Fluid Pudding

I spent a good part of this morning sitting at the computer in anticipation of the presale for the Twenty One Pilots “Emotional Roadshow” tour. Meredith is one of their biggest fans, and I know everyone is a self-proclaimed biggest fan of something or other (Me? Bread pudding!), but I really do believe that Meredith IS one of their biggest fans. (She will be attending their show in St. Louis on Halloween night, and I’m so excited for her because it’s her first big concert (if you don’t count seeing Drake when she was three).)

I’m just going to sit here for a second while you think about the fact that she was a Drake fan back in 2006.

Okay. Now I’ll tell you that it wasn’t DRAKE Drake. She was a fan of Drake Bell. (He’s quite good. Lots of Jellyfish sounds on his albums.)

Anyway. When Meredith started swimming around with Twenty One Pilots, I sat back in the corner eating pumpkin seeds and thinking about how disappointed my Fitbit must feel. Sometimes it’s about me.

And then things changed. We were riding to tennis camp one morning, and Meredith played the following song.

I thought it was okay, and then she said, “Josh and Tyler wrote that song about a little girl from their church who has Down Syndrome. She inspires them.” I believe that was the day that found me purchasing 34 Twenty One Pilots shirts and flags and hats, because these guys are edgy NICE guys, and edgy nice guys are some of my favorite guys!

If you care, this is my favorite of theirs, despite the vocal fry. (I typically am not a fan of vocal fry, although I admit that it sometimes works.)

Anyway, tickets? Purchased. Seats? Good. The show is in August of 2016, and if I had a uterus I could have a baby between now and then. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

“Mom, will you be a doll and make an iced water for me? Preferably in a Shakespeare’s cup?”
-Meredith, age 12

Meredith is now registered to take the ACT in December and the SAT in January. These tests are the first step in preparing her for a three week camp this summer. She is 12 years old. She has never been away from us for more than three nights. I ask your forgiveness in advance for the way I’ll be behaving during the entire month of June. (My mascara is not waterproof, Alice Cooper.)

I took a long walk this morning, I currently have a sweet potato in the oven, and for Halloween we’ll be handing out peanut-free and gluten-free candy. We’re doing this because the girl down the road has a peanut allergy, but also because I can’t trust myself alone in the house all day with peanut butter cups. Therefore, Dots for everyone! (Dots have been dead to me since 1982. The Dots are dead, long live the Dots.)

I’m not quite sure where my car normally idles, but right now it’s idling at around 1 and it sounds a little rough. Also, it took four tries to start the car last week at the grocery store. I’m telling myself that something wicked this way comes, so for the next several weeks I’ll be traveling only to places where a breakdown (emotional as well as vehicular) would be welcome. I’ve packed the glove compartment with a notebook, a pen, a knitting project, a generator, a Crock pot filled with butternut squash, and four pairs of underpants.

I made a hat for a baby and no animals were harmed.

On Saturday, I watched a high school marching band perform Moonlight Sonata, and I’m still wrapping my head around how amazing it was. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Confession: I am not a fan of success stories unless the successful person is a charitable underdog. I don’t like when actresses talk about losing their baby weight. Most triumphs are just a blip to me unless the hero had to clear an obstacle without the help of looks or money. I would make a terrible NFL cheerleader. (For many reasons. I fall down a lot, I don’t understand football, and I don’t look good in a sparkle vest.)

Because I know how *I* respond to non-world-changing success stories, I’ve been stumbling with stutters and stops on how to write this entry. The only person who was helped in the following success story is me, and the person who helped me was paid. I am not special. I know my story is the type of story that makes my eyes roll, and I know that you and I are more alike than different. With that said, bear with me as I grab my horn.

(Remember when we didn’t require glasses to see? We were all so innocent back then, weren’t we? Remember the theme song to Ice Castles? So do I, Robby Benson, so do I.)

