Fluid Pudding

2016’s end of July kicked off a year of suck for our family that is still pretty much sucking, despite my (admittedly (slightly) weakening) ability to bring a constant lighthearted mustard-swilling dazzle.

As you (may or may not) know, Jeff’s position was eliminated back in July of 2016 and I’m not here to sing songs about human suffering, because to be honest: We haven’t truly suffered, and because of that I know we are severely lucky. I freelance. He freelances. WE ARE PART OF THE HUDDLED MASSES RECEIVING COVERAGE FROM THE AFFORDABLE CARE ACT OH MY GOD IT’S TRUE.

I would like to take this opportunity to encourage everyone out there to have their position eliminated. It creates a lot of awkward moments that you probably haven’t had to whack-a-mole (verb) in your snug and unplagued existence as a shiny employed person (whose grass is surely greener than mine).

For example, if you buy a pair of shoes or attend a concert when your previous income isn’t being crammed into your bank account, people will assume that you are squandering, and those vocalized assumptions will really test your tongue. And by “your tongue” I actually mean “my tongue.”

I do know that when the right opportunities come along, they will arrive at the perfect time because the glass is half full of lemonade with silver linings and really: We can’t handle more than we’re given and so forth, but in the meantime I have to wonder if all of this (patience-testing and frustrating yet unimportant because nobody gets hurt) shit (sorry) keeps funneling down to us (more on that a bit later) due to the current status of my hair.

It has been growing out since the morning of 12/21/15. Hypothesis: Shortening my hair will also shorten the year of suck that continues to suck. (Very superstitious, Stevie Wonder.) SO, the hair will be shorn on Thursday because I’m happier when I’m balder and I need a dose or two of Joy right now.

Real quick on the shit funnel I mentioned two paragraphs back: Two weeks ago, the hinge on our iMac broke. It was a total hardware thing that the Apple Store said is simply an issue of snapping a new hinge on, but “it will take 3 days” and those 3 days quickly turned into 5 days and when the iMac came home, we found the Apple Store had done something that compromised our screen and suddenly those three days became TWO WEEKS. Two weeks of me being unable to freelance, and I should have been happy about a break, but it was difficult to unriddle the thrill. (Because: Shoes! Concerts!) ((<–Sarcasm))

Today I had one goal: Catch up on the 14 days I missed with the current freelance project. Boring story shortened: I logged in and found that my freelance account had been archived due to inactivity for two weeks. I cannot gain access to my freelance project until tomorrow. (Note: At least I *HAVE* a computer. At least I *HAVE* freelance. At least I *HAVE* spinach in the fridge, et cetera.)

(Scout likes to watch me eat, and salads can be awkward with a pup on your hip.)

Tour de Fleece started on July 1.

I’ve been working on an entrelac cardigan:

I went to Springfield yesterday and stocked up on Bee Raw and Purple Haze honey. I’m within 100 pages of finishing Life After Life. I think we’re all caught up.

‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

On June 8th, Jeff and I went to see Tig Notaro and she was charming and funny and exactly what we needed. And because I always think I need a shirt, I bought a shirt.

Places I Have Worn My Tig Notaro Shirt:

• The Delmar Loop (for ice cream! and cheese sticks!)
• The subdivision, while walking a lap
• The library to check out Life After Life
• Pride St. Charles (Photo proof below! It was hotter than the sun and at one point I thought I would die, but I didn’t.)

Meredith Says I Cannot Wear My Shirt To These Places:

• Church (although I really don’t think they would mind)
• School (office, football games, or band concerts/competitions)
• Her friends’ homes or my home when her friends’ parents might appear
• Places with potential mourners
• Daycare facilities

And, really, I can wear the shirt wherever/whenever I want. It’s just that Meredith doesn’t want her teachers or friends (or small children) to picture me like this:

I can respect that. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

When last we spoke, I had gone to see Margaret Glaspy with a friend after dropping by a tattoo place and asking about a spiral fountain pen on my arm.

About two hours before the tattoo appointment (which was two weeks ago today and I really need to come by here more often), I started messing around with ideas, and I decided that a spiral fountain pen on the arm with my mountains would not be good. A spiral fountain pen on the arm with my Create makes much more sense.

I took a photo of my arm and then did this:

(The ellipses were Jeff’s idea. It may be my favorite part.)

