Will it make me sick? Archives : Page 5 of 8 : Fluid Pudding

Don’t go chasing waterfalls.

This afternoon at 1:00, I will be seeing an ophthalmologist for the first time. Oddly enough, despite everything we’ve been through with Meredith’s eyes, the word ophthalmologist is still very difficult for me to spell. Because it’s 194 degrees outside and I’m choosing to live simply this morning, I shall from here on out refer to my o-p-h-t-h-a-l-m-o-l-o-g-i-s-t as an Eye Doctor.

I’ve noticed some twitching in my right eye over the past few weeks, and I’ve decided to not complain about it because 1) Complaining isn’t an attractive verb; and, 2) My sister’s eye has been twitching for a few YEARS, and she may have to see a specialist in a different town from where she lives to investigate her twitching. So, really, why in the hell would I bellyache about an infrequent twitch?! (I’m using twitch entirely too much. Time to pull out a grab bag of synonyms: Tic, Spasm, Vellication, Quiver, Paroxysm, Convulsion! I choose Vellication!)

Yesterday, along with the vellication, I discovered that my right eye was crying. Every time I tipped my head, actual tears poured out and ran down my face. I was a little tea pot, short and stout! This actually came in handy when I took my car to the service station. As the mechanic and I reviewed his invoice, a huge tear jumped out of my eye, rolled down my nose, and dripped onto the paper.

Mechanic: …so, there might be wattage issues, but it’s nothing we’re concerned about.

My eye: (Drip, roll, drop, SPLASH!)

Mechanic: Dude. Is everything okay?

Me: I’m good. I might have wattage issues, but it’s nothing I’m concerned about.

Mechanic: There’s no charge for today’s visit.

My right eye cried all through Harper’s karate class last night. It cried as I made my friend Mitzi’s cucumber salad. It cried as I went deeper into The Girl Who Played with Fire. I have to wonder if perhaps the right side of my body is feeling sort of sad for reasons beyond my understanding. (Perhaps yesterday was a special anniversary for my appendix, and Right Side is mourning her loss. Of course, that doesn’t explain the vellicative behavior. Vellicative! Say it out loud and notice how it gives your tongue a workout! I love that!)

This morning, Old Rightie is no longer weeping and she hasn’t yet vellicated, meaning the Eye Doctor is probably going to stamp my file with the words Wooden Nickel as I leave his office. (Grab Bag: Two-Dollar Bill, Charlatan, Bunyip!)

I miss my appendix. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Waffling! Constantly waffling! Itchy!

Anyone who knows me at all will find it hard to believe that I have spent the past five days attending outdoor gatherings like Barbecues and Lunches and Celebrations and Events During Which Fireworks Explode. When I woke up this morning with about 754 (give or take 742) fresh bug bites, I rolled over, raised my right hand, and vowed to never leave my house again. Sadly, I will be breaking this vow in about twenty minutes when the girls and I comb the area for cracked wheat and millet. You see, the very first thing I ate in Jackson Hole, Wyoming was an OSM waffle at The Bunnery. That waffle has been on my mind for 24 days, which happens to be the gestation period of a pheasant. I was able to find the recipe last weekend, and yesterday I found a waffle iron for seven dollars, meaning OSM Waffles are Meant to Be. (I’m not quite sure what millet is, but keep your fingers crossed that it stops the bug bites from itching, because right now my synapses are firing simple messages of “Waffles!” and “Itchy!”, and it’s becoming impossible to steer my waves toward things like “Laundry!” and “Take care of the children!”)

In about six hours, Harper will be testing for her yellow belt, which means in about six hours I will be crying at a martial arts center. (Perhaps I’ll bring an onion to chop so I don’t appear to be quite so emotionally unstable. I should have brought an onion to Toy Story 3. I’ll be bringing lots of onions to Harper first day of kindergarten…)

In less than 48 hours, I will be on the road to Memphis, where my road trip buddies and I will be touring Graceland, eating at a hotel that boasts of parading ducks, visiting a few yarn stores, and drinking sweet tea. Any other suggestions would be appreciated! Obviously, with less than 48 hours in Memphis, time is a consideration. (Time, time, time. See what’s become of me while I looked around for my possibilities?!) Waffles. Itchy. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Blowing through the jasmine in my mind…

For whatever reason, it seems that I’ve been cleaning the house. So far, I’ve washed and organized 94% of the kitchen, I’ve scrubbed bathroom sinks and showers, I’ve organized 17% of the family room, and I’ve purchased a small vapor cleaner thing that will supposedly shoot all of that black gunk out of the shower in the master bathroom.

