Daily Archives : Page 83 of 110 : Fluid Pudding

I don’t care who designed Kate’s dress.

Harper will be six tomorrow, and I have a field trip with Meredith’s class (Chinese Buffet!). Meredith will be eight on Friday, and I have a field trip with Harper’s class (Zoo!). We have two birthday parties scheduled for Saturday and one for Sunday. Things are hectic, but it’s a Happy Hectic.

“Oh! Wait a second,” you may say, “I have noticed a glaring omission in your List o’ Hectic! Prince William! Kate Middleton! Have you no desire to put on a hat and participate in the jollification? EVEN ANDERSON COOPER WILL BE THERE!”

Oh, Internet. I will not be dragging myself out of bed to watch the royal wedding (or The Royal Wedding, depending on how much oomph you feel this event deserves). I dragged myself out of bed when I was eleven years old to watch Prince Charles marry Lady Diana, and I do remember it as being sort of perfect as I sat wrapped up in a blanket on the couch next to my mom. But listen. Times have changed. I’ll be 41 in a few weeks, and at this moment I can’t think of many things that excite me so much that I would leave my bed. I’m TIRED!

Okay. The Following Things Would Excite Me So Much That I Would Leave My Bed:
1. A midnight showing of Amélie complete with complimentary sweet potato pancakes and bottomless chai tea lattes. (Click on the link. It will take you to one of my favorite scenes from the movie. It never fails to bring tears to my eyes.)

2. Schmutzie has a pair of new Stefanies she’d like to give me for twenty bucks if I can meet her at a coffee/pancake dump at two in the morning.

3. Mumford and Sons are playing in my back yard, Tina Fey has set up a burrito stand, and Jimmy Fallon is hanging out by the fence with a Pocket Full of H’s!

4. Unexpected movement of the detritus that tends to sit motionless in my intestinal switchbacks.
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Ghandi does not rhyme with Tuesday.

I just spent nearly 30 seconds trying to think of a word that rhymes with Tuesday. When I didn’t feel like wasting any more of my time (It’s worth over twenty bucks an hour at times! Other times? It’s worth absolutely nothing! You’ll never hear me complain!), I typed a search into the Internet. I was told that Ghandi rhymes with Tuesday. I’m no poet/songwriter/seamstress/cook/etc., but I DO know that pairing up Tuesday and Ghandi is a stretch. Blues day. Goons day. You stay. Anyway.

This Easter was the worst Easter I’ve ever had. Seriously. Ever. It had nothing to do with lack of eggs or candy or fellowship or amazing food, because we had all of that. It had everything to do with this little puppy and how we got her on Friday but had to take her back on Monday, and who knew my heart could bust up SO MUCH after spending less than 72 hours with a muffin-footed hound?

I won’t talk about the reasons why we had to take her back, because it tears me up and I don’t need additional help in the tearing up department. I’ll just say this: She’s an awesome dog, and is at the Maryland Heights Humane Society in St. Louis. (They call her Candy. We called her Beezus.) Go adopt her. She’s a super-quick learner and sleeps through the night without whining! She’s great with cats AND with kids. She’ll even take a nap on you if she feels the urge.

Let’s change the subject. In about an hour I have a doctor appointment during which we’ll be talking about cutting something weird off of my hip. (I’m purposefully going to leave you hanging, because the only thing I can think of that rhymes with Cellulitis is Norman Fell? You bite us!) I’m hoping we can get through the appointment without me having to remove my pants. In other words, Typical Tuesday for Angela Pudding. (Yes. Typical Ghandi.)

For the first time in a long time, I’m going to not allow comments on a post. This post. First off? Because of Beezus and how her leaving has made me more than sort of sad. Secondly? Because I don’t want to hear what else might rhyme with Tuesday. Or Cellulitis. Enjoy your Ghandi. (Until you fight us.)
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Warning: I’m about to Mommyblog it out over here!

