Category: Daily

First of all, as much as I despise it when someone says “been there, done that”, I must admit that I love just how many people have been right there and have done just that in regard to my post from yesterday. We are a messy bunch, are we not?

So, I’m knitting a beard for a toddler.

When I’m done knitting the beard for the toddler, I’m going to knit one for myself. And then I’m going to sew my beard onto a knitted wool hat and incorporate it into my winter running gear.

You think I’m kidding. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I did my 28 minute run this morning, and it went really well until the very last minute.

When my little man told me that I had two minutes to go, I looked down and saw that I had barely passed the four kilometer mark. (The circumference of the lake is 5.7 kilometers.) In an attempt to get as close as possible to reaching five kilometers, I decided to break loose and run like an animal until it was time for my five minute cool-down. The conditions were perfect. All Alright had just started playing (I think the whole “I’ve got nothing left inside of my chest” line is hauntingly appropriate when I’m running!), I was at my favorite part of the lake (trees on both sides of me!), the temperatures were cool (I was wearing my new long-sleeved running shirt!), and I couldn’t see any other humans (no need to make awkward eye contact and/or offer up a goofy smile!). Run. RUN! Around a minute into my sprint, I started coughing. And then something absolutely dreadful happened and I kept running, but not quite as quickly, and then I began walking Very Calculatedly and I made some sort of joke in my app journal about land sharks attacking me on the way back to my car which seems really funny until it’s not so funny anymore.

Actual text sent to Jeff: I may have just peed myself, but I also may have forcefully expelled my entire uterine lining. If I peed myself, my running career is officially over. If I *didn’t* pee myself, well, I don’t want to talk about it.

I reached the car, started it, and was warmly greeted by the Check Engine light. (My life is sort of fun like that. And by fun, I mean fun.)

Anyway. I made it home, which is highly preferred over NOT making it home.

I took my first migraine pill of the week exactly four hours ago. Here’s hoping it’s also the last. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

This afternoon I went to Sephora and grabbed my Buxom reward.

I then scored two super-cheap long-sleeved running shirts (super cheap = $8.96). I would have bought the super expensive shirts with their fancy-pants swooshy logo, but come on. I run so stinking fast that no one is ever going to SEE that logo. (Honestly, have you ever noticed the logo on a gazelle? I didn’t think so.)

Finally, I returned home, scooped out the litter box, ate Indian nachos, and signed us up for a free 30-day trial of Veggie Meal-Maker. (As of tomorrow, Jeff has been meat free for one month. We need options.)

Do you remember when I was doing a lot of knitting and watching a lot of Cary Grant movies? Do you remember the amazing yarn bowl that Gina made? Well, because I’m terrible with self-imposed deadlines, I’m *just now* starting to finish up on the handspun mitts I’m making for her.

The first mitt needs a thumb, and the second needs ten rows and a thumb. I’m nearing the finish line, and I’m finally enjoying knitting with my own handspun! (The thought of it was terrifying when I was first getting started on the mitts.) ((Wait! I feel the need to point out that my very favorite go-to fingerless mitten pattern is Maine Morning Mitts by Clara Parkes.)) Gina, you will have mitts soon. Hopefully before Halloween.

Later this evening, after the girls go to bed, I’m going to see what Jillian Michaels can do for me.

I’m all dressed up and ready to go.

(I know.)

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Do you remember how I bought this dress to wear to today’s wedding?

And then do you remember how I bought shapewear to help shoehorn myself into that dress? (By the way, Shapewear. SHAPEWEAR. Just hearing those two words smooshed together into one is starting to burn me up on the inside.)

Anyway, this morning I got up, drank coffee, didn’t eat breakfast, took a shower, put on my tights and my SHAPEWEAR (and a robe, because I’m modest), ironed my dress, sausaged it on, and did the whole hair/makeup thing.

I looked terrible. The dress was entirely too confining and was sticking to my tights, the shapewear was making my colon rub a little too closely to my pancreas, I couldn’t find a sweater that pulled everything together, and various other complaints about my hair, earrings, complexion, and so forth. With fifteen minutes to go before we had to leave, I threw on a dress that my mom gave me several years ago along with my Swallowtail shawl and pearl earrings.

AND, the wedding was lovely. The groom, who was just released from the hospital earlier this week, was the perfect blend of nervous and dapper. The bride was glowing and confident. A harpist accompanied the ceremony. Photos were taken. Cupcakes were eaten.

During the break between the ceremony and the lunch, we came home and let the dogs out. (I realize that isn’t vital information, but while I have you here, I thought I would share EVERYTHING.)

We then left and ate salad and spaghetti and spumoni and cake before returning home, where I went to my room to “read for a bit” which is code for “fall dead asleep for two hours.”

