Make Out Parties Archives : Page 4 of 5 : Fluid Pudding

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’>

I’ll drive all night just to buy you some shoes.

This morning I decided to be in the market for athletic shoes. (Would it look like I’m trying too hard if I said something like “This was no small feat!”?! I like to think that I’m cooler than that. Let’s shift focus a bit, shall we? It was one year ago tonight when Jeff and I found ourselves invited to attend a Bruce Springsteen sound check, and as if that wasn’t enough (We were the only “civilians” in the stadium! Seriously!), we got a personal tour of the backstage area, AND we went home that night with the handwritten set list. I’ve met some pretty amazing people through the Internet, Internet. I’ve been thinking about that show all day. Ah, Mr. Springsteen.)

Anyway, my main goal for the athletic shoe thing was to get something user-friendly and perhaps brown. These were pretty much exactly what I wanted. To me, those shoes say, “I’m a climber of mountains. I could run if I need to, but really, I’m just strolling down the road looking for a chai and some chili.” Perfection.

As I drove to the shoe store, I set Sparky up to play the overture from Selmasongs. It’s sort of my own personal Rocky theme, and it never fails to stir up my much needed Invincibility Vibe. Drama! French horns! I am Flo Jo! (It was one of the songs that played as our wedding guests entered the church. (I absolutely LOVE the build up to 2:24. It makes my lip quiver every time.)) When I entered the store, I headed straight for the New Balance display. Sadly, the perfect brown shoes were not available in my size, and a wicked step sister I am not.

I tried on over thirty pairs of shoes this morning, and in the end, feeling weary and very vincible, I settled for something that ended up being over twenty dollars cheaper than The Perfect Shoes.

I suppose you could say that they’re silver, but deep down we all know that they’re white (actually, they’re >>>WHITE<<< and partly pink, even), and not at all chummy. In fact, they’re very standoffish, and after wearing them all day? My feet feel as if I’ve jumped into a vat of chattering teeth. As I type these words to you, the shoes are sitting in the corner quoting Kafka (in German, of course. Jackasses.) and tossing lit matches at the cats. Earlier this afternoon I found them spitting and whispering nasty things about my butt.

I believe I’m meant to sit barefoot on the couch eating sweet potato pancakes for the rest of my existence. Would you care to join me? ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

We saw the writing on the wall as we felt this magical fantasy.

As you know, Giuseppe Zangara, because of the fire in my belly, I did NOT go to BlogHer. I was actually 42% fine with my decision until early last week when people began writing their “I’m packing for BlogHer!” posts. Then my 42% swooped down into the teens. I immediately called Jeff and told him that we need to go “camping.” (I added those quotation marks for you, Coffee Lady! My definition of camping really IS very loose. No television, people in the dining hall are wearing swimsuits, and I didn’t even pack eyeliner? Camping!) When I saw on the news that Trout Lodge’s adjoining camp had to evacuate because of an E. Coli scare, reducing the entire camp’s population by one half? Well, I turned that scar into a star! (I don’t handle crowds very well. You’re a pal, E. Coli!)

We arrived at Trout Lodge on Sunday afternoon, and immediately hit the ground running. When you check in, you’re handed a fairly hefty list of options and times so you can fill your schedule with as many (or as few) activities as you want. I’m still a bit amazed at all of the things we crammed into a 48 hour period of time.

On Monday morning, we went on a fishing trip with Robinson from Colombia. As he pulled the boat away from the dock, he talked a big talk about how we were going to catch a huge fish. We fished for an hour and caught nothing. As Robinson prepared to lift the anchor and take us back to the boat house, Meredith caught a fish. Robinson actually squealed and confessed that he has been taking families out on fishing trips all summer, and NO ONE has caught a fish. Meredith was a hero. (And, seriously. Wouldn’t it suck a bit to fly out to Missouri from South America and spend three months taking families on unsuccessful fishing trips? It almost smells like some sort of punishment! Anyway, because of Meredith, I’m almost positive that Robinson now whistles The Star Spangled Banner as he pulls the fishing boat away from the dock!)