A few months back, it was brought to our attention that the school district’s literary magazine was accepting submissions, and that this year’s theme was Discovery. I talked to Harper, and she decided that she would love to write a poem. Because her class had recently written a few sensory poems, that style was fresh in her head.

Harper: Discovery smells like pizza.

Me: What kind of pizza?

Harper: Sausage pizza!

Me: Yes! I like that it’s sausage. Where do you get Discovery Sausage Pizza?

Harper: Disney World!

Me: Is there anything else you want to add about the pizza so everyone can picture it in their head?

Harper: It’s JUICY!

We continued back and forth until the poem was written and submitted. I’m pleased to report that Harper’s Discovery Poem was selected for inclusion in the magazine, and she was able to read it at last night’s reception.

As she was getting ready for bed, I asked her how it feels to be a published writer at age five. She answered, “Well, I’m not so sure I want to be famous, but I like that we went to Dairy Queen to celebrate.”
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Holes In My Head

At age 32, when I became pregnant with Meredith, I removed my Billy Pancake ring (long story) along with the four “extra” earrings in my ears. For whatever reason, I viewed Pregnancy as a time to say goodbye to superfluosity, which is not a recognized word in the English language. (Apparently, I’m making up a lot of non-words these days. Unimaginability!)

When I was at Camp KIP (I know! Here I go again with the mentioning of knitting camp! NOW I’m actually calling it by name! Next up? I’ll probably rename my goofy website “Fluid Pudding Goes to Knitting Camp!”), I noticed a LOT of people with “extra” earrings, and some of the pierced folks were moms and some were not and I couldn’t stop wishing that I hadn’t removed my tiny hoops over eight years ago. Because, really. Being a mom doesn’t necessarily mean you’re allowed only two earrings, three pairs of khaki capri pants, and four t-shirts with subdued floral prints. There really is no Mom Costume, right? Am I right?

Last night we met some friends from New York for dinner, and the last time we saw these particular friends was nearly ten years ago—before any of us had kids. Last night there were four kids at our table, and for whatever reason, it really hit me that not much has changed in the past ten years, yet we’re now a party of eight instead of a party of four—BUT we can still talk about good music and books that poke our brains. (Can you tell that I’m typing this out really quickly? It’s very difficult (yet such a rattlesnaking cliché) to describe how some things change yet others stay the same, and perhaps I should have relegated this particular Ironing Out to my handwritten journal, but sadly, my handwritten journal doesn’t even exist at this time. I keep meaning to get back into pulling out my notebook every morning, but then I don’t. I could learn so much from this guy. (I actually cried when I watched that video. (Happy HandToFace Crying.) His website is here, and is one of my new favorites.) Where was I? Have I closed all of my parenthetical asides?!)

After we ate at Fitz’s last night, we walked to FroYo, whose website blasts annoying loud music, and I feel the need to warn you before I actually link to it. To get to FroYo, you have to pass by Phoenix Rising. (Fact: Nearly fifteen years ago, I purchased tiny hoop earrings at Phoenix Rising, and I’m now unable to find those hoops.) As we sat around eating our frozen yogurt, the pull became too much for me. I excused myself, walked next door, asked if they had tiny hoops (they did—at five dollars per pair!), quickly checked out, and was back in my yogurt seat in less than five minutes.

I am pleased to report that I have replaced three of my hoops, and only one of my three chosen holes needed to be partially redrilled. (In case you’re wondering about the fourth hole, I’m not quite sure I can get away with having a hoop on the top of my ear. For now, that story will remain untold. Also, I will not redo Billy Pancake.)

Suddenly, my ears look eight years younger.

Speaking of which, you know that I stuffed my mouth with marshmallows for you, I eyelinered my face for you, and I Sharpied my hands for you. My birthday is coming up in a few weeks, and I’m out of ideas. Feel free to challenge me.
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This is (mostly) NOT another post about knitting camp.

