Fluid Pudding

This morning I pulled into the Costco parking lot at 9:15. Part of me knew that the store doesn’t open until 10:00, and another part of me felt hopeful that it would open at 9:00. (Another part of me can’t be bothered to take 30 seconds to look up the store hours. Sometimes I like to pretend that life is trickier than it really is. Oh, life.)

As I sat in my car (without a book or a knitting project) waiting for the Costco doors to slide open, I noticed a piece of paper flying around in the parking lot. I decided that whatever was on that piece of paper would guide me into my next adventure. (I was hoping it was a sushi menu.) I got out of my car and ran toward the paper. (No one was watching. At least that’s what I told myself. I like to live like I’m in a Lee Ann Womack song.) It blew out of my reach at least four times before I was finally able to stomp on it and pick it up.

It was not a sushi menu.

I now hold evidence showing that a Costco member purchased two hot dog/soda combos and $57 worth of razor blades at approximately 5:12 yesterday evening. After having their receipt marked by the farewell employee with the Sharpie, they walked out to their car and either dropped or threw the record of their purchase into the night.

And now I have it, and am using it as an adventure invitation. The only adventure it suggests is the shaving of all my body hair (one blade per swipe, presumably) before I feast on chicken eyes and cow lips. This is unacceptable.

Obviously, I *could* say that the receipt adventure has been loosely manifested by the fact that my birthday is on 5/12, I shaved my legs this morning for the first time in over a month, and both of my dogs are currently napping in the sun. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

By 10:00 this morning, I had packed Harper’s lunch, waited with her for the bus, grabbed a coffee at Starbucks, purchased “official document” envelopes at Target where I had to defend my trip to Starbucks (I don’t even want to talk about it), picked up dog food and treats at Petco, grabbed two plates at Kohl’s so that everyone can eat their Thanksgiving dinner on a real plate (We need 11. I had 9 and a coupon.), visited the vet office for heartworm prevention pills and to set up Henry’s annual exam for Saturday, and ran to the pharmacy for Xanax and Reglan. (It’s the holiday season with the whoop-de-do and hickory dock and social anxiety that often leads to nausea that not even Amy Grant’s Christmas album can fix!) I then took out the recycling, threw dinner in the slow cooker, and fell asleep (unintentionally) for an hour before I had to pick Meredith up from school.

I then read 3,492 articles about the resignation of the University of Missouri president.

A half hour ago, I made biscuits from scratch, but not really because I used Bisquick. (In my world, if you don’t have to beat a can on the edge of the counter while anticipating a jack-in-the-box-like explosion, you’re baking from scratch. Nice work, Baker.)

When Jeff gets home (in approximately 17 minutes) we’ll eat dinner and then read until the holiday-themed edition of Cake Wars airs at 8:00.

When Jeff and I lived in Nashville, we would sometimes visit the Loveless Cafe for biscuits and peach preserves. We would also see Jill Sobule every time she came to town.

I miss those days like crazy, but I also love days like this one. I’ll be back tomorrow. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

When I started this website back in 2001, I never had any intention of keeping it going through 2015. BUT, I’m glad I did and I won’t be letting it die out anytime soon. (I know I had a few moody episodes (One with a death threat! Oh, 2006…) during which I sat back for a few months, but honestly, even when I left I (sort of) knew I would be back.) I love documenting the stuff and nonsense in which our family seems to roll. I love having a voice and using my voice and hearing your voices.

This morning at church, our pastor spoke of privilege. As a pastor, he is allowed to attend certain events and enter certain places that your average non-pastors aren’t allowed to attend and see. He realizes that these special opportunities are part of his privilege. He also spoke of the scribes “…who like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces, and to have the best seats in the synagogues and places of honor at banquets” and how “They will receive the greater condemnation” (Mark 12:38-40).

I grabbed my notebook as soon as he said, “I know that with privilege comes responsibility.”

Having a voice is a privilege, and with privilege comes responsibility. Using your voice to complain about drinking your latte from a plain red cup is like, well, using your voice to complain about drinking your latte from a plain red cup. Using your voice to speak up and out when someone is feeling oppressed or afraid or hungry or lonely is something else entirely.

Jonathan Butler is a graduate student at the University of Missouri in Columbia. He is currently on Day 7 of a hunger strike and will continue to strike until the university’s president steps down. The president is being blamed for not addressing the escalation of racism on campus and for admitting that he was ‘not completely aware’ of systemic racism, sexism, and patriarchy on campus, despite being provided with countless examples. It is time for a new president at the University of Missouri in Columbia—one who does not simply sit back on his leather chair (in his long robe while seated in places of honor at banquets, etc.) hoping that racism goes away. A few days ago, I had never heard of Jonathan Butler, and today he is all I can think about. Jonathan Butler is stirring up change, and it makes me sad to know that his life could end. The world needs Jonathan Butler’s voice. (I want nothing more than to deliver a warm meal to Jonathan Butler right now. The only thing holding me back is the fact that I fully support him.)

