Make Out Parties Archives : Page 3 of 5 : Fluid Pudding

I’m now taking a probiotic pill, so there’s that!

This morning I remembered that I’ve been meaning to check in on Fluid Pudding. So, hello there! The past week has been insanely hectic, but I can’t really name more than five things that we’ve done. (Such is the life of the sporadic freelancer/perky homemaker I suppose. Jeff returns from work in the evening, and I often cannot report on any sort of progress that I’ve made during the past nine hours. Perhaps I should start charting my input and output. I really do need to drink more. I sometimes have pillow creases that last until the evening hours!) ((Note: Jeff doesn’t really ask me to report on progress. I’m not sure how I would respond if he did.))

Speaking of Jeff, it seems that his job leads him out of town every year over the Memorial Day weekend. It all has to do with a human anatomy and physiology symposium (this particular one was in Denver), and if I wasn’t completely secure in our relationship, I might suspect that “human anatomy and physiology symposium” is a pretty clever way of saying “out of town tail” but deep down I know better. (I’m the perfect blend of lovely and psychotic. No one in their right mind would ever stray.) Anyway, this symposium forced me to single parent once again, and that experience never fails to lift me toward a new level of appreciation for those who single parent every day. I wish I could buy each and every one of you a funnel cake.

Let’s see. Harper and Meredith had their yearly examination at the doctor’s office this afternoon, and Harper received what we like to call her kindergarten shot, which is the simpleton way of saying she is now immunized against Diphtheria, Tetanus, Pertussis, and Polio. (Oh, Pertussis. You are definitely not welcome around here.) And I know how controversial this sort of thing is, so I’ll now point my finger in the other direction and scream, “Hey! We’re leaving to go on vacation in a little over a week!” AND, someone will actually be staying at our house during that time, meaning I really should do something about the 84 baskets of laundry that have been sitting around in the front room for the past several months. (Believe me, my intentions are always good. It’s just that I’m often L to the AZY. That hairball thing has been growing in the shower for weeks.)

Anyway: Vacation. I’m very pleased to report that we’ll be heading out to Jackson Hole, Wyoming in about ten days. And wait a second. Do you remember a few paragraphs up how I sort of complained that Jeff has a job that sometimes takes him out of town? Well, because he’s sort of good at his job, he was recently given the Editor of the Year award, which included this very vacation. Seriously. L to the AZY is sort of schmooing into L to the UCKY. (Clarification: I’m the lucky one. Jeff totally earned this gig.)

What else? I’ll tell you what else! I purchased three skeins of laceweight merino a few nights back. I haven’t purchased yarn in months, but as soon as I saw the phrase “1,312 yards” coupled with “$16.00” and “Fleece Artist”, I couldn’t resist. And while we’re sort of on the topic of yarn, this morning I fell in love with a yarn store in London that isn’t yet open, but will be in a few weeks. Anyway. Are you still with me?

We’ve been doing an awful lot of this lately:

I hope you are the same.

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Fluid Pudding has Smoothie Moves! Come over here to watch the video and earn a chance to win a $50 Visa gift card from BlogHer! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Ending the Year on a High Note

Today was the last day of this particular school year. As I’ve mentioned in the past, every morning I drive Meredith to school, and every morning the coach gets her out of the car with a smile and a “Good morning, Meredith!” (This is the coach involved in the Great Hat Drama of January 2010. But let’s not talk about that.) This morning we happened to arrive at school before the coach came out to retrieve kids from their cars. As we sat and listened to Justin Bieber (Yep. Let’s not talk about that, either.), Coach exited the building (always so cheerful!) and started opening car doors for kids. When we got a bit closer, I noticed that he was carrying a note in his hand.

Me (simply killing time as we waited our turn in the circle): Hey! Coach has a note in his hand! I wonder what it says.

Meredith: It probably says, “Christmas is coming, and I need to buy a present for Meredith.”

Me: Excellent. I hope he gets a present for me, too!

Harper: I know exactly what that note says.

Me: What does it say?

Harper: It says, “Don’t forget to take off your underpants right now.”

Me: That’s not what it says. Do you realize how inappropriate that is?

Harper: I do. Let me try again. I bet it says, “Take off your PANTS right now.”

Me: Interesting. Who do you think the note is for?!

Coach (opening the door and hopefully not noticing my perky eyebrows): Good morning, Meredith!!!

(Apparently, it wasn’t for me.)
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This is where I am.

When bloggers write about blogging, it sort of makes my skin crawl. With that said, it seems like every year at this time I get the e-mail notification that my renewal fee is due, and suddenly I start spinning around in a big goofy skirt and asking myself if I’m still having a good time at Fluid Pudding.

