Fluid Pudding

When you are (and when I say You Are, I mean I Am) suffering from feelings of inadequacy (long story, work-related), the best thing to do is eat fig marmalade with a friend and treat yourself (i.e., myself) to a butter keeper, also known as a keeper of the butter, also known as a butter crock. (Crock isn’t a good word for me today, as so many things could be described as being A Crock, and suddenly we lack creativity.)

It’s true that the vegan side of me rarely uses butter. (The clean eating side of me doesn’t mind it in small doses.) It’s also true that I’m intrigued with Little House on the Prairie stories of butter sitting around in a house all day and not getting nasty, where nasty = rancid, Miss Jackson. Anyway, in an attempt to rid my house of unnecessary things, I decided to purchase something that I won’t use very often! I am a walking contradiction (with soft and spreadable butter).

(You’ll have to cut me some slack. The whole Feelings of Inadequacy thing that I mentioned up there at the top has been weighing heavily all day. Lucky for me, I have a marmalade loving friend who presents worry stones with perfect timing and another friend who presents me with frequent knitting challenges. Also lucky for me is the fact that I don’t have to work in an office, so I can pepper my day with canine Wubba tosses. All is well.)

I visited a brand new book store in St. Louis this afternoon (before I became the owner of a butter keeper), and I’m in LOVE with it. Their journal selection was incredible, and they carry a really great blend of heady and quirky. Most stores in this particular location don’t last very long. I hope they are the exception. If you’re a local, please visit STL Books on West Jefferson in Kirkwood. Often.

Let’s talk about knitting tomorrow! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I don’t have much to report for today. Drank coffee, finished some freelance, took a shower, baked a sweet potato, watched The Hunger Games with Meredith to prepare her for the release of Catching Fire next weekend (She’s read the books.), ate some pumpkin pie, folded some laundry, and decided to pinwheel the hell out of some puff pastry.

I took that pastry out of the freezer, thawed it, spread a bunch of pesto over the top of it, and tossed on some stir-fried mushrooms. I then rolled it up, sliced it into wheels, and baked it at 400 for 15 minutes. Dinner.

I ate three wheels before making eye contact with this guy:

I’m sure he’s delicious, but as all of the cool kids say: I Just Can’t. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. (I Just Can’t is in a heated competition with the inappropriate use of the word So for number one on my List of Overused Annoyances. She was SO FIRED. I JUST CAN’T.)

In my mind, Francis Pinwheel has spent many years driving a smelly cab in New York. He speaks with a lisp, he doesn’t take crap from anyone, and as soon as his youngest kid moves out he’s going to pack his bags and try to make it work in Seattle. (That’s where his internet girlfriend lives with her cat, and she likes Al Pacino movies just as much as he does.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Today was a No School day for the girls, so we spent it doing what ALL kids wish they could do on a No School day: We went to meet my new gynecologist! Wahoo!!!

Good News: After spending the past two months wondering if I’m dying or going batty, I finally have a possible (completely tame) diagnosis. Adenomyosis! In other words, my uterus is sort of turning itself inside out (not really, but sort of, but not really) and because it’s all huge and swollen (enjoy your dinner!), it’s invading my bladder’s personal space.

You don’t want to hear any more details, so let me fast forward through the No Pants stuff and just say this: I now have a prescription for birth control pills. (I had my tubes tied back in 2011, so I’m hoping that the two forms of birth control don’t cancel each other out. (I don’t have any more love to give right now.)) I also have a prescription for Vicodin, and the fact that I mentioned Vicodin means that I just brought in some traffic from junkies who are looking for Vicodin! Welcome! (Note to junkies: I will fill the prescription only if necessary. In other words, do not come to my house. There’s nothing to see here.)

Side Note: Another big welcome goes out to all of the curious parents from our elementary school who have noticed that my e-mail ends with a fluid pudding dot com. (That’s what I get for volunteering!) “What is fluid pudding dot com?” you may have asked yourself before coming over. And now you’re feeling a pinch of regret. (It smells like cloves.) I really need to get a professional e-mail address. Please don’t think less of my daughters. They’re good eggs.