On Monday afternoon, the girls rode ponies. This goes down as their favorite part of the trip. (It was super hot outside, yet all of the ranch employees were wearing Wranglers, long sleeved shirts, and hats. I was actually walking around in a bikini fashioned out of frozen bottles of Gatorade, and these guys were dressed for November. God Bless the Cowboys.)

On Monday night, the girls tie-dyed shirts. And everything about that was great, except for the family of seven that shared the activity with us. They spent nearly half of the evening speaking in fake British accents, and the other half was spent taking cheap shots at the presidential candidate for whom they clearly did not vote. Later in the evening, I noticed that instead of leaving their shirts wrapped in plastic (as we were instructed) to allow the dye to set, the Annoyingtons hung their unwrapped shirts out on their balcony. Confession: When I saw this, I secretly hoped their shirts would lose more than a bit of vibrance. I know. I’m the devil.

On Tuesday morning, we fed gigantic fish. And many of the fish had huge goiteresque humps growing out of their sides. We determined that the goiter fish were the pregnant ladies, and we soon found ourselves aiming the food at them. Can you help me out, fish people? When carp get pregnant do they sort of look like they’ve swallowed a human skull? (Actually, I sort of like the skull theory. It’s possible that I don’t really want to know the truth.)

We also went on a hay ride, the girls swam (several times) in the lake, we walked (and walked some more), we saw a pretty crappy puppet show, we ate ice cream (and biscuits and gravy!), we made body spray (?!?!), and best of all, the girls had crazy giddy fun and no one suffered symptoms of E. Coli. (The entire photo set may be viewed here.)

Okay. This is the part of the post that no one reads because it falls below the final photograph. This part is just between you and me. At night, after Jeff and the girls were asleep, I would sneak out to the boat house and dance with Robinson. Penny, his normal dance partner, was confined to bed due to a botched abortion, and Robinson desperately needed someone to dance with him at the nearby resort’s annual show. When Robinson was accused of stealing a wallet and I covered for him by telling the Trout Lodge authorities about our clandestine (and somewhat dirty) dance sessions, Jeff and the other Trout Lodge campers let their tempers flare. Luckily, everything worked out in the end, and we all ended up having the time of our lives. (Yes, I swear. It’s the truth.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I like to think I was born to run, but I’ll take what I can get.

Last week I took the girls to my folks’ house to spend the day with my twelve-year-old nephew who was in town for the week. Justin, my nephew, is one of those kids who can pick up a video game he has never played before and pwn it. (Suddenly, instead of actually gaining worldly-wise points by using “pwn” I believe I’ve just morphed into your dead Aunt Gladys who used to smile through gloppy smeared lipstick and ask, “So, are you sweet on anyone? Hhmmm???”) Anyway, the game of the day was Mario Kart for the Wii, and before I could throw my keys onto the couch, I was challenged to a race. And although only two of us were racing, I actually came in sixth. (I’m still not completely clear on how that happened.)

MC: Mommy, sometimes I think you were born to lose.

Later that afternoon as I lost my balance and fell down while trying to rotate the lazy susan, I was once again told that I was born to lose. A few hours later, when I asked the girls to put their shoes on because it was time to go to the bathroom (I meant time to go home. Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if you could actually feel parts of your brain infarct. I’m imagining it’s not unlike Pop Rocks just inside the back of your skull.), it came up again. “You really WERE born to lose! Ha Ha HA HA HA HA!!!” And even at 39, when you’re told over and over (and over) again that you were born to lose, well, it begins to affect your mood. Maybe they’re right. No, they’re not right. Maybe they are. No. Maybe.

Later that evening, Jeff took the girls to the YMCA to swim, and I drove to the nearest bookstore to pick up a copy of Infinite Jest. Yes. I am one of the many who have ambitious plans to participate in Infinite Summer, and although many may believe I was born to lose, this is something for which I am fully determined to pass muster. (I recently learned that it’s Muster and not Mustard. Apparently, you can cut the mustard, but you must pass muster. Four synapses just began firing again, and it feels like butter melting behind my ears.)

As soon as I can figure out how, I’m going to add some sort of progress update to my sidebar (below the ad thing, of course, because I’m wearing a XXL “Plays by the Rules” jacket) so I feel a pinch of accountability. Please feel free to update me on your progress, as well. Even if your progress has nothing to do with anything I’ve mentioned to you today.

