Fluid Pudding : Page 114 of 122 : It's the old small talk!

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’>

Too many irons and fires and pots and kettles and so forth.

Last night my father reminded me that I had not written anything at Fluid Pudding in over a week.

“Oh, yeah. Fluid Pudding. Heh. Oh.”

I must thank all of you who sent messages last week after reading the story of Meredith and The Plastic Bag. After I put that up, I received an e-mail from the school principal telling me that he spoke with the recess monitor and although she refuses to admit that she yelled at Meredith, she has agreed to apologize for yelling. I immediately punched myself in the head until I fell asleep at my desk. And then I puked out a return e-mail about the tone of voice not being an issue. It was the message. The message. Not the tone. And then I sat back with my imaginary martini in hand and bitched about the whole thing to the fairies in my head. And then I started knitting one of these sweaters with the goal of finishing it sometime around Thanksgiving. And then Harper threw a huge tantrum this morning and Meredith was running a temperature of 103.5 and it’s Spring Break! Aren’t we supposed to be at the zoo or something?! I was sort of losing my mind, so I picked up my knitting project bag and ripped out all of the work I had done on the sweater. I have no idea why I do that sort of thing. It’s sort of crazy, really. “Things are going sort of shitty, so I believe I’ll make it even shittier! Let’s turn up the shitty to SHITTY!” (For those keeping count, Shitty has just scored 4.5 points. (I gave an extra half point to Shittier.) And now we’re up to 7 points.) (By the way, I also kicked a castle made of blocks across the room, but I’m way WAY too embarrassed to tell you about that one. If I was in a rock band, I would surely be spinning around with my leg in the air and destroying a hotel room right about now. Do you want to come over? If you do, I’ll tie you to a chair and throw flaming baked potatoes at you.)

I missed the Andrew Bird show on Sunday night, and I’m still a little bummed about that, too.

Wow. You don’t hear from me in over a week, and I immediately start screaming at you. I’m a joy, no?

A few days ago I was working at the yarn store and I saw a man and wife walking side-by-side down the street. The wife was loudly whistling (seriously, like scream-whistling) “Memories” from Cats, and the husband was sporting a look of mild discomfort. And all I can say is “That’s LOVE. Or, that’s a guy who has totally given up.” And I’m sort of leaning toward the latter.

One last thing. If I see or hear one more commercial for yet another new stinking television reality/contrived smells-like-a-cheese-sitcom show about parents and kids and quirky situations and nannies or no nannies and too many kids or switching places with other kids or parents or whatever, I’m going to throw my television through the window. (And then I’ll tidy it up and put it right back on the stand so that I can play Animal Crossing: City Folk. Because I love fishing without actually having to touch a fish.)

Wait. One MORE thing. I’m 97% certain that I will not be attending BlogHer this year.

Wait. Did you hear that noise? I just exploded. In fact, if you find a tiny stain on your pants later today, it just might be part of my hippocampus!

(And, yes! I realize that this entire brain-to-fingers-to-you exercise consists mainly of sentiments that make you want to pull out the tiniest of violins. Poor baby, and whatnot. I know. I know! And recognition is the first step to healing or something.)

Now. Who wants to come over and make bread pudding? ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

When leaders act contrary to conscience, we must act contrary to leaders.

When I pick Harper up at pre-school each day at 11:30, I sometimes get there early enough to see Meredith at recess. (One of my very favorite things to do is park the car, listen to a little This American Life, and watch Meredith running around with her friends. Sometimes I have hot tea with me. It really doesn’t get much better than that, does it?)

This morning as the kindergarten kids lined up for the walk back to the building, I noticed a plastic bag blowing around on the sidewalk. As the kids passed the bag, many of them jumped over it. A few kicked it. Meredith picked it up and tried to hand it to the recess monitor.

Before I go any further, please know that although her room is a complete disaster, Meredith is very sensitive to litter. Together, we’ve picked up quite a few discarded cups and cans out of parking lots. I stop short at the scraping up of dead birds, but it’s only because I never have a spatula handy, and I’m a big believer in the circle of life and whatnot. (I’m also a big believer in Avian Influenza, so the No Spatula thing is really more of a decision than an inconvenience. Don’t tell Meredith.)

