Fluid Pudding : Page 102 of 123 : It's the old small talk!

Someone get these dark chocolate covered pomegranate seeds out of my kitchen!

I know the exact weight I need to be in order for my jeans to fit.

In January, I discovered that I was fourteen pounds OVER that weight, and my jeans still fit. However, when I removed my jeans (in a completely wholesome way, in order to quickly change into my vanilla frog pajamas), I had bumpy dark red rings around my waist indicating that I was putting some real strain on the waistband of my pants. Sadly, those rings stuck around throughout the night and into the next morning, serving as a constant reminder that although 14 is one of my very favorite numbers (42 is another!), it doesn’t really reflect well on my mid-section. (And let’s not even talk (or think) about my butt! I’m not joking around right now!)

(Side note: I often wonder if I should be drinking more water. Why on earth are those jean rings still hanging out nearly twelve hours after I remove my pants? (Greetings to the people who are finding my website after Googling “remove my pants!” Pull up a chair! There is absolutely nothing for you to see here!) Also, every night I spend way too much time smoothing out my pillow, because I know that any crease that finds its way to my face during the night will still be visible when I pick the kids up from school at 3:30 the next afternoon. I have actually canceled trips to the grocery store because of embarrassing pillow creases. I look like Seal!)

Anyway, because I wasn’t thrilled with the decorative red and itchy jean rings, I decided to take 12 weeks to drop the 14 pounds. And this is important: I decided to do it without adding any sort of exercise. Because zero exercise + zero exercise = I get to stay on the couch and knit! You think I’m lazy! You are correct! Don’t ask me to high five you. It might make me palpitate!

Two weeks ago, I reached the 10 Pounds Gone mark. And despite the Upping of the Fiber and the Continual Slow Elimination of Processed Foods, I’ve been hovering at 10 Pounds Gone now for 15 days. Unacceptable.

Last night for the first time in probably a decade, I did step aerobics for 30 minutes. And, according to The People Who Figure This Stuff Out, I burned 190 calories. And then I sucked three gallons of sweat out of the carpet with our wet vac. Today? My legs feel like noodles. And, according to The People Who Do This Sort of Thing Regularly, I’m supposed to really dig the fact that my legs feel like noodles. But I don’t. In fact, I think it’s time for a crazy animal print hat, because I’m finding that my stride today is quite pimp-like.

To meet my original goal, I have three weeks to lose four pounds. Tonight I’m going to get my hair cut, which means roughly 1/20th of a pound will be left on the floor at my hair joint. When I get home, I might shave my legs. (We’re entering skirt season, you know.)

Every little bit helps. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Whatever happened to Buddy Hinton?

Jeff’s birthday was Monday, and although we didn’t get him exactly what he wanted, we did get him a few small useful things. (Like Skittles! And Garfield Minus Garfield!) When he returned home from work on his birthday, the girls sat him on the couch and instructed him to close his eyes and hold out his hands. Obviously, this gave Jeff the opportunity to act all deranged—with his eyes closed and his arms outstretched as far as they would go, he waited until the girls screamed, “No! That’s too big!” before he started swinging his arms around like he was swimming in a pool of monkeys. Because I’m not very graceful when it comes to giving gifts, I danced around and attempted to place an Applebee’s gift card into one of his flailing arms. (Please know that his eyes were still closed and the girls were screaming with delight. Chaos, I tell you.) As I jerked around and placed the card into his left hand, Jeff swung his right arm and punched me square in the jaw. Immediately, my eyes began to water and the scene quickly turned from knee-slapping birthday jollification to remorse for the ghastly accidental pounding.

Me: So. Is this what 39 is going to be like?

Jeff: You KNOW I don’t like APPLEBEE’S!!!

(He didn’t really say that. Jeff recognizes the importance of eating good in the neighborhood.)

Internet, may I ask a favor of you? (I always feel weird doing this, and I try not to do it often.) Two friends of mine have kids who attend the St. Louis Language Immersion School (SLLIS). The school is currently in the running to receive an equipment grant that will go toward building a playground. (I absolutely hate the idea of kids not having a playground.) I will not ask you to donate cash, but would you please consider voting for SLLIS to receive one of these grants? (It’s as easy as clicking a button, and you can vote once each day until March 31.)

