Daily Archives : Page 85 of 110 : Fluid Pudding

Psst! I’m ready for skirt season!

Do you guys know Isabella Golightly? She lives in Australia and despite the fact that she has never had a proper fish taco, she’s absolutely delightful. A few weeks back, I visited her Etsy shop and ordered a flatpack for schlepping around my keys and phone and cash card when I go to the gym. (HA HA HA HA!!! I don’t go to the gym! When I say Gym, I mean grocery store, school, or Gokul.) ((By the way, Gokul is opening their Loop location on Thursday if any of my lunch people want to hook up for lunch in the coming weeks!))

Anyway. My flatpack arrived in the mail yesterday, and I didn’t even realize it was there because I’m afraid to get my mail. (Not because of this. Currently, our driveway is a solid sheet of ice. In fact, if my milkman is reading this right now, he’s yelling, “Yeah! And I almost cracked my butt on that ice yesterday morning carrying your half gallons up to the house! I rock a mic like a vandal, light up a stage and wax a chump like a candle!”) This morning the lovely Isabella asked if I had received the pouch, so Jeff risked his life by sliding down the hill to the mailbox, and yes.

I’m in love with this flatpack, and I’m not quite sure how I got by without it. (I’m looking at you, Yesterday!) ((This month, all proceeds will benefit Queensland Flood Relief!)) (((I’m afraid this photo makes the pouch look HUGE. It’s actually quite small—the perfect size to hold my phone, my cash and insurance cards, my lip stuff, license, and iPod. Everything I Need.)))

On a semi-related note, on the way home from my book club meeting on Sunday, I had ten minutes to stop by a fabric sale before the store closed. It took about three minutes to get over the feeling of being completely overwhelmed, an additional two minutes to remember how much fabric I need to make the skirt that I tend to make, and five more minutes to find two fabrics that I love. When the sun comes out and the corduroy pants are thrown back into the top of the closet, I will be sporting a daisy skirt.

Unless, of course, I’m sporting a green pepper skirt.

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Be prepared.

According to the local meteorologists, St. Louis is about to experience a crippling snow/ice storm. It just occurred to me that we lost power during the ice storm of 2006, and if this ice storm is going to be anything like THAT ice storm (and, according to everyone on the news, IT WILL BE), we will be unable to cook the food that I put on this week’s meal plan. SO, as I type this note to you, I’m making curried cauliflower with chick peas and tomatoes. When the girls go to bed, I’ll be making the thing where I put chili in the bottom of a 13 x 9 pan, and then bake corn bread on top of it! Genius! (For my Facebook friends, you can find the recipe in my photos section in the It Goes In My Face folder.) ((I make it with Boca crumbles, and you really can’t tell that it’s not a ground up cow under the corn bread!))

Jeff, our resident hero, spent the afternoon securing fire wood, shopping for groceries, and making sure we have the proper batteries for our flashlights. PLUS, he brought home pizza from the new Little Caesar’s location down the road, AND he assures me that he can get us to the Sheraton if all hell breaks loose. (I know. I’m the luckiest.)

The girls have been preparing for the storm in their own way. The DSi charger has been at work all afternoon, and all stuffed animals are lined up around the outer edges of the mattresses.

Harper: I have an idea.

Me: What is it?

Harper: Let’s charge the television. That way, if we lose power, we can still watch a movie. Oh. Let’s charge the DVD player, too.

Me: It’s a great idea, but I’m afraid you can’t charge the television or the DVD player.

Harper: That’s fine. BUT, we should probably charge the refrigerator.

Me: Again. Great idea. BUT, you can’t charge a refrigerator, either.

Harper: Okay. Is the car charged?

The car is charged. What I didn’t tell Harper is that I have no idea how to open the garage door during a power outage. Imagine how excited she’ll be when we, under the influence of cold cauliflower curry, rev up the engine and back through the garage door on our way to the Sheraton! The neighbors already adore us for keeping the rotten railroad ties in our front yard. Imagine how their hearts will swell as we become the Dukes of Hazzard.

Oh! Oh! Good News!!! After telling you my sad chicken broth story, I pulled up the Melting Pot menu. Although the server across the aisle told her customers that our chosen cooking style contains chicken broth, I noticed that the menu doesn’t mention it! In a fit of excitement, I called two different locations, and both assured me that unless we specifically ordered chicken broth, the coq au vin style consists of wine and herbs only. SO: I didn’t eat dead bird juice after all!!! (No offense to the swillers of dead bird juice. I still love you. In fact, I live with three of you. (Five, if you count the cats.)) Anyway, I am completely pleased to report this to you as I close down my seventh month with no meat. With that said, who knows what Wednesday will bring? We all remember what happened in the Andes. (By the way, what an awesome cabled sweater Josh Hamilton wears as he contemplates eating his friends!) Anyway, desperate times, desperate measures—and the Puddings with a drawer full of bacon… ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Harper’s not a chicken, but I am. Because you are what you eat. (Insert sobs here.)