I’m not sure what Meredith said as she tried to hand the bag over to the recess monitor, but I could hear the monitor’s yell through my closed car window. “Throw that down!”

Meredith said something else.

“No! Just let go of it!”

Meredith looked crushed as she put the bag back down onto the sidewalk—being “forced” to litter by an authority figure.

After Meredith entered the building, I got out of the car, picked up the bag, and walked it over to the trash can—the trash can that the recess monitor had to pass by in order to enter the building with the kindergarten kids.

Tonight I’ll be teaching Meredith about civil disobedience and the importance of doing the right thing—even at the cost of respectfully disobeying an authority figure.

Sometimes the mom thing is really hard.

With that said, sometimes it’s really easy. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

And the ones that Mother gives you don’t do anything at all.

As you know, we did the Parent/Teacher conference last week.
Harper’s report stated that she represents feelings and ideas in a variety of ways.
She shows confidence and takes initiative.
She responds to sensory input to function in the environment.

Yesterday, when I asked Harper what she learned in school, she handed this to me:

Apparently, “responds to sensory input to function in the environment” is fancy for “totally relates to Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Fluid Pudding Plans to Get Her Groove Back

I have totally sucked at checking in over the past few months. You know how everyone says that your cells change every seven years and it makes your hair change and your skin change and Oh! So Much Change!? After hitting the seven year mark with Fluid Pudding, I almost feel like my motivations are changing.

(I’m not quitting, nor am I having a Jeff Buckley moment. Bear with me.)

Let’s see. The past week was a good one.

I finished Delphine, and then I went outside and got all frowny faced!

And, to that person who never misses an opportunity to say “You have jowls!” or “Getting wide there, Pudding!”, please know that it’s still winter! Also, I’m (perpetually) working on it!

After finishing Delphine, I went all knitting crazy and finished a hat for the shop:

(It’s the March project for our Yarn Over EZ program, which is an entire year devoted to working through Elizabeth Zimmerman’s Knitter’s Almanac. I’m sort of taking charge of the March thing, which makes me feel the need to get my eyebrows done or something.)

Anyway. That’s it for knitting.

We had parent/teacher conferences this week, and as always, I stressed out entirely too much over what to wear and what to say and how to express my disenchanted state with that whole screening thing they did on Harper a few months back, and I ended up not approaching it at all, which is quite a shame, because I really enjoy using the word Disenchanted. (To me, it’s a glittery word. Specifically, blue glitter.) Long story short: The girls are doing Just Fine, and they’re well-respected amongst their peers, and I wore a long-sleeved gray t-shirt with a silky scarf thing plus jeans if you’re wondering, and I really love the girls’ school and their teachers and the fact that there are no Issues other than the fact that Harper will occasionally refuse to eat a vegetable snack. Things are good, and that is great.

The Girl Scout cookies are in. And because of that, I actually worked out today to try to avoid the “My butt looks like two giant Tagalongs” thing. Why do I suddenly feel that it’s okay to eat an entire box of cookies in one sitting? I’ve done this every day for the past three days. First up? Lemon Chalet Cremes. Second? Tagalongs. Today? Samoas. Am I depressed? Is it once again time to hit the Weight Watchers meetings? Am I depressed? Wait. Am I repeating myself?! (I must be depressed. Time to pull out the The Polyphonic Spree albums! Or not.)

Finally, the final paragraph! (I’m that friend you never see but it’s okay because when you DO see her she just rambles on and on about herself and it’s really more exhausting than interesting, isn’t it?) Anyway, onto God. (It seems logical, no?) As you know, we’ve been on a fairly hard core church search for the past few years. About six months ago, we found Our Place. And it’s a slightly different denomination than what I’m accustomed to (I was raised Southern Baptist) with a few different traditions and different ways of thinking and so forth. Anyway, the Lent thing came up, and I’ve never really done the Lent thing before. SO, last week I said, “Okay. I’m going to give up meat to the 100% level, and also give up buying yarn. If I fail on one, I’ll be sure to succeed on the other. Ready, set, go.” This morning, the minister didn’t stress the giving up of Things as much as he stressed the importance of taking Time over the next forty days. Time to reflect and time to enjoy the moment and time for silence and time for preparation and renewal and so forth. So anyway, I left church feeling refreshed that I don’t have to fret over silly things like bacon or not having enough time to knit that baby sweater if I can’t even purchase the yarn until April. Instead, I’m going to take Time! (And I’m going back and forth about trying to write here every day until Easter just to share my Time with you. And I know it sounds like I’m just about to break into some weird Cowboy Junkies-like version of Amazing Grace or Turn, Turn, Turn or something. Bear with me. I’m wearing eyeliner, and my lids might just be sparkling.)