Here I am having a good time with a baby donkey. Anyway, The State of Blogging (I know. I’m wincing, too.) has changed So Much since I kicked off Fluid Pudding nearly nine years ago. Back then, I wrote to no one and I loved it, and I honestly felt a creative spark every time I began a post. When people started dropping by and commenting? It felt like Christmas. (Or, perhaps more like Thanksgiving. Or my birthday!) It was fun. With a big F, even. And I used the word Shit sometimes. And nobody expressed disappointment. And I poked fun at my neighbors. And nobody accused me of being hateful. And nobody was categorized. And e-mails were mostly kind! And trolls were found only in Norwegian fairy tales! Blue skies!

Sometimes I think baby cows are cuter than baby humans! (Don’t tell the baby humans!) So, yesterday I got the renewal notification, and Jeff and I had the following conversation.

Me: You know, I’ve quit the Fluid Pudding thing a few times, but quitting is sort of stupid for me, because it never sticks.

Jeff: Are you thinking about quitting?

Me: I’m not sure what I’m thinking. I’m thinking I had more fun before I installed the filter that keeps friends and family from hearing me say words like Shit. I’m tired of not really wanting to admit that I voted for Obama simply because most of the people I know and love did NOT and NEVER WOULD HOLY CRAP NO WAY vote for Obama.

This bunny can’t quite get over my use of the word Shit, and is shocked to hear that I voted for Obama. In fact, she honestly thinks less of me as a person because of it! How can a bunny be so ridiculous yet so precious at the same time?!

Jeff: I think you should pay the renewal fee and take back Fluid Pudding.

Me: I’m going to be 40! My life is more than halfway over! I once had a dog who died after biting his tongue, and I haven’t learned a thing from him!

Sometimes chickens spend their Saturday mornings in a cage. Sometimes they walk around in Birkenstocks and shawls! HA HA HA HA HA!!! So, anyway. When I first started this website nine years ago (the archives are in Salt Lake City!), I named it Fluid Pudding because I once read an article on modernism in which the author quoted someone as saying that the state of the world has become not unlike fluid pudding—no one is firm and consistent! And when I read that quote, I felt like the author (Dostoevsky, perhaps?) had insight into my SOUL. Hence, Fluid Pudding was born.

Llamas are Llovely. And I’m not saying that taking back Fluid Pudding will involve me wrinkling my nose and being all “You feed your kid Lunchables?! You should go to HELL!!!” because I honestly believe that 94% of us are doing the best we can out there, and I know it’s not my job to call people names or sing songs about where they will spend eternity. It’s still Fluid Pudding, Dostoevsky.

This is a camel. AND, when I put this photo up on Flickr, Mrs. Kennedy mentioned that she would name it Humpy. And that brings me to this: Fussy is one of the very first blogs I read, and I believe I was reading it before the word blog actually annoyed me as much as it currently does, and four years ago she wrote a genius post where she mixed photographs with a bit of her own State of the Website words, and I loved it so much. That was four years ago, and it still inspires me.

American Goat. So, anyway. Sorry for scraping my brain and puking on your shoes.

Speaking of which, I’m participating in a brownie bake-off this weekend, and would appreciate any advice you can offer. As always, I have no idea what I’m doing, but for some reason the word Curry is making my eyebrows bend. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

It’s Shirt vs. Skin, Mr. Bobby Flay.

Although I probably watch entirely too much television, I don’t really have any shows that I Absolutely Cannot Miss. (My fingers are crossed behind my back right now, because I sort of can’t miss Days of Our Lives or The Secret Life of the American Teenager. I justify my viewing of these shows in the following manner: In my mind, the average age of a Days of Our Lives fan is 60. Secret Life fan? 20. At (nearly) 40, I am The MEAN!)

When I’m sitting on the couch knitting, I tend to hop through channels. More often than not, I end up on Food Network because I find that the Food Network hosts are (mostly) people I could see myself cavorting with in real life. (In a parallel universe, I am decorating cakes with Chef Duff Goldman right now. It’s an enormous cake that looks exactly like a bathtub filled with scrambled eggs, and Chef Duff is very impressed with the fluffy perfection of my marzipan eggs. Okay. Back to this universe.) Anyway. The show that consistently captures my attention is Throwdown! with Bobby Flay. (Side note: I would love to have this, but it looks like shipping would cost more than the actual DVD. I refuse to pay more in shipping than in product! I am Ridiculous that way, Food Network.)