Anyway, let’s speed this up. I went to the place, I saw the guy, he showed me his drawing (big long fountain pen that would spiral around my wrist), I showed him my (admittedly shitty) drawing, he liked it, and off we went to the chair where he did this:

And then he did this:

And then I asked if we could make the pen nib clear instead of black for now and he was into it, but told me that he could add some grey with white shading later on if I wanted. And THEN he said, “If it’s okay with you, I sort of want to add stippling on the line of ink to give it a little more body.” And because I love anything that reminds me of splatters and sparks, I was in.

SO, he started stinging me repeatedly dotdotdotdotdotdotdotetc. with ink and two weeks have passed and now I have this:

(You’ll have to ignore the peely parts. You’ll just have to.)

Here’s the top of my wrist. In other words, this is what most people will see.

I really do love it, and it reminds me that I need to be doing something creative every single day. Because I do.

(Announcement: I’ve been writing a short story and I’m loving the process so much that I’m thinking about participating in National Novel Writing Month in November. Want to do it with me?) (And by “do it” I mean participate in National Novel Writing Month.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

On Thursday morning of last week, I drove around town looking for a place where I could get something similar to this.

I know what you’re thinking, and that’s fine because everyone has a right to think what they think. BUT, I love the idea of a bracelet tattoo and I received a birthday gift of money and I really don’t need a thing, so I may as well drive around town looking for a place where I could get something similar to the photo above. Right? (We all have our joys, and we find our joys in different places and that’s what makes us interesting.)

Guy at Place #1: Yep. I can do that. It will be $280.
Me: How much would it be without the ring at the elbow?
Guy at Place #1: $200.
Me (knowing I was about to lie a little): I’m going to have to think about it and come back some other day.

Lady at Place #2: That tattoo is physically impossible.
Me: But I’ve seen so many similar ones online.
Lady at Place #2: Maybe you have, but it can’t be done. We could do a line across your outer wrist and maybe add circles on the inside, but we can’t do it until walk-in time tomorrow.

I went home and started thinking on paper with the plan of visiting one more place before giving up.

A few hours later, I put on my best Mrs. Roper outfit and drove to the Delmar Loop to meet a friend for the Margaret Glaspy show.

Because I got there a little early, I took the time to stop by the third (and final) tattoo joint.

Guy at Place #3: The arm isn’t a perfect cylinder. It can be done, but it’s not as simple as it looks.
Me: Well, then how about instead of a ring we do a spiral and somehow make it into a fountain pen?
Guy at Place #3: We can definitely do that, too. Whatever you want. I have an opening at 4:00 tomorrow afternoon.
Me: In.

That’s when we shook hands and I walked a few blocks up the road to Blueberry Hill. I was still early, so I decided to belly up to the bar and drink an Aunt Sally through a straw while jotting down short story ideas because sometimes good things snowball and riding it is the only way to go.

When my friend arrived (let’s call her S), we sat down for dinner and conversation about book ideas and could this evening get any better? Believe it or not: It did. Why? Because at 7:45 we made our way down to the Duck Room where Cuddle Magic went on at 8.

I didn’t know much about Cuddle Magic before the show, but I loved them as soon as they got started. About halfway into their set they jumped off of the stage and asked the crowd to circle around them on the floor. And then this happened, and I became the shiniest of superfans. Lots of talent here.

(The video is not from the St. Louis show, but it may as well be, because this is exactly how things went down.)

At 9:00, Margaret Glaspy came on and she was full of heart and angst and bulldog.

I took several short videos, but this is the only one that would transfer:

It was the perfect way to spend a Thursday evening. Hanging with S, talking lit stuff and tattoos and life, then Cuddle Magic and Margaret Glaspy. Once again, despite all of the crap that goes on (You don’t know about the crap. I keep the crap away from you.), I really am lucky.

Wait. Did you want to hear more about the tattoo? You’ll have to come back for that. We’re already at 586 words, and no one has time for more. Especially not on a Wednesday. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Questions:
1. I’m sort of bummed about the goings-on in my life. What should I do?
2. All of the news with the impeachment possibilities and the Russia who-knows-whats and the constant this-or-thats is making my blood pressure sky rocket. What should I do?
3. I’m considering learning how to play the oboe, but maybe I should commit to something that takes less time. What should I do?

Answer to all of the above:
Meet an adventurous friend at a mall restaurant for drinks and then TRY ON PROM DRESSES!

I never went to prom. I have no idea what prom is other than an evening where people go out and eat shrimp in fancy clothes (the people are in the clothes, not the shrimp), and then maybe there is dancing and some people might end up at a hotel because of the urge to have high school sex. Admittedly, all or none of these assumptions may be false or true.