I can’t get enough of the following song. And I’m not sure how that makes me feel. (Full disclosure: I do a really awkward (because there’s really no other way for me) dance every time I hear the song. The dance involves quite a bit of tip-toeing and head nodding. You will never see the dance.)

Six hours have passed since you came to visit, and I’m feeling sort of awkward about being such a time suck. Can I get you a drink or something? ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Brace yourselves. I’ve been purchasing études.

So, last weekend got completely crazy and we ended up NOT getting Scruffy. We DID, however, get runny noses, a fever, and a cough that still isn’t completely gone, so we have that going for us. (Scruffy is still there. I still check on her every day. The only problem is that she is classified as Medium-Haired, which means I would either have to go back on the Zyrtec (or the booze) if we welcomed her into our home. Believe me, we’re weighing options and making pro/con lists and I actually got my Xanax prescription refilled today for the first time in 18 months, and that’s sort of a monkey of a different color, but I’m coming completely clean with you right now. And I don’t think I necessarily need Xanax, because going through 24 pills in 18 months doesn’t really classify me as needy, but it’s nice to have them around. Like a funny cousin you get to see only once or twice a year. Or a special cake you eat only at funerals or something.)

I’ve been really REEEEEEEALLY irritable over the past week or so, too. And for the first time in a LONG time, I’m going to sort of censor myself, because the folks with whom I’m irritated actually know about Fluid Pudding. (Have I ever told you that no one in my extended family knows about this site? Why is that? Why do I feel like Fluid Pudding has to be a private thing? It’s not like I really get all puhrivate over here, do I? No. I really don’t. I don’t think my secrets would interest you in the least.) Anyway, I’m in one of those moods where I sort of want to jump in the car and drive east or west (or north or south) for a few hours, check into a cute (or not so cute, really) place with a blanketed bed and knit, read, jot silly things into a big fat notebook, and sleep my weekend away. I will leave my dwellings for yarn stores and pecan pie hunts. I might even wear sneakers. I will definitely wear a hat in lieu of hygiene. Sounds dreamy, no?

Good News: Next week I’ll have a finished sweater for you. It’s my Delphine! AND, I actually know enough about knitting now that I was able to spot an error in the pattern. And this excited me in the same way that I get excited when I find a misspelling in a novel. (And, yes. I submitted the error and the author is sending it on to a tech editor, and I’m now only three degrees of separation away from H.L. Mencken.)

When I was in high school, I set a goal of learning to play all 27 Chopin études. To date, I can (just barely) play two of them. Last night I broke down and purchased the études on iTunes. It felt like I was closing a chapter, and as a result I’m feeling a bit mopish.

Who’s up for a retreat? ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

What time is it? It’s cat adding time!

Yesterday afternoon you probably felt a slight shift in the universal barometric pressure. I apologize for that. It’s just that I finally came to grips with the idea that we’re going to adopt another cat soon, and the cat I’m feeling some sisterhood with is Scruffy.

Sadly, I have to work today, and I doubt Scruffy will still be available tomorrow. Nevertheless, it’s kitten time.

On a surprisingly related note, I recently received a Swiffer in the mail. And if you follow this link, you’ll see one of my closet skeletons. (Not really a closet skeleton. More like a dusty nightmare. Tomato, tomahto.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Do you have five minutes?