Please know that I’ve never caught an entire episode of Throwdown! with Bobby Flay. With that said, here’s how I think it goes down: Someone considers herself to be sort of an expert on a particular food item. This person looks into the camera and goes on and on about how her blueberry pancakes are “The Greatest Blueberry Pancakes EVER, Bobby Flay, because here in South Dakota, we know our Blueberry Pancakes!” And then Bobby Flay, looking all fetching as he struts down the streets of South Dakota in his Ray-Bans, says “Hey! You think your blueberry pancakes can beat MY BLUEBERRY PANCAKES?! I’ll kick your pancakey butt right into Shrove Tuesday, Cha Cha!” He then busts into the house and embarrasses the self-proclaimed Blueberry Pancake Queen in front of her friends and family by making blueberry pancakes that put an end to every other blueberry pancake—all with one hand tied behind his back and absolutely no sweat to be seen.

At the end of the show, the townspeople vote, and more often than not, Bobby Flay is the Throwdown! Winner. And it really should make me feel a bit sad for the humiliated loser (who, in my mind, is eventually chased out of town), and sometimes it DOES, but more often than not, I simply cannot stop thinking that I wish Bobby had performed the entire Throwdown! without his shirt on.

Before I go any further, let me just say this: If a man would bounce on over to Fluid Pudding and say something about wishing Rachael Ray would do HER show without a shirt on, it would offend me. More than a little, even. And that, my friends, makes me a Hypocrite—a hypocrite who wants Bobby Flay to come over to my house and Throwdown! without his shirt on.

So. With that out of the way, it appears that I need to quickly become a locally-known expert on a particular food item.

After thinking about this for nearly ten minutes, I have chosen the Sweet Potato for two obvious reasons: 1. I bake a sweet potato almost every day for lunch. (With that said, I am not an expert on the baked sweet potato. Sometimes they’re not quite done. Sometimes they’re entirely TOO done. I do not discriminate. All are eaten—some just evoke more fond memories than others.) 2. Potatoes have skins, which opens up that whole Shirt vs. Skin thing, in which I would be Shirt. (And, most likely, Shirt with Swingy Cardigan.)

This is not going to be an easy task, which is exactly why I am here to ask for your help.

What can I do with a sweet potato that would stir Bobby Flay into a St. Louis Fluid Pudding Sweet Potato Shirtless Throwdown! (SLFPSPST)?

Quick! I need your sweet potato ideas!

(Confession: As much as I would dig seeing Mr. Flay without his shirt on, I really wrote this entire entry because I am looking for sweet potato recipes. (I tend to dance around for seven hundred words (or more) before getting down to business.))
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I spent a week driving a Lincoln, and if you check out my review you could win a $500 Visa gift card! (And more!)

I’m giving away a $200 Visa gift card, and it’s all about pizza. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Our tree has lost her skirt.

The photo above was taken at 5:30 this morning, right before I made coffee and stared at the tree in silence.

The silence was broken at 6:15, but will be quickly reassembled in approximately one hour and ten minutes.

Merry Christmas to one and all from the Pudding family.

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With scarves of red tied ’round their throats…

Yesterday afternoon I was sort of feeling a headache coming on, so I decided to take a Tylenol before dropping Harper off at school. I reached into the cabinet, and because I tend to not think straight when I’m dealing with medication, I quickly took a Tylenol PM. Immediately after swallowing it, I thought, “Whoops.” Mainly, my Whoops had to do with the fact that my afternoon plan was to drop Harper off, finish up with some last minute Christmas shopping, and then go back to school for Meredith’s holiday party. One Tylenol PM will knock me out for about six hours straight. So, yeah. Whoops.

After dropping Harper off, I drove straight to a coffee dump where I ordered a super silly larger than life iced tea. I then finished my shopping with 45 minutes to spare before the party. Since I’m one of those people who sort of lives for scoring nice parking spots, I decided to go ahead and go to school, score a spot, and sit in the car and knit until the party started.

I’m doing it again. I’m boring you with the details. Please stay with me, because I’m going to be crying at the end of the next paragraph, and that’s always a crowd pleaser.

