Fluid Pudding

I spent several hours last week going through the Fluid Pudding 2001-2008 archives and cutting and pasting entries into one big 650 page document. In other words, I’ve written a book. Like many books, it’s not very interesting. It’s entirely too heavy on the I Hate How I Look and entirely too light on the What Can I Do to Help You.

I’ve read more than 100 news stories and blog entries and tweets about last week’s attack on the members of the Emmanual AME Church in Charleston, and I feel sick. I’ve heard the victims’ family members offering forgiveness to the monster who killed their loved ones, and the funny thing that’s actually not so funny at all? I would not be able to forgive. I wouldn’t. I can sit here on my big blue corduroy couch and twist my WWJD bracelet around (I don’t really have a WWJD bracelet, but I DO have one of these, which is certainly close) and tell myself that I’m doing my best, but: No. I can’t forgive a killer and I can’t forgive my own silence. (What would Jesus do? I bet he wouldn’t make a fruit fly trap with vinegar and a mason jar. I bet he wouldn’t color his hair out of a box labeled Natural Black Natural. I bet he wouldn’t treat himself to an iced caramel macchiato. These are the things I’ve done in the past week. Business as usual for a middle-class white lady with edgy peaches, stubborn greys, and a lingering headache.)

Sadly, I’m like a child when it comes to sorting out my thoughts. I can see my big picture want list, but I can’t articulate my strategies on mountain climbing. (If you’ve been coming to this website for very long, you know that I’m speaking the truth.) I often have to look toward my heroes for help and guidance, and for the past several years, two of those heroes have been Kelly and Karen.

Kelly wrote Let’s Get To The Work of Anti Racism.

Karen wrote Say Something.

Please read these two articles and then read them again and then love thy neighbor. Radically. Actively. Even that neighbor down the street who you’re not so sure about. Feed them. Literally and figuratively. Express your fears and then ask if anyone needs help. And then help. And then twist your own bracelet and then do it all again. And again. Until it becomes your life. And don’t be afraid to ask for help. Never be afraid to ask for help.

I hate feeling that things aren’t getting better. I hate it on a small scale, like when I have fruit flies hovering around my peaches. I hate it on a medium scale, like when I’m struggling to find freelance work. Most of all, I hate it on a hugely vital scale, like when I see people being treated inhumanely and killed for no reason other than the way they look. The color of their skin. And because I’ve walked only in my own shoes (clichés are rattlesnakes, yet I dance with them), even saying something like “I hate feeling that things aren’t getting better” feels so wide-eyed and unconscious.

I need help. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

This morning the television told me that a jumpsuit must be paired with heels. The models wearing the jumpsuits expressed their fear about jumpsuits, and shortly afterwards I prepared Tamarind Ginger Lentils, although I had no tamarind or ginger. (I was unafraid.) If I EVER purchase a jumpsuit (and I most likely will NOT, although I’m not necessarily spooked by them), I will also not wear the unlikely jumpsuit with heels because heels make my elbows hit the sidewalk. (The lentils didn’t need tamarind or ginger.)

This week has been my favorite summer break week. I’ve managed to spend at least an hour with four of my favorite people, Meredith attended a seven hour birthday party at a friend’s house, and Harper has two days planned with her best friend from the old school. Meredith is enjoying her job at the library, I’ve now finished spinning three different braids of fiber in less than a month, Jeff plays the guitar and makes us laugh every evening, and Harper is creating material for a potential YouTube channel.

That is the 17%.

If I grabbed a fork from the remaining 83%, we would have to discuss the migraine that forced me into bed yesterday afternoon and how I’ve been a huge emotional jar of goo since November. I would also whisper the fact that I haven’t had a decent freelance job in nearly three months and how the girls constantly yelling “Stop!” at each other is going to drive me straight to Mom Loses Her Shit Avenue.

In other words, despite how I tend to sing, we still trudge. And no one can begrudge a trudge, so trudge we do.

When I pull into the garage, I drive until I make eye contact with Einstein. A few inches past eye contact will find me running into the lawn mower.

This afternoon we’ll be having lunch with my mom and my nephew. I’ll be enjoying a baked potato with steamed broccoli and will then eat a bowl of lentils when I get back home. 4:30 will find me yelling questions at Alex Trebek. I’ll be in bed by 10:00, and will try to stay awake by reading until Jimmy Fallon comes on, but I probably won’t make it.

I rarely do.

Carry on.

Now that we’re getting ready to shake hands with the hottest part of the year, it’s time to start thinking about heavy cardigan sweaters.

I have this yarn.

I’m thinking of using it to make either this or this. (I’m leaning toward the Iba.)

(The quality of the yarn is slightly compromised because I was using it for a cardigan back in 2011 and when I sat it down to answer the phone, Henry destroyed my progress. Thank God he now has an eggplant.)

