park a block over, perhaps I can register 200 steps on the Fitbit, which should unlock my “Permission: Donut” achievement. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Mother approved and kid friendly. Like fruit leather.

About twenty years ago, I found myself in an apartment that was being rented by a guy named Spyder. Spyder had tattooed a few of my friends, and it was my turn. I chose to have Georgia O’Keeffe’s hands put on my ankle, because my art appreciation instructor once mentioned that Alfred Stieglitz had taken stacks of photos of Georgia but didn’t feel that he captured her artistry until he focused on her hands. (I was a piano performance major for a while in college, and was very much into hands. (I’m still very much into hands.))

I’ve had a love/hate relationship with my ankle tattoo, but if I boil my thoughts for a bit, what remains is my love of art and hands and there you go. On my ankle.

Last month I mentioned that I was considering having a word tattooed onto my arm. My friend Shana stepped up and volunteered to write it for me, I absolutely loved what she created, a few days back I took her work to a tattoo place, and are you ready? Because here we go.

I had originally envisioned the tattoo as brown and tiny and going from side to side where the veins in my wrist poke back into my arm. However, the artist explained that brown will require touch-ups and maintenance, and there is a chance that the letters will close up if you go too small. I’m the first to admit that I’m not an expert at anything, so I went with her suggestion—black and vertical. She took a few minutes to redraw the word a bit bigger with more open letters and I loved it. She stenciled it onto my arm and I loved it even more.

The tattoo artist’s name is Anna and she is spritely and talented and owns a really enviable beaded yellow cardigan.

Anna: Are you nervous?

Me: Yes. But I’m also BRAVE.

Anna: Brave is good.

It’s still bumpy and healing and I may need a bit of a touch up at the top of the C, but so far? So good. (I chose the word for many different reasons, but mainly as a directive.)

It’s NaBloPoMo. Let’s get it on. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Let’s just get a few things straight.

Before embarking on NaBloPoMo (because I’m going to embark on NaBloPoMo), I need to try and release some guilt.

For the past year or so, I’ve been absolutely terrible at responding to comments. You guys have sent me recipes and words of encouragement and brainy things to think about and prescription recommendations and book reviews and I’m absolutely terrible at thanking you. If I’m going to do NaBloPoMo (because I’m going to do NaBloPoMo), I either need to turn off comments or let the guilt fly out the window like a happy flying thing that flies out the window. Happily.

I don’t really care to elaborate on the following, nor do I wish to reveal if any statements are connected:

Lately I feel that I smell like a poorly-maintained convalescent center.

I can’t believe I still haven’t read Still Life With Woodpecker. I’m going to change that as soon as I finish my current read.

When I’m sitting at my computer and I look out the window, this is what I see.

Pretty soon it will all be orange and brown and crunchy, and I’ll be burning some sort of autumn-inspired candle and suddenly it won’t matter that I feel like I smell like I’ve been swimming in stuff that doesn’t smell very good.

Tomorrow I’m going on a solo adventure that involves bravery and being touched by a stranger. (I may remove my cardigan, but everything else stays on.) If all goes well, I’ll celebrate with a chai at the place my nose ring friend and I tend to visit after a switch-out.

Last night I spent nine dollars on a bottle of cranberry juice that contains nothing but the juice of cranberries. No water. No sugar. (I just accidentally typed wugar and then I laughed and laughed. Wugar.) No apple juice. No grape juice. (A lot of cranberry juices are cut with apple and grape juice. (Oddly enough, LSD is NEVER cut with strychnine, despite all of the whackadoodle LSD tales you might have heard. I’m here to provide mind-easing fun facts for my LSD buddies, none of whom actually exist in the real world.)) Anyway, the cranberry juice? It is terrible. BUT, I can manage the recommended three ounce dose if I put it in a shot glass (or tiny tiny coffee cup because I don’t actually own a shot glass) and pretend that it will help me see into the future. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

This is the story of my red right ankle.