My goal is to get the house in shape this summer so that when the girls start school in August, I can apply my faux pearl necklace and sing things like, “Oh! It’s Tuesday! Time to vacuum the floors before I hit my freelance.” If I can break the work down into daily manageable tasks, my life will surely be sunnier and my hair will shine, and perhaps I’ll lose the final few pounds that simply must go before my happy pants fit again.

Anyway, later this afternoon I’ll be attacking my bookshelf, and that’s sort of exciting because during Bookshelf Cleaning Day, all books get to line up on the floor and grapple for potential positioning on the top shelf. Current top shelf selections include To Kill a Mockingbird, Letters of E.B. White, The Franchiser, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, and Remembering Denny. Currently competing for a top shelf position are the Shirley Jackson books recently gifted to me by Tempe, The Importance of Being Earnest, and The Elegance of the Hedgehog. (My book club is meeting over sushi on Thursday to discuss The Elegance of the Hedgehog, and I’m currently within five pages of finishing.)

By the way, yes! I’ve decided to go vegetarian again on July 1. This means I currently have three more days in which to eat meat. Last night I had Trader Joe’s Mandarin Orange Chicken, which is my absolute favorite chicken meal. Tonight we’ll be having a pesto pizza, and that’s insane because Only Three More Days To Go and I’m eating a meatless dinner?! I can’t even begin to think about tomorrow’s dinner because I’m getting my very first facial at 6:45 in the evening, and oddly enough, it will involve removing my shirt. This was a gift for my birthday, and it couldn’t be more perfect because Eleanor Roosevelt once said, “Every day do something that frightens you.” SO, not only will this gift exfoliate, moisturize, and fortify my skin—it will also make me a bit more Rooseveltian. (Important Clarification: I will not become a Republican, although I have eaten with many of them, and some are quite delightful.)

In less than two weeks, I’ll be traveling to Memphis for a weekend of debauchery. (Although my definition of that word has relaxed considerably in the past 20 years, current usage does include a trip to Graceland, some yarn store browsing, and a search for vegetarian barbecue. (I will, of course, settle for sweet tea and a baked sweet potato. I will not be one of those vegetarians who ruin it for everyone else.))

I shall now leave the house to buy muffins. Enjoy your day. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I’m making big decisions without internet access!

My phone went dead yesterday afternoon. AND, when the phone goes dead, the DSL goes dead, and suddenly I’m faced with an army of chirping crickets and all I want to do is check my e-mail or read websites or research eyelash growth, and twenty years ago I had no idea what the internet was, and now I’m really wondering what I did with my time back then. (Wait! I remember! I actually hung out with real people and went to real restaurants/bars and read books. Also, because I was in college at the time, I’m assuming I studied a bit. And, oh how I wish I could revisit those years and perhaps try a bit harder in my classes. Have I ever told you that I changed my major seven times in five years? Question: How do you go from Piano Performance to Psychology/Religion in five steps? I’ll tell you how: English, Communications, Elementary Education, Occupational Therapy, Nursing!)

Where was I? Yes. Without the internet. So, I walked out of the house at six in the evening to get the mail, and a red truck came zooming (zooming!) up the hill with the horn honking and the driver waving. He pulled up into our driveway and yelled, “Is Jeff home?!” Jeff was not home. The driver introduced himself as our back yard side neighbor, and told me that he has been cutting the overgrowth of trees that now fall on his and our property from the other back yard side neighbor’s yard. (This is so boring.) Anyway, he asked if he could back his truck up to our yard today and haul away the branches and Oh! He noticed that we have a sassafras tree growing in our side yard, and can he make tea?! (Yes. Yes, he can.)

I told him when I saw him zooming up the hill, I thought he was going to ask if we had a working phone. Because we don’t. He laughed and claimed to not know anything about that.

This morning Jeff walked out into the back yard to check out the overgrowth, and he found that the Back Yard Side Guy had cut our phone wire. And I know it had to have been an accident, because the guy’s super nice but Argh.