Jeff was in Boston for the first part of the week, so instead of eating everything in the house (my normal response to his car being at the airport), I spun.

Above is a merino/silk/bamboo blend called Salt Marsh by Lisa Souza. It has been on my wheel forever, which is an exaggeration. Below is merino (Belly Beans by Lisa Souza), and it was on my wheel for less than 24 hours because I was all stressed out and emotional so spin, Spin, SPIN! It’s currently hanging to dry in our office, and it’s possibly the happiest yarn I’ve made.

I started a Tiller Scarf in May, and the goal is to add one skein of yarn each month until it’s finished. (It takes five skeins of Cascade 220. The photo below was taken after one skein was used up.) Imagine how warm this thing is going to be once it finally starts snowing again. I wish I lived in Wyoming. I wish I was Lenny Kravitz.

What else? Adventures with the Health Coach are going very well. As I mentioned before, I’m currently eating low carb/high fat/high protein, and although the pounds aren’t dropping quickly, they ARE dropping. PLUS, this morning I saw a glimpse of myself getting into the shower and it seems that I may be changing shape a little. Maybe. I’m eating a lot of avocados. And eggs. And fermented sauerkraut. No sugar (except for in my powdered chemical coffee). No processed foods. (Confession: I *did* have a blueberry doughnut last weekend, but one doughnut in three weeks is a world record for the world in which I’m the only person, so I’ve forgiven myself and will probably have another doughnut in a few weeks because life is short, so why in the hell wouldn’t I have a doughnut in a few weeks? I would much rather worry and stress about finding strategies that will enable me to remain patient until September 8th. (Tomorrow is National Doughnut Day.)) Eating healthy feels good. I love baked sweet potatoes almost as much as I love painless dental appointments.

Let’s see.

This morning my mom met us at the mall, and she let the girls pick out a pair of shoes for the summer. Meredith went with these, and Harper went with these, and I’m going to spend the afternoon watching Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee.

I’ve once again become very bad at responding to comments and e-mails, and I apologize. Also, the person who had our telephone number before us is named Ellenbach. You have no idea how often I walk around the house chanting “I ain’t no Ellenbach girl…” (It’s often. Now you know.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

When I was in the third grade, my Sunday school teacher told me to not get too close to people who didn’t practice our religion, because I wouldn’t see them in Heaven. I had many friends who were Catholic, and as a nine year old, I felt so bummed for them.

When I first started hanging out on the internet nearly two decades ago, I became obsessed with the journals written by people who were planning to amputate an arm or leg. I had no idea that amputation planning journals were a thing and I loved following along as these people I had never met were researching and planning ways to cut off their own limbs. (I know!)

Did you know that there is more than one artist collective made up of women who create paintings using their monthly blood?

Sometimes I get really bummed that I’m 45 years old and I still have so many books to read and so many people to hear about and see!

I once knew a guy who stuttered only when he wasn’t high. I knew another guy who would attend parties as The People’s Poet, meaning he carried little pieces of paper around and delivered on-the-spot poems to anyone who inspired him. A friend once wrote my name on Jim Morrison’s grave when he left college for a semester to see Père Lachaise.

I once took a Wicca class with my best friend where we vocalized our energies and then ate mint chocolate chip ice cream served to us by a woman with a Vulcan haircut. I once acted as a bodyguard for that same friend as she ambled around in a big tiger suit during a fraternity street party.

People. So many wonderful weirdos and reluctant wizards and I hate how often I don’t leave the house.

We all need to create more good adventures. It’s June 1. Let’s get on it. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I made a crustless asparagus quiche, and although it needs some tweaking (I roasted the asparagus a little too long), it’s my new favorite thing. Even better? We had family in town for dinner last night, and they helped eat the quiche. (I’m not terribly keen on the idea of snacking on quiche for a week.) ((The secret ingredient? IT’S MAYONNAISE. And by putting mayonnaise in a quiche, I have officially stepped out of my box/wheel house/cliché tent. Proof? I’m making nut milk this weekend, and it has everything to do with cashews and nothing to do with what YOU’RE picturing right now.))

We walked to the library last week and Meredith checked the job board while we were there. (I believe it’s her dream for me to work at the library.) She was really excited to see that they were accepting applications for teen volunteers over the summer, so she filled out an application, wrote a really great cover letter, and crossed her fingers. Last night we received word that she got the job. Suddenly, Meredith is living the dream for three to six hours each week until August.

The side of our house is being eaten by roses.

The health coach adventure is going very well. Briefly: I’m currently focusing on keeping carbs lower than proteins and fats. Avocados blended with tomatoes and a little olive oil, vinegar, sea salt, and pepper? I’ll eat lots of it. Cashew milk? I’m going to make some. Exercise? I’m doing it (10,000 steps per day and my butt challenge, which I haven’t talked about.) Weight loss? Four pounds in three weeks which is Just Fine.