Speaking of improvisational dancing, my final Sports Active update is up. If you go here and then click on the line of text right above the photo, you’ll be directed to a super secret location where you may cast a voyeuristic peeper upon me in a skirted swimsuit. This is a once in a lifetime experience, internet friends. Born to lose, indeed. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Who says?!

It’s no secret that I went to the gynecologist a few weeks ago. It’s also no secret that I’ve been taking estrogen-free birth control pills for the past four years. (Seriously. Anyone who has spent five minutes with me knows that I’m on estrogen-free birth control. It’s my “How’s the weather?” ice breaker!) Wait. You know what else isn’t a secret? My gynecologist believes that I’m ready for some estrogen! (Did you know that estrogen promotes wound healing in both humans and mice? This comes as good news, for I am Wounded.) ((I’m not really Wounded.))

I come to you today as a sassy snarling woman who wads up imaginary paper and yells, “Who says all birth control pills have to be the same?!” I am repunctuating my life! My carefree curly-haired Logical is having talks with my straight-haired (and argyled) Emotional! (They even play Toss the Pills together at 0:11! How cute is that?! Also, did you know that fewer periods equals cuter clothes? Everything I know comes straight out of the Seasonique ad!)

(WARNING: All hell is going to break loose around here during the week of September 6th. Just in time for Labor Day, Jerry Lewis!)

(If you’re interested, I’m shrinking a bit. Scroll down to the photo. Right above it is the Week 3 link.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Detailing the Pudding

How is it that I’ve spent 39 years thinking that “detailing a car” had something to do with painting thin swirly stripes down the side of it? A few days back I mentioned that no one really details their car anymore. Jeff mentioned that just because our car isn’t detailed is no indication that it doesn’t happen. (I also have a hard time imagining how the world existed before I was born and how it will survive without me. I’ll save that (not quite narcissistic, more like unable to engage in abstract thought) conversation for another time.) Anyway, from there we went into a side-splitting Who’s on First sort of routine.

Jeff: Wait. Before we go any further, please tell me what it means to detail a car.

Me: It’s when you take your car, which is probably an old van, to the place where the guy paints swirly stripes down the sides of it. And then maybe you get tinted windows as a bonus. And Keep on Truckin’ mud flaps.

Jeff: You’re not from around here, are you?

A few nights back I spent an hour or so of solo time with Mocha Momma. And I stepped away feeling terribly enlightened. And I’ve been lazily meditating on much of our conversation since I drove out of that parking lot. For whatever odd reason, I believe many people start questioning their writing and their website purpose and goals during this time of year, and this year I’m amongst the many. (I know! 83% of you just walked away! It really IS boring, no? Here’s an incentive to get you through. I will use some form of the word Tipple before signing off for the night.) I started Fluid Pudding back in 2001 when I was a single girl with an editing gig in Nashville, Tennessee. It was a pointless journal (the archives aren’t available at this time, but you believe me, right?) written by featherbrained me. (WAIT! I just found a bit of evidence!) I had absolutely no intention of ever turning it into something Bigger, and I finally realized on Saturday night that I STILL have no intention of turning it into something Bigger, because I sort of lack the talent and drive to DO that. (Is anyone else feeling a surge of pressure to do that? So much talk of branding and sponsors! I love it. I hate it. I’m sleepy.) ((One of my new favorite words is Lentitudinousness!)) And although I’m not at the 100% level of contentment with What Fluid Pudding Is, I AM 100% content with What Fluid Pudding Was. So I’m considering stepping back a bit. (Not quitting. In my mind, it’s actually more of an evolution than that.) And isn’t this paragraph just about the silliest thing you’ve ever read? My goodness. So much stuff going on in the world, and I’m all type type type me me me (Ben Folds) me me me (Ira Glass) me me. So anyway. I just bought an herb garden thingy, and I’m really digging the idea of Organic. (Basil! Oregano! Parsley! All living together in perfect harmony!)