I offer you my deepest thanks, along with the promise that this act of kindness will not get you punched in the jaw. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Swinging dead cats and wishing for the perfect naan.

I once made the statement that you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a gifted kid. After saying it, I sort of regretted saying it, as I tend to regret many of the things I say out loud. (“Quarter Pounder with cheese, mustard, pickle, and onion” is an excellent example of this. Also, the fact that I’m constantly chewing on my foot (figuratively!) is one of the many reasons why you’ll probably never see me in person! I like to stay in my (mostly soundproof) house! I sing songs to my cats! Anyway!)

I wasn’t going to share this with you, but I suddenly feel like I should: Meredith was recently accepted into the gifted program at school. After consulting with us, her teacher recommended her, she tested surprisingly well, and Wham! Every Thursday morning she now reports to the middle school where she has her own locker and she changes classes along with an entire hallway of first and second graders who are also in the program. And I’m being intentionally vague, because it’s such a thin fence between bragging on your kid and not bragging and I suppose it’s not wrong to brag about your kid, and gheez. It’s just sort of new to me, but I will say this: Meredith LOVES her Thursdays, and I like to think of it as her song to sing—not mine.

This might seem like I’m changing the subject, but I’m not: Meredith gets car sick, and because of that, she can’t/won’t ride the bus. This morning I had to take her to the middle school at 9:00, pick her up at 11:00 (it was an early dismissal day), drive her to the elementary school, return home and feed Harper lunch, take Harper to the elementary at 12:30, go back to the middle school for the parent/teacher conference at 1:20, and then back home where I currently sit typingtypingtyping until 3:06 when I make my way back to the elementary to pick them both up. AND, because Jeff is in California and I slept like a horse last night (mostly on my feet, lots of fidgeting and swinging my tail at imaginary bugs), I’m feeling a bit raw.

And now I’m going to change into an even more opaque hat: Something was brought up at today’s conference that should have been brought up at last week’s conference with her elementary classroom teacher, and I’m currently stuck between a rock and a hard place (Ah! Clichés! Rattlesnakes!) because I feel the need to confront someone, but I secretly know I can’t because there’s a 17% chance that it might affect a friendship, and because I am who I am, this is going to bother me for days, and hey! I’m really liking that sick mom from American Idol, aren’t you?

After actually feeling tempted to taste goat meat last weekend, I am now 100% committed to learn how to cook authentic Indian food of the vegetarian variety. (Live long and prosper, Goats!) It seems that whenever Jeff and I get the chance to hit a restaurant, we always go for Indian. I’ve asked for cookbook recommendations on Twitter, and I’ve now added a few to my Amazon wish list. (Whee! A list of wishes!) I’m now wondering if you have any words of wisdom. What I really want is to figure out exactly how the place down the street makes their Delhi’s Chaat. From there? Saag paneer. And on and on until my house smells like an Indian Palace. (Don’t worry. I’m not going to go all Julie and Julia: The Indian Version on you. I’m not nearly that perky.)

Look. I knitted a hat and some washcloths for Meredith’s kindergarten teacher. There I go again, getting all twirly and knitting gifts for teachers!

There goes February!

If you’re not a knitter, you need to know this: Several knitters out there kick off new knitting projects during the opening ceremonies of the Olympics, with the goal of finishing those projects before or during the closing ceremonies. Some knitters take this quite seriously—joining knitting teams and signing on for certain “events” depending on the type of project they’re attempting to complete.

I didn’t join a team this year, because with freelance work and kids home from school and parent/teacher conferences and I’m full of ridiculous excuses, I didn’t think I would be successful.

Do you remember when I did that meme/hat giveaway thing at the end of January? Well. Mommy Mae won the hat, and after a few e-mails back and forth, we decided that she would look quite fetching in a Gretel. Because it just sort of worked out that way, I started the hat during the opening ceremony of the Olympics, and I actually finished it yesterday afternoon.

Please know that I’m not presenting a black and white photo in an attempt to be artsy. I’m presenting it because Mommy Mae has no idea what color the hat truly is, and I want to keep it a surprise. So, here I sit empty-handed, but deserving some sort of Olympic medal, I suppose. What a difficult life it can be for a knitter with no team!