Six months ago I came over here and told a story about how I had reached the point where I no longer wanted to leave the house because my hormones were all jiggly and I had put on twenty pounds since my surgery and none of my clothes were fitting and I was unhappy in a lot of ways and spending a lot of time feeling sorry for myself and as I’m sitting here typing this paragraph I’m realizing how fun it must have been to NOT hang out with me back then.

When enough became Enough, I called Kathy, who is a Holistic Nutrition and Wellness Coach. After talking to her during the consultation, I knew this was going to be the adventure that sparked what needed to be lit. I quickly signed on. (Although this is a horrible comparison, over the summer I ate a doughnut that was infused with strawberry and mint and I’ve never had anything like it before or since, and it just makes me feel good knowing that the doughnut existed. I feel good knowing that Kathy exists.)

Fast forward to today. In the past six months, I’ve changed the way I eat, I’ve changed my relationship with food (I know that sounds weird to people who don’t really think about their relationship with food, but when you’re me, it doesn’t sound weird at all.), I’ve evaluated different areas of my life that need attention (career, spirituality, creativity, relationships, and so on), I lost 18 pounds, my clothes fit in a way that doesn’t cause pain when I button or zip them, I’m working, I’m walking, I’m knitting, I’m leaving the house, and I’m not saying the F word when it’s time to shop for bras or dresses. I’m happier and I’m better and I’ll continue to truck this way because It’s A Good Way to Truck.

Did I have to count points? No. Did I have to diet? No. Did I have to exercise? No. Did I have to crawl on my belly like a reptile while offering my throat to the wolf with the red roses? Yes. (No!)

Kathy and I talked every two weeks and we eventually figured out my personal magical formula for healthy eating which is something like low fat and no processed foods and limited dairy and very limited grains and no peanuts but lots of lentils and vegetables and fruit and almond butter. When I started eating this way, I immediately felt really good, and my body was like, “Hey! If you’re going to keep this up, I’ll help you fit back into your jeans!” Doughnuts have not been eliminated. If I want a doughnut I’ll eat a doughnut because I don’t want to spend the day thinking about a missed doughnut. Best of all, after I eat a doughnut I no longer feel like a jerk because I ate a doughnut. (I KNOW. Don’t even try to figure out how my mind works. Also, don’t make me look at a clock when it’s 3:13 because we’ll have to stand still until 3:14 so I can look at the clock twice.)

Some people do well with high fat and low carbs. Some people do best with no beans. Kathy is an expert at questions and tweaks and accountability and motivation. As she told me during our first phone call, I climb the ladder while she holds the bottom. And she’s the person you want holding your bottom, which sounds a lot dirtier than I intended, but I’m leaving it. (Because it makes me uncomfortable.) Kathy was everything I needed and was always there to answer questions or share ideas and recipes and support and sanity.

I can’t recommend her enough. (I’m actually singing songs from Beaches in my mind for her right now, because the past six months have been THAT GOOD.) Here is a link to her website. If you’re ready to make a commitment, she’s a great coach. Best of all, if you get started soon, she can help you through the holidays. (The holidays can be physically and emotionally rough if you’re anything like me, and I like to think you are. Maybe not with the whole 3:13 thing, but in other ways.)

This is where I should post before and after photos, but I don’t have any. Instead, I’m posting the photo I took on Friday after treating myself to a coffee and a walk around Home Depot where I purchased an Echinacea plant that was carrying a family of bees. Please know that right now I look like the flower at 2:00 who is doing her own thing and just seems happier than she used to be.

I’ll be back soon. We’re finishing up our fall break today, which means burrito lunch with friends and the possibility of bath bomb construction. NaBloPoMo starts in two weeks. So many things are going on and going on.

Thanks for sticking around. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

When the phrase “Japanese Cherry Blossom” starts looking like “Pajama Cheesy Balloon” it’s probably time to schedule an eye exam.