Anyway, I pulled into my (super great) parking spot at 2:03 (thirty minutes before the parties were to begin), and noticed that a bunch of parents were already hustling toward the school. Since I’m a sheep, I quickly grabbed my party supplies (marshmallows and pretzels!), and followed the crowd. When I entered the elementary school, I found that all of the students had gathered in the gym and were singing holiday songs. I entered the gym, I stood in the very back and leaned against the wall, and I quickly spotted Harper and Meredith, who were both nodding their heads as the fifth grade students sang a song about Santa Lucia. When that song ended, the music for Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer started up, and all of the little kids in the gym squealed and started clapping. Before I knew it, all 600 or so students were swaying back and forth and singing Rudolph, and all of those sweet little voices (and some not so sweet) really affected me, and suddenly my lip was quivering and my eyes were watering. (I cry very easily in these situations. VERY easily.) Since Meredith’s teacher was nearby, I decided that I absolutely had to regain composure somehow, so I put my hands in my coat pockets and tried to figure out how to tap out 3/4 time as the kids sang in 4/4. So, yeah. There I stood in the back of the gym beating my hands against my legs with tears rolling out of my eyes and my lips in total palsy mode. I want to volunteer at the school next year. I doubt they’ll take me.

After the holiday party, I met a friend for coffee. Before we knew it, we were planning a writers’ retreat, and I was wearing the earrings I fell in love with several weeks ago at the Rock and Roll Craft Show. I returned home feeling completely inspired, and when I went to bed, Stephen Colbert once again entered my dream world and rescued me from a bad date I was having with a high school classmate. (This is Mr. Colbert’s third dream appearance. We ended up making out in the first two dreams. Last night he simply walked me to his car and drove me to a safe haven.)

As I rode across town in Stephen Colbert’s car, the thugs returned to our house in the real world and stabbed John Green again. Several times.

To add insult to injury, they also threw a pie against our garage.

(I believe it was pecan.)

A police report has been filed, the late night patrol shift will be adding a few extra turns around our subdivision, and my daughters (and I) are pissed. (Funny side story: When I called the police and told them that our eight foot penguin had been stabbed, the woman answering the phone asked if it was a real penguin. I suppose she was assessing my sanity. Nevertheless, it made me smile. I’ve never seen a real eight foot penguin, nor have I seen a real penguin with eight feet.)

John Green was one of our favorite traditions. And now we have to either toss him in the trash, or duct tape him up and reinflate him in the back yard.

(Although I have no official suspects, I’m casting a big stink eye toward the teenager who lives a few doors down. He once threw a bottle of water at me as I was taking a walk around the neighborhood, and I’ve never really forgiven him. The bottle of water was not intended to refresh me.)

John Green, this one’s for you:

Don’t forget: I have two giveaways going on right now.
One has something to do with Kisses and a $100 Visa gift card.
The other? A fancy pants Viliv S5. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

This is what I know.

Mitchum Huntzberger as Russell Fabray is, in my opinion, a brilliant idea. (Yes. I’m a fan of Glee, but please know that I’ll never refer to myself as a Gleek.)

I am not going to see New Moon tonight, and I may not have a chance to see it before it leaves the theaters. With that said, if I was forced to choose a team, I would make sweet love to the vampire.

I bought some jeans last week, and I found myself to be between sizes. Obviously, I purchased the smaller size because I tend to wipe my eyes and set lofty goals when I’m standing in my underpants looking into a department store mirror. Today I have placed myself inside of the jeans, and I’m finding that I’m experiencing that dreaded phenomenon known as Muffin Top. It’s appalling, really. I now need to either punch myself for not getting the larger size, or speed up the progress in the Firm That Pudding category.

This year I am once again contributing Caramel Apple Salad and Mashed Sweet Potatoes to the Thanksgiving meal. My grandmother, may she continue to rest in peace, was always in charge of the apple salad and the sweet potatoes, and when she died I was more than happy to take her baton. This is my twelfth year of Apple/Potato duty, and every year I feel like I’m just not getting it right. One week from right now I’ll be making the decision to either retire from Apple/Potato duty or to sign on for another dozen years.

In a few days I’ll be receiving a phone made of corn, and this excites me for a number of reasons, not entirely limited to this:
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You ain’t a beauty, but hey, you’re alright.

Bruce Springsteen was in town last night, and I have a friend who works for him. (And I wish the friend lived closer than she does, because I do believe we’re quite compatible in the Hanging Out While Knitting and Drinking Coffee department—which is one of my very favorite departments.) I met her for the first time last year when Mr. Springsteen was in town, and she completely floored us by giving us total VIP treatment.

When we arrived at the Scottrade Center for last night’s show, I couldn’t get past Security because I had brought a gift for my friend and a knitted hat for Mr. Springsteen. When I called her to explain the situation and apologize for the inconvenience, she quickly rescued us and took us backstage where (are you ready for this?!) we stood outside Mr. Springsteen’s dressing room and heard him yell, “Hey, Lady!” when one of his staff members entered. Also? I stood less than twenty feet away from Roy Bittan and Max Weinberg as they ate chicken skewers. I watched Steven van Zandt contemplate dinner options. We passed Nils Lofgren (and Tony La Russa) in the hall. Did I mention the chicken skewer thing?! (Seriously. That was a high point.)