And here I sit in my Jackson Hole hoodie, my old black sleeping pants, and my new issue of Whole Living.

When I’m done with the magazine, I’m going to pull out some yarn that looks like hair and knit a beard for a toddler.

Life? Good. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

It’s 9:54 at night, and I just finished individually wrapping 25 cake balls for tomorrow morning’s DCAWS bake sale at the Lafayette Square location of Four Muddy Paws.

I’m not sure if I’m supposed to come up with a price for the balls, so I checked online for a few ideas. Do you know that some people charge $42 for one dozen cake balls? It’s true. (The money made at this particular bake sale will pay for medical treatment for a few of DCAWS’s needier animals. I’m thinking two dollars per cake ball.) ((I’m actually thinking FIVE dollars per cake ball, because IT’S FOR THE ANIMALS!))

A good friend of mine sent this link to me a few months ago, and I *still* can’t get through it without choking up.

Tomorrow morning we’re attending the nuptials of a couple who traveled a long and rocky road to make it to their wedding day. This is going to be a good one.

Also, I have 250 points accrued at Sephora, and this weekend they’re offering a Buxom lip set for 250 points! Somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good.

(I promise to actually write something next week. This every day thing is tricky, no? No?) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I spent today running (27 minutes without stopping! Bonus: I returned to my car with no evidence of a black-out homicide, although I have reason to believe that I accidentally willed a child to wreck his bike!), figuring out PTO money stuff, ironing out some freelance, shopping for dinner, and grabbing the supplies for cake balls.

Check it out.

What you see here in my weirdo wrinkled hand is a test tube full of bone sprinkles.

The rescue agency who allowed us to adopt Scout is having a bake sale this weekend.

I’m bringing cake balls. With bone sprinkles. (If you’re in St. Louis, the sale goes from 11-3.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I love that several of you read yesterday’s post and questioned whether I should continue running.

No one suggested that I turn myself in for a potential black-out killing. (A special tip of the hat to Sir, who eased my mind a bit with the whole “you can’t be convicted” comment.)

Here’s the thing. Yes. Running is difficult for me. It’s the first thing I’ve done in quite some time that REALLY challenges me both mentally and physically. (This is where I would insert a Fifty Shades of Grey joke, but I have no idea what you are talking about.) Nine months ago I couldn’t run for more than two minutes without wanting to die. (Because my leg was broken. Because I was heel striking. Because I don’t read history books, so I’m destined to make the same mistakes as Napoleon.) Now I can run for about five minutes without wanting to die, and then I can KEEP running for 21 more minutes! I’m not quitting now.

Actually, after I reach the point where running comes easy, I’m going to start Kobe Bryanting myself over moving cars.

This morning was not a good one at our house. The girls were crabby and we’re out of Aleve and the dress I’m wearing to this weekend’s wedding is NOT looking good.

Harper: Are you sick?

Me: No, but my arm is acting like it wants to be somewhere else.

Harper: Are you angry?

Me: No. Here’s the deal. I don’t like referring to myself as Mommy, but I’m about to make an exception. I’m going to say this one time only, and I’m not going to offer any sort of explanation. Are you ready?

Harper: I’m ready.

Me: Mommy needs Spanx.

Harper: What?

Me: Grab your backpack. Let’s go.

Thirty minutes later, I found myself in a dressing room trying to sausage myself into at least 11 different styles of shape wear. (This is what you’re missing on Instagram.) It was absolutely terrible. I couldn’t even pull one of the styles up past my knees, so I challenged myself to find the size that I COULD actually pull up. XXL. I almost bought the XXL (it was black and shiny), but then it occurred to me that this isn’t how it’s supposed to work. (Side story: I currently have my running application set to believe that I weigh 380 pounds, because it feels good when my display says that I’ve worked off over 500 calories. The reality isn’t nearly as rewarding.)

I went with this. (Do NOT watch the video on that page. If you’re anything like me, it will make you want to put your fist through a wall—which is something I’ve never actually done. I definitely disagree with the woman who announces that the model has a slight muffin top. Don’t even get me started on this.)

After putting my pants back on and paying for my goods, I stopped by the drugstore to pick up some Nutter Butters. (They are vegan.) Don’t look at me. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

So, yesterday morning I dropped the kids off at school and drove straight out to my favorite running spot to embark on my very first outdoor 26 minute (without stopping) run. With a water bottle strapped to my hand and Mumford & Sons singing in my ears, I took off into the woods. (“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately.”)

Just so you’re with me, this is what I saw:

This is what I heard:

I walked for five minutes, and then I ran. Sluggardly. (I averaged about 7:44 per kilometer.) When I thought I had been running for more than ten minutes, I looked at my phone and saw that I still had 23 minutes to go. In other words, three minutes was feeling like 10 minutes. This 26 minute adventure was going to FEEL like an 85 minute adventure. (Quick side note: While I’m running, I can’t do simple math. Similarly, I sometimes see a herron and call it a herring. My brains liquify and run out of my nose and I have no idea how to breathe. Running is physically and cerebrally taxing. I have no idea why I do it.)