My notes from this morning’s service will be on my mind for the next week and beyond.

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After sleeping for five amazing hours with no interruptions last night, I got up at 6:30 and read another chapter in the John Irving book. (So far? Loving it.) I then showered (because it’s important), ate a baked sweet potato (because it’s delicious), and crated the pups so the four of us could join my mom for her annual Christmas ornament expedition. (Also, I needed a balsam & cedar scented candle. I needed it. Like air, self-actualization, love, Beethoven sonatas that become Billy Joel songs, food, et cetera, Maslow.) We eventually ended up at an outlet mall shopping for Twenty One Pilots shirts and Goofy pillows and tea that doesn’t exist at that particular outlet mall. (I get confused when the number of outlet malls is greater than one.)

Back to the house for more reading and sitting around and then dinner came and went and at 7:30 this evening we decided to head to the new grocery store for lemongrass soap and hippie soda and bananas and bubble bath.

On the way home, we noticed specks of fire in the sky. We followed the trail and pulled over just in time to watch over 100 burning lanterns floating above our heads. It was perfect, and I’m now sitting at the computer drinking chamomile tea sweetened with honey from my cousins’ back yard hives, and the perfect just keeps getting perfecter.

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One of my goals for the month is to NOT talk about the sleep that I’m not getting.

Instead, I’ll show you the place I visited with a friend yesterday morning. While there, we carried on a conversation about writing and kids and social issues while drinking a snickerdoodle latte (me) and a pumpkin spice chai (her).

The evening before found me eating a veggie bowl with Tempe before journeying across the road to a coffee place for knitting and a discussion about current events and poverty and race and government-orchestrated segregation.

This morning I visited a friend who has an amazing outlook on life and a recording studio in her van. (Honestly, I’m friends with some of the very best people. Remind me to tell you about my wind chimes.) As I sat in her passenger seat, I voiced a quote from To Kill a Mockingbird followed by three of my favorite Bible verses. Afterwards, we drank coffee and talked about life and I could have stayed there for days.

When I got home, I grilled mushrooms and squash with coconut aminos and then Scout and I crashed on the couch for two hours.

I’m so lucky to have good friends and warm dogs and coconut aminos.

This evening Jeff is out with a friend and the girls are getting ready to crash so I can kick back with flannel pajamas and hot tea and John Irving. I’ll look forward to seeing you tomorrow. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

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Listening to someone go on and on about the dream they had the night before can get old quickly. However, eating dinner a few nights back as Harper explained her Land of Nod visit to a barber shop that doubled as a bar was very entertaining, mainly because she has never been in a barber shop or a bar.

Last night I had a dream during which I visited IKEA, but I was told that my dress was inappropriate. A wispy woman who may have been a ghost provided me with the proper shopping uniform, which consisted of khaki pants and suspenders with no shirt. I stepped out of the dressing room feeling extremely uncomfortable. I quickly mentioned my need for some sort of tank top. Apparently, people who DON’T ask for shirts get them, and those of us who did had to spend the next several hours holding their suspender straps in place to cover their otherwise bare chests.

I didn’t purchase any furniture, but I did see a few throw pillows that jazzed me. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

It’s National Sandwich Day, and if I could eat any sandwich right now I would eat a warm bagel with apple slices, melted Muenster cheese, and a touch of Champagne mustard.

The girls didn’t have school today because schools are sometimes polling places, and: Better Safe Than Sorry when combining townies with students. We took advantage of the free time by visiting the orthodontist in the morning and then spending the afternoon crafting with several of Meredith’s friends. At 4:00, I was poked in the arm with a drippy B12 syringe and then we came home and tried to figure out what happened to the dead bird that we had left behind at 10:45 this morning when we were running a bit late to the craft party. Perhaps the bird wasn’t so dead after all.

Before the orthodontist appointment, I dropped by the library to return some things and to pick up a few Lynda Barry books so I have something to look at until the new John Irving arrives on Thursday. (I wasn’t going to order the John Irving, but then I read a review that said the latest book is the closest thing to A Prayer for Owen Meany since A Prayer for Owen Meany. I ordered it at 3:47 in the morning, which I believe was two minutes after I stopped trying to help the Bubble Witch save her pets. The book shipped this afternoon, and the pets have still not been saved.)

Lynda Barry is flawed yet perfect and she speaks to so many parts of me.

I still spend time in the shower thinking about the things I should have said when my junior high librarian yelled at me for throwing paper out the window. I also regret some of the things I said to a classroom of seventh graders when I was in the ninth grade. I want a redo on a few conversations I had in college. So much anxiety about an unchangeable past.

