Fluid Pudding

Something happened on the evening of September 10th (it’s part of the 83% I’ll never share), and my mind has been spinning with questions ever since.

41 days filled with questions! Shall we explore a few of them? Please feel free to attack many or none!

1. Mascara on the bottom lashes. Is this still a thing? I still do it, but I’m not sure I’m supposed to. (The only thing that has changed in my makeup routine since 1985: I no longer light my eyeliner ON FIRE before applying it.)

17. I’ve tried the washing machine cleaning beady things. I’ve tried vinegar. Why do our clothes still smell sort of sour? Our washing machine will be eleven years old in March. Is it time for a new one?

23. Why do so many people assume that Vegetarian = Enigmatic? Honestly. I don’t eat meat. I don’t care if you do. I really don’t. It’s not difficult for me to find something to eat, and I’m so much more than Bewildering Girl Who Eats Plants. (Side story: Jeff and I went to an amazing vegetarian restaurant on Saturday night. The people at the table next to ours were definitely not vegetarians, and they had a lot of questions. “I want the tacos, but I like chicken or beef in my tacos. WHAT DO YOUR TACOS TASTE LIKE?!” “I’m headed to the symphony in two hours. Since I don’t know what your tacos are made of, I need to know that they are not cooked with a bunch of alcohol.” “You don’t have diet soda?! And you’re telling me that real sugar is better for you than sugar substitute?!” “They have beet fries but they don’t have French fries?! What’s wrong with potatoes?!” (Nothing. Nothing is wrong with potatoes.) I’m all for questioning everything and arming yourself with information, but why go to a vegetarian restaurant if you’re going to raise your eyebrows at every single thing that comes out of the server’s mouth? Also, how many ways can he explain Vegan Cheese before you just smile and either give it a whirl or pass?) ((My line is always, “I’m a vegetarian, but I’m not a jerk about it.” I know. I’m starting to be a jerk about it. I’m starting to be a jerk about a lot of things. Just ask Meredith how I responded this morning when she told me that it was too cold to do her homework. Fact: When I’m not in the mood for excuses, I can bring everyone in the room to tears in less than two minutes. You have no idea.))

26. I’ve been doing a lot of research. I’ll spare you the details (because the details include the words Ovary and Really Shitty Pain), but please know that along with research (online and printed because I’m thorough!), I’ve spoken to quite a few people who have had hysterectomies, and they ALL claim that the hysterectomy changed their life for the better. I went to the doctor last week, and she said that instead of doing a hysterectomy, she would like to inject a chemical into my butt that will fake out my girl parts into thinking they’re in menopause. We’ll then have six months to see how menopause will be for me before I actually start menopause in the next decade. I’m not a doctor, so I feel really weird about questioning the plan. (Beet fries?! Are you kidding me?!) BUT, what if the menopausal effects are actually side effects of the drug? How will I know the difference? Does this even make sense? It’s all I can think about lately because: Pain! Burning! Urgency! Endometriosis! Crying! Too much time spent in bed with a hot water bottle! How many cups can I pee into before we know what’s going on? (So far? Three cups in three weeks. This morning’s was actually paper instead of plastic, which felt like such a refreshing switch-up. Does anyone else ever feel the urge to pee into the cup and then throw that cup against the wall like Mötley Crüe? I never do it, and I probably never will, but The Urge Exists, and I picture myself doing it every single time.) (I did a cut and paste for those Mötley Crüe umlauts. I am not a keyboard wizard.)

29. Let’s take a break and talk about happy things. This sandwich is my very favorite sandwich right now. Also, this is my favorite ink color. A few years ago, I won a contest that involved designing a Pringles can. (I know. Life is weird.) One of the prizes was an iPod Touch. Because I already had one, I gave it to Jeff. Anyway, my iPod touch (first generation, six years old) died last week while playing the Teen Beach Movie soundtrack for Harper. (I really wish it would have gone out on a higher note.) Because he’s a gem, Jeff cleared off the Pringles iPod and presented it to me last night. I then spent nearly an hour putting music I love onto the “new” iPod. It was the most fun I’ve had in weeks. (I no longer pretend to like every single Andrew Bird song, and how freeing is that?!) This morning I dropped the kids off at school and headed out to pee into a cup while listening to a shuffle of my very favorite songs. It felt like Christmas and beet fries. Beet fries! Imagine the possibilities!