Anyway, I ran and I ran (and I ran) and I looked at my phone more than 30 times during the run to see when the hell it was going to end. When the little man told me that I had five minutes to go, I noticed that my left eye wasn’t seeing correctly. I wondered how I would handle having a stroke in the woods, and I considered stopping. (“I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary.”) I continued to run. When I had less than a minute to go, I noticed a svelte running lady about 25 yards ahead of me. I decided to run like a cheetah (but on two legs) to pass her before my little man gave me permission to cool down with a five minute walk. (Less than five seconds after I stopped running, Svelte Lady flew by me as I snorted and panted and tried to squirt water into my face.)

Here’s the weird part. When my cool-down walk was over, I made my way back to the car. I climbed into the car, I chugged a bunch of water, I turned on the radio, started the car, put my hands onto the steering wheel, AND NOTICED THAT I HAD BLOOD ALL OVER MY HANDS. (Clarification: They weren’t COVERED in blood, but there was more than just a trace amount, and it was dried and on both palms.)

Apparently, after having my stroke in the woods, I blacked out and killed a fellow runner with my bare hands before regaining consciousness and continuing with my run. (“I have never found a companion that was so companionable as solitude.”) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

If you care to know what I’m doing today, it can easily be summed up by what’s written on the calendar. GOTR! Deposit! Call Pumpkin Run! Post Cards for New Families! Library! Harper piano 4:30! CSIP 6:00 Heights! MC piano 6:30! Target Cards x 3! Queen’s Birthday (Australia – WA)! (I’m also going to squeeze in a run and a shower.)

So, my Fight Club thing has found me at a two and a half pound standstill. I wanted to be down ten by Halloween. I don’t believe I have time for the final 7.5, so I’m going to call on my mean buddy Jillian Michaels to smack me around for a bit. What does this mean? I have removed the shrink wrap from my 30 Day Shred DVD.

I’ve been working on some tulip mittens.

The school’s fall festival is over, September is gone, Amy Winehouse is still dead, and here we go!

(November is looking a little rough, so I might try to give NaBloPoMo a whirl one month early. We’ll see what happens.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I just realized that last week marked the eleventh anniversary of Fluid Pudding. Eleven years. According to this article, eleven years is the average lifespan of an online empire.

Sound the trumpets! And, farewell.

(I considered hitting the Publish button just now, but come on. We all know I’m not going anywhere. (I paid for two years of hosting in May. You don’t buy a year long gym membership and then go only once. (Unless you’re me. In 1996. Really.)) Honestly, I hope I don’t throw a big whiny parade for myself when I decide to leave Fluid Pudding for good. I’m just a tiny tiny room in a house that’s entirely too large, and I have no idea where I’m going with this paragraph. I’ve had a migraine off and on for 14 days now. 14 days! It’s hardly debilitating, but I’m finding that I’m spending more time than I would like rubbing my temples and throwing my head from right to left and saying Powder when I mean Dishwasher and pressing metal balls into my neck. Lots of heat on the pillow and cold on the forehead. One of my very favorite people has recommended acupuncture, and I’m about three days away from making a few calls. Are we still inside a parenthetical thought? Yes. Here. Let’s close it.)

The only time I get a little itchy about The State of Fluid Pudding is when I take note of the people who are talking about their brand and their audience and their advertisers. Don’t get me wrong—I love the idea of creating an actual empire by sitting at the dining room table while writing about fingernail polish, but it’s something I’ve never been able to Get. I’m constantly receiving e-mails that say things like, “Are you a food blogger? Then we may have an opportunity for you!” Are you a crafty blogger? Are you a fashion blogger? Are you an educational blogger? Are you a political blogger? Are you a mommy blogger whose kids are between the ages of 4 and 7? Are you a baby mommy blogger? Do you eat hamburgers? Do you drink wine?

I’m none of those things and less. I’ve done some decent things here and I’ve messed up some things here. (Remind me to tell you the story of May 2011 and how I screwed up a relationship that was very important to me. I’m still kicking myself, and I bruise easily.) Full Disclosure: The ads over to your right throw me enough cash to cover my host fees and my domain renewal. I have no idea what that means, other than I’m coming out even.

I’m a little disappointed in the latest Ben Folds Five album, and I’ve been listening to a LOT of Jellyfish.

This morning during my run, I was stopped by two deer, I was entertained by a guy playing bagpipes, and I was yelled at by a goose. Here’s to eleven more. (Years. Not angry geese.)

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