On Thursday evening, my book club met to discuss “My Life in France” by Julia Child. At the meeting, we each brought a dish prepared using one of Ms. Child’s recipes. I chose the Clafouti. (The recipe is here, and is really super easy and Good.)

The host of the meeting prepared Boeuf Bourguignon, and side dishes included fresh green beans with a Swiss cheese sauce, tomatoes stuffed with garlic and Saint-André cheese, and roasted potatoes. Perfection. (Also? I was thrilled to hear that I’m not the only person in the world that craved more Julia and Much LESS Julie in her Julie and Julia. I could have done without Julie altogether, actually.)

For those who asked, the adult makeup I purchased is Lorac, which I just learned is pronounced LeROCK and not LORack. Specifically, I got the oil-free makeup (currently marked down from $30 to $7.50), the oil-free wet/dry powder makeup, and a set of really crazy glittered lip glosses that were marked down from something like $38 to something like $7 and are no longer on the website, meaning I’m definitely not the ONLY person in the world walking around with a bedazzled mouth, and you would be surprised how much my mind is eased knowing that There Are Others.

I’ve been commissioned to knit a sweater for a dog. And after finding this pattern, I really couldn’t be more excited.

Oh! Oh! I almost forgot! Leah Peterson is one of the most creative people I know. It seems that she always has some sort of amazing project going on, and I’m in love with her writing, photography, ideas, etc. Her latest creation is a magazine titled LP Creative Humans, and the first issue is now available. AND, I submitted something. (Very reluctantly. Someday we’ll talk about my complete lack of confidence when it comes to writing outside of Fluid Pudding. Yeesh.) And wheee! I made it. (Wait a second. There’s my Olympic medal!) If you’re interested in browsing or purchasing, feel free to go here! (Or hit the MagCloud button in my sidebar.) ((I like to give you options.)) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

It looks like I’m rotting from the inside out, Lily Chin.

When I was in high school, my skin was highly imperfect.

Sadly, when you take a girl who is already a bit of a social disaster (me! I was the piano playing introvert who always kept the words Boy and Friend separate!) and you tap her with a Yucky Skin stick, you end up with someone who spends entirely too much time staring at her own feet as she walks down the hall. (This might explain my current fascination with shoes! I would look so CUTE falling down in these!)

Anyway, my mom knew that I was bummed out about my skin, so she took me to see a dermatologist. After shining bright lights on me for what seemed like hours, the doctor removed his glasses and said, “So, your skin’s imperfect. You’re not going to kill yourself, are you?!” I had no idea how to respond, so I simply apologized for setting up the appointment. (Quick news flash: The last I heard, this dermatologist was in prison! Catch a painted pony and so forth!)

Fast forward entirely too many years to January 2010. Last month I noticed that my skin was starting to look like crap again. Dry, oily, irritated, sensitive, scary, spicy, posh, etc. I visited my primary care physician last week (you know, because My Dermatologist is in PRISON) and am now washing my face with a benzoyl peroxide soap and using something called Metro Gel, which I believe brings me one step closer to my goal of Urban Cowboy status. I have no idea why I’m telling you this. I suppose I really just want to say: Stop looking at my chin. I have no idea what’s going on down there, but I’ve been assured that Metro Gel is on the case.

I’m pleased to report that I’ve just finished my final freelance chapter.

I’m terrified to report that I’ve just finished my final freelance chapter.

(I realize it’s only a matter of time until I accept my next job, so all is well. I’m very lucky to be able to live like this.)

The UPS man just delivered the Adult Makeup I ordered last week. Have I mentioned that I’ll be forty soon? I really should start adding more fiber to my diet or Sensitive Skin products to my makeup drawer or money to my kids’ college funds or something.

I’ve spent the entire weekend listening to Mumford and Sons. They’re exactly what I need right now.

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Time is running out!
Tonight I’m giving away a $200 Visa gift card, and it’s all about pizza.

I spent a week driving a Lincoln, and if you check out my review you could win a $500 Visa gift card! (And more!) This is a really great giveaway! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I’ve been poking pretzel sticks through bunny-shaped marshmallows.