31. A friend of mine wrote this. It’s perfect and it honestly explains what I go through every time I pick up the telephone or sit down to write an e-mail.

34. I just realized that I’m not really writing questions at all. Guess what? As I type this post, a doctor at a vet school is formulating a homemade diet plan for our poor itchy Henry. In less than two weeks, I’ll be cooking vegetarian meals for Jeff and I, meaty meals for the kids, and God knows what for the dogs. (I had to fill out a checklist of foods I’m not opposed to cooking for Henry. Venison was on the list, as was lamb. I love my dogs, but I couldn’t check those boxes. I checked millet. Lots of beans. Cow stuff. Bird stuff.)

38. I have carrot cake in the refrigerator. Vegetarians can eat cake! (And lots of it, Betty Crocker.)

41. You’re so pretty and patient. I can’t remember the last time I sat down and puked up over a thousand words. And here we are. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

This morning I headed out for a flu shot and as I was listening to the radio, I heard the word Slut and it occurred to me that I can’t remember the last time I used the word slut. High school, maybe? Anyway, it then struck me that I haven’t visited Fluid Pudding in at least a week, so here I am! Thank you to sluts for the prompt.

My week of clean eating was a success, if success can be measured in Weight Loss and Lack of Tantrums. I’m down eight pounds from last month at this time (with absolutely zero exercise because an object at rest tends to stay at rest), and nearly four of those pounds can be attributed to a week of eating unprocessed foods (plus one caramel apple martini). The clean eating thing might seem unappetizing until I tell you something like “Right now I’m baking up a mixture of oats and pumpkin and cinnamon and you should smell my house.” (It’s a true statement. It’s been baking for nearly a half hour, and it smells delicious. The recipe is here. It was suggested by a friend and the only thing I’m doing differently is substituting coconut milk yogurt for the cottage cheese.)

Anyway, the challenge ended at midnight last night, yet I’m soldiering on to see how long I can last. It’s good to know that I can have an Oreo if I want it. Right now I don’t want it.

Meredith had a glorious time at fifth grade camp, but it appears that camp is a lot like Vegas. I haven’t heard many details beyond so-and-so winning a contest for having the longest tongue and the pizza wasn’t greasy like typical school cafeteria pizza. No stomach pills were taken, and everything that left the house returned to the house.

As I sat and worked on a sleeve cuff yesterday evening, a family of mosquitoes feasted on my right ankle. Every one of them hit a vein, so I’m sure my veiny leg has been added to the prime destination list for all bugs who bite. The mosquitoes are really bad in my neighborhood, and the woman next door has a theory that I’d share with you, but it contains words like Raw and Human and Feces and it’s lunch time. You’re welcome.

I’ll be picking the girls up in about an hour so they, too, can get their flu shots. According to my calendar, it’s National Children’s Day, and I can’t think of a better way to celebrate. (They’re not old enough to enjoy caramel apple martinis.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

We left our windows open last night and the air was cold and amazing and I’m in a really great mood today because my favorite time of year is almost here. Crunchy leaves and handknit socks and comfy clogs and marching bands and spicy tea and cardigans and new glasses. (I tend to visit my eye doctor when the air is cool, and the visit is one of my favorite days of the year for two reasons: 1. I always learn something new., and 2. I leave with a prescription in hand for new glasses!)

Wait. Although this post is very much NOT officially sponsored, I’m about to talk to you about Rivet & Sway again. (Before I start singing, let me tell you that I RARELY do sponsored posts. A well-known oil company once asked me to write about traveling in a car vs. traveling on a plane/train/bus/etc., and I wrote a story about the time I took a Greyhound bus to Atlanta and ended up accepting unmarked motion sickness pills from a woman who claimed to be a nurse and then I mentioned that I had to throw away my headphones because a stranger demanded to borrow my Walkman for most of the trip and he was not clean, and anyway: the oil company told me to take out the stuff about the pills and the headphones and I refused and they took back their offer and I retained my dignity, Helen Reddy.)