After the doctor appointment, the girls and I traveled to Fizzy’s for a chocolate soda, a wedding cake soda, an orange dream soda, and burgers (dead cow for them, veggie for me). Two of the local radio stations are playing Christmas music and that jazzed us to no end and led us to purchase a pumpkin pie on the way home from lunch. It’s a good day to be a Pudding, for we’ve grown a little leaner, grown a little older, grown a little sadder (not really. don’t worry.), grown a little colder…

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As I type this message to you, our mail carrier is driving around with an envelope addressed to me and inside that envelope is a hemostat. Imagine how my world will open up when I remove the hemostat from its packaging! Suddenly, when a surgeon looks at me and says “Clamp!” I can do more than stare at my shoes! I can remove a hook from a fish who has been searching the streets for a compassionate hemostat owner! I can crimp tubing on a shoddy homemade water filter! Most importantly? I can remove my nose ring when I don’t feel like wearing a nose ring. (Actually, the fish thing is the most important. I don’t want you to think that my nose opal outranks a needy fish!)

Here’s the thing. I’ve been listening to Roderick on the Line. When John Roderick expressed his fear of becoming a parody of himself (cool dad musician guy galavanting around Seattle in skinny jeans), my eyes opened wide and I looked (down and to the right) at my nose ring and then my gaze drifted down my left arm to the new tattoo and then I received an e-mail from ModCloth suggesting that I purchase some sort of Rockabilly dress and then The Decemberists shuffled on the iPod, and: Yipes. I’m 43 and so terribly unable to carry off the entire collection. Therefore: hemostat, arm warmers, and no more floopy dresses. Moderation is key. (The Decemberists can stay, mainly because I can’t get enough of January Hymn, which shuffles most often.)

I don’t think I will ever not love that song. And although several of the smartest people I know cannot read my tattoo, I don’t think I’ll ever not love it, either. AND, because I know a few of you are curious, please know that the vet shaved my cat this morning, and that is NOT a euphemism. Poor Ramona is walking around looking like she’s not wearing any pants. (I’d take a photo, but something about dignity and respect keep me from pressing the button.) The vet has assured me that people cut their cats all of the time.

Me: Not THIS person!

Vet: Believe me, it happens. She’s going to be just fine.

Me: Does someone want to give me a hug?!

Vet: What?

Me: I feel like I need to be punished and consoled all at the same time.

Ramona: Where are my pants?! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

We went to a baby shower on Saturday evening, and it was possibly the best baby shower ever.

What Made The Baby Shower A Great Baby Shower:
1. It was held in a cafe that featured 40 different types of desserts.

2. Free flowing hummus with vegetables and pita chips. Honestly: All You Can Eat, and it was probably the best hummus I’ve had. (I’ve had lots of hummus. You know it’s true.)

3. No games. NO GAMES! No guessing how many squares of toilet paper it would take to wrap around the new mom’s belly. No avoiding saying the word “Baby” in order to win a prize. No games!

4. Everyone received a salad that held candied pecans and cranberries.

5. My kids joined me and they’re finally at the age where they can sit down and enjoy themselves without fighting or screaming about how bored they are.

Before we left for the shower, Harper walked in wearing a really cute pink plaid shirt.

Me: That’s a really cute shirt.

Harper: Meredith said I should take it off.

Me: Why?

Harper: Meredith said that a sure-fire way to make a bad impression is to wear a plaid shirt to a baby shower.

(She wore the shirt, and to my knowledge, no one judged her.)

During the shower, I told Harper that eating this mint will put a baby in her belly. She believed me.

Harper is a good sport. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I don’t mean to make anyone angry, but I’m really close to being over halfway finished with my Christmas shopping.

Here is my advice: Tell yourself that you’re going to have surgery in December and you need to get this stuff taken care of so you can recover gently and happily on the couch with hot tea in hand and Meg Ryan on the television. Ready, set, go.

This is what I’m going to be doing five more times between now and February. Meredith has joined a co-ed volleyball team and I’m all high on it.

When I was a kid, my cousins and I spent quite a few Saturdays sitting on the driveway of my grandma’s house and burning leaves with magnifying glasses. This morning, Harper grabbed a magnifying glass and got to work on some leaves in our back yard. My grandmother would have been proud. (And then she would have offered up some chocolate cake with white icing.)

This arrived in the mail today, and suddenly I’m wanting to thank people for a thank you card. I know that Emily Post would probably shake her head at me, but still.

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