Daily Archives : Page 99 of 110 : Fluid Pudding

Blitzkrieg Bop

I have an idea. Let’s make that whole “Attack Site” thing The Thing of Which We Shall Not Speak (TToWWSNS), okay? Onward!

I have a question. Should I be eating polenta? My grocery store is starting to carry “exciting” flavors, and I really don’t know what polenta is, but if the packaging looks sort of artsy and the words Mushroom Onion are right there in front of me, well, let’s just say I’m feeling a bit of temptation. The only thing that makes me put the polenta back on the shelf is the fact that holding it reminds me of holding pork sausage. I hold pork sausage only once each year. On Christmas morning. When I make this.

I have another question. Does anyone else detest the mornings as much as I do? It seems that our mornings are filled with kids yelling and screaming and pushing one another, and I let all of these things slowly fill me up until steam pours out of my ears and I feel as if I might sneak off into the bedroom and put my fist through a wall. This morning on the way to school, I (loudly) taught the girls about The Golden Rule. And I know how ridiculous I sounded, but I decided to NOT yell and scream about their behaviors and ugh! something about the importance of Teaching Moments, and gheez. I came home from drop off and made the biggest, most unstable pinto bean burrito you can imagine, and then I went to the vet clinic and picked up Ramona, who had a bit of a peeing issue on Monday, and now here I sit with a cat on my lap and a banana in my hand.

Me: Meredith, do you want Harper to push YOU down?

Meredith: No.

Me: Then you shouldn’t push Harper down.

Meredith: Mommy, I really don’t think Harper is strong enough to push me down.

Me: Burritoburritoburritoburritoburrito…

I’m wearing handknit socks today, and they go a little something like this:

Also, don’t forget the Febreze Giveaway! (It occurred during TToWWSNS, and I don’t want you to miss it!)

Finally, I’m doing NaBloPoMo in November. Are you?

Oh! Have you visited Offbeat Mama? Because I love it. So much. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Despite rumors to the contrary, I am not an attack site.

Oh, Internet.

Do you remember last week when I updated my software and I was So Proud and maybe a bit cocky about the whole thing?

Yesterday, as I was writing a review for BlogHer, my screen went squirrely, and I received a message accusing me of being an attack site. The message came from Google, but when I log into Google, my dashboard is all, “Hey, Fluid Pudding! Everything’s gravy! Wheee!”

As I type this message to you, I’m hoping that Liquid Web is looking into my issue. The last I heard was “I’m putting this over to our Security team. You should be hearing from them shortly.” That was about sixteen hours ago. I’m perplexed, Internet.

BUT, my house smells good. And if you want to read about it, you can follow me over here, once again, I doubt you’re attacked. Trust me. Argh! (Updated to add: One person was apparently sent to a site filled with pop-ups. No one else has mentioned any problems.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

All I wanted was to dance to a Milli Vanilli tune. Thwarted again.

As you know, I went to my high school reunion last year. As a result, I’m now once again in touch with all of my favorites from high school (via Facebook, of course). Actually, I take that back. I’m in touch with my favorites who are actually on Facebook. I’m still looking for this guy and the guy in the crop top. If you know where they are, please let me know. Also, does anyone have an update on W. Warden? Okay then.

Jeff’s reunion is coming up in a few weeks. When he told me about it last month, I quickly made plans to lose 25 pounds, grow out my hair, and memorize ten witty one liners. (My favorite? “If all the girls who attended the Hazelwood prom were laid end to end, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.” (High five, Dorothy Parker!)) The 25 pound thing? I failed. The hair? Shorter than ever. The one liners? Yeah, probably a waste of time when you consider the fact that I spoke to less than five people at the neighborhood party last weekend. So, anyway. Here we are. Sort of dreading the reunion. Not really looking forward to going through this again. Feeling like a frumpy wife with no quips.

Last night, Jeff went out with three of his friends from high school. When he returned, I was told that none of the friends’ wives are attending the reunion and that I now fall into that “none of the friends’ wives” set. Immediately, as I tend to do, I turned my exhaustion at the thought of GOING to the reunion into anger at NOT being able to go. Isn’t that pretty? I’m a whirling dervish, but not nearly as awesome as the authentic dervishes! I’m happy! I’m so sad! I’m sweating for no apparent reason! I love you! I despise you! Let’s eat marzipan!

Take Note: The girls called a family meeting, where the following announcements were made.

Meredith is no longer Meredith. She is Claire.

Harper? She shall switch off (with no warning) between Jordan and Daisy.

No one calls me Mommy anymore. I am Vanessa.

Jeff? Tom Roger. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

It’s like buying a brand new notebook and spiffy pen!

I suppose it’s a bit silly how I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar-ish I get after completing a seemingly piece of cake act like updating software. Suddenly, I’m wearing new underpants, and I feel like sitting here and writing all day. ($40 says I could have you sleeping by noon.)

After spending entirely too much money in Chicago (On YARN! My sister thinks I’m batty!), I took on a few reviews this week. SO, you’ll see those in the next week or so if you’re interested. (I was able to shoot a video of my kids eating spinach, and my house now smells autumnal and fresh. So there you go.)