Back to glasses. I love my glasses. I LOVE my glasses.

You helped me choose them last year, and you definitely made the right choice. Because I was so excited about the Home Try-On kit and because so many of you ALSO seemed excited, Rivet & Sway offered a coupon code to help you save $25 off of your first order. And you used it. Last month, Rivet & Sway asked if I wanted to partner up. If I promote their glasses in any way I want, they’ll provide the coupon code again (ANGELASWAYS) and kick some of their earnings my way. I mentioned them on Facebook in August, and four people used the code. All of this to say: People want good looking frames, and people want to save money, and I’m here to help you.

If you visit Rivet & Sway, choose three frames to try on at home (The Home Try-On kit is totally free and you’re under no obligation to purchase anything!), and then order using ANGELASWAYS as your coupon code, you’ll save $25. If you checked out the frames last year but didn’t see any that caught your eye, please know that they’ve added more designs! Let’s get glasses together! Again!!!

I’m currently thinking about Layer Cake.

And Checkpoint.

And Punchline.

Please be sure to tell me which frames you choose and I’ll tell you just how cute you’re going to look! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Today is the twelfth anniversary of Fluid Pudding, and that feels sort of crazy because more “milestone” events have happened in the past twelve years than during any other span of dozen in my life. (That was an awkward sentence. Are you still with me?)

When I started writing at Fluid Pudding (it was over at Blogspot back then) I wasn’t yet married, I had no kids, I had no dogs, I didn’t know how to knit, and I lived in Nashville. Also, I had braces (on my teeth), I weighed about twenty pounds less than I do right now, and although I was a vegetarian, I had never eaten squash or plantains! (I had my first bite of plantains last Friday evening. I can’t stop thinking about them. Bonus Fact: I had squash for lunch a few minutes ago. Butternut squash! Pre-cubed for my convenience!)

Wait. Look. Less than 12 hours after eating plantains, I had a blue opal shoved into the side of my nose. It’s my favorite nose decoration so far.

Despite all of the life-changing stuff (getting married, moving to St. Louis, buying a house, having kids, adopting more pets, getting a hole punched in my nose, purchasing a spinning wheel, cake balls…), nothing much has changed at Fluid Pudding. Actually, I take that back. The two things that are different now are the two things I struggle with nearly every day: Comments and Ads. I used to do neither. I now do both. (When I say that I struggle with Comments and Ads nearly every day, I’m exaggerating. It’s probably more like nearly every 17 days.)

I want to thank each and every one of you for stopping by here, even if you were simply searching out something dirty and are feeling slightly disappointed right now. (Please know that I’ve NEVER made pudding from a body fluid.) The Fluid Pudding Community (Please know that I know that sounds silly. Please know that I NEVER use the word readership or community or fanbase or anything like that when I talk about this website. Instead, I use words like hobby and lucky and smiley.) has made bread pudding together. We talked about doing a bowel prep together! (I think I was the only one who actually DID it!) Best of all? Last year we banded together and raised $500 so my favorite Walgreens employee could have a nice Christmas.

(The Fluid Pudding Community also had my back about eight years ago when every fast food employee in the United States dropped by and threatened to slam Harper’s infant head in a trailer door because I had the audacity to joke about sloppy eating. Do you remember that? Death threats! That was one of the worst days of my life. If I was running ads back then, I would have a nicer car right now! If I wasn’t running COMMENTS back then, I wouldn’t have learned an important lesson and that lesson is: Know Who You Might Offend When You Write About Pretending to Eat Like a Shark In a Fast Food Restaurant.)

I’ve made a few people angry with my website. (Most of them leave crazy irrational comments, and most of the time I just delete those comments and go on with life because this is my house.) I’ve made a few people think I’m writing about them when I’m really NOT writing about them and CONFUSION and clouds in my coffee Clouds In My Coffee! On the flip side, I’ve made SO many friends from Fluid Pudding. Real people I see in real life and real people I’ve never actually met, and once again: Lucky. Smiley.