Warning: This particular post will end with a photograph of my bloody ankle. I have not applied any filters to the photo, so the bright red blood you will see is the same bright red blood I saw in my car in the mall parking lot this afternoon. You have been warned and I know you’re smart, so please don’t act like you’re surprised that I’m shocking and awing you with a bloody body part. I told you it was coming. Proceed with caution.

Do you remember several months ago when we talked about school fundraisers? I finally talked to the right people and put together a fun run at our school, and it took place yesterday and it was SO much fun because as a team we ran from St. Louis to Atlanta by way of 3,765 laps around our school track. Students and staff and parents (and one grandparent) received a bracelet for every lap they ran and at the end of the day all of the bracelets were counted and whoosh! Exercise and excitement and community and $1,500 to go toward an outdoor classroom.

Because I was there all day, I spent most of my free time walking laps. (I did take time out for a Subway veggie sandwich because Jeff delivered it to me and That Is LOVE.) Do you remember all of those ridiculous stress fractures I dealt with last year? Only one of them was bugging me, and the air was crisp and I had a tumbler full of hot tea and this song shuffled three times on my phone:

Cannonball made me all Girl Power! and Keep Walking! and (ouch) and If I Walk 1,040 Laps We’ll Exceed Our Goal!!!

At 3:00 I packed it up and declared the day a success. You should have seen all of those kids running. It’s a wonder I didn’t start weeping while thinking in metaphors and symbols and What An Amazing World We Live In. (My endorphin tide tends to run high (unless it’s running low).) One boy who is clearly not a runner ran eight laps in 15 minutes. Eight laps is a mile. When I told him that he just ran a mile, he actually stomped his foot and yelled, “Oh my God I DID NOT KNOW THAT!” That was my favorite part of the whole day.

Anyway, because our next adventure involves dressing up like people we’re not and passing out candy from the back of our car, this afternoon’s list included: freelance (done), talk to vet about Henry (done), and search out Mockingjay pin at mall (done). The list did NOT include suffer a blister while wearing my favorite shoes.

(Done.)

I know. Oh, and it bums me out because I LOVE those shoes! I’m starting to feel like I shouldn’t be allowed to own shoes that aren’t clogs. Any shoe with a back on it eventually leads me to Bloody Blisterville, and I can only assume it’s because of my protuberant thin-skinned tendon. Shoes would be easier if I knew what I was doing. How are you? Should we do NaBloPoMo next month? ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Preguntas.

Something happened on the evening of September 10th (it’s part of the 83% I’ll never share), and my mind has been spinning with questions ever since.

41 days filled with questions! Shall we explore a few of them? Please feel free to attack many or none!

1. Mascara on the bottom lashes. Is this still a thing? I still do it, but I’m not sure I’m supposed to. (The only thing that has changed in my makeup routine since 1985: I no longer light my eyeliner ON FIRE before applying it.)

17. I’ve tried the washing machine cleaning beady things. I’ve tried vinegar. Why do our clothes still smell sort of sour? Our washing machine will be eleven years old in March. Is it time for a new one?

23. Why do so many people assume that Vegetarian = Enigmatic? Honestly. I don’t eat meat. I don’t care if you do. I really don’t. It’s not difficult for me to find something to eat, and I’m so much more than Bewildering Girl Who Eats Plants. (Side story: Jeff and I went to an amazing vegetarian restaurant on Saturday night. The people at the table next to ours were definitely not vegetarians, and they had a lot of questions. “I want the tacos, but I like chicken or beef in my tacos. WHAT DO YOUR TACOS TASTE LIKE?!” “I’m headed to the symphony in two hours. Since I don’t know what your tacos are made of, I need to know that they are not cooked with a bunch of alcohol.” “You don’t have diet soda?! And you’re telling me that real sugar is better for you than sugar substitute?!” “They have beet fries but they don’t have French fries?! What’s wrong with potatoes?!” (Nothing. Nothing is wrong with potatoes.) I’m all for questioning everything and arming yourself with information, but why go to a vegetarian restaurant if you’re going to raise your eyebrows at every single thing that comes out of the server’s mouth? Also, how many ways can he explain Vegan Cheese before you just smile and either give it a whirl or pass?) ((My line is always, “I’m a vegetarian, but I’m not a jerk about it.” I know. I’m starting to be a jerk about it. I’m starting to be a jerk about a lot of things. Just ask Meredith how I responded this morning when she told me that it was too cold to do her homework. Fact: When I’m not in the mood for excuses, I can bring everyone in the room to tears in less than two minutes. You have no idea.))