This post has nothing to do with feminine protection! With that said, I feel the need to thank all of you who commented or sent e-mails regarding my tampon post. I have some very funny people stopping by Fluid Pudding. We should all have lunch sometime. Actually, let’s do it in Australia so I can kill all sorts of (figurative) birds with one stone. (Here’s a bird: My life list now holds the following item: Prepare fish tacos for Isabella Golightly in Australia, as they do not have chipotles in adobo sauce in Australia. Are you doing the life list thing? I want to learn how to make paper dolls, too.)

Three days ago, Harper told me that she wanted to get her ears pierced. I asked if she wanted a few weeks to think about it, or if she wanted to go after school on Monday. With Jeff in New Orleans and the girls and I constantly on the lookout for diversions (we almost bought a baby monkey over the weekend!), we went after school on Monday.

Long story short: She sat in the piercing chair and chose her starter earrings, they pierced the first ear, she cried and cried, I fought back the urge to vomit and gave her the option of doing the second ear later, she put on her Stalwart hat and decided to go through with the entire process in one sitting, and there you go. I now have a very brave five year old with blue daisy earrings.

There’s simply no way to tie this to that, so I’ll just tell you this: I went back to Weight Watchers last week. I first joined back in 2003 when I had something like 35 pounds to lose after giving birth to my ten pound Meredith. (I believe it took about six months to lose those 35 pounds.) I’ve joined and quit more times than I care to admit, but Jennifer Hudson! Singing Nina Simone! It’s a new dawn! A new day! A new life! Argh! I couldn’t NOT go back! Anyway, I went to an actual meeting this afternoon and I had lost 2.6 pounds, meaning I’m within two pounds of my goal weight, meaning my lifetime membership is back on track, meaning I don’t have to pay.

All of this to say: I’m liking the new program. I’m a vegetarian who tries to eat as many unprocessed foods as possible, and this plan seems to be very well-suited to that lifestyle. Yes, I can’t go to Gokul every day, but I *can* go once or twice a week if I feel a hankering. If you have any questions, feel free to ask them. If you have major criticism, please make sure you know what you’re talking about before you start talking. (I have a lot of pet peeves. One of them is the tiny splotch of yogurt that always seems to pop out onto my hand when I’m peeling off the foil lid. Another is when someone spins their uninformed head around and pukes out things like, “That damned Weight Watchers diet is cuhrazy bad for you!” without really knowing the first thing about it. First off? It’s not a diet. Secondly? I’m eating fruit and soup and oatmeal and Indian food and bean burritos and sushi. I’m very happy and not at all hungry.)

Last week I told Jeff that I believe it’s time for us to install a punching bag in the basement. I’m the most non-confrontational person you’ll ever meet, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to punch a bag.

I believe I’m still feeling a bit of anxiety over my inability to draw a proper picture of a chicken. Here. Let me just tell you: After being a strict vegetarian for seven months, I unknowingly cooked my vegetables and tofu in chicken broth last weekend at The Melting Pot, and I’m STILL bothered by it. I feel like I’ve gone backward—like I have to take my two hundred twenty something days of being meat free back to zero. Ugh. AND, I would blame our server who knew I was vegetarian and didn’t tell us that our chosen cooking method had a chicken broth base, but really. It’s not her responsibility to babysit my lifestyle. I should have asked more questions. So disappointing. AND, I was physically ill for nearly three days after eating, and I have no way of knowing if it was the chicken broth that made me sick, or if the whole episode was psychosomatic. I don’t want to talk about it. I miss Keith Olbermann.

Seriously. Let’s go to Australia together. I promise to not yammer. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Can I talk about feminine protection over here?

Let’s just get all of the nasty stuff out of the way, shall we? (Warning: This post contains paragraphs that might make boys uncomfortable. And perhaps some girls. And because I used the word Warning, I cannot guarantee where we’re going to end up when all of this is over, but at least I know I’m covered. Buckle up, Sporty.)

