Fluid Pudding : Page 58 of 122 : It's the old small talk!

Terrifying blood-sucking rodents!

Yesterday morning at approximately 11:00, Scout and Henry asked to go outside. They normally run around in the back yard for about fifteen minutes, and then they knock to be let back in. (They have manners.)

At around 11:30, it occurred to me that the dogs were still in the back yard. When I opened the door and yelled, “Cookie!” (as I do), Henry came running, but Scout remained seated in the corner of the yard. When I walked out to see what she was guarding, I saw what appeared to be a baby rabbit. AND THEN I SAW THE HUGE BLACK WINGS COMING OUT OF THE RABBIT’S TORSO. It was no rabbit. It was A BAT.

I screamed, “PEANUT BUTTER FOR PUPPIES! GAH!” and Scout reluctantly followed me into the house. I quickly called Jeff.

Me: It’s a bat. It’s a bat. In the back yard. I need to get rid of it.

Jeff: Okay. Settle down. Take a shovel. It’s probably dead and you can just flick it over the fence into the woods.

Me: Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay.

I grabbed the shovel and kept Jeff on the phone as I went bat hunting. Please know that I’m not necessarily afraid of bats, it’s just that I’m not kidding anyone. I’m terribly afraid of bats. AND, bats are the same color as autumn leaves and our yard is covered with leaves which means HIDDEN BAT.

Okay. This is what happened next. Please close your eyes (and turn down your volume) and know that this is what it’s like to be married to me.

It once was lost, but now was found.

After I stopped peeing myself, I approached the bat slowly with my shovel. I am brave. I am brave. I am brave.

It moves.

The bat was not dead. It was not dead. It was panting really quickly and my heart was sort of breaking for it and I stepped a tiny bit closer and then it raised its head and looked at me and then started flapping its big wings and flailing around. AND THEN IT LEFT THE GROUND!!!

The Bat Takes Flight

It flew about six inches into the air and then flopped back onto the ground and it took me about two seconds to throw the shovel and Flo-Jo (like A BAT OUT OF HELL) back into the kitchen.

Jeff arrived home from work just as the Animal Control officer was pulling up into the driveway. (I always call for outside help when I am freaking out because we the people, by the people, for the people.)

This is what I know:

1. The Animal Control officer walked around our yard with an empty Folgers coffee container for nearly twenty minutes before declaring that the bat was unable to be found.

Me: You can’t go!!! What if I come out later and FIND IT?!?!

Animal Control: Just put something over it like that plastic swimming pool over there and give me a call so I can get rid of it for you.

Me: A good friend of mine said that she would come over and hit it over the head with a shovel if it was suffering.

Animal Control: Don’t ever hit a bat over the head. When we test for rabies, we test brain waves. If the brain is smooshed, the bat can’t be tested for rabies.

(Okay. Time out. If the brain is smooshed, the bat can’t be tested for rabies. I can never remember if you feed or starve a fever, but I will remember the bat brain smoosh rule for the rest of my days.)

2. According to the Animal Control officer, bats are normally hibernating at this time of year, but they typically come out of hibernation once a month to feed. TO FEED.

3. I’m never stepping out into the back yard again.

(Please know that both Scout and Henry are completely updated on their rabies vaccinations. I’m more on top of that than I am of anything else in my life.)

Dear Lord. When I finished my parenthetical aside about rabies vaccinations, my word count was at 666. What on earth is happening over here?!?! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Breaking up is hard to do.

Let’s talk about hair. Last year I broke up with the woman who cuts my hair, and I still feel guilty about it. She had been cutting my hair from the time I was 17 until I was 42 and that’s a quarter of a century. Sadly, her schedule and my schedule started to not work out (she lives in Nashville and would come into town every month or so) and suddenly I found another woman who cuts my hair perfectly and I LOVE HER. How did I break up with my original stylist who had seen me regularly from 1987 through 2012? I just stopped calling her. UGH! Terrible! TERRIBLE! (Honesty: I feel guilty about it at least once each week, because that’s how I am.)

(She gave me this haircut, which made me look like a snide bow dress wearing Echo & The Bunnymen fan girl. Bring on the dancing horses!)

Let’s talk about my insides. My gynecologist first saw my innards shortly after I started dating Jeff (at age 26) when I realized that Jeff looked a little bit like the gynecologist I HAD been seeing, and that seemed weird. She delivered both of my kids. She tied my tubes. She sang songs to me about IUDs and Lupron and Depo-Provera and I held up my finger and said, “No, no, and no.” I then sang a song about a hysterectomy, and she held up her finger and said, “No.” And then I talked about not being able to speak during ovulation and she said “Here’s an Aleve.” In the past five weeks, I’ve peed into five cups (successfully!) and bad things are happening that I don’t want to talk about, and she’s done with returning my calls and I think we’ve reached a urethral impasse.