What? You want to know what I’ll be knitting in the next several months? Let’s start with This Exact Shawl. It was hanging up in the very first booth we entered last weekend, and it didn’t really appeal to me until I was asked to try it on. (I’m still not sure how that happened. I was sort of drunk on silk at the time, and would have probably done just about anything asked of me. Luckily, I kept my skirt on.) Anyway, I tried on the shawl, and the angels started singing and I cried for three hours to release all of my toxins and ugliness and then I sang love songs to everyone in the convention center (Neil Diamond has nothing on me!), and right before I asked if I could go on a hugging spree, the woman removed the shawl and placed the pattern and yarn into a bag.

I’m currently this far in the game:

And that’s really not far at all, being that I have visions of curling up in this thing on Christmas morning as I sip coffee, listen to Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis, and wait for everyone to wake up. (It’s a personal tradition, give or take the hooker.)

I also bought the kit to make a sweater that is not a sweater. (Once again with the treachery of images!) It’s not a Sweater, it’s a stinking work of art. And I’m not going to link to it here, because you’ll look at the photograph and say, “Hhhmmmm. Time to put on a quilted Americana vest and stuff yourself with a big stupid piece of pie, Pudding!” I am going to keep you in suspense. (Only five people are still reading at this point. Does the knitting talk bore you?) Here’s a bone (I really hate that phrase, by the way): I just corresponded with the woman who is sending the kit to me. She told me the yarn has been back-ordered from Italy, and I firmly believe that adds to the allure. Because now the sweater is like a work of ITALIAN art, meaning Michelangelo and I could probably make out for awhile over coffee and tiramisu. (Tempe? Back me up. The sweater sort of resembles the Sistine Chapel ceiling, no?)

Abrupt change of topic! Tonight is our neighborhood party. More often than not, the party ends early for me when Harper either falls down, or simply decides she would rather sit on a couch in our family room and watch the party through the window than participate in it. (How do you raise your kids to be social creatures when you are most definitely NOT a social creature? Xanax and pumpkin beer? I try my best, and then I go to bed and blame it all on my DNA.)

A few of you have e-mailed to ask what I’m doing to combat the IBS madness. Currently? I’m drinking coffee sprinkled with Benefiber, because I’m your mother. (And to the few who sent e-mails asking me to take down my colon photos? I’m not taking down my colon photos. My colon is my loveable serpentine baby that will (hopefully) always remain inside of me. He deserves his time in the sun, where Sun=Fluid Pudding Front Page.)

This entry was brought to you by WordPress Version 2.8.4! And that sentence will not appear at the end of every entry! Five more minutes of healthy horn tooting, if you please.

Most importantly, enjoy your weekend. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I’m eating my hair. I’m eating my hair!

So, I’m about to update my website software to the latest version, and I’m shaking in my boots. My hair is curling, my flesh is crawling, my blood is running cold, et cetera.

Confession: I am scared to death of driving around in a big city. I’m no good at it. I make lots of mistakes. (You can ask my Chicago companions how many times we were almost killed last week simply because I insisted on driving. I’m ridiculous!) Anyway, this Updating of the Software thing? Let’s just say I would rather be dropped in the middle of Atlanta rush hour traffic in a smoking crap Gran Torino than deal with this. (Ask Mr. Deal. He’s totally aware of my ignorance. We actually talked on the phone once, and I’m still feeling stupid about how stupid I can be!)

If something terrible happens, please know that I love each and every one of you for reasons only I will ever know. Blackbird? I know we’ll meet some day. This is just another bump in that road. Finslippy? You always ALWAYS make me laugh and laugh. Emily? We WILL have coffee. Amy? I finished your socks this afternoon, and they’re currently soaking in a lavender bath! I should join them! (Don’t worry. I won’t join them.)

Wait. Why is everything fading? Hhhmmmm. I believe I’ll start walking toward that light in the distance…

Seriously, all. Wish me luck. IhatethisIhatethisIhatethisIhatethisetc.

EDITED TO ADD: Okay. You can all relax. I think I did it. I think. And the funny (?) thing is, I just looked to my right and noticed a big smear of blood on the wall. I have no idea where THAT came from. (Really. I have no idea. Blood on the wall!) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Colon Firth—The Final Innard Entry

I come to you this day to report that my colon is clear and healthy, and I may now sit safely under the large (and slightly itchy) IBS quilt.

Wait. Did you just say you wanted to see a photograph of my colon? Well, here you go!

(That is not a hot dog, René Magritte!)

As you can see, what my colon lacks in personality, he makes up for in shininess! Pizazz, even!

When he gets spruced up a bit, he turns into an angry (and sweaty) chemistry teacher!

“Astatine!!! Einsteinium!!! Damnit!!!”

(Thanks to everyone for the comments and e-mails. I’m now off to Chicago for my annual Fiber and Sushi Hajj.)

Nothing to see here…

I’m sort of updating this as I go, until I end up doing an inadvertent impression of Glenn Close crying in the shower.