As I move forward with Fluid Pudding (because I really have no plan to stop anytime soon) the only two questions I ask myself are:

1. Am I still having fun? Yes. Always. Even when I’m complaining, deep down I know that Fluid Pudding is here for entertainment (mine and hopefully yours). Example: I have a UTI right now (I’m on my second round of antibiotics!) and it really sucks, but come on. My life is still pretty sparkly.

2. Am I an asshole? No. I’m not. And I know you don’t like it when I use words like Asshole. (I stopped using the F word YEARS ago! At least here. In real life? Guilty in certain circles.) Anyway, as long as I can sit down at the computer and log in and share silly things without being a dickhead about it, we’re good, right? (Wheee! Three people are feeling VERY uncomfortable with my language in this paragraph. To those three people? I’m sorry.)

This is one of my favorite entries.

This is what led a bunch of you over here:

And this is what made you stay. (Actually, this is what drove many people away. But, we didn’t really need them, did we?)

(Don’t try that at home.)

Happy Anniversary to You. And thank you. So much. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I went out to my car last week and found the largest grasshopper I’d ever seen hanging out on the hood.

Me: Hey there! If you need a lift, I can take you over to school. BUT, I need to stop by Walgreens first if that works for you.

The grasshopper faced forward and let the breeze blow into his compound eyes all the way to Walgreens. (This post is not sponsored by Walgreens, although I’ve now mentioned them three times.) Anyway, when I parked the car, the grasshopper was still holding on.

Me: I’m just grabbing a vitamin water. You can wait right here if you want.

He waited. When I started the car to head off to school, he faced forward again.

Five minutes later when I pulled into the pick-up line and turned off the car, the grasshopper paced the hood for a bit and then jumped onto the parking lot and into the flower bed. I have to admit, I got a little misty because it felt like I was sending a child off to college. (I guess it didn’t REALLY feel like that, but I *did* get a little emotionally attached to the grasshopper. He was so charming!)

The funny thing? For the next few days, anything my heart desired came to me.

(I know Jiminy was a cricket and this guy is a grasshopper. I know crickets and grasshoppers are different (Crickets hear with their legs. Grasshoppers hear with their abdomens. Crickets? Nocturnal. Grasshoppers? Diurnal!), but they all belong to the order Orthoptera, which means they share a common ancestor and WHY CAN’T WE ALL JUST GET ALONG?! Seriously, humans. I’ve about had it with some of you and your lack of compassion and your inability to care for anyone who isn’t just like you and oh! Suddenly, I’m no longer talking about grasshoppers.)

My cardigan is coming along nicely. Before the end of the weekend, I should be done with the back. Then it will be on to the sides, the sleeves, the cuffs, the collar, and seaming. The goal? Thanksgiving, but I’ll take Valentine’s Day.

This afternoon I’ll be meeting up with a friend to have our jewelry traded out at the tattoo place downtown. It’s starting to feel a bit like fall, which means I probably need to have a black opal in my nose and a soy chai in my hand. (Anything your heart desires (within reason) and so on? Manifestable!) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

When we last spoke, I was getting ready to dive into the world of Daily Medication. My headache doctor prescribed Effexor as a migraine preventative, and BONUS: Effexor also serves as an anti-anxiety medication! It almost feels like it was invented JUST FOR ME!

Anyway, last Tuesday I took my first Effexor. Within an hour, I was experiencing what I believe was my very first panic attack! (Pull out the baby book, Mom!) My heart was racing. I couldn’t settle down. I was sweaty and nervous and I couldn’t sleep and my stomach was in knots and I kept trying to use meditation to settle myself but it wasn’t working and I couldn’t catch my breath and I was crying in the middle of the night and desperately trying to slow down my head and on Wednesday I was unable to drive. Hazy. So hazy. It was horrible.

I haven’t yet called my doctor because I’m afraid she will say, “Yeah. It gets better.” If she says that, I just might need to switch doctors, and that would feel like a really sad high school break up, because I once made a shawl for her.