By the way, I’ve been meaning to put something up at Fluid Pudding for the past several days, but it seems that I’m unable to draw a suitable picture of me with chickens flying out of my stomach. Please know that I have a story to tell you, but it will have to wait until I can draw the chickens flying out of my stomach. I’ll accept submissions. (Please know that the face of a girl with chickens flying out of her stomach does not carry a smile. It’s a face that showcases the bowels of despair. And that pun really was sort of intended, but I’m not going to slap something up here that will cause BlogHer to be all, “Hello! No more pictures of bowels on your face. This is your first and final warning.”)

This morning I took a tampon out of the box (Whoa! Hey! I warned you!), and the side of the package said “Practice makes perfect.” You’re right. It does! With that said, I’ve been at this game since the summer after seventh grade. Lots of practice. Out of curiosity, I grabbed another out of the box. “Go for the goal.” (The goal seems obvious. No leakage?) The next one said, “Explore new forms of fearlessness.” (I can assure you that I do NOT want to explore new forms of fearlessness within the realm of tampon insertion. Good night.)

I remember a few months back when everyone was up in arms because Always was printing things like “Have a nice period.” on the inside of their sanitary napkin wrappers. Personally, I prefer that over “Go for the goal.” This particular box of tampons was on sale a few months back, and I purchased them despite the fact that they are marketed for active sporty girls. (I am most definitely NOT an active sporty girl, although I *did* attempt to do yoga a few nights back. When the instructor (on the DVD, because I rarely leave my home) said, “Nice work! Now we’re all warmed up and ready to begin!” I turned off the television and began to weep.) Are there active sporty girls out there who are exiting the bathroom feeling encouraged and all ready to play volleyball after reading the side of their tampon wrapper? I want to meet those active sporty girls! (Sort of.) ((Not really.))

I’ve come up with a few phrases I wouldn’t mind seeing on my future tampons.

“Let’s get this thing over with.”

“Please don’t forget me up there like you almost did that one time.”

“My job is worse than your job. Nothing you can say will make me feel differently.”

“Are you hungry? Because it’s okay if you want to eat an entire pan of brownies.”

I could go on and on, but I’m keeping the best ones to myself just in case the tampon people want to call me. (Call me, tampon people!)

It’s a snow day over here, so I’ll spare you the story of how I’m still (figuratively!) paying for the pedicures that I received over the summer, and how I will NEVER go to that particular nail salon again.

Have I made you wince? I think you’re so pretty. Let’s explore new levels of fearlessness. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Patch, Schmatch! It’s the end of a chapter!

If you’ve been with me for awhile, you know that Meredith was diagnosed with amblyopia when she was three. She was super-farsighted in her right eye, and her brain had pretty much turned off the switch in her left eye. To get her left eye working again, she started wearing a patch over her right eye.

This is Meredith when we first started patching. What a cute three year old! Argh!

A week or so after we started patching, her glasses came in, and she started doing this thing where she would close her eyes because she thought if she couldn’t see us, we couldn’t see her.

She was a total good sport about the patching. I think she even wore the patch to school a few times, even though I promised her that I would never make her do that if it made her uncomfortable.

(I found this sort of interesting. If a child approached her while she was wearing her patch, more often than not, the child would ask, “Why are you wearing a patch?” If an adult approached her, the adult would look right over her head and ask me “What’s wrong with her?” This normally took place at the grocery store by our house—the store where the ill-mannered elderly often shop. Also, they don’t sell chipotle chiles in adobo sauce there, and it drives me crazy! Anyway.)

(Side story: We always let Meredith choose her own frames, because we want her to be happy to wear her glasses. The frames in the above photo (better seen here) were more expensive than any other pair we’ve purchased. When I asked why, I was told that the tiny ladybugs on the nose and sides were handpainted by elderly German artisans. True story. My shoes were probably sewn by a four year old in China, and Meredith’s glasses were painted by an 80 year old in Munich. We Are The World.) There were months when we patched for six to eight hours per day. Sometimes two to four hours per day. For the past six months, we were asked to patch “for a few hours two or three times each week or so.”

This morning, Meredith had an appointment with her pediatric ophthalmologist. Her quality of vision showed no change with the sporadic patching during the past six months. Because of this, I’m pleased to report that we will no longer be patching. (Obviously, if her vision had improved, we would be happy to continue with the patching to see if the improvements would continue. However, the articles I’ve read state that improvements are seen less often after a child reaches the age of seven. We Are Average, and with 20/40 vision with her glasses on, we’ll accept Average.)

We’ve come a long way. High fives to MC’s doctor, high fives to the kind folks at Patch Pals, and high fives to Meredith for being a Super Trooper and never converting the patch into an albatross. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

This is when I straighten out our soups! Soup straightening at 2:07!