I really hate when people use the word Whirlwind to describe how their week has gone. With that said, the past week has been mighty sprightful. Today is Meredith’s kindergarten Valentine’s Day party, and because I’m still suffering from that whole No One Will Call Me Back thing, Jeff is having to take time off of work to help me with the party. (Big sarcastic and passive-aggressive Thank You shout out to all of those moms who filled out the forms saying they would love to attend all parties and provide party favors and “Just call me! I’ll be there!” and whatnot.) I could go on and on about courtesy and whatever, but I’m afraid I would once again start puking tired phrases like “dying art” and yikes. I’m really trying to be better than that.

Because I’m feeling overly ambitious, today’s party will include a banana split bar. I used to work at Baskin-Robbins, you see, and one of my greatest talents is The Ability to Cut a Banana Without Actually Touching the Edible Part. Someday I’ll make a video for you, and I’ll even dress up for that video, because when I’m slicing and dividing bananas, I feel like one of those tuxedoed and amazing card dealers on Super Poker Blowout. (That’s not an actual show. But you get the idea.) I hope to stun and mesmerize-to-the-point-of-temporary-debilitation the kindergarteners with my banana-slicing talent. Keep your fingers crossed.

You would not believe how quickly I’m typing right now. It’s just that I feel like I haven’t talked to you in ages, and pretty soon I have to leave to pick up Harper, and how are you? I’ve missed you.

Speaking of Harper, yesterday she ate a heart-shaped sucker, and I melted all over her, and after I resolidified I took a photograph and then I did that annoying thing where I pretend to be an artist just because I shelled out the yearly Picnik fee on Flickr last summer.

Let’s see. What else? Last week my family was presented with something that I would normally refer to as An Embarrassment of Riches, but man! I’m really trying to become original in 2009. Anyway, we are now the proud owners of Guitar Hero World Tour. In other words, this is my final blog entry, as I am now dropping everything to crystallize my dream of becoming the world’s greatest pretend drummer. Oh! What’s that? Pretend writer is more respectable than pretend drummer? I hear you, but I have no idea what you’re saying. Please know that when it comes to drumming along with 311 tunes, I’m completely insufferable. However, by the end of the tune, my face hurts from smiling so much. This is a good thing.

My knitting group is meeting for dinner before knitting tonight, and I can’t even tell you how excited I am.

Tomorrow is the eighth anniversary of Jeff’s proposal. And I know you don’t care, but it’s honestly one of my favorite days of the year. (My archives are out. Please know that the evening of the proposal included a dishonest death-defiance, me angrily hurling couscous down the sink, a down-on-the-knee thing over tiramisu, and a woman sending us a sort of crappy (but much appreciated) bottle of wine.)

I hope you’re doing well out there. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Ooh la la! Delphine!

I think you all know me pretty well by now. So, you know that I sort of wish I was a dainty French girl, right? I love Amélie, I eat at least one biscotti per week, one of my favorite meals is champagne and French toast (I just made that up, although I did have it once and really enjoyed it), and I’m very happy to report that Gérard Depardieu is still alive. (Gérard Depardieu, Eddie Rabbitt, Kenny Loggins, Louie Anderson. All of these people are dead to me for some reason. In fact, I couldn’t point out the actual dead ones if I tried.)

Anyway, I’m going to approach knitting a bit differently in 2009. In an attempt to stomp out my capricious knitterly ways, I’m making myself finish something before I can start something else. A few days back, I purchased French Girl Knits, and holy crap how I fell in love with Delphine. In fact, I fell So Hard for Delphine that I stayed up late on Monday night to finish my Versatility—a project that has been going on and on (and on) for nearly three months. Here I am, smelling like French Vogue in my Versatility:

Here I am, showing you how much I look like a Wii character in my Versatility:

Meredith has told me that I’m not allowed to wear my Versatility to school. Apparently, she hates bobbles and cannot appreciate the fact that I am sometimes Juliette Binoche.

Tonight I shall choose my yarn for Delphine. It’s a stinking CORSET, people. And because it’s a corset, I have once again kicked off the Weight Watchers Core Plan. (I’m down three pounds in three days, and I’m the crabbiest girl this side of the Mississippi. I’m snacking on apples, and that is NOT how I like to live.)

It’s all for you, my sweet Delphine. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>