Along with taking my first (and final) Effexor last week, I also took my first yoga class! It’s a beginning class and the average age in the room is probably somewhere in the 60s and I LOVE it, although I sort of wonder if it’s really yoga. I have an idea in my head of what yoga should be and I know I’m horribly inflexible so what yoga should be is Challenging (I think), but this class isn’t particularly challenging. Hrm. (I went back today, and I was slightly more challenged because I’m unable to touch my heels to the floor during Downward Dog, and should the palms of my hands and wrists be hurting as I do Downward Dog? Because throughout the entire class, my wrists and palms hurt more than anything else.)

At the end of yoga class, we relax. Some people actually cover themselves with blankets. Today I heard snoring.

As I left the studio, I was approached by a 382 year old man.

Mr. 382: What were you guys doing in there?

Me: It’s yoga!

Mr. 382: YOGURT?! HA HA HA!!!

Me: I WISH it was yogurt!

Mr. 382: Honey, if you want yogurt, I’ll take you out for some right now.

And then I grabbed the back of his head and Frenched him because it was the very first time a random guy at the gym hit on me.

Any beginning yoga feedback would be appreciated. Also, a big bowl of butter beans. Lightly peppered. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Lately, I’ve had the feeling that I need to smell more like Patchouli, and I know it’s said that one either loves Patchouli or HATES Patchouli, but I’m here to tell you: That’s just not true. A few years ago I hated Patchouli. A few months ago I smelled some fresh Patchouli in an herb garden, and it’s been on my mind ever since. Did you know that Patchouli has been proven to prevent female moths from adhering to male moths?! I have no idea what that means for me!

Anyway, a little over a week ago, I decided to jump on Etsy and search out Patchouli. After spending nearly an hour searching for scents, I came across Modern Ritual. Holistic Products for Modern Hippies. Perfection.

Three days later, Sexy Hippie arrived in my mailbox.

It is amazing and I smell like I should be at Burning Man, and I really SHOULD be at Burning Man this week, so the timing couldn’t be more perfect. (AND, just so you know, the scents Social Butterfly and Optimism are on the way to my house right now. The timing of THIS arrival is sort of crazy because less than four hours ago I met with my migraine doctor, and she put me on a new headache preventative which doubles as an anti-anxiety drug. (Don’t even get me started on how much I hate the idea of taking a daily pill. I’m not a daily pill taker. Um, until tonight. When I take my first daily pill.) ANYWAY, when this pill officially kicks in, I may or may not lose the sharp edge that tends to make me flinchy in social situations, and if I DO lose the edge, I will have no idea if it’s the pill working or the Social Butterfly perfume. Please Be My Friend: If I suddenly start posting that I’m hugging people enthusiastically and/or considering hooking up with a burlesque troupe, please talk me down. (Or don’t. Perhaps it’s time to stop going gentle into that good night. Maybe I’ve been going gentle for entirely too long. Social Butterfly to the rescue!)

Anyway, I smell good. Really good. Maybe even TOO good because I’m not sure how much is too much of a good thing.

Speaking of which, I ate an entire package of these on Saturday.

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Before we get started with anything, please know that Fluid Pudding Dot Com is a safe place. I will NOT be talking about Miley Cyrus here. (I WILL be talking about my gynecological issues in a few minutes, and that’s SORT of related, but I see no purpose in trying to link my stuff to the stuff of a twenty year old girl. We all do weird things. Once, when I was twenty, my best friend and I took a midnight stroll from a friend’s house back to my dormitory. It was a super hot night, so we used the heat as an opportunity to be FEMINISTS and why can BOYS walk around without shirts but WE CAN’T?! Suddenly (SUDDENLY!), we each took off our shirts and walked down that back road wearing nothing but our bras and shorts (and shoes, as feet freak me out and feet on streets? stop it.). Because crazy things always happened to us, even though it was the middle of the night, a car pulled up beside us, and the car held two or three of our friends, and they sat there and talked to us for a few minutes as if nothing was out of the ordinary—as if they didn’t even notice that our shirts were wadded up and tucked into our shorts. Anyway, we didn’t have cameras on our phones back then. And thank God for that.