26. I’ve been doing a lot of research. I’ll spare you the details (because the details include the words Ovary and Really Shitty Pain), but please know that along with research (online and printed because I’m thorough!), I’ve spoken to quite a few people who have had hysterectomies, and they ALL claim that the hysterectomy changed their life for the better. I went to the doctor last week, and she said that instead of doing a hysterectomy, she would like to inject a chemical into my butt that will fake out my girl parts into thinking they’re in menopause. We’ll then have six months to see how menopause will be for me before I actually start menopause in the next decade. I’m not a doctor, so I feel really weird about questioning the plan. (Beet fries?! Are you kidding me?!) BUT, what if the menopausal effects are actually side effects of the drug? How will I know the difference? Does this even make sense? It’s all I can think about lately because: Pain! Burning! Urgency! Endometriosis! Crying! Too much time spent in bed with a hot water bottle! How many cups can I pee into before we know what’s going on? (So far? Three cups in three weeks. This morning’s was actually paper instead of plastic, which felt like such a refreshing switch-up. Does anyone else ever feel the urge to pee into the cup and then throw that cup against the wall like Mötley Crüe? I never do it, and I probably never will, but The Urge Exists, and I picture myself doing it every single time.) (I did a cut and paste for those Mötley Crüe umlauts. I am not a keyboard wizard.)

29. Let’s take a break and talk about happy things. This sandwich is my very favorite sandwich right now. Also, this is my favorite ink color. A few years ago, I won a contest that involved designing a Pringles can. (I know. Life is weird.) One of the prizes was an iPod Touch. Because I already had one, I gave it to Jeff. Anyway, my iPod touch (first generation, six years old) died last week while playing the Teen Beach Movie soundtrack for Harper. (I really wish it would have gone out on a higher note.) Because he’s a gem, Jeff cleared off the Pringles iPod and presented it to me last night. I then spent nearly an hour putting music I love onto the “new” iPod. It was the most fun I’ve had in weeks. (I no longer pretend to like every single Andrew Bird song, and how freeing is that?!) This morning I dropped the kids off at school and headed out to pee into a cup while listening to a shuffle of my very favorite songs. It felt like Christmas and beet fries. Beet fries! Imagine the possibilities!

31. A friend of mine wrote this. It’s perfect and it honestly explains what I go through every time I pick up the telephone or sit down to write an e-mail.

34. I just realized that I’m not really writing questions at all. Guess what? As I type this post, a doctor at a vet school is formulating a homemade diet plan for our poor itchy Henry. In less than two weeks, I’ll be cooking vegetarian meals for Jeff and I, meaty meals for the kids, and God knows what for the dogs. (I had to fill out a checklist of foods I’m not opposed to cooking for Henry. Venison was on the list, as was lamb. I love my dogs, but I couldn’t check those boxes. I checked millet. Lots of beans. Cow stuff. Bird stuff.)

38. I have carrot cake in the refrigerator. Vegetarians can eat cake! (And lots of it, Betty Crocker.)

41. You’re so pretty and patient. I can’t remember the last time I sat down and puked up over a thousand words. And here we are. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Sluts and Influenza

This morning I headed out for a flu shot and as I was listening to the radio, I heard the word Slut and it occurred to me that I can’t remember the last time I used the word slut. High school, maybe? Anyway, it then struck me that I haven’t visited Fluid Pudding in at least a week, so here I am! Thank you to sluts for the prompt.