Yesterday afternoon, Harper went to school and wrote a note to me on funeral home letterhead.

Obviously, I love this note for many reasons.

I plan to stash it away in a light-fast, non-bleeding, and acid- and lignin-free box to heighten the chance that my great great great great granddaughter will discover it while constructing some sort of branchy Pudding family tree. I picture her asking my great great granddaughter how old Great Great Great Grandma Harper was when Great Great Great Great Grandma Angela passed on, and what are the chances that this note was actually written at the funeral?!

Ahhhh. It’s been a long day.

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Time is running out!
I spent a week driving a Lincoln, and if you check out my review you could win a $500 Visa gift card! (And more!) This is a really great giveaway!

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

Jeff told her that it looked like cobbler. He’s so brave.

My calendar this week is filled with words, and most of those words have something to do with freelance work.

(Thursday contains the words Stendhal Syndrome. I’m not sure why I wrote that, but I do love the concept.)

Sadly, today features the following phrase: MC home sick.

Did you know that Meredith has GERD? She had it when she was a baby, and then everything seemed to clear up when she started walking. Last April, she started complaining of stomachaches. After a few weeks of complaints, she started throwing up every morning. Her doctor put her on Prilosec for six months. When six months passed, Meredith was going through a challenging time at school and was scared to death to stop the medicine, so the doctor signed us on for another three months.

A few weeks back, the prescription ran out, and Meredith was cool with that. Onward!

We noticed last week that she was hoarse.

On Sunday afternoon, she had a really awful cough.

Last night at 9:45 she yelled out and was wiggling around her bed in pain.

Me: Do you think you might need a puke bowl?

Meredith: Yes.

Seconds later (before Jeff was able to deliver The Silver Bowl), Meredith unloaded a pile of blueberries onto her bed. And I thought I could handle cleaning it. I totally did. Jeff took Meredith to the bathroom to clean her up, I approached the bed with the intention of removing the sheets and wiping up as much as I could. And then I started in with the gagging and bending over and saying a lot of things like, “Yeesh! Um, I can do this. I can do this. Blergh. Yes. Holy holy holy. Oh. Boy.”

Once again, Jeff came to the rescue and dealt with the sheets while the girls and I watched a bit of Olympic figure skating. (Did anyone else catch the Canadian skater who fixed her partner’s hair during The Way We Were?! It was just like Streisand and Redford! I don’t care that she fell down and repeatedly stumbled. That subtle move should have clinched the gold for them. Go Canada!)

So, anyway. As I sit at my computer and type, Meredith is sleeping off her rough night (we now have more Prilosec), Harper is at school, and there are at least 20 more chapters on reptiles that need to be templated.

If I have time later this week, I want to talk to you about the crush I have on Bobby Flay.
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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’>

Everyone is invited, Mr. Dangerfield.

Lately, Meredith feels she is not getting enough respect.

After much consideration, she has determined that throwing a party will be the best way to gather her housemates and confront them in regard to their general lack of respect.

Therefore, a Give Meredith Respect Party is being thrown. (Gifts are appreciated, but not required.)

If the proper amount of respect is not shown, attendees will be evicted from the party.

(And, yes. I’m now teaching her the difference between Your and You’re. It’s a difficult but important lesson for a six year old who gets no respect.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Sondre Lerche Concert Giveaway!

ETA: The tickets have been taken. Hooray!!! Thanks to all who inquired!

Here’s the scoop.

A few weeks back, I was made aware of the fact that Sondre Lerche is coming to town. And I love him. So I bought tickets.

Now, it has become clear that I will not be able to attend the show. And I’m bummed. Really bummed.

I tried to sell the tickets on Facebook. No takers.

An hour ago, I tried to give the tickets away on Facebook. No takers.

So, now I’m opening it up to everyone. (Everyone in St. Louis, that is.)

If you’re in St. Louis and are interested in tickets to a really great show on Monday night (2/15), please let me know and the tickets are yours.

What? You don’t know who Sondre Lerche is? Well, here. Let me introduce you.

If you’re interested, leave a comment and we’ll make connections.

(Official show details are here.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>