Jeff is home from Palm Springs, and has been home sick for the past two days. I hate that he’s sick and I wish he felt better and insert all of those other sympathetic things that I’m supposed to say here, but really: I need him to go back to work so I can stop spending the day jumping up and spraying Swiffers with Pledge for no real reason other than to look busy.

Me: Oh! Um, it’s 10:27! This is the time when I normally dust the DVD player and all of the Wii games! See? Like this! I keep very busy when you’re at work.

Time passes.

Me: Um, oh! It’s 11:49! Now is the time when I do something like wipe out the bathroom sink! You might THINK I sit on the couch when I’m between freelance jobs. BUT, I do not. I wipe out the sink! At 11:49, usually! Give or take a minute or two! Idle hands are the devil’s workshop!!! Who is this, this Dr. Oz on the television?!

I just left the house for nearly an hour. Thank God I had a video due at the library. Thank God Bath & Body Works is having a sale on the stuff I use, meaning it’s silly to NOT go stock up on my shower gel. (Have I told you that my signature scent involves jasmine and vanilla? Well, it does!)

Jeff is currently downstairs on a conference call, which gives me a few minutes to sit here and drink coffee. As soon as I hear him saying his goodbyes, I’ll probably feel the urge to throw some laundry into a basket or spray some Lysol into a toilet or vacuum the cats or chew the skin off of my knuckles or something. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Pudding on the Rocks. Shaken.

I’ve had three dreams in my life that tend to take place over and over again.

(Some call them Recurring Dreams. I call them dreams in my life that tend to take place over and over again.)

The first involves me missing an elementary school choir concert that I was supposed to accompany on the piano. In the dream, I realize that the concert is taking place right as it finishes, and the guilt I feel for not being there to play the piano is completely overwhelming. I cry. I make countless apologetic phone calls to the choir director. I swear this will never EVER happen again. Interestingly enough, thanks to Facebook, I actually reconnected with the choir director involved in the dream last year, and I met up with her for dinner. I explained the dream to her, and she has assured me that this event never took place, nor does she believe that it ever WOULD take place. I haven’t had the dream since we had that conversation. Cured.

The second dream? I get lost in the city and take a wrong turn onto a bridge without railings that is only slightly wider than my car, and I’m forced to drive something like ninety miles per hour. I freak out, drive off the edge of the bridge, and wake myself up by jolting in bed. I’m not quite sure what I’ll have to do to get rid of this dream, other than drive into a tree to shift focus from the bridge. I’m not quite ready to explore my options on this one.

In the third dream, I put on ice skates for the first time ever, reluctantly step over to the ice rink, and suddenly transform into the most elegant of skaters this world has ever seen. I leap. I spin. I do this sort of thing! And suddenly, Madeleine begins to play, and I get all jaunty and the world falls in love with my moves, and I’m just as surprised as everyone, because This Is My Very First Time Skating! Who knew I was The Reticent Conqueror?!?!

A few days back, Meredith was invited to a birthday party that will take place at an ice rink, and family members have been encouraged to attend.

This is it, my friends. For the first time in forty years, I’ll be lacing up the skates and will either crystallize or kill my dream of becoming a graceful senior level ice princess.

Keep your fingers crossed. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Do you really want to play that way?

As you know, Jeff is in Palm Springs for the next few days. His original flight was canceled yesterday morning, so he had to fly into Los Angeles and then drive into Palm Springs, and this unfortunate fliparoo of scheduling actually caused him to make it to his hotel before he would have had he been on the original flight, because: No Layover in Houston. Oh, the humanity!

Meanwhile, Meredith’s teacher pulled me aside on Wednesday and told me that Meredith wasn’t really acting like herself at school—she was throwing her feet up on her desk and acting sort of nuts, which isn’t really her typical At School demeanor. Later that evening, Meredith Baroque DaHown and I ended up keeping her home again yesterday. (I reluctantly sent her back to school today, and when I volunteered in her classroom this morning, I handed her teacher a piece of paper with my phone number on it and asked her to call me if things got crazy. I hate that I’m such a weirdo with that sort of thing.)

A few hours ago, I received the following photo from Jeff. It came in a message titled The View From My Doorstep.

Meanwhile, it’s sort of cold and snowy/rainy here. Oh! Wait! Here’s The View From My Doorstep.

Ah, but before you start grabbing your handkerchiefs and violins in my honor, please know that the UPS man has provided me with a silver lining!

(They’re my first ever pair of boots (really!), and they’re making me want to wear skirts and maybe even tie scarves around my neck and do cutesy twirls when I walk!)

((I fall down all of the time. I won’t really be doing the cutesy twirl thing. BUT, skirts! Maybe!))