Keith Olbermann is on my television right now, and if he were a drink I believe he would be a steaming salted caramel hot chocolate with a fat stirrer that held the words “Get tippled.”

Off to sleep I go! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

The Oh So Predictable Pudding

In 2006, I decided to go to BlogHer. Shortly after I arrived, my breasts blew their stack, which led me to spend all of my spare cash on a $54,383 cab ride to Walgreens where I purchased a $58,392 breast pump and a $1.39 box of Swedish Fish. I spent 94.3% of that weekend locked up in my room with a pump attached to my chest and Titanic on the television. (The remaining 5.7% of the weekend was spent feeling a bit overwhelmed and starstruck, which is one of my many tragic flaws. I realize the phrase “blogging heroes” is more than sort of squirrelly. Let’s just say this: I found myself in the company of many of my favorite web writers, and it made me feel all floofy and la la la la laaaaah!)

In 2007, I decided to not go to BlogHer. And when I started reading the words of the women who DID go, I became insanely jealous. (Okay. Insanely is a strong word. Perhaps what I was feeling was a river of remorse sprinkled with some bright orange self-pity torpedoes.)

In 2008, I couldn’t afford to go to BlogHer, so I decided to auction off a shawl and sell pre-ordered handknitted socks to fund the trip. Success. While there, I found myself to be terribly content. (Photos are here, if you’re interested.) I went yarn shopping and fish taco-ing with SueBob. I took a nap at the mall with Erica. I fell in love with Canadians. I was able to nervously read a blog entry in front of 3,502,496 people! Best of all, I got to be Someone’s Elbow!

When people started talking about BlogHer this year, I pretty much immediately knew that once again, I couldn’t really afford it. AND, the knitting socks thing just about killed me last year. (I know. Much ado about nothing, where much ado = “just about killed me” and nothing = “knitting socks”. With that said, I really did get a wee cramp in my right index finger. It’s a living hell, folks. A Living Hell.) I pretty much came to grips with NOT going, and then more people started talking about how excited they are to BE going, and then some party invites came my way, coupled with a most amazing housing option, and, well, I’m going. I don’t have a ticket (all tickets are sold out), but I DO have a Hyundai and an affinity for solo road trips.

While everyone else is enjoying the speakers? I’ll be hitting Loopy Yarns.

When it’s time to break for boxed lunches and swag? I’ll be browsing at Nina.

During high traffic lobby times? I’ll be in the lobby. High trafficking, and looking for Blackbirds. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

My butt is eager, yet not quite ready for its closeup.

When I was in college, I often found myself working out in my room using a Jane Fonda cassette I had made by sticking my cassette recorder up to the television as the VHS tape played. The recording was really crappy (or charming, depending on your perspective), as it featured several dog barks, a few door slams, and my mom asking, “Why are you recording this?!” (Of course, I answered with a sharp “Ssshhh!” which was also caught on tape.)

I’ll never forget the night I was working out in my room (with the door closed and locked, because as much as I loved my college roommates, I really didn’t want them to see me in those positions) and I suddenly felt the need to use the restroom. I ran from my room to the bathroom wearing a tan sports bra and green parachute shorts. Nick, one of my roommates at the time, saw me and yelled, “Hey! Angie! Damn, Girl!” (That’s an exact quote, by the way. It’s still bouncing around in my head.) You see, Nick thought I was working out topless.

Secretly, I enjoyed the fact that from that point forward, Nick probably assumed that I was in my room doing a topless Fonda every time he heard my cassette player kicking into action.

Fast forward something like seventeen years.

Last week I told you that I would provide video footage of me actually working out with the Wii Sports Active Thirty Day Bacon Lettuce Tomato Mustard Mayonnaise Crosby Stills Nash and Young Workout. Two nights back, Jeff actually shot some video of the workout, and it was shot from behind and it seems that my butt is a big old camera hog, and watching it almost made me cry and instead of showing it to you, I would much rather you assume that I’m working out looking all svelte-like with just a bit of glistening sweat providing a healthy and almost angelic (or vampire-esque, whatever you prefer) glow to my skin.

With that said, my “I’m Halfway Done” update is up. If you go here and scroll down, you’ll find the link to my notes right above the photo. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>