Let’s back up.

I turned 47 last Friday. I celebrated a bit on Thursday by meeting a friend for lunch followed by spice and vinegar shopping. I treated myself to these two vinegars and every morning I drizzle a bit of one or the other into my water and suddenly I’m a happy water drinker.

Celebrating my birthday with the family on Friday was perfect and quiet and exactly what I wanted. My mom came up for lunch and flower shopping. I spent the rest of the day reading and knitting and drinking many cups of hot tea. My life is a good life.

Mother’s Day? Equally good. The four of us did what we always do, which is go out for coffee and then head straight to Home Depot for Mother’s Day plants. (We used to go to church for the pancake breakfast, but we haven’t attended since the year I accidentally hurled a glass of water at a baby.) ((Honestly? That baby deserved it.)) BACK TO THE PLANT: This year I went with a pink Mandevilla named Fran.

I’m hoping Fran decides to vine up the side of the pergola. I’ve had dreams of vining plants on the pergola since we moved in nearly three years ago. Be my special traveler, Fran.

Yesterday morning I met a friend for pizza and a discussion of A Gentleman In Moscow, which is a book every one of you should read. During lunch we experienced a lot of Me-Too!s and So-Do-I!s and it was just so perfect. After lunch I returned home and rested a bit to build up sufficient energy for a formal adventure where Adventure involves a martini and Formal implies a gown.

Tempe and I met at a mall for dinner and drinks at 630 yesterday evening. I had flatbread and a martini. She had a salad and sangria. Less than an hour later, we were ready for Tipsy Prom Night.

Before working our way into the category of Senior Cheerleader in Sequins, we decided to go to Earth Mother Prom.

Lesson Learned: Wear flesh-colored underpants during Tipsy Prom Night. Also? Do you see that skirt? Well, no you don’t, because it’s NOT a skirt. It’s big wide pants, which are apparently very popular right now.

Next up was this guy.

If I had kept up with my dream of being a concert pianist (the dream started with a scholarship in 1989  and ended a semester later because I simply couldn’t make it to class at 700 in the morning), I believe I would already own this dress in a size that would actually zip. Wait a second. Picture me in that dress. (It should be easy, because there is an actual picture less than two inches away from where you are reading right now.) NOW, close your eyes and listen to me playing this:

(I once took that Liszt piece to a piano competition and my fingers no longer remember it. Oh, fond memories and parallel universe daydreams…)

Let’s try on more dresses, shall we? We shall!

The red dress sort of worked, except the flesh-colored fabric over half of my chest kept freaking me out. (I was freaked out for the approximately 23 seconds that I kept the dress on.)

And then we had this one. I toyed with the idea of purchasing it because someday I just might be the mother of the bride. Wait. DO I SORT OF LOOK LIKE A SHRIMP IN FANCY CLOTHES?! I WAS RIGHT ALL ALONG!!!

Pretty soon it became clear that the mall would be closing in 45 minutes. Time for the final dress.

Yet another successful Tipsy Prom Night! You’re the meaning in my life, you’re the inspiration. You bring feeling to my life! You’re the inspiration…

(I skipped the hotel on the way home because you can’t take the Baptist out of the girl.)

I’ve talked to three different people in the past week who are feeling inspired to write, and it’s so exciting and contagious. Right now I’m wearing ripped up jeans and a tank top (grey!), which means I should probably put something together about a woman who is going to make taco salad for dinner. (It’s a true story about me! Memoir!)

I visited my doctor yesterday for my final medication adjustment appointment. (Know this: I’m taking two different pills to prevent migraines. Both are anti-depressants, although I don’t have an official diagnosis of depression. After the election, I asked if we could up the dosages a bit. I’m now feeling like I can go back down to the original levels. It’s fun to dabble with your own brain chemistry.)

My doctor: So, how old are your kids?
Me: 10 and 12.
My doctor: They’re really growing up quickly.
Me: Yeah, because they’re not really 10 and 12. They’re 12 and 14. Should I be concerned that I sometimes call the microwave a refrigerator? Last week I called out for Harper by yelling, “OSCAR!!!”
My doctor: That’s odd. Do you know an Oscar?
Me: No. No Oscars.

Once again? Perimenopause! Or maybe? Sleep apnea.

