Fluid Pudding : Page 113 of 122 : It's the old small talk!

Even doves have pride.

The sound of children singing has always given me the creeps. Even when I WAS a kid, my flesh often crawled during the elementary concerts when I had to stand on the risers and sing with the other kids my age. Those scary movies that feature kids warbling hymns as the final credits roll? Yeah. The guy in charge of that decision nailed it.

This scene from Kids Incorporated was actually based on one of my many recurring nightmares.

Last week during my kindergarten volunteer time, I found myself walking down the third grade hall as the kids were taking a break from their MAP testing. During my stroll toward the kindergarten classrooms, I noticed at least five signs in the hallway reminding the kids to always do their best, eat a good breakfast every day (the cafeteria provides a free breakfast for every student, believe it or not), and stay silent while in the halls.

I couldn’t help but notice that the kids looked a bit stressed out. A few were yawning as they waited to use the drinking fountain. Three or four were releasing some energy by doing jumping jacks. Some were simply staring at the floor—waiting to be corralled back into the classroom to fill in more squares with a No. 2 pencil.

Seeing the kids looking so worried affected me. In my world, third graders are not supposed to be stressed. They’re supposed to be cheery! Everyone is happy! We’re all friends! No war! No plastic toys! No peanut allergies!

And then I heard it. As I continued down the hall to Meredith’s classroom (believe me, it’s a really long walk), I heard a tiny voice singing Lovebug by the Jonas Brothers. (Parenthetical Confession: I don’t hate that song. iTunes can back me up on that. I know.) As I passed the next drinking fountain, I saw that the voice was coming from a tiny little girl who looked to be about Meredith’s age. As I walked past her, she smiled at me and the voices in her head told her to start skipping down the hall as she continued to sing. Yes. She was skipping.

Anyway, seeing the third graders looking a bit distressed and then hearing this little happy voice and the sound of her feet as she skipped away from me coupled with the smell of pencils and crayons and, well, kids? My eyes welled up and I got a lump the size of a (freakishly large) potato in my throat. (Actually, I have the lump and the eye thing right now! I can’t even tell the story without puking Velveeta!!)

Something has shifted within me, Internet. I’ve gone soft.

And the worst news of all? Tonight is Meredith’s kindergarten spring concert. While the other parents kick back and check their watches as the kids sing songs about fairy tales, I’m going to be the lady in the third row who suffers facial spasms as she tries to fight the urge to weep. I’ll surely lose the battle if they sing anything that even remotely resembles The Second Star to the Right. In fact, I can’t promise that I won’t sink to the floor and reenact the Glenn Close shower scene from The Big Chill. (Obviously, I’ll keep my clothes on, because I’m sort of classy.)

I’m hoping to share a bit of the video with you tomorrow. If nothing else, you’ll find out what it sounds like when Pudding cries. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

How was our Easter?

As you can see, it was partly sunny with a 75% chance of wicked storms.

At least the girls had an absolutely delightful morning.

Such a beautiful day. I simply couldn’t stop smiling!

(Although it was something like twelve degrees below zero this afternoon, Jeff wanted to take a family photo after church. Meredith was freezing, Harper was ready for a nap, and the only thing keeping me from killing our neighbor was that whole Love Thy Neighbor thing sprinkled with a bit of Thou Shalt Not Kill. After taking this photo, Jeff mentioned that the three of us were channeling those heart-ripping photos of mothers and their kids during The Great Depression.)

Happy Easter, y’all. Time for bed. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Four days only!

So, last year I made a video of myself writing all over my face for Easter.

About a month after I posted it, all hell broke loose.

Let’s just say this: There’s an amazing dead pianist out there with a crabby family who doesn’t appreciate his music being played while a complete idiot marks herself up with Clinique eyeliner.

With all due respect (or whatever you say when you’ve decided to flip the kindest of birds), I’m proud of that stinking video. Seriously! I had to write on my face backwards, and you know how tricky that is!

Because my feelings of invincibility tend to hit in 96-hour spurts, I’m putting the video up again, but will be taking it down on Monday.

Happy Easter to you.

Happy Easter from Fluid Pudding! from Angela D. on Vimeo. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Care to follow me down a side road?