This morning I was walking and this song shuffled and suddenly I was blinking back a few tears. In the mall. The good news? I didn’t drown my sorrows in a big stupid pretzel. (With that said, drowning sorrows in a big stupid pretzel is definitely a choice. It may not support my health goals right now, but nevertheless. It is a choice. And so is whiskey. And so is crustless quiche.)

Enjoy your weekend. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

If I was one of those people who planned big gatherings for internet friends, I would invite each and every one of you to my house right now. All of your comments and support from my most recent “I’m ready to be healthy” post has floored me. I keep sitting down to respond to everyone and then I get all whooshed with happy thoughts. I’m the luckiest.

Oh! If you *did* come to my house right now, you would be greeted with a climbing rose that I didn’t even know existed six months ago! It bloomed this morning, and I keep going outside to check on it. (It’s always okay. I think it will be fine.)

A few years back, my parents gave me a rose bush for my birthday, and although it never really thrived (throve? was thriven?), I worked with it every year until it pushed out a few blooms.

When we moved away, I really considered digging it up and taking it with us, but that seemed like something a normal person wouldn’t do. (A rose bush is not a child or a pet, right?) Anyway, I’m really excited about the new red roses, and if you came to my Fluid Pudding Internet Buddies Gathering, I would let you clip one of them and wear it in your hair if that’s your sort of thing. And then we would dance, and by “we” I mean “you” because I haven’t had a drink in over 14 months.

This morning I melted some dark chocolate and threw in some crushed up macadamia nuts.

I then poured it into a parchment-lined dish and sprinkled it with sea salt.

After refrigerating it for about an hour or so, I stabbed it repeatedly with a butter knife.

And now I have a snack.

One last thing. Jeff and the girls took me out to choose a plant for Mother’s Day yesterday.

I went with an Ivy Geranium.

I’m proud to say that my newfound love of plants and flowers is starting to rub off on Meredith. She found a black petunia hidden amongst the pinks and purples, and she couldn’t leave without it.

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Truth: Since my hysterectomy last year, I have gained 20 pounds and I’m not happy about how I feel.

If you know me at all (and by now, I think you do), you know that I struggle with the whole weight thing. In high school, someone called me Thick. In college, one of my roommates called me Wide. (Although I appreciate honesty, please know that these people have been eliminated from my circle.) I gained 80 pounds with my first pregnancy, and then I lost 93 pounds by combining Weight Watchers with lactation. I’m back up 40 pounds since then and most importantly: I used to own a Duncan Butterfly Yo-Yo, so I’m a bit of an expert.

You’re bored. I know you are. Here. Let’s speed things up a little: I’ve now reached the point where I don’t even want to leave the stinking house (it doesn’t really stink) because my clothes don’t fit and I’m constantly tired and my ankles feel creaky and unless I do something NOW, I’m going to go too far to get back home. (Figuratively. See sentence 4 of this paragraph. By the way, while I’m not leaving the stinking house, I would appreciate any advice you can offer on killing weeds that grow in flower beds. I’d prefer to go the natural way if possible, as long as the natural way doesn’t involve me bending over for six hours each day pulling dandelions and clover out of the ground, which is probably something that I SHOULD do, as evidenced by the very first sentence of this post.)

A few days back I reached out to a friend who is a certified holistic health coach. She sent a questionnaire to me and I filled it out and this morning we had a conversation via Skype. One week from today I’ll be kicking off a new routine and I’d like to take you with me. In other words, for the sake of accountability, I’d like to check in and let you know how it’s going for the next six months. Is that okay? (If it’s not okay, we need to figure some things out.)

This will not be a diet.

This will not be a hard core exercise adventure.

This will be me climbing a ladder and Kathy holding the bottom of it to make sure I don’t fall off. (That’s how she described it during our call, and I loved the image it conjured.)

This is me when I was in really good shape.

The adorable baby in that photo is my nephew, and he’ll be graduating from high school next year. (The photo was taken in 1999. He has doubled his height and can now speak in full witty sentences!) Anyway, my goal is to be comfortable in my own skin at his graduation, and that probably seems like a silly goal to you, but for me? It’s huge. (Disclaimer: Please know that I plan on wearing clothing to his graduation. As far as I know, being comfortable in JUST my skin wouldn’t be socially acceptable at a high school graduation ceremony. Some day I’ll tell you about the night of my own college graduation.)

((No, I won’t.)) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Tuesday was Harper’s birthday and Wednesday was Meredith’s birthday and I’m not sure what happened Thursday, but Friday found both girls surrounded by their friends from the new school at our birthday grill party. (12 kids running around the back yard and screaming and making s’mores and I’m so glad the girls are doing well at the new school.)