Breakfast: One cup of Earl Grey with (perfectly legal) honey, one half cup of cherry gelatin, one half cup of beef broth, one iced coffee with Splenda.

Mid-morning snack: One cup of apple juice, and one apple Jolly Rancher. Yeah. Seriously.

Lunch: One watermelon Jolly Rancher. More beef broth. Whee! I’m shaky!

Mid-afternoon snack: Chicken broth, because I like to Shake It Up. Two watermelon Jolly Ranchers. Iced coffee. Water. Cherry Jolly Rancher. Blue raspberry Jolly Rancher. Viva la Jolly Ranchers!

4:00 CST: Time for the purging of the innards. La la la la laaaaaaaah! Ouch.

Dinner: Beef broth. No more Jolly Ranchers. Two 32 oz. bottles of Gatorade, each spiked with half a bottle of Miralax.

9:12 CST: Hating it. The end.

Mood: Irritable. Don’t look at me. No. I mean it.

Frown upside down/scar into star/etc.: The tooth fairy had to make an emergency trip to Walgreens last night.

Also, we went bowling yesterday. Meredith tends to throw the ball and then twist her body around in an attempt to alter the atmospheric pressure just enough to attract the ball to the pins.

Harper handles the ball like a hot potato and follows every throw with a victory dance.
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I’ve eliminated friends who have broken my spines.

I’m in love with having signed copies of books. Seeing an author’s handwriting makes me feel closer to the actual writing process, and that jazzes me to no end. I keep all of my signed books on the top shelf of my bookshelf, and they are the only books that receive a semi-regular dusting. (Okay. I made that up. None of my books receive even a semi-regular dusting. Gesundheit!)

My copy of Remembering Denny is the first book I had signed, and is one of my most treasured possessions.

After listening to me drone on about the Mrs. Bridget character in Tom Jones’s “Henry Fielding,” Helen Fielding told me I was brilliant. (I don’t think she really meant it. I think we both know I was being embarrassingly pretentious and her “brilliant” was code for “Okay then, Spooky. Moving right along!”)

Jeff gave this to me a few months before he moved to Nashville. I have very distinct memories of sitting on a washing machine at my apartment complex and studying the pen dents left by William Gass.

Shortly after discovering I was pregnant with Meredith, I had Salman Rushdie sign my copy of The Ground Beneath Her Feet. I will not let anyone borrow this book. You know, because of the fatwa and all.

Jenny Boully dyes amazing yarn and spins amazing words.

SueBob gave this to me at BlogHer in San Francisco last year, and every time I open it, I think of her.

My friend Jen sent this to me for my birthday. It was one of my favorite gifts.

This is one of my recent acquisitions. Bill Keaggy is one of the most creative locals I sort of know. He celebrates National Sandwich Month every year! He collects grocery lists! He takes photos of Sad Chairs!

Right here is where I would add a photograph of Eden Kennedy‘s signature in my copy of Things I Learned About My Dad, but it is currently sitting on a shelf in Springfield, Missouri. I took the book to San Francisco last year with the goal of having it signed by each of the contributors. Sadly, because I’m Angela R. Pudding, I didn’t have the guts to approach anyone but Eden.

Thanks to Angella, I just received a copy of the new Danny Evans book. And I have a huge grin on my face because of this:

Those words will keep me smiling for approximately 17.2 days. (And the words printed within will keep the smile going, I’m sure.)

Tell me your author stories. It’s fifty degrees outside, and I’ve busted out the jeans. (Figuratively. Shut up.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Your neighbors will be green, I tell you!

So, when Melissa designed the shirt for FAFPBPA, a few people stepped up and said something to the effect of, “I will not prep my bowels with you, but I WILL sport the T.”

And then Melissa stepped up AGAIN and said that she can make it happen for twenty bucks a shirt. (And then I squealed, jumped off of my chair, and high-fived everyone in the room.) ((It doesn’t take much.))

In other words, Yes! You really CAN buy a t-shirt that celebrates the clearing of my bowels! This is the opportunity of a lifetime, people!

If you’re interested, shoot an e-mail titled “BOWELS” to angela at fluidpudding dot com.

I’ll get back in touch about sizes and payment details.

I guarantee you this: No one else in your world has a bowel prep t-shirt. This will put you One Step Above.

(I’m buying one for my gastroenterologist.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Letters and Sodas

Thanks to you, Internet friends, I can now search out the chili and swill a chai and read Infinite Jest outdoors and pick apples and attend a marching band competition and devour a funnel cake and make up dances to Andrew Bird songs and stomp on some crunchy leaves and throw on a sloppy cardigan and attend an Apple Butter Festival. And I can do these things with amicable kicks.

I’ve named them Jem and Scout.

They just giggled and whispered, “You’re the prettiest lady.”

(And when I went on my first solo drive with them, this song was the first to play. It doesn’t get much better, does it? I’ll answer that: Nope.)

(For those who asked about the tattoo? It’s Georgia O’Keeffe’s hands—based on a photograph taken by Alfred Stieglitz. A friend of mine designed it, and it was inked on nearly twenty years ago at the home of a man named Spyder.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>