(These are my tubes. Tied.)

Anyway, I called a new gynecologist yesterday because she received 31 5-star ratings on a doctor rating website (I know.), and her name is VERY similar to my name, which means we must have a lot in common. Anyway, I took a few minutes to explain my symptoms to her nurse, and BOOM! I’m going in for an ultrasound on Tuesday and will be spending additional time with the doctor on Friday. AND, a good friend of mine (who also shares my name) actually KNOWS the new gynecologist and has nothing but nice things to say about her.

Two things:

1. I’m hoping to be uterus free in 2014! If you can dream it you can achieve it!

2. I’ve never met a bad Angela. (Please know that I’ve never met Angela Lansbury.)

Tomorrow I’ll be telling you why you should never hit a bat in the head with a shovel. (37 bats are high-fiving each other right now, because they agree with me. Wholeheartedly.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

These are a few.

It’s nearly seven o’clock and I almost forgot to write! Hello there!

Let’s see. The day started off fairly well and then it turned to crap and then it got a little crappier. BUT, I’m pleased to report that my crappiest day really isn’t that crappy in the scheme of things. You know. The scheme. Of things.

(In case you’re counting? Crap and variations thereof: 4!)

To cheer myself up, I’ve decided to share some of my favorite things with you.

I’m still in love with Modern Ritual. I’m currently wearing Optimistic and yesterday Harper and I both wore Social Butterfly. I recently added Autumn Blend to my wishlist, and I’m also looking at Love Blend 01.

The Create Bracelet. This is the bracelet given to me by a very special person and it led to me having the word Create tattooed onto my forearm last week. This is it. I LOVE this bracelet.

Ira Glass stretched out on a couch. Honestly, if I didn’t have Create tattooed onto my arm, I would seriously consider having this photo of Ira Glass tattooed onto my arm. I would want his arms repositioned so that he was playing my veins like a string bass, and I want him to stand in the crook of my elbow. (I know!)

I’m a mitten away from finishing my only Christmas knitting for the year, so I celebrated by starting a pair of arm warmers for myself. This yarn is kettle dyed and it reminds me of kettle corn and apple butter and fall leaves. I bought it several years ago and have been waiting for the perfect project to spark me. Picot arm warmers.

The girls gave me a flower loom for my birthday, and I’ve been making wool flowers. They might turn into bows. They might become ornaments. At this point they have no purpose other than looking cute on my computer table.

My dad shared his caramel pie recipe with me, and I’ve made four in the past month. Graham cracker crust, layer of bananas, layer of caramel, layer of whipped cream, cherries, chocolate shavings, and nuts if you have them. (I never do.)

Mr. Kipling Cherry Bakewells. We ate them in London, and in August we found them in a tiny shop ten miles from our house. I’m letting myself buy a box every six months so that I don’t get tired of them. I’m looking forward to February.

Scout on a shelf.

Scout makes herself at home on the kitchen shelf.

Harper’s ‘Just Like Meredith’ doll.

All better? All better. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Not raw, but clean.

A few days back I was bragging about dropping some pounds, and I said something like, “Let me know if you ever want me to talk about clean eating, because that’s what worked for me.”

A few people responded and said they want to hear about it, so I sat down to write this really long post full of directions and examples and chemistry and then I put myself to sleep.

This is what I did (on and off but mostly on) for the weeks during which I was determined to drop weight.

I ate nothing but unprocessed foods. AND, I forgave myself a lot for not being a wizard.

I went to the grocery store and bought fresh produce. When I wanted something like chips or hummus or anything that isn’t fresh produce, I read the ingredient list. If ANYTHING listed was something that I couldn’t easily find in the store, I didn’t buy it. Anything hard to pronounce? I didn’t buy it.

I chose a good time of year to eat clean, because:

(Fun Fact: This bowl of squash is sitting in front of me right now. How did I fix it? I threw it into the oven for 30 minutes at 400. I drizzled a TINY bit of maple syrup over the top along with sea salt and pepper.)

When I needed something sweet and an apple wouldn’t do, I mashed a banana up with a cup of oats, formed it into four cookies, and baked it at 350 for 15 minutes. (You can drizzle a bit of maple syrup (or honey) over the top. I know I did.)

I was never hungry, I felt decent, and although I’ve managed to eat something like 47 Tootsie Rolls in the past four days, the thought of eating a Ding Dong makes me cringe. (It’s very unusual for me to turn away from a Ding Dong.) In other words, my tastes have changed and I’m down something like 14 pounds now and All is Well.