Confession: I’m one of those big whiny babies who blasts from three to ten when the outside temperature travels more than ten degrees beyond my comfort zone. On any given day in August, if you put your ear against my house, you will not hear the ocean. You will hear me getting out of the shower and screaming, “It’s HOT IN THIS HOUSE! I’m out of the shower and I’m SWEATING DOWN MY BACK!!! Somebody FIX THIS!!!” (I know. The current estimated world population is 6,894,765,132. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that most of those people probably don’t have residential air conditioning. My rule: We can all complain about three things in life. One of my chosen three is Torridity. I am not completely unlike Scarlett O’Hara.) ((If you’re curious, another of my chosen three is the fact that the best French onion soup is made with beef broth, and Vegetarian Me is really bummed out about that.)) (((I’ll keep the third thing to myself so I can change it desultorily.))) Fact: Today I used the word unimaginability for the first time, and I now see that it isn’t actually a word. Imaginability? Yes. Unimaginable? Yes. Unimaginability? No. And I was feeling so SMART when I said it!

Back to business. The temperature in our room at knitting camp was difficult to regulate. On two separate occasions, my friend and I had to walk to the front desk and ask how to switch the unit from Hot to Cold. (The answer? Press seventeen different buttons in the correct order to turn the Sun into a Snowflake! Obvious!) Eventually, we were able to reach our inner Mordecai Meirowitz to transform Sun to Snowflake, but it wasn’t enough. We then became ambitious and decided to figure out how to increase the intensity of the air flow.

I am pleased to report that after finding our remote control manual for the air/heating unit, we learned that the available settings were Low, Medium, High, and CHAOS. (The all-caps treatment was theirs, not mine.) CHAOS! When we took our unit to CHAOS, the room filled with butterflies, and three days later there was a tornado in Luxembourg. The End.
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Average gestation for a llama? 350 days!

If you’ve been with me since March of 2006, you know that I’m a sucker for alpacas.

The photos in that entry have disappeared, but because TimeWaster is my middle name (Thanks, Mom and Dad!), I searched our external hard drive and found them for you!

Here they are, ordered as they appeared in the original post—over five years ago!

By the way, this is what Jeff and the girls looked like over five years ago.

(If everything Steve Miller says is true, we will be doing this in about a week.)

Anyway. Over the weekend I discovered that not only do I love alpacas, I also love llamas! (You know what? I’m going to throw caution to the wind over here and just say it. I love ALL camelids!)

Just look at this guy, who may or may not really be a girl! (I’ve been calling him Barack O’Llama, so let’s go with Boy.) He was sheared on Friday morning, and I was able to walk away with a tiny bag of his hair. I’m going to plant that hair in my back yard, and when I wake up with a yard full of adorable baby llamas, you will be the first to know.

(A dream is a wish your heart makes.)
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I’ll spin you a yarn!

Hey, you guys. Look what I’m making.

It’s yarn. AND, because I tend to let my new obsessions go all crazy, I just spent a little too much time looking at spinning wheels. Conclusion: They’re expensive.

If you have a strong opinion/recommendation, tell me what sort of wheel I need. (Need. Yep. I know. Need is a strong word. I’m sort of lucky to not Need much of anything. How about telling me what sort of wheel I might want?)

(I know that portability is currently at the top of my list of features, only because I saw about four or five people toting their wheels around this weekend, and the women whose wheels were in cases seemed very smiley to me.)

((I’m currently looking at the Kromski Sonata or a Schacht Ladybug, mainly because I know of a local dealer, and buying locally is always a good idea. Any opinions?))

(((Please know that it is going to take at least a year for me to save up for such a purchase, so a hasty decision isn’t an option. Research is key.)))

((((If you are a manufacturer of spinning wheels and you want to send a wheel to me because you have wheels that you like to give away to enthusiastic beginners? I’ll send a huge batch of cake balls to you, and I’ll make sure to mention your wheel by name every single time I throw up a spinning post. Because I love you.))))