This morning I drove to Trader Joe’s because last night Jeff mentioned that he has heard good things about this stuff:

(I purposefully filtered the hell out of the photo to make it look stupid because partially popped popcorn IS stupid, yet also very tasty.) I opened the bag, tried it, and then stuffed it into the pantry because I have less than two weeks left with my health coach, and I don’t need partially popped popcorn to untie my stamina shoes.

After Trader Joe’s, I drove to Starbucks where the parking lot was full and I could have parked at the bank but I really don’t like the morning crowd at Starbucks, so forget it. I took off for home with my zombie book on the iPod and the chilly air in my face.

It’s cardigan season, and today I went with this one.

(Zombie fiction. I’m currently reading The Girl With All The Gifts. I started it because I thought it was nonfiction and about gifted kids, and I’m the first to admit that I’m not as sharp as I used to be.)

When I turned onto the road by our house, I saw a guy with what could have been a tennis racquet in his backpack, but it also could have been a baseball bat or a roll of wrapping paper or a gun. (Please re-read the first sentence of this post and know that I just left a message to set up an appointment.) Anyway, I started thinking about yesterday’s school shooting (the 45th school shooting of 2015) and how the odds of being shot right now seem so much higher than they were when I was a kid and if anyone in my family is going to be shot, I really hope it’s me and not them. (I don’t have a gun. I will never have a gun. I don’t trust myself enough to know that I wouldn’t make a mistake or stay completely sane in a situation where I might need to use a gun.) And how sad it is to have these thoughts jumping around while I’m wearing a spiffy cardigan and listening to goofy zombie fiction and surrounding myself with partially popped popcorn and raw cheese. We need to be louder. I need to be louder.

Today I’ll be spending a bit of time with this guy. I started the wrap in 2008 and I’m really tired of not getting things done. I hope your weekend is a good one.

‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Although I quit band before I finished high school, I picked it back up in college. (I was a piano performance major, and some sort of ensemble class was a requirement. I couldn’t see myself in the orchestra, so: Marching Mizzou!)

During my sophomore year, Marching Mizzou traveled to Denver to march at a university football game and a Broncos game. I packed up all of my overnight stuff, I packed magazines and books for the bus ride, and I packed a few tiny bottles of alcohol. (Looking back I really have no idea how I did that because I was only 19. Maybe someone gave me a few tiny bottles of alcohol? Maybe I’m making up the part about the alcohol.)

When our bus broke down in Kansas, a friend of mine joked that we should grab our instruments and practice our show in the corn field beyond the smoking bus.

This is a photograph taken at the exact moment when I realized that I had left my instrument in my best friend’s car back at Mizzou.

Because my timing is impeccable, I chose to approach our band director when he was on the phone trying to charter another bus.

Me: Mr. Ruebling?

Mr. R: I’m on the phone, Reiner. What do you need?

Me: Well, I need to tell you that my instrument is back in Columbia and I—

Mr. R: YOU will take care of this. YOU will get a replacement instrument. I don’t want to hear another word about it.

I don’t remember much about the rest of the ride to Colorado. I’m sure I spent it staring out the bus window and trying to figure out how in the hell I was going to conjure up a mellophone, which is a marching French horn in case you are curious. (A French horn’s bell faces the rear. The mellophone twists that bell around to the front so the horn player is now blowing through what looks like a fat trumpet.)

After the university band director in Colorado welcomed us to their school, I approached him and asked if I could borrow a mellophone until the game was over.

Colorado Band Director: You’re really lucky. We typically wouldn’t have an extra, but one of our mello players is out with a foot infection. You can borrow his horn!

(If you know me at all, you know that I don’t want to talk about feet. I especially don’t want to hear the word Foot buddying up with the word Infection. AND, I don’t want to put my mouth on someone else’s horn, much less someone with a Foot Infection, but I was stuck.)

Me: That is awesome. Thank you!