I always have trouble recalling the word Exploit, and yesterday I couldn’t think of Fritter, as in Apple Fritter. “It’s the fried apple thing. Like a cake. Bumpy doughnut apple cake.” Add this to the list of reasons why I could never run for public office. (It’s a very long list.)

Yesterday I got up and showered at 530 so I could rush out to wait in line for the Krispy Kreme grand opening. Harper wanted doughnuts from opening day, but was up super late on Monday night. I woke her up at 6:45 by handing her a box of warm glazed doughnuts because I try to be a good representative of Kindness at least every other day.

Not a Memoir
She worked in a pharmacy, and every few weeks she paid the Amish man who dropped off his homemade candy to be sold at the front counter. When she asked about his candy making process, he invited her to come to his house and check out his shop. Less than 24 hours later, she drove her boyfriend and me to a tiny house nearly 50 miles away from town. We turned off the highway onto a gravel road and drove quite awhile before arriving at the old stone house. We noticed there were no other houses in sight and we admitted to not feeling completely safe, yet we knocked on the door and were greeted by an older man who definitely looked surprised to see three people, and also definitely did not look Amish. He led us through the house to the basement door and down the stairs into a room lit by a single hanging light bulb. He showed us a card table and a few bags of sugar before he started mumbling about needing to go to town. She looked at us and whispered, “I think we need to get out of here.” We thanked him for his time and walked back up the stairs, through the house, and out the front door. He followed us to the car and told us that we owed him a ride. She told him we had plans and couldn’t take him. He became angry, so we jumped into the car and started backing down the gravel driveway as quickly as one can back down a gravel driveway. He chased us and slammed his fists against the car several times before we were able to gather enough speed to get away from him. He never returned to the pharmacy with his candy.

‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

So much, yet nothing! Since last we spoke, Meredith turned 14 and Harper turned 12 and we spent 24 hours in Chicago because Meredith and Jeff had tickets to see Frank Iero at Bottom Lounge.

(I love the choices Meredith makes, but please know there’s a lot of blood flying in the video. Could this possibly be the first Fluid Pudding trigger warning? Bring out the baby book!)

As Meredith and Jeff stood outside in the cold rain for two and a half hours waiting for the venue to open, Harper and I went to the pool four times and ordered a pizza and spent three hours watching My Cat From Hell before she went on an Instagram handicapable cat following spree. (As soon as Meredith and Jeff left the hotel, I told Harper she was the boss. I love the choices she makes, too.)

This is the house where David Foster Wallace finished Infinite Jest, and Jeff knows things that amaze me.

This is not how I feel about Chicago, but it IS how I’ve felt all week for various reasons that I’ll keep inside until my head explodes. (It should happen perhaps sometime next Tuesday, unless I perfect Mindfulness between now and then. Stay tuned.)

This is Meredith on her 14th birthday and I wish the 14-year-old me had been more like the 14-year-old her.

The girls are pretty much done with me posting their photos here, so this is what you get of Meredith and Harper enjoying our walk from the coffee dump back to the hotel.

Last night I took Harper to meet her favorite author. April Henry writes YA mysteries and thrillers, and if you ever get a chance to see her speak, do it. She’s brilliant and clever and not many people can hold the attention of over 100 middle school students, but she did, and Harper was over the moon.

What else? I’ve been incorporating afternoon tea into my routine, and I’m finding it to be very relaxing—a good jump start for the rest of the day. This evening I’ll be finishing A Gentleman in Moscow, and I’m sad because this book should never end. It’s just so lovely.

Meredith told me that I dress like a mom and that dressing like a mom isn’t necessarily a bad thing, because it’s better than dressing like a 17 year old when you’re actually in your 40s. All of this to say: On Tuesday night I fell in love with this shirt from Altar’d State, and I’m not embarrassed to admit it. (I did not buy it, but I should have.)

We really should meet up here more often, don’t you think? ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

A few hours ago, a friend gave me the bird, and it was delivered with a burst of inspiration, a side of empowerment, and a cup of tourlou tourlou. Prince died one year ago today. Life is short. Don’t be afraid to use your gifts.

Not a Memoir
I was at a party and things weren’t going my way. He walked over to talk to me and saw that my eyes were wet and my lips were quivering, so he did what any good friend would do in this situation—he asked if I wanted him to pierce my ear. I burst into tears and nodded my head. Less than a minute later, I found myself sitting on a toilet, surrounded by friends, and holding an ice cube to my left ear. He removed the diamond earring from his own ear, made me promise to return it to him someday, and forced it through the cartilage halfway down my outer rim. A few days later I switched his earring out for one of my own and drove the diamond back to his house because I always keep my promises.