Edited to add: If you want to see a brief recap of camp from The Knitmore Girls and Miss Kalendar from Brass Needles, you can follow this link!
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Welcome to Knitting Camp! With wifi!

I’m coming to you this morning from Camp KIP! Because when you go camping, you often have a wireless network connection, right? We arrived Wednesday afternoon at four o’clock-ish, and I quickly learned that most of this week’s campers consist of knitting podcasters and the people who love knitting podcasters.

All of this to say: I have work to do. Podcasts to upload! Decisions to make regarding which podcasters are worthy of my (valuable?) time! (I currently listen to three podcasts: This American Life, The Moth, and Stash and Burn. Feel free to recommend other podcasts that I shouldn’t be missing, and I’ll figure out what part of my hygiene routine I can eliminate to score some more time!)

What I’ve learned so far: I sort of enjoy the whole Making Yarn With a Drop Spindle thing! My friend from afar presented me with the drop spindle she used when she was learning, along with a bunch of beautiful roving, and we sat and we spun and I forgot the wire that connects my camera to my computer or else I would show you exactly what I’m talking about.

AND, because Some Things Are Meant to Be, last night I won a lovely BFL/silk braid of roving, which means the spinning thing is something I really shouldn’t give up any time soon, because the universe is providing me with supplies. So there you go.

Yesterday evening we had a beer tasting at the on-site microbrewery. While there, I learned that I’m not really cut out for beer tasting, especially when my fellow tasters are saying things like, “Budweiser tastes like pee! That’s not beer!” and “Check out the nutmeg notes and hint of papaya in this one!” I felt a bit out of sorts and could only say things like, “I think this one smells like chocolate, but tastes like coffee! I want to pour it over ice cream! SortOfButNotReally!” (I wrote the entire experience off when the person giving the presentation made two slightly homophobic references. Ugh. Time to bail and go spin!)

Today is vendor day, meaning people are coming in from miles around to sell us stuff. (I hope someone is selling falafel, because I have a hankering.)

I’ll have photos to share when I get back home. I hope you’re doing well!
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I will mangle your microwave and cripple your coffeepot.

I volunteer at the girls’ school at least three days each week, and I totally love being there. I love the teachers, I love the office staff, I love the kids, I love using the word Love, and so on! (I *did* try to employ my reliable thesaurus in order to tune down the Love a bit, and it was recommended that I say something like “I get a bang out of the teachers” or “I lust for the office staff.” I believe I will stick with Love. Thus it is, and so it goes.)

Yesterday afternoon my mom and I volunteered to help 73 first and second graders make paper. About an hour before the kids were to arrive, the teacher showed us how to make pulp in the blender and asked us to fill nine tubs with different colored pulps. Sixty minutes to fill nine tubs with pulp. Duck soup.

After about four or five tubs, we broke the blender. And when I say “we broke the blender” I simply mean that the blender stopped working. I don’t believe we did anything incorrectly—it just overheated or something and died. (It took the microwave down with it, so I can only assume this was an electrical issue. However, when we tried to plug the blender in at a working outlet? It once again did not work. This story is growing entirely too long. May I bring you a blanket?)

The teacher, who is admirably unflappable and kind, handed some cash over and asked if I could go to the store and grab another blender. Yes I can! Mom and I rushed out, grabbed another blender, returned to the school, and made another three tubs of pulp before the second blender broke. At that point, we felt a bit Lucy and Ethel-esque.

My mom (making small talk to distract me from freaking out): Do you still have that weird spot on your hip?

Me: Yep. I think I’m going to have it cut off after knitting camp.

My mom: You know, I’m pretty good at making paper. Maybe I could cut that thing off of your hip!

Both of us: Ha Ha HA HA HA!!!!!