(I won’t bore you with the rest of that day, although I WILL tell you that I celebrated something or other that evening by singing with a Mariachi band as they strolled around a Mexican restaurant. My memory is fuzzy.)

Because our marching show had a Batman theme (of course) and I was good friends with the piccolo player who was portraying Batman in the show, he allowed me to “play” his piccolo at the Broncos game the next day, and although it looked silly to be a lonely piccolo in a line of brass, I was grateful.

Fast forward 26 years to yesterday.

Meredith’s band was scheduled to play God Bless America at the Cardinals’ final home game. We splurged on tickets, we bought Meredith a Cardinals shirt to wear, we packed our bag with snacks, and off we went.

When we were a little over halfway there (20 minutes into our 40 minute drive), Meredith announced that she had left her instrument at home.

We turned around, grabbed the instrument, and hauled ass to the stadium where Meredith and I jumped out of the car and ran to the entrance gate, rushed through security, ran down the ramp into the catacombs below the field, and eventually found the band right before their rehearsal started.

After leaving her with the band, I got lost trying to find my way from the catacombs to the main level. When I eventually located the ramp, I ended up right in front of a whiskey booth. (I know!) I haven’t had any sort of alcoholic beverage in 19 months. I almost broke that streak yesterday.

The band played beautifully. The Cardinals lost, but we were able to sit by friends and the weather was perfect so I have zero complaints.

Biology IS destiny, and Harper will begin playing the clarinet in less than a year. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

After struggling with crappy sleep for more than a year I’ve finally decided to brand myself as someone who no longer sleeps. I know they say that practice makes perfect and if I started practicing now, I could probably play Rhapsody in Blue on the clarinet in about a decade or so. I also know that I could trade in all of my shoes for skates, yet I will NEVER skate as well as Dorothy Hamill. I will die having never done a back flip. It’s time to just roll with every single punch and So Be It. I no longer sleep.

(My mother just got a CPAP machine and she’s sleeping like a baby (one of the babies who sleep) for the first time in years and Confession: I’m a wee bit jealous.)

At 1:58 in the morning, I found myself in the bathroom looking in the mirror and clicking my teeth to the Soul Asylum songs in my head. Less than ten minutes ago, I accidentally hit myself in the face with a seven pound bag of apples, and that bag of apples had no business being above hip level because I was simply trying to move them from one countertop to another.

Do you remember my new doctor? The one I love? (I really don’t expect you to remember anything you read over here.) I saw her yesterday, and: 1. She gave me exercises for my shoulders. 2. She told me to get regular massages. 3. She recommended physical therapy for my shoulders and neck. 4. She recommended Botox injections to deaden my shoulder muscles. 5. She doubled my Celexa in an attempt to lessen my shoulder tension. 6. She noted my “profoundly low” B12 level and will be giving me a shot tomorrow. (My mother has been getting B12 shots for a dozen years. She’s also a knitter and has very short hair.)

While I sit over here in the corner thinking about a Gehenna tattoo, please know that the girls have been showcasing Jeff’s DNA. This evening we’ll be attending Meredith’s National Junior Honor Society induction. Last week Harper told us that not only did she make it into student council, but she is now the PRESIDENT of student council. I will rest (un)easy knowing that as I high five Edgar Allen Poe for describing sleep as “slices of death”, 75% of my family is Lake Wobegon-ing. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Because I spend entirely too much time on Facebook, this week I made one of my smartest Facebook moves yet. (I’m making moves! On Facebook! Just watch me change the world!) Anyway, I visited the pages of each and every one of my friends and then asked myself the following question:

Does this person lift people up or tear people down?

If said person is mostly a lifter upper? They’re still in!
All tearer downers? Not unfriended, but no longer invited to hang their stuff on my wall.