I’m wearing shorts. Ugh.

The past nine days have found me lying on the couch and glottal frying for anyone who was willing to listen. Coughing. So much coughing. No voice. Achey. More coughing.

My hot tea with raw honey and my leftovers cowl kept me company through the entire ride.

This morning was the first day I felt decent enough to hit the streets, so I met a friend for our monthly coffee, came home and worked on freelance, and suddenly everything was good (except for the fact that I donned shorts).

What else? One week ago we bought a cookie cake to celebrate the birthday of Brendon Urie from Panic! At The Disco.

Over the weekend we did that thing where you put a square on your floor and then you laugh and laugh because your cat will sit in the square. It didn’t work.

(I would say that our cats like to think outside the box, but I’m trying really hard to not be like that.)

Finally, April 25th is the 15th anniversary of the death of Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes from TLC. A few days ago, when my voice was four octaves lower than normal because of my cold (that seemed like so much more than a cold, really), I sang a little bit of Waterfalls. Continue to rest in peace, Left Eye.

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

Not nearly often enough, I get up on a Friday morning, jump into the car, and drive three hours to visit my sister. This past Friday was one of those days.

When I arrived in Springfield we immediately headed to Subway for chopped salads. Then I took a two hour nap! (I had to sleep off a migraine pill.) Next? Hiking on a rocky path and searching for groundhogs followed by a visit to Ruby’s Market for trail mix and gluten-free muffins. At approximately 1900, we met my nephew and his girlfriend for dinner at Great American Taco Company. And that’s where Things Went Down.

My nephew (J) and his girlfriend (L) are delightful—college freshmen, super smart, refreshingly witty, responsible, and kindhearted. We sat at GATC eating our tacos (mine was NAKED) and talking about baby bicycles and skateboarding injuries and why it’s probably wrong to “borrow” a grocery cart. At some point, I glanced at L’s ear and noticed that she is Pierced. (You have to have at least eight earrings to earn that capital P.)

When I asked about the tiny hoop on the inside of her ear, she explained that it’s called a Daith piercing, and that it has totally obliterated her headaches. Because I was still coming down from the migraine pill I had taken six hours earlier, the hair on the back of my neck bristled—not unlike the hair on the neck of a wolf when he/she sees a sleeping rabbit. (I guess. I’m still trying to understand nature.)

Me: It gets rid of headaches AND it’s cute. As soon as a Daith piercing can fit into my budget, I might have to get it done.
L: I have a coupon! You can get the piercing done for $20!
Me: But what if YOU want another piercing? I can’t take your coupon.
J: I have a coupon, too! If she needs another coupon, I can give her mine!

That was when I sent a text to Jeff:
“$20 piercings. Can I get one?”
Not even knowing what the heck I was up to, Jeff came back with a thumbs up (because he is the knees of the bees), and suddenly my nephew was on his way back to the university for fraternity stuff, and my sister, L, and I were on the way to a place called Next Generation.

When we arrived, I signed all of the “I am not drunk and I don’t have HIV” paperwork, I realized that my driver’s license was back in St. Louis, and I did that thing where I started talking really quickly and saying things that have nothing to do with anything because OCEANS OF ADRENALINE!

Let me show you what happened next.

The piercer guy told me that it was going to hurt and he explained how to clean the piercing, but he may as well have been reading passages from Moby Dick because my concentration levels had tanked and I had moved on to the annoyingly giggly stage of nervousness.

Piercing time.
Me: Will you do a countdown?
Piercer: Nope.
And with that, he stuck a rod the size of the General Sherman Sequoia through the cartilage in my ear.

Soon it was time to switch out the rod for the hoop and PAIN! SO MUCH PAIN! Luckily, I had L in the room with me, and she was a great cheerleader. “You’re doing great. This is the hard part. Almost done. Almost done.” There are no photos of the switch, but here I am still wincing at least ten seconds after the hoop was inserted.

Fun Fact: The piercer told me that my cartilage was soft. AND, I was a bleeder. BUT, he assured me that the bleeding would stop before I walked out the door. (And it did.)

After leaving the shop and dropping L off at her car, my sister and I decided to celebrate.

Less than twelve hours later, I filled my car with Half Crocked Honey and drove back to St. Louis—pierced, donutted, and loving the life I live. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>