The garage door is opening.
Jeff is home.
It’s time for burritos.
I’ll see you tomorrow. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

This is the time of year when my head rolls around with anniversary memories.

October 25 was the 19th anniversary of the Halloween party during which I got a little tipsy, sprawled on the floor to leg wrestle a co-worker, stuffed a bunch of marshmallows into my mouth, picked up pieces of paper from the floor with my tongue, and decided that I wanted to marry (or at least date) Jeff the Intern.

This photo was taken somewhere between the leg wrestling and the marshmallows:

October 26 was the 19th anniversary of the second and final time I ever went into a haunted house. I went only because Jeff was going, and I later found out that he went only because I was going. I held onto his blue jacket during the walk through the house because I was scared, I couldn’t see, and I wanted to feel the spark that results from touching the jacket of a future husband (or at least date). Before leaving his apartment that evening, I gave him a pumpkin. (That is not a euphemism. I gave him a pumpkin.)

October 28th was the 19th anniversary of being asked out by Jeff the Intern.

October 31st was the 19th anniversary of a happy hour that ended with Jeff joining me for diner toast and me joining him during an awkward interaction with his ex’s sister while a funk band blasted cover songs at a bar called Helen Fitzgerald’s. My sweater was unfashionably long, so I tucked it into my jeans and that damned sweater never did anything nice for me.

Yesterday was the 19th anniversary of our first date, which included a navy blue sweater on him and an embarrassingly see-through shirt on me (it was 1996 and I, apparently, was Madonna), and Thai food and an art museum film with the promise of a Lynn Redgrave sighting and coffee at his place and an allergic reaction to Luna, his cat, who enjoyed chewing on the buttons of my jeans.

Today is the 19th anniversary of our second date, which involved peach bread pudding and seeing a movie called Tromeo and Juliet, which was just horrible and inappropriate for a second date, but it didn’t stop us from having a third.

I could go on and on and I would go on and on, but this morning I was sitting at an appointment passing time with a book and I came across the following quote from “Tess of the d’Urbervilles”:

‘She philosophically noted dates as they came past in the revolution of the year; . . . her own birthday; and every other day individualized by incidents in which she had taken some share. She suddenly thought one afternoon, when looking in the glass at her fairness, that there was yet another date, of greater importance to her than those; that of her own death, when all these charms would have disappeared; a day which lay sly and unseen among all the other days of the year, giving no sign or sound when she annually passed over it; but not the less surely there. When was it?’

(Picture my eyes growing slightly wider and then picture me picturing the girls as adults listing their memories and including the day that I DIED and as much as I love thinking about death and what lies beyond (I know!) I also love NOT thinking about death.)

Anyway. Shortly after I read that quote, my doctor told me to stop drinking caffeine after noon. (I still can’t sleep but I refuse to take sleeping pills. I’m DIFFICULT, but she’s willing to work with me because I don’t believe that essential oils will cure cancer and I write with a fountain pen.) She then handed me a few brochures and sent me on my (completely healthy) way. My watch told me that it was 11:53, so I hauled ass to the mall for a caramel macchiato. (Having only seven minutes for caffeine and a mall coffee dump less than two minutes away felt like a hair tousle from the hand of God. Hearing Christmas music play as soon as I walked through the automatic doors was more than a tousle. It was the thrill of a blue jacket in a haunted house, and I mean that in the best possible way.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

One morning last week I celebrated the cool weather by wearing a handknit sweater to the grocery store. I stopped on the way for coffee, but that’s not really part of the story. Also, I was wearing clogs and eyeliner on the bottom, which I haven’t done in years. (The eyeliner was not on the bottom of the clogs, nor was it on my bottom. Dear Lord I need to practice so many things.)

I filled my cart with apples and bananas and butternut squash and power greens, and at least 17 people just rolled their eyes because I mentioned power greens. I get you. I rolled my eyes, too. (I no longer have eyeliner on the bottom.)

Because the self-checkout lanes were not yet open, I had to go through an actual lane manned by an actual man. (Running like hell out to the car with unpurchased produce was not an option, because I had trouble starting my car a few times last week and I don’t need to go to jail for stealing food unless I need to steal food.)

Older gentleman wearing a grocery apron: Good morning! That’s a pretty swakenfloosh you’re wearing this morning!

Me (knowing that my hearing tested perfectly last year, but still feeling doubtful that those results were accurate, and also feeling 92% sure that this guy is digging my sweater): Thank you! I decided it’s finally cool enough to wear it!

Aproned old guy: What? You only smile when it’s cold out?

Me (realizing that swakenfloosh equals smile and not everyone knows that a handknit sweater is a Handknit Sweater, and why do I always think I deserve a parade?): Yup. Pretty much.

It’s NaBloPoMo, and I’m going to try to snizzlefritz your swashenflotz like it’s November 9, 2010.

Another Day in the Life from Angela D. on Vimeo. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>