After reading an article that Tempe sent this morning titled “The Rise of Victimhood Culture” I have determined that I mostly chill out in a dignity culture (as opposed to an honor culture). When aggrieved, I exercise covert avoidance, quietly cutting off relations without any confrontation. Some people may see my ghosting as a shitty way to handle relationships, but it has served me well over the years. Peaceful detoxification? Just as necessary as colonoscopies and flossing!

I’d like to take this opportunity to thank those who lift. The world needs more people like you.

Last week I finished my 2015 cardigan. It fits better than any cardigan I’ve made, which can only mean that I’m finally getting to know myself better.

This website of mine will be fourteen years old one week from today, and fourteen is my favorite number because it used to be Doug Wickenheiser’s number when he played for the St. Louis Blues. Anyway, half of my words are located here and half of them are spread out in other places and Fluid Pudding has taken me from my weirdo single life in Nashville, Tennessee to my weirdo married with two kids life in St. Louis. It is one of my very favorite things, and I want to thank you for stopping by. Let’s eat apples and wear cardigans and celebrate by lifting each other up. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

On Saturday morning, Jeff and I drove across the river to the capitol of Illinois to attend the wedding of one of my very favorite people. While there, I was able to see several of my other favorites—some who know me, and some who don’t. (I’ve had internet access for eighteen years, and it still widens my eyes.)

Oh, this wedding. It could not have been more perfect. The bride and groom were encircled by friends and family and that big circle of people was lit by dappled sun and everyone was smiling and: So Much Joy.

After the ceremony, I found myself sitting at a table with six people who have accomplished great things with their writing and because I love writers and I love weddings and I love hearing acorns being crunched and I love eating toast corners with egg slices and some sort of spread (I have no idea what those things were, but I can’t get them out of my head), I just kept thinking things like, “I want to be Better. At writing (and at social situations) and at life.” I’m just sort of grateful that we left before the music kicked up, because I was starting to feel carbonated, which means it was only a matter of minutes before my whirling dervish tendencies kicked in. (No one would want to see that.)

With Labor Day behind us, it feels like the summer is finally ending and you know how much I love it when the summer ends. Here’s hoping the end of summer also means the death of webworms because they’re ruining my life by running their tiny wispy ropes in a design that makes it impossible for me to walk from my garage to the mailbox, and my neighbors think I’m batty for driving twenty feet from garage to mailbox, but I don’t care what they think anymore because I just need to not feel webs on my face ever again. Ever again. (I want to be Better. At writing (and at social situations) and at life.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

The girls’ pediatrician retired in July and then my primary care guy left the practice and then I found a new pediatrician for the girls and then my primary care guy’s office caught on FIRE but I was somehow able to squeak in an appointment with one of his partners, and I love her.

Dr. W: I see you have one sister with thyroid issues and one sister who dealt with endometriosis and one sister who has no health issues at all.

Me: That’s all wrong. I have only one sister.

Dr. W: I can fix it in the computer, unless you want the record to show that you have three sisters. I know I’ve always wanted more sisters.

Later in the appointment we talked about headaches and anxiety, and if you sit down with me for any length of time you’ll learn that headaches and anxiety are two things I can buzz about endlessly. (I can also buzz about seeing both The Commodores and The Beach Boys during the summer of 1981. A woman once accidentally put her cigarette out on my leg during a Helen Reddy show as Helen was singing “Candle on the Water.” I won a national contest for which I designed an eco-friendly Pringles can. I used to have a birthmark on my leg that looked exactly like Africa.)

Dr. W: I think the anxiety is causing the tension that’s leading to your headaches. I’d like you to take an SSRI.

Me: Nope. I don’t want to take pills that make me feel hazy.

Dr. W: Okay. What are you doing right now to control your anxiety and headaches?

Me: Um, essential oils and mind games and magnesium and prayer and avoiding crowds and singing along to Air Supply tunes.

I’ve now been on Celexa for eleven days, and the first seven days were REALLY CRAPPY with haziness and stomach stuff and me thinking entirely too hard about how my BRAIN is being MANIPULATED with a DRUG. But. BUT. I haven’t had even a touch of a headache in three days, and that is worthy of a burrito parade.