So, I posted the following few paragraphs and reviews earlier today, and then it seemed weird to be posting anything in light of the terrible news about Madeline. (You can donate to March of Dimes in her honor by heading over here.) Anyway, I’m always completely speechless in these situations, and then I read what Velma wrote about her own daughter. And she summed up my feelings so perfectly.

My book club is meeting next week, and for the second month in a row, I have not yet read the book. Instead, I’ve been reading The Household Guide to Dying. And I’m loving it, and I talk all about it right over here.

Also, I’ve been eating yogurt. And I made a video of myself eating yogurt (follow this link to see), because sometimes that urge just strikes, don’t you agree? Actually, I believe we should pick a day and all make videos of ourselves eating our favorite food. Would you be up for it? (I choose Delhi’s Chaat (#11 on the menu), and I choose May 12th, for obvious reasons.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

You inspired me, Internet!

I just returned home from the fabric store, where I purchased the following items:

I’m setting the goal of having one dress completed before Mother’s Day. Apparently, the really good scissors go on sale for Mother’s Day, and if the sewing is going really well, I can almost justify purchasing really good scissors!

And then I’ll set the goal of cutting the girls’ hair. Because when you have really good scissors, you can cut hair, right? And then I’ll start giving perms to the ladies on my street. And then I’ll start making my own ketchup, because it seems like the next logical step after permanently waving the street lady heads. (My grandmother made her own ketchup (and root beer) and she died four years ago today. I think she would be happy to know that this evening I purchased fabric, thereby getting a semi-early start on the long road to Ketchupville.)

Edited to Add: The cutting of the hair with the good scissors thing? I’m just kidding, Internet. I would NEVER. (I learned that lesson years ago when my mom was the owner of good scissors. Incidentally, my mom’s good scissors are sitting in my kitchen drawer right now, and they sometimes cut through flower stems! Sorry, Mom.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Sew Far, Sew Good! Get it?! Pass the beans!

Two years ago, I decided it was about time for me to start sewing.

When I was in junior high (or middle school, tomato-tomahto), I took a home economics class and loved the unit on sewing. Just to illustrate how much I loved it, please know that I willingly (!) participated in the home economics fashion show. I wore a hand-sewn navy blue dress (paired with red clunky beads, earrings, and shoes because I was immersed in the eighties like that), and carried a Cabbage Patch Kid (officially renamed Arthur Jeffrey when I decided that Clive Belden didn’t really suit him) who wore a hand-sewn hoodie. The summer after my eighth grade year, I made several crop top/crop pant ensembles, and I must admit: At the time, I thought I looked Very Cute. And that thought hasn’t really crossed my mind since then. So, sewing breeds self-confidence and makes you lovely. Right? Right-o!

Anyway, two years ago. Christmas rolled around and my mother-in-law presented me with a Singer Prélude. I brought it home and quickly put it in our coat closet. A few months later, I took it out and watched the instructional DVD. I may have even threaded a bobbin! (I’m very enthusiastic when it comes to bobbins.) I then returned the machine to the coat closet, where it still sits. (On top of the sewing machine is a chimney sweeping log. For some reason, the thought of removing that log to get to the machine is sort of overwhelming. What if I start a fire? It all seems so dangerous.)

A few weeks back I stood up and whispered, “It is time. Time to remove the log.” I opened the closet door, removed the log from the top of the machine, and sat back down. A few days ago, the sewing urge turned into more of a fever when I saw the amazing things Juju has been sewing. (Incidentally, does anyone know where I can find Japanese pattern books? Is it strictly an eBay thing? I don’t want to sell my car for Pochee, Volume 6. But I do want to know that Pochee, Volume 6 is obtainable. Because Every Single Thing Juju Made is something I want to wear.)

Last night I ran away from home (that’s twice in one week, for those keeping score!) and tried to find the nearest Jo-Ann store. (My goal was to browse pattern books and make a list of start-up materials that I might need. Tiny steps.) As I often do, I put on an old episode of This American Life for the drive and then I quickly became disoriented and ended up getting a bit lost. After my blood pressure returned to normal and I finally found the store, I discovered that it is closed for renovations. (It looks like the renovations are coming along quite nicely, Jo-Ann. The store will reopen on May 8th, which is my friend Mitzi’s birthday. Everything continues to happen and happen, don’t you think?)