On Friday evening, I was invited to a party that I couldn’t attend because we were HAVING a party. Suddenly, I don’t even know myself. Clearly, I need more fancy skirts.

On Saturday, we had a birthday lunch with my parents and that led into a couple of the girls’ old school friends spending the night.

On Sunday morning Jeff took the friends home and we headed to the Cardinals game because Harper was singing God Bless America with her school choir before the game. She even made it onto the Jumbotron. (Do I need to hide her friends? They were on the JUMBOTRON, so 14,000 people might have this same photo and I don’t see THEM placing strategic stars!) Anyway, the Cardinals finally won during the 14th inning, and we watched that win from our family room, because we left the stadium at the bottom of the 9th.

While we’re hanging out and talking about Sunday, check out the sunburn I’m sporting as a result of thinking I’m too good for sufficient sunscreen.

Not smart.

What else? I finished a shawl.

(It’s Rock Island by Jared Flood and I’m getting ready to make another. You should make one, too.)

I started an herb garden.

And, yeah. It looks cute, but it didn’t take long for one of my smart gardening friends to gently tell me that it probably won’t live long because roots don’t like to see the light. Damnit, Pinterest! (The next herbs I buy will be planted in a garden bed because Cute is not Important.)

I started another Honey Cowl, and this will probably be my final car knitting project because school is out in just a few weeks!

Tomorrow is the one year anniversary of my Cinco de Mayo Hysterectomy, and I have never loved a surgery as much as I loved that one. (Well, except for the two that resulted in babies coming out of me. Those were good ones, too. Appendectomy? Not good. Wisdom Teeth? The suckiest! Tubal ligation? Fun, but only in an Eating Funnel Cake Outside During a Wind Storm sort of way.)

Finally, I’ll be turning 45 (45!!! Please know that I wish numbers could be capitalized because FORTY FIVE!!!) in a week and a day, so I think it’s time to start thinking about health and happiness, as I am not very healthy and it makes me very unhappy. First step: I just bought a bag of avocados. Also, I’m thinking of working up my résumé because if I was living off of my freelance gigs, I probably would have died a few weeks ago. (Wilbur Wright died at age 45. I learned that yesterday.)

Stay tuned. (Or don’t. You’re in control.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I was watching Oprah on April 28, 2003 when I started seeing twinkling bugs flying in front of my face. Because I was four days past my due date, my doctor took the bugs as a sign that it was time for Meredith to come out. About an hour later as we drove to the hospital, Jeff and I stopped by White Castle because I thought I needed a fish sandwich and fries. (Did I mention that I gained 80 pounds during this pregnancy?)

Anyway, when it was determined that pushing Meredith out the traditional way would most likely be impossible, my doctor decided that we would go with a C-section.

Nurse: Have you eaten anything today?

Me: Yep. A fish sandwich and fries less than an hour ago.

Nurse: Okay, well, it’s best to wait eight hours after eating before surgery, so that puts us right at 1:30 in the morning.

Me: Worth it.

Meredith Claire was pulled out at 2:03. She was 21 inches long and weighed 10 pounds and 3 ounces, and that White Castle fish sandwich was the only thing that prevented my kids from having the same exact birthday (with two years between).

Meredith is super smart and super funny and I often forget that she’s in the sixth grade because her mind seems so much deeper. When we moved earlier this year and started at a new school, it took Meredith a few months to find friends because she felt like it was important to make the RIGHT friends. I was pretty worried about her because it seemed like Harper was coming home with a new friend’s name nearly every day. Eight months later? Meredith has surrounded herself with amazingly smart girls who share her love of books, animals, and music. Last night before she went to bed, she told me that even though some kids poke fun at the smart kids, she really enjoys knowing that she’s intelligent.

This is one of her current favorite songs.

Meredith loves burritos, chocolate chip cookies, and reading dystopian fiction.
She is 12 years old and is already researching universities.
She is convinced that she requires at least one doughnut each week.

The happiest of birthdays to you, Meredith.

I’ll be sitting over here in the corner eating MY weekly doughnut and trying to figure out how to make time slow down.

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Harper loves thin crust cheese pizza and Cool Ranch Doritos.

Her favorite book is When You Reach Me by Rebecca Stead.

She could spend hours building elaborate chicken houses on Minecraft.

Last week this song shuffled in the car and she put down her book (Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire) and listened to every word.

Harper was pulled from me exactly ten years ago (the photo is here!) and I celebrated her first decade in the most traditional way: With a caramel latte and a clematis.

This clematis will (hopefully) reach up and around our pergola to remind me of how Harper used to be—glued to my side.

Happy Birthday, Harper Rose. I can’t wait to see what the next decade brings. You are the knees of the bees.

(Also, Happy Birthday, Harper Lee. I hope people are treating you kindly.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>