An hour ago the girls and I drove thirty miles south so I could check my e-mail and tell you this story. And what a great story it is, no? I’d appreciate a few bucks for gas.

Also, my OB/GYN has been trying to get me off of the birth control pills for three years now, because the hormones mess with me and I’m 40 and I’m a bit irresponsible when it comes to taking them. SO, I’m thinking about letting her insert tiny coils into my fallopian tubes, which will fool the fallopians into forming scar tissue around the coils, thereby making it nearly impossible for me to produce unplanned Pudding Pops. (Please know that I didn’t come up with this coil idea on my own, although I sort of wish I had. Once again, intelligence is power.)

The only thing that sort of makes me stare at the sky and put my index finger to the side of my head is the fact that I sometimes think I have one more kid waiting to be made. If I do the scar tissue thing, that kid will never show his or her face.

I’m not sure why I told you the tree trimming story first, when it’s fairly clear that permanent birth control is the more compelling topic.

Finally, I’m going to go vegetarian again on July 1. SO, if you were going to invite me out for a steak dinner, your best bet would be to send that invitation out in the next few days.

And now I shall return to my house, where I’ll be without the internet for another 24 hours. At least. Inhale. Exhale slowly.
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The Puddings are Camping Out! Come over here to admire our tent and earn a chance to win a $50 Visa gift card from BlogHer! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

It’s hip to be square.

Before I even started typing this post, I hesitated.

Because it’s about my maladies. (Look away, Reader Eddie. These are the posts that burn you to bits!)

Admittedly, my maladies are lame. AND, the only reason I’m even USING the word malady is because I like to pronounce it mah-LAY-dee, as in “Would you fancy a cup of tea, mah-LAY-dee?”

This morning I loaded up the girls and took them to see my doctor. I’ve been waking up with one hell of a backache for the past three weeks, and it doesn’t really matter how much I bend and flex and worm around on the floor—it’s not getting better. I would continue to ride this storm out, but we’re leaving in a few days and I really don’t feel like going all Fred Sanford with a cane in Wyoming. Also, I’ve got a spot on my hip. <—Did you notice that? Totally secondary to the back thing.

My doctor laid me down (Billy Joe’s “Piano Man” was playing in the background. My doctor had me feeling alright.), checked out a few things, asked a few questions, and decided that a week-long course of anti-inflammatory drugs paired up with a few muscle relaxants and some exercises will have me Couch to 5K-ing in no time. (As if.)

Me: Oh! I also want to show you this thing on my hip.

Doctor: What’s going on?

Me (all red-faced and trying to pull my too-tight skirt over my cushioned hip): I’ve got this spot thing that showed up a few weeks ago, and now it looks like it’s growing and, well, I can’t wear pants that touch it because yee-ow!

Doctor (examining the map of South America that is slowly forming on my right side): Ooh. Is it draining at all?

Me: I don’t want to talk about it. Um, no. It’s not draining. But it feels like an eruption could take place near Paraguay.

Doctor (poking me): I think you’ve got a touch of cellulitis.

So, anyway. It looks like I’ve got a touch of cellulitis. And now I want to show it to you, because I’ve got a blog. (Please know that according to Wikipedia, Cellulitis is unrelated (except etymologically) to Cellulite. Except etymologically. I love that.)

And let’s just get something straight. It appears that I am showing you my butt in this photo. By now, we all know that I would never do such a thing. Please be aware that the spot is actually above my hip bone. I have no idea what sort of contorted move I did to make it look like I was dropping low on the skirt. Anyway. This photo? Totally rated PG. And another thing: Since when do I have an Adam’s apple?!

I should end on a positive note. In the above photo, I like my pointed shoulder. I also don’t mind the crazy veins that sit on my fourth knuckle. Best of all? I’m wearing a Nashville Flood Tee.

Okay, then. Back to your day.
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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’>

Dear Salad: Be what you want to be.

Me, calling into a local dive restaurant: Hello there! I have a Buy One, Get One Free Entrée coupon, and I was wondering if a salad counts as an entrée.

Guy of Local Dive (GOLD): A salad is not an entrée, Ma’am.

Me (feeling sort of ridiculous): Is a sandwich an entrée?

GOLD: I don’t think a sandwich is an entrée. You have to order from the Entrée section of the menu.