We were able to make due with the pulp we created before Operation Blender Annihilation, and 73 students made some pretty awesome paper before Mom and I headed home for the day. Excellent. (This morning I helped 21 kids plant grass seeds in cups, and at one point I actually said, “I don’t think you want to see me lose my patience.” As my kids know, this is the final thing I tend to say before completely losing my cool. Luckily, I was able to finish the planting and exit the building without showing everyone my ugly Jekyll/Hyde spin kick transformation. (No disrespect intended toward those with actual split personality disorders. (Bases? Covered!)))

I’m getting ready for next week’s knitting camp, and I plan on taking you with me if the WiFi connection is as great as they say. (Dear Coffee Lady, I know. This is NOT real camping, is it?!) I’m taking my current lace weight project (a Pi Shawl made from Noro “Sekku”), a DK weight project (a Seraphim made of Silky Wool), a worsted weight project (a short-sleeved Liesl made of ruby Sierra), and my latest obsession: a Taygete made from Scout’s Swag and Sanguine Gryphon sock yarns. (It’s for my migraine doctor. Because she always admires my knitting and she hasn’t yet given up on the bugs in my head.)

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Meditation and Sweaters

Headache Doctor: So, are you currently taking any medication regularly other than Zonisamide and the multivitamin?

Me: I take a sleep aid at night.

Headache Doctor: How many times per week do you take it?

Me: Well, probably three times per week. Maybe more. Mostly more. Okay then. Seven nights per week.

Headache Doctor: We need to get you off of that. Ideally, you should be able to fall asleep and stay asleep without chemical intervention. What is your caffeine intake?

Me: I drink two or three cups of coffee each day, and I try to finish the final one before ten in the morning. With that said, I’m definitely stretching the truth, because here it is, almost two o’clock in the afternoon, and I’m drinking out of a Starbucks cup! Busted! I’M NOT VERY GOOD AT DECEITFULNESS!

Headache Doctor: Knowing that you SHOULD drink the final one before ten is a good start. Have you ever done yoga or meditation for relaxation?

Me: We joined a gym about three weeks ago, and I really should check the schedule to see if they offer yoga classes! AND, now that I’ve said that sentence out loud, I think we both know that the last thing I’m going to do is check the schedule to see if they offer yoga classes. I’m scared to death of the gym. There’s a pool there. I have no idea how to swim, I have no desire to learn how to turn on a stair machine, I know what a Kettlebell is, but I sort of feel the urge to cancel friendships with anyone who asks me to swing one around. I hate the smell of sweat. I feel awkward during all time not spent sitting on my couch, and sometimes I feel awkward when I AM on my couch. So, yeah. I take pills to sleep and sometimes I drink coffee all day. You should see my Hanes Her Way underpants. Dear God, I’ve got problems.

From there, it continued to sputter downhill. Eventually, I found my way home from the headache doctor (I see her again in May. I really need to knit that woman a pair of socks for dealing with my Crazy.), and I immediately logged in to Audible where I downloaded Buddhist Meditation for Beginners by Jack Kornfield. I am not Buddhist, nor do I buy into meditation. (The thought of being barefoot makes me a bit jittery, and once I’m on the floor I can’t get back up very well. Perhaps I need to take a class at the gym! Or swimming lessons! I know. Oh, people. Don’t hug me.)

Anyway, I’ve now put the meditation guide onto my iPod, and I’ve started listening to it every night for the past five nights. Get this: I haven’t heard more than four minutes of the silly thing because I keep falling asleep and not waking up until a cello starts playing at around the five and a half hour mark. In other words, I’m in bed taking in more than five hours of God knows what (accompanied by pan flutes!) while I slumber like a stinking baby! Meditation? Yes. It totally works. Passively.

(I really need to find out if hypnopaedia was truly discredited as a method of learning, because if I could be getting my realtor license or something while I slept, I would feel a hell of a lot more marketable. Imagine the possibilities!)

Hey! I finished a sweater. It’s a Liesl made out of Cascade 220, and I sort of want to make a cotton version (not so green, maybe?) with short sleeves to wear during the summer months.

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