(((Someday I might tell you about how the tissue paper surrounding the boots was smeared with what appeared to be some sort of animal feces. It sort of killed the buzz of the whole “Hey! Boot deliveries are awesome!” thing. Luckily, I was able to put on a pair of my disposable latex gloves (I wear them often), peel the paper away from the boots, verify that none of the mess was actually touching the shoes, and Hooray! Boot deliveries ARE awesome!)))

((((Yes. The tree is still up. I’m working on it. (I’m not really working on it.))))) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Talk to me so you can see what’s going on.

About a month ago, I finally got a laptop. With the freelance picking up, it felt like a good time. So, I brought the laptop home, I named him Ira, I got to know him, and a few days into our relationship I discovered that he had a camera. SO, I fired up the software and immediately found that I appeared upside down on the monitor. I spent about twenty minutes adjusting settings, but I never found anything that flipped the image over. Because I don’t believe that I’m supposed to be holding the laptop upside down (or standing on my head) to capture images, Jeff and I took the laptop back to the store to take advantage of our Geek Squad free subscription. (The subscription came with the laptop. Everything’s coming up roses!)

After doing EXACTLY WHAT I HAD DONE with the adjustment of the settings for about fifteen seconds, the Geek Squad guy said these words: “It’s a faulty computer. I’m just going to give you a new one.” He then folded up my laptop, walked away, and returned carrying a new laptop in a box.

Me (sputtering): Wait. What about the stuff on my laptop?

Geek Squad Guy: Don’t worry. We’ll clear it out.

Me: But the stuff! The stuff I put on it that I might need! I need a few minutes to look at my stuff!

I then spent about three minutes writing down these exact words in one of my little notebooks:

Old freelance files
Two photos
Photoshop?

And then we left (and went to Cracker Barrel!), leaving Ira behind. The old freelance files? I have the current files on the Mac, so they’re good to go. The two photos? I don’t know what they are, other than upside down photos of a very bewildered me. Photoshop? Yeah. That felt like a tiny punch in the gut, but it’s all cleared up now. The New Ira, who I simply call Ira, is working like a charm, and everything is right side up and lovely.

Let’s see. What else? Meredith has a slight case of pneumonia, which I always thought was a serious thing, being that my grandmother died from it and all. BUT, she was cleared to return to school today (I’m once again talking about Meredith), and will be on antibiotics for the next three days. Dead birds are falling from the sky, and pneumonia no longer walks uphill both ways. Something wicked this way comes.

I used to be one of the most easy going people I know, but now it seems that I cannot deal with salt and pepper unless I grind them myself. I’m writing it off as One of Those Quirks That Appear When A Girl Turns Forty, along with my new fascination with the Clarisonic Mia, which I’ll tell you all about if you want to hear it. (I don’t need any hateration on the Mia, by the way. I know it’s expensive. I know it’s a face washing system. I know. I know! I got one for Christmas, and I now spend my entire day looking forward to my nighttime Washing o’ the Face. The next time you see me, I’ll probably look no different than the last time you saw me. HOWEVER, I’ll be glowing from within. Because of sonic skin cleansing. I know.)

Jeff is leaving tomorrow for Palm Springs. Last year during his trip, our furnace went out and I became one of those ladies who sleeps with a fire starter under her pillow and listens to furnace guys tell sob stories about bloody urine. This year we have a different furnace, a new way to wash our face, and a sea salt grinder. Bring the noise, Public Enemy! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

John Slattery has a cute little nose. And so does Jeff.

Harper approached me last night with a very serious look on her face.

Harper: Mom, if Justin Bieber marries Selena Gomez, will I still have dreams about him?

Me: Well, first of all, I doubt that Bieber and Selena Gomez get married. BUT, to answer your question, yes! You can still have dreams about him. I mean, I guess you can still dream about him.

Harper: It’s just that *I* want to marry him.

Me: I know. BUT, you’re five. You have a lot of living to do before it’s time to get married.

Harper: Actually, I can get married when I’m eighteen, but I might want to be a rock star first.

Me: Yes. I would love for you to be a rock star first. OR, maybe you can go to college!

Harper: It’s just that Bieber has such a cute little nose.

Oh, Harper. I get it. When I was a kid, Andy Gibb had a cute little nose. And then Les McKeown had a cute little nose. And how many photos of myself did I tape over Nancy McKeon’s face just so I could get next to Michael J. Fox’s cute little nose?

This one’s for you, Harper. Admittedly, it’s Creepiness Deluxe. BUT, I think you’ll like it. Suddenly, your big face is covering Selena’s—right next to Bieber’s cute little nose.

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