Me (holding back tears of laughter/pain): Okay, well, I have your menu in front of me right now, and I’m not seeing anything that’s labeled Entrée.

GOLD: I’ve never actually seen our menu, so I’m not sure how to help you at this point.

Wait. I want to repeat that (in italics!) for you.

GOLD: I’ve never actually seen our menu, so I’m not sure how to help you at this point.

And I should have asked for a manager, but I believe my time would be better spent actually driving to the restaurant and giving GOLD an awkward hug. And then we’ll eat cheesecake. As an entrée. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

The photos serve as antihypertension vehicles.

So, I’ve got this happening on my front porch.

And I’ve got this happening twice each week.

I started my summer project.

(It will eventually look like this.)

And yesterday I made a blackberry cobbler. (It didn’t last long enough for photographs.)

Seven more days of school.

Only seven more days of school.
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The Puddings are drinking juice and rolling on the river! Come over here for a chance at a $50 Visa gift card from BlogHer! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Nothing But a Number

For exactly one year, I am not unlike zirconium.
(Please know that short term exposure will cause minor irritation.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

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’>

My milkshake brings all the milk men to the yard.

So, last Thursday I was doing the freelance thing when someone started knocking on my door. I jumped up, opened the door, and was greeted by a guy who looked quite a bit like my best friend from college’s brother. But it wasn’t.

Me: Hi.

Guy: Hello there! My name is Lou, and I want to be your milk man.

Please know that his name isn’t really Lou (it’s Scott). I’m just using Lou to maintain anonymity (you know, for Scott), and I chose Lou because it sounds like a milk man’s name. And that reminds me: Do you remember these guys? Because I do. (They also did a tune titled “Watching Scotty Die” which I believe was playing on the Bobby Goldsboro tune titled “Watching Scotty Grow” and that song never fails to make me tear up. And while we’re crying, how about this one? Holy crap. Where was I?)

So, Lou went on and on about the milk thing and he sang songs about hormones and free-range and “no delivery fee for six months!” And “I’ll waive your cooler deposit!” And “I’ll bring you some milk and coffee samples!” And, disturbingly, “You’re the nicest person I’ve talked to all day!” (Admittedly, I am very nice. Mostly.)

I told him I would check with Jeff (because, you know, he is the Bread Winner and I never skip the chance to mention My Husband) and call him back the next day.

And I checked with Jeff. And I called Lou back the next day.

Lou: Hello?

Me: Hi. My name is Angela Pudding (that’s not really my last name) and you came by here yesterday, and…

Lou (totally interrupting me, like we’re buddies or something): Angela! That’s right! Hey! I’m in traffic so I’ll need to call you back in ten minutes.

And he called me back, and I told him that I wanted to start off with a standing order of two half-gallons of 2% and a dozen eggs. And our connection was sort of clicky and weird, and suddenly Lou yelled, “I’m not speaking to my wife right now, and she keeps clicking in!”

Oh, Lou. Please don’t make this uncomfortable.

Me: Okay then. Anyway, the milk and the eggs? Are we good to go?

On Saturday, he delivered milk and coffee samples.

Today he delivered the two half-gallons of milk, the eggs, and the cooler. And instead of just leaving them on the front porch like he said he would (perhaps he was confused because we don’t really have a porch. It’s more of a sidewalk, really.), he knocked.

Me: Hi, Lou.

Lou: My boss was going to bring these by, but he got called out of town, so I thought I would take over for him!

Me: Excellent.

Lou: Free-range eggs and two half-gallons of 2% and your cooler!

(Awkward silence.)

Me: YouCannotComeIntoMyHouseLou.

Lou: What?

Me: See you next week. If I don’t answer, feel free to just leave everything in the cooler! The cooler is awesome! I can’t wait to see how it works!

So, now we have a milk man. AND, hopefully he’ll provide me with material, because I’m really starting to stretch, and I don’t want to get all “Ask me anything!” because I don’t think anyone would ask me anything. Do you remember my Cadillac of a dishwasher? It’s broken! Do you want to hear about it? Because I’m conducting a plastic spoon experiment over here! Anyway.

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I’m drinking lots of juice and diving into the Tropicana Juicy Rewards Program. (AND giving away a $50 Visa gift card!) You can follow along by following this link! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>