I’ve been wanting to talk to you about endometrial ablation for over a week now. Every time I sit at the computer, I think, “I really want to draw a picture of my uterus being ablated.” And then I grab some paper and draw a tube (my uterus) with something that looks like a curling iron stuck inside of it (the ABLATOR) and something’s not quite right, so I sit back down on the rocking chair and think about life and dinner and how this cardigan is absolutely perfect.

It occurred to me that I’ve ALREADY drawn pictures of my insides, and despite what I’ve been reading from The Bloggers Who Know How to Blog (I hate the word Blog. HATE it.), not every idea needs an accompanying image. I like to think that you are all smart and creative and can see things in your heads with absolutely no Sharpie prompts from me! Anyway. No drawings. Just a lot of words.

(The following few paragraphs are related to the monthly adventures of my insides in regard to the tossing of eggs and the stripping of linings. Proceed gently.)

When I was 18 (here I go again with the stories!), I was in the university marching band. I loved it more than I loved just about anything—not because of the actual MARCHING (I was pretty terrible at marching) but because of my fellow marchers. (I’m in touch with very few people from my university days. All of those people were in the band with me.) Anyway! My uterus! One afternoon I was in a friend’s dorm room after rehearsal, and I was complaining about how miserable I was feeling.

Friend, who was a male, so let’s call him Jason, because that’s his name: What on earth is wrong with you?!

Me: I can’t find it in me to march. I can’t run. Can you please turn down that music?!

Jason: Talk about your troubles.

Me: I don’t want to talk about it. Let me just say that it’s the hottest week of the year and I’m on Day 12 of my monthly lady thing and I’m cramping and…

Jason: YOU’RE ON DAY 12?! Isn’t that supposed to last for just a day or two?

Me: Mine sometimes lasts for more than two weeks. I want ice cream for dinner.

Jason then jumped up, ran to the bathroom, and came back with a lovely toilet paper pageant sash on which he had written Queen of Day 12. And I wore it to dinner, but never told anyone what it meant.

Let’s jump forward 15 years. I’m now 33 and I’m pregnant with Meredith and as much as I didn’t love that pregnancy (I had to have my appendix out at the end of my first trimester, and that really sucked.), I DID love not having my extended monthly adventures. When Meredith was born, I nursed her (which made my periods much lighter because of SCIENCE), and when I stopped nursing her we decided to have a Harper and then Harper was born and she nursed FOREVER, and suddenly I had experienced five years with little to no cramps/migraines/et cetera. I’m now at 773 words. Are you still with me?

Anyway, now that I’m 43 and it’s time to put on some yoga pants and Chaka Khan my way through the rest of my days, I really don’t feel the need to be “forced” into staying at home two days out of the month because of heaviness and cramping and CRAMPING and HEAVINESS. Also, if I still had the banner, I could have worn it earlier this week if you know what I’m saying. And you do. Because you’re smart!

Last week I visited my gynecologist and she said the following words: “I’ve been wanting to do an ablation on you for a long time.” Who am I to stomp on her dreams?! (Although I wasn’t really expecting it, she also asked me to remove my pants. After examining my color, streak, hardness, cleavage, specific gravity, and crystal form like a thorough geologist would, she said, “Your endometriosis is back. I can feel it up in your cul-de-sac. We can take care of that during the ablation.”)

The ablation will take place during the holiday season. And that’s pretty great because although I know it’s a quick and easy outpatient procedure, I’m now picturing myself like Deborah Kerr on Christmas Eve in An Affair to Remember. I’m in a red robe (I already have one!) on the couch (I have one of those, too!) and Cary Grant lets himself in and I do not move from the couch and suddenly Mr. Grant realizes that I’ve been ablated and THAT’S what has prevented me from meeting him on the top of a building somewhere and we embrace and I say something like, “If you can paint, I can walk; anything can happen, don’t you think?”

And I Will Not Move From The Couch. (Christmas is less than four months away. In other words, less than four Queen of Day 12 banners to go!) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

This morning after I dropped the girls off at school, I headed straight over to the lake for my third run of this run of running. I parked where I park and I walked to the paved path while fidgeting with my arm thing that holds my iPod, my tissues (because my nose runs when I run), and my keys