My promise to you: I will be sewing before the end of the summer, and my short-term goal is to make a dress that the girls are willing to wear. (I’m so disappointed in the dresses we’re finding in stores. Why would anyone put an almost six year old in a dress that has a jeweled hole near her chest? Yikes.)

Any words of recommendation/advice would be welcome. (Unless your advice is “Put the log back on the machine.” Who are we if we can’t support one another with our crafty goals?)

Wait. I think I need a skirt made out of this. Imagine the possibilities, Diddy!

Edited To Add: Okay. I just broke down and ordered Pochee, Volume 6. Look out, World! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

It’s a new verb!

I’ve been Doobleh-Vayed!

(And it feels good!)

And if that’s not enough to make my day, this morning I took Harper to The Little Gym, and I met a knitter!

Last week I spent the entire Little Gym hour listening to a mom talk about her servants (Yep. She has live-in help, and she refers to them as her servants! Where do I begin?!), and this week I spent the hour chatting with a really pleasant woman who will soon be visiting the yarn store!

Good Day!

Enjoy your weekend!

P.S. I’m wearing the earrings. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

‘Cause I’ve Got a Hand for You, Darius.

This morning I took a break from the freelance madness and ran to Sephora to stock up on the stuff that has run out. I had about fifteen minutes to spare, so I decided to go to the book store. However, I never made it there, because I tripped and nearly fell down, and then I started feeling sorry for myself for being all awkward and unable to carry a Sephora bag and walk in regular shoes at the same time. (By the way, I was wearing these shoes, and I’m still in love with the fact that Heather B. shot a photo of my shoes, so now I’m shouting “La la laaah! Heather B. shot a photo of my shoes! Look at it!” And I should probably start another parenthetical aside for this thought, but since we’re already here: I’m most likely going to be name dropping a lot in the coming months. I’m once again doing that all-too-predictable “I’m Not Going” salty-teared dance, so my mind has been spending quite a bit of time hopping back to July 2008. Close parens here? Yes. Here.)

Anyway. I almost fell. And it suddenly occurred to me that I’m in a really awkward phase of life right now. (Bear with me. I sometimes get a little drippy. Do you have a napkin?) I’m not quite to the age where I really need to consider covering my knees, but I’m beyond the age of arm warmers with short-sleeved shirts. (At least I think I am. Am I? I think I am.) I’m no longer comfortable in social situations that involve hoards of teenagers standing in line to see their favorite band, yet I’m willing to bite the bullet (and look like everyone’s mother) if Ben Folds comes to town. I still sing really loudly when I’m in the car alone, but do you know that I’m singing along to the soundtrack from Chess?! (Okay. I’m stretching the truth a bit. But still. That stretchy bit is barely stretched.)

The other day I was indulging in a bit of self-pity browsing when I saw these. I often say, “You really have to know yourself before choosing a ring tone or committing to a favorite flavor of ice cream or espousing a spouse etc.” I’ve once again reached a point where I’m not sure I know myself enough to say, “I can definitely carry off the big shiny earring thing.”

I need your help. When I wear these earrings, am I pulling it off? OR, am I everyone’s Aunt Marie who wears globby lipstick and big silver balls of yarn on her ears because she works part-time at a yarn store?! (And I already know that at least one person will say, “No. Do Not Wear Those.” And immediately, I’ll doubt the people who say, “Yes! Wear those!” (I’m nothing if not a bungling blend of Fragile + Impressionable.)

I tried for nearly twenty minutes to get a photo of myself wearing the earrings. When I pulled out my camera, I kept coming up with photos of my shoulder or the top of my head with no earrings in sight. When I pulled up Photo Booth, the earrings became lost against my (very cluttered) refrigerator. Solution? Put my hands behind my ears in the style of a really awkward blowfish. (I refuse to make a Hootie joke, although this would be the perfect spot for one.)

Blackbird, I’m counting on you to talk some sense into me.

And I’m also counting on you.

Help a sister out? ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

FafPuhBuhPah! It’s catchy! (And it smells good.)

When I was a kid, our family ate lunch at my grandma’s house every single Sunday after church. Grandma would cook a full lunch for ten people, and all of her kids and the grandkids would gather around the table and stuff themselves before wandering out to the driveway where the older kids would shoot baskets and the younger kids would burn ants to a crisp using a magnifying glass and the sun. (I was in the ant burning group, but I tended to shift my focus toward leaves.)