A lot of people have rules about clean eating. I sort of made it up as I went along, as I tend to do. I didn’t eat cheese, mainly because I’m trying to avoid dairy when I can. I stayed away from bread and sugar. I had a martini, but I’m not saying you have to because that would be pushy and weird.

If you need guidelines, you can look here:

What is Clean Eating? (She says to include meats. I didn’t. AND, the thought of grinding up meat? Well, let’s just say I’d rather eat a Ding Dong.)

This site has seasonal meal plans!

How to get started. (Here are some rules you may (or may not) want to follow.)

So, that’s pretty much it. I usually let food be the boss of me, but I’m slowly getting it under control. (Example: Last night Harper offered me a Junior Mint and I declined. Instead? I ate some of this granola, because it’s BETTER THAN A JUNIOR MINT.)

Full Disclosure: I smell like patchouli and I’m drinking the tea this guy sells.

Something wicked this way comes. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Leaves become most beautiful when they’re about to die.

Every year the Pudding gang goes on a fall leaf adventure, and yesterday was The Day. We took a ferry to Grafton, Illinois and stomped around through Pere Marquette after learning that it’s really hard to be a vegetarian in Grafton unless you’re willing to eat a big greasy glop of cheese. (We took the girls to a restaurant/winery who claims they have the best burgers in Grafton. It’s a really big place with a really big meaty and boozy menu. When I asked if they have veggie burgers, the woman at the register just stared at me and shook her head. I ordered the big greasy glop of cheese, as you do when your only option is the big greasy glop of cheese.)

I could sit here and type things like “Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower” (Camus) or “I would rather sit on a pumpkin, and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion” (Thoreau), but you’ve heard it all before. Alternatively, I could make some sort of weird connection like Orange IS the New Black!, but we all know if I’ve never seen a Doctor Who episode or a Housewives of Whatever County episode, there’s a pretty good chance that I’m missing out on all kinds of good things on television, including OItNB and one should not reference things that one is not able to explain. Time is all around. So much stuff exists and I have no idea what’s happening! I’M ON INSTAGRAM, so you would think I would be more aware of THINGS.

As we walked through the park, our conversation turned toward The Hunger Games and the things you need to be aware of while exploring woody areas. Unmedicated monkeys. Owls with anger management problems. Lions in denial.

At one point I asked, “What if we turn this corner and there is another family of four and they come up to us and calmly say, ‘We are here to fight you.’? What should we do? Should we just start beating the crap out of them or should we say, ‘Listen. We don’t want to fight you.’?” Both girls agreed that we shouldn’t fight. Suddenly, I felt like a good parent (who lacks the energy to look up the rules about quotes within quotes, so I’m burping out punctuation all willy-nilly).?,”!

With that said, a few months ago, Meredith asked who Prince is. Last night we pulled up a Nirvana video on YouTube, and she asked if it was The Beatles. We still have a lot of work to do.

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Sweet dreams are made of this.

Mom,
I had a very crazy dream on the couch. In the dream Henry was a horse and he took me and Scout to Subway and I must have been dreaming really hard because I ate something at Subway. What I ate was a sandwich with italian bread, not a foot long, and it had lettuce and ham. I was wondering if we could go to Subway for dinner.
Love, Harper

I love that she knew she was dreaming really hard not because she was riding to a restaurant on the back of a 50 pound dog, but because she actually ate something from Subway. (Harper is my picky eater. She won’t eat sandwiches.) Last night we made her dream come true, and she actually ate a ham and lettuce sandwich. ((Henry and Scout stayed home.))

This morning at approximately 3:00, Meredith shouted out for Jeff. She had just experienced a dream during which she threw up (in the dream).

Meredith: It makes me nervous because I’m wondering if my dream is trying to predict my future and maybe I should take a stomach pill.

Me: I was just dreaming that I was running on gravel because someone broke my fountain pen at a party and there were snakes and raccoons in the house. I hope my dream isn’t trying to predict my future.

Harper (half-asleep): Don’t worry, Meredith. I’ve had lots of dreams where I pooped in the bed, and it’s only happened once or twice in real life. Ha. Ha ha. HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!

(Meredith did not throw up. The only animals in the house are the ones we adopted. Harper hasn’t defecated in the bed since before she could walk. All is well. Enjoy your Sunday.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

The weighting is the hardest part, Tom Petty.

Every year I allow myself to gain ten pounds during November and December. THEN, every year I drop the ten before sweater weather ends.

2013 was different.