My week of clean eating was a success, if success can be measured in Weight Loss and Lack of Tantrums. I’m down eight pounds from last month at this time (with absolutely zero exercise because an object at rest tends to stay at rest), and nearly four of those pounds can be attributed to a week of eating unprocessed foods (plus one caramel apple martini). The clean eating thing might seem unappetizing until I tell you something like “Right now I’m baking up a mixture of oats and pumpkin and cinnamon and you should smell my house.” (It’s a true statement. It’s been baking for nearly a half hour, and it smells delicious. The recipe is here. It was suggested by a friend and the only thing I’m doing differently is substituting coconut milk yogurt for the cottage cheese.)

Anyway, the challenge ended at midnight last night, yet I’m soldiering on to see how long I can last. It’s good to know that I can have an Oreo if I want it. Right now I don’t want it.

Meredith had a glorious time at fifth grade camp, but it appears that camp is a lot like Vegas. I haven’t heard many details beyond so-and-so winning a contest for having the longest tongue and the pizza wasn’t greasy like typical school cafeteria pizza. No stomach pills were taken, and everything that left the house returned to the house.

As I sat and worked on a sleeve cuff yesterday evening, a family of mosquitoes feasted on my right ankle. Every one of them hit a vein, so I’m sure my veiny leg has been added to the prime destination list for all bugs who bite. The mosquitoes are really bad in my neighborhood, and the woman next door has a theory that I’d share with you, but it contains words like Raw and Human and Feces and it’s lunch time. You’re welcome.

I’ll be picking the girls up in about an hour so they, too, can get their flu shots. According to my calendar, it’s National Children’s Day, and I can’t think of a better way to celebrate. (They’re not old enough to enjoy caramel apple martinis.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Out with September!

It’s Migraine Week at Fluid Pudding, which means I’m taking pills and feeling a little hazy and preparing for the deluge! This is how it works. Three days before the headache REALLY hits, I feel electrical charges in my head. (I believe I’m speaking figuratively, although I’ve never held a light bulb to my ear when the charges are firing.) I started feeling the charges on Saturday evening. That’s when I started taking my customized cocktail pills!

Two days before the headache really hits, I start feeling nauseated. That’s when it’s time to bust out the Zofran! (I busted out the Zofran last night.)

One day prior to the slam, I get all sweaty and forgetful and tired and short-tempered. About an hour ago I drove to the post office to mail a letter to Meredith (I’ll explain later.), and about ten minutes ago I spent a disturbing amount of time searching for the very letter that I mailed an hour ago. (It wasn’t here. Because it’s at the post office. Because I mailed it. An hour ago.)

All of this to say: Business as Usual, although the timing sort of sucks because there’s a PTO meeting tomorrow evening and Meredith leaves for 5th Grade Camp on Wednesday. I’m boring you.

Here. This is better. I’m standing on the edge of a tiny tattoo. I had Georgia O’Keeffe’s hands tattooed onto my ankle when I was 23 and I could tell you why, but I’d almost rather not. (The things you stir up in your head are often much more interesting than my reality. Girl, you know it’s true.) Anyway, a few nights back I said something on Facebook about my current craving for a tiny ambigram tattoo on my arm and then the idea sort of blossomed a bit more and a wonderful woman/artist stepped up and said she would help me, and all of a sudden I have a jpg file and the possibility of a consultation with a tattoo artist sometime soon.

I’m 43.

(Harper got a tattoo when she was four. She’s such a badass.)

So. Fifth grade camp. Meredith will be heading out with all of her fifth grade classmates on Wednesday, and they’ll be building fires and shooting arrows (at nothing that’s alive) and looking at stars and singing songs and catching (and kissing and releasing) fish and basically having the time of their lives until Friday at approximately 2:45 when they return to the outstretched arms of their weepy mothers. Meredith is Very Excited.

One more thing. Starting tomorrow, a good friend of mine and I are kicking off a week long adventure of not eating any processed foods. I spent the morning at the grocery store buying butternut squash (pre-cubed because I am not strong) and (the largest possible) SweeTango apples and (clean and ready) mushrooms and (I have no adjectives for my) sweet potatoes and things that are made up of ingredients that I understand. It’s going to be tough, but not so tough. It’s going to be simple and healthy and clean and beautiful. (Have I mentioned that I’ve been taking pills for the past three days? Get over here and braid my hair.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>