When I worked at the hospital as a bagger of the dead, I would occasionally turn my badge over and wrap a stethoscope around my neck for the walk down to the cafeteria. I found that people respected the stethoscope more than the Unit Secretary badge, and they would often clear the way for me as I returned to the SICU with milk and Kit Kat in hand. Since leaving the hospital, I haven’t really had the chance to duplicate that feeling of power I experienced while wearing the stethoscope around my neck, until last night when I had this on my chest:

When we took our place in the pit, I caught at least a dozen people staring at my chest (that NEVER happens) and then whispering for their friends to stare at my chest. This badge quickly became my Bruce Springsteen Stethoscope.

Highlights of my night: Watching Mr. Springsteen playing piano and singing “For You.” (I’ll update to the St. Louis video if it becomes available. It was absolutely perfect.) Getting a quick visit in with my friend. The chicken skewer thing. “She’s the One” (my favorite Springsteen tune).

Highlight of Jeff’s night: Being part of Mr. Springsteen’s crowd surfing moment during “Hungry Heart.” He was able to grab a leg o’ Bruce, and when I asked if it was muscular, he smiled and answered, “It was strong.”

When the show ended, we walked back to our car in the parking garage and found that our battery was dead. We called AAA and they weren’t able to get to us until over an hour after the final car had left the garage. AND, they were unable to get their truck to us because of the low ceilings in the garage. SO, the AAA guy had to walk his big battery thing up five flights of steps to help us out. (Thanks, Jake from AAA!) In other words, I’m now working from four hours of sleep, but I have absolutely zero complaints, for I saw Roy Bittan eat chicken, and the only thighs Jeff has touched in the past decade or more belong to me and Mr. Bruce Springsteen.

(I’ve received word that my hat made it onto Mr. Springsteen’s flight last night from St. Louis to Kansas City. This news will keep me smiling for at least 37 days.)

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I believe Goat Rodeo is an adequate description of my wedding day.

It’s a bit tiresome (for me) when people assume that anyone with a nice camera is a professional photographer.
On a similar note, it’s exasperating (for me) when people armed with nothing BUT a nice camera assume they are professional photographers.

Our wedding photographer sucked. SUCKED. And while I can sort of blame him for sucking, I also have to blame myself for choosing him. (His portfolio was really good! Then again, of course it was! He’s not going to showcase crappy photos, right?)

Because tomorrow is our anniversary, this morning I pulled out our monster wedding album to show the girls what we looked like on our wedding day. As expected, they loved my dress and laughed at how much younger we looked back then. (It was eight years ago. Did we really look that much younger?!) While flipping through the album, one of the first questions Meredith asked was, “Why weren’t you smiling?”

I’ll tell you why I wasn’t smiling. I wasn’t smiling because the photographer told me not to smile. After taking a few photos, he came up to me and whispered, “I’m going to have to ask you to not smile in your photos today. Your braces are giving my flash a ding.” And because I’m spineless, every wedding photo finds me portraying an awkward combination of Smug and Your Angry Mother.

Get this. Within thirty minutes of the start of the wedding, the pastor told us that the photographer is not allowed to take photos of the ceremony as it’s taking place, and that includes photos of the wedding party walking down the aisle. (What?! Thanks for leaving THAT out until the last minute!) The photographer scratched his head and came up with the brilliant idea of us PRETENDING to walk down the aisle. Yes. I now have photos of my family standing still in a big room but posing As If They Were Walking Down An Aisle. Ridiculous.

One of the requests I made of the photographer when we signed our contract was “Don’t use any filters.” (We didn’t want sparkles or rainbows to appear where there were no sparkles or rainbows. We are ADULTS, you know.) Anyway, because he wasn’t allowed in the church during the ceremony, the photographer decided to stand outside of the church, open the doors, and take photos of the ceremony taking place from behind. Those photos were filled with pews and backs of heads, and to add insult to injury, he used a filter to make everything look smoky—as if the church was on fire. (Sadly, we didn’t purchase any of the Church on Fire photos, and he didn’t let us keep the proofs.)

Finally, as we were eating our dinner at the reception, the photographer approached us and said, “Look. I need to get out of here. Can you take a break from eating so we can do the first dance and the cake?” Because we were basically trick monkeys at this point, we took a break. And we danced. And we ate cake. And when we got the photos back, there was no evidence of us dancing or eating cake. However, there’s a really awesome shot of us toasting to a long life. And in that photo, a headless German boy is dancing on Jeff’s head.

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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’>