The doctor said that it will take four to six weeks to see if the medication is a good fit for me, but because I’m often a fast learner I decided to take my new little buddy Celexa for a test drive last week at a lakeside food truck event.

The parking lot was so full that we had to park in the grass. Normally, this would put me on edge, which is exactly what it did. As we approached the food trucks, I noticed that each truck had a line at least twenty people deep. Normally, this would rattle me, and that’s exactly what happened. Luckily, Jeff knows that I handle myself best when I have some sort of assignment.

Jeff: Why don’t you grab burritos for us, I’ll grab ravioli for Meredith, and we can meet at the hot dog truck for Harper?

Twenty minutes later, the four of us were standing in line at the hot dog truck. As Jeff took the first bite of his burrito, the woman in front of him lit a cigarette and blew smoke all over him. This is the sort of thing that makes me want to eat my own hair and the only way to settle down is to put every bit of my concentration into creating a list of How This Event Could Be Better For Me.

Me: I would really love it if it was maybe twenty degrees cooler. Lightly snowing, even. Or just haystacks and pumpkins. Less halters, more hoodies. That would be good. More dogs, less people. Less flying bugs. Less Meghan Trainor, more something quieter. And it would be dark. And there would be a pit of fire. I need a chai wagon.

I’m still waiting for the Celexa to work all of its magic. Until that happens, I’ll be wandering the streets in these, because I think that’s what Amélie would do.

‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Harper has decided to run for student council this year, and one of the requirements for running is to participate in some form of community service for two hours. On Saturday, the four of us went downtown to stand on the street and help hand out food and water to the homeless. (A friend of ours is involved in a foundation that provides meals and clothing to the homeless every month.)

Over 100 homeless people went through our line. Every single one of them was grateful and kind and every single one of them broke my heart—and that wasn’t their intention, it’s just that my heart is easily broken.

One man (I’ll call him Smiley) returned to Meredith and me after he went through the food line.

Smiley: Let me guess. She’s your daughter.

Me: She is! How did you know?

Smiley: Because she looks just like you, except her hair is longer. Do you think she’s smarter than a fifth grader?

Me: I sure hope so, because she’s in the seventh grade!

Smiley: She looks brainy, but I bet I can outsmile her.

Smiley then stood there with the biggest smile on his face until Meredith busted out laughing. He then turned and walked away carrying everything he owns in a dirty duffel bag.

As the line wound down and it was almost time to go, Meredith noticed that she had only three drink packets left, and they were all raspberry lemonade flavored.

Meredith: Will you come with me for a second?

Me: Sure, where are we going?

Meredith: That guy sitting on the sidewalk over there told me that raspberry lemonade is his favorite. I’m going to give him the last three.

All of this to say: Our family had no idea what to expect when we drove downtown to help out on Saturday, and as clichéd as it sounds, we were a different family as we drove back home.

Meredith: After working there this afternoon, I almost feel silly complaining about my Windows 10 update not working.

We’ll be back.

(Current thoughts scrambling in my head: Homeless shelters are good, right? Right. BUT, what if a homeless shelter is full of bed bugs and feeds their residents only three bologna sandwiches each day? And what if the bread is moldy on those sandwiches, and the residents are told to just rip off the moldy parts? And what if that same homeless shelter tells its residents that if they accept food from us, they are no longer welcome to stay in the shelter? Despite what many people believe, not all homeless people are addicts who just need to get off the stoop and get a job. It’s too easy to sit back in an air-conditioned house and think that. Or to think nothing at all past the fact that Windows 10 can really suck sometimes or how crappy it is that a football game in overtime might make The Amazing Race run late.)

I’m really looking forward to hot chocolate and clogs with wool socks on a snowy day. I’m so lucky to be able to look forward to those things. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>