When I was 23, my grandma stopped hosting the weekly lunches. Suddenly, I began to realize that people get old and lose energy and eventually die. (Honestly. I remember when the whole Mortality thing really hit me. It was a sad day back in 1993.) Anyway, for Christmas that year, I asked Grandma to write a cookbook that would hold recipes of the stuff she would often make for Sunday lunch.

This is the first page of the cookbook:

(Please note that Hog Potatoes are listed as “Angie’s Favorite” and the last line of the recipe is “After you eat these, you will look and feel like a hog.” Interesting.)

Anyway, this has nothing to do with anything, but it seems oddly related to the First Annual Fluid Pudding BreadPuddingAlong (Also known as FAFPBPA, which is pronounced FafPuhBuhPah!) (Funny. The whole cookbook story is really not related to FAFPBPA at all. The book contains a recipe for peach cobbler, but no mention of bread pudding. Go drink something while I indulge in a little disorganized reminiscing, okay? Okay.)

Anyway, since Grandma’s recipe isn’t available, I went ahead and used the recipe from Moms Who Think.

The result?

Very tasty for my first bread pudding!

A few participants have e-mailed links and photos, and I’m positively giddy about how we’re making the world a better place One Bread Pudding At a Time! (I’ll try to add everyone to the list as you submit your puddings! There is no cut-off date for the First Annual Fluid Pudding BreadPuddingAlong!)

Participants in the First Annual Fluid Pudding BreadPuddingAlong:

Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

My Dad!

Poppy Mom made Curried Bread Pudding!

Nichole

Carole’s Onion Pudding ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

It’s the First Annual Fluid Pudding BreadPuddingAlong!

As you know, the Oklahoma City bombing took place back in April of 1995. I was working my first full-time job at the time, and the folks I worked with felt quite helpless about the whole situation. We wanted to do something to help, but the company wouldn’t match any sort of financial contribution, and the money that WAS raised didn’t seem to really amount to anything and blech. It sort of sucked. We sent off a check, and still felt as if we hadn’t done enough.

And then one of the employees made a huge card for all of us to sign. (And by huge, I mean it was nearly forty eight inches tall. You know those stupid big cards that no one really wants to receive? Yeah. It was one of those. Made out of flimsy paper pulled off of a roll.)

Please know that I’m all for cards and well-wishes and heartfelt sentiments and whatnot. With that said, when the card got to me, I really hesitated before signing it. Why did I hesitate? Because, at the time, I was working with people who were actually writing things like, “Turn your scars into stars, Oklahoma! Love, Judy!” and “I once visited that building on my vacation! Get well soon, Oklahoma!”

Okay. Let’s fast forward nearly fourteen years to yesterday afternoon. As you know, I had a pretty sucky day. (And please know that my suckiest of days don’t even come close to the suckiness behind the Oklahoma bombing. That’s NOT what I’m saying. Gheez. I’m not even sure why I brought it up other than to tell you about that ridiculous Scars into Stars thing. Please know that the card also sported quite a few smiley faces with tears coming out of the eyes. I’m hoping they were all drawn by the same person, because if several people went in the crying smiley face direction, well, that’s sort of weird, right?) Anyway. Yesterday. All it took was me quickly muttering the term Bread Pudding, and the e-mails and comments started pouring in.

To summarize: You guys LOVE bread pudding! And so do I! Also, you guys are ALL having sort of sucky days lately! SO, let’s turn our scars into stars, people! Let’s all go to the grocery store and gear up for the First Annual Fluid Pudding BreadPuddingAlong!

What you need to do: Sometime this weekend, make a bread pudding. (I just might go with this one.) THEN, send a photo my way via e-mail or a link or whatever. If you don’t want to deal with a photograph, just tell me about your pudding! Write a stinkin’ poem about your pudding! And eat your pudding! And maybe make an extra for that friend or neighbor who seems to be a bit on the crying smiley face side of the fence! It’s the First Annual Fluid Pudding BreadPuddingAlong!

Tell your friends.

(I’ll contact Hallmark.)

Who’s in?

(Cue the crickets.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>