I put on the ten in November and December of 2012 (snickerdoodles! goofy balls made out of Oreos and white chocolate! pumpkin everything! have I mentioned the goofy balls?!), and when it was time to drop the ten? I couldn’t drop it.

I know things happen when you start dancing around in your 40s. I also know that Matthew McConaughey is my age and he can gain and drop weight for movie roles like it’s his job. (Because IT’S HIS JOB.) And another thing: Matthew McConaughey has a last name that is VERY difficult to spell, making cutting and pasting an absolute necessity for me. And, yes. Matthew McConaughey is a man with resources. He probably has an athletic trainer and/or a nutrition coach and/or a trusty supplier of marijuana. I have none of those things. Then again, I don’t NEED any of those things. (It’s fun to make drug references at Fluid Pudding. Do you remember the other day when I talked about LSD? I loved that.)

You know about my weirdo relationship with food and body image (and wool and alone time). I won’t go into details. Just know that it REALLY bothered me that I wasn’t able to drop the ten. When summer hit and my summer clothes wouldn’t fit? It did me in. I actually went out and purchased a $12 Sleeveless Dress of Shame in an attempt to “force” myself into DROPPING THE TEN. I ran a few times. I did yoga a few times. I sat on the couch (more than) a few times. (Alone. With wool.)

HHHhhhhhhhhhh.

On September 17th, I went into a place that reduces the number of degrees of separation between Jennifer Hudson and anyone who goes into that place. (I’ve talked about the place before.) I sadly stood on a scale and was told that I had actually gained not ten, but thirteen pounds in the past year.

Lady With The Scale (LWTS): What are your goals?

Me: Easy. I want my jeans to fit because I can’t stomach shopping for jeans. I have too much stomach for my jeans. My stomach! My jeans! PLEASE STOP ME BEFORE I CRY!

I decided to give myself five weeks to drop the 13. (And that’s sort of funny, because I had been trying to lose it for 37 weeks. Some people can cook up an entire BABY in 37 weeks!)

As of this morning I hit my goal with absolutely zero exercise. (Let me know if you ever want to talk about clean eating. Clean eating is what worked. 100%.) Hilarious coincidence: It’s November. Time to start eating like a jerk again! GOOFY BALLS!

Actually, because I’m old and I don’t really have anything in common with Matthew McConaughey, I’m going to try to NOT gain ten pounds during the holiday season. To help keep me motivated, I’m looking into a Fitbit Force. In order to actually get off of the couch, I feel like I need numbers and clicks and bells and whistles and graphs and apps and a social network made up of OTHER clowns who have Fitbits. (I also feel like I need a therapist, but I’m convinced that wool/alone time provides the same benefits as getting dressed and talking to a stranger (who is merely a friend I haven’t met yet, I suppose).)

Unrelated?: I’m following a new local donut shop on Facebook, and I’m in the beginning stages of planning a visit. If I park a block over, perhaps I can register 200 steps on the Fitbit, which should unlock my “Permission: Donut” achievement. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Mother approved and kid friendly. Like fruit leather.

About twenty years ago, I found myself in an apartment that was being rented by a guy named Spyder. Spyder had tattooed a few of my friends, and it was my turn. I chose to have Georgia O’Keeffe’s hands put on my ankle, because my art appreciation instructor once mentioned that Alfred Stieglitz had taken stacks of photos of Georgia but didn’t feel that he captured her artistry until he focused on her hands. (I was a piano performance major for a while in college, and was very much into hands. (I’m still very much into hands.))

I’ve had a love/hate relationship with my ankle tattoo, but if I boil my thoughts for a bit, what remains is my love of art and hands and there you go. On my ankle.

Last month I mentioned that I was considering having a word tattooed onto my arm. My friend Shana stepped up and volunteered to write it for me, I absolutely loved what she created, a few days back I took her work to a tattoo place, and are you ready? Because here we go.

I had originally envisioned the tattoo as brown and tiny and going from side to side where the veins in my wrist poke back into my arm. However, the artist explained that brown will require touch-ups and maintenance, and there is a chance that the letters will close up if you go too small. I’m the first to admit that I’m not an expert at anything, so I went with her suggestion—black and vertical. She took a few minutes to redraw the word a bit bigger with more open letters and I loved it. She stenciled it onto my arm and I loved it even more.

The tattoo artist’s name is Anna and she is spritely and talented and owns a really enviable beaded yellow cardigan.

Anna: Are you nervous?

Me: Yes. But I’m also BRAVE.

Anna: Brave is good.

It’s still bumpy and healing and I may need a bit of a touch up at the top of the C, but so far? So good. (I chose the word for many different reasons, but mainly as a directive.)

It’s NaBloPoMo. Let’s get it on. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Let’s just get a few things straight.

Before embarking on NaBloPoMo (because I’m going to embark on NaBloPoMo), I need to try and release some guilt.

For the past year or so, I’ve been absolutely terrible at responding to comments. You guys have sent me recipes and words of encouragement and brainy things to think about and prescription recommendations and book reviews and I’m absolutely terrible at thanking you. If I’m going to do NaBloPoMo (because I’m going to do NaBloPoMo), I either need to turn off comments or let the guilt fly out the window like a happy flying thing that flies out the window. Happily.

I don’t really care to elaborate on the following, nor do I wish to reveal if any statements are connected:

Lately I feel that I smell like a poorly-maintained convalescent center.

I can’t believe I still haven’t read Still Life With Woodpecker. I’m going to change that as soon as I finish my current read.

When I’m sitting at my computer and I look out the window, this is what I see.

Pretty soon it will all be orange and brown and crunchy, and I’ll be burning some sort of autumn-inspired candle and suddenly it won’t matter that I feel like I smell like I’ve been swimming in stuff that doesn’t smell very good.

Tomorrow I’m going on a solo adventure that involves bravery and being touched by a stranger. (I may remove my cardigan, but everything else stays on.) If all goes well, I’ll celebrate with a chai at the place my nose ring friend and I tend to visit after a switch-out.

Last night I spent nine dollars on a bottle of cranberry juice that contains nothing but the juice of cranberries. No water. No sugar. (I just accidentally typed wugar and then I laughed and laughed. Wugar.) No apple juice. No grape juice. (A lot of cranberry juices are cut with apple and grape juice. (Oddly enough, LSD is NEVER cut with strychnine, despite all of the whackadoodle LSD tales you might have heard. I’m here to provide mind-easing fun facts for my LSD buddies, none of whom actually exist in the real world.)) Anyway, the cranberry juice? It is terrible. BUT, I can manage the recommended three ounce dose if I put it in a shot glass (or tiny tiny coffee cup because I don’t actually own a shot glass) and pretend that it will help me see into the future. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

This is the story of my red right ankle.

Warning: This particular post will end with a photograph of my bloody ankle. I have not applied any filters to the photo, so the bright red blood you will see is the same bright red blood I saw in my car in the mall parking lot this afternoon. You have been warned and I know you’re smart, so please don’t act like you’re surprised that I’m shocking and awing you with a bloody body part. I told you it was coming. Proceed with caution.

Do you remember several months ago when we talked about school fundraisers? I finally talked to the right people and put together a fun run at our school, and it took place yesterday and it was SO much fun because as a team we ran from St. Louis to Atlanta by way of 3,765 laps around our school track. Students and staff and parents (and one grandparent) received a bracelet for every lap they ran and at the end of the day all of the bracelets were counted and whoosh! Exercise and excitement and community and $1,500 to go toward an outdoor classroom.

Because I was there all day, I spent most of my free time walking laps. (I did take time out for a Subway veggie sandwich because Jeff delivered it to me and That Is LOVE.) Do you remember all of those ridiculous stress fractures I dealt with last year? Only one of them was bugging me, and the air was crisp and I had a tumbler full of hot tea and this song shuffled three times on my phone:

Cannonball made me all Girl Power! and Keep Walking! and (ouch) and If I Walk 1,040 Laps We’ll Exceed Our Goal!!!

At 3:00 I packed it up and declared the day a success. You should have seen all of those kids running. It’s a wonder I didn’t start weeping while thinking in metaphors and symbols and What An Amazing World We Live In. (My endorphin tide tends to run high (unless it’s running low).) One boy who is clearly not a runner ran eight laps in 15 minutes. Eight laps is a mile. When I told him that he just ran a mile, he actually stomped his foot and yelled, “Oh my God I DID NOT KNOW THAT!” That was my favorite part of the whole day.

Anyway, because our next adventure involves dressing up like people we’re not and passing out candy from the back of our car, this afternoon’s list included: freelance (done), talk to vet about Henry (done), and search out Mockingjay pin at mall (done). The list did NOT include suffer a blister while wearing my favorite shoes.

(Done.)

I know. Oh, and it bums me out because I LOVE those shoes! I’m starting to feel like I shouldn’t be allowed to own shoes that aren’t clogs. Any shoe with a back on it eventually leads me to Bloody Blisterville, and I can only assume it’s because of my protuberant thin-skinned tendon. Shoes would be easier if I knew what I was doing. How are you? Should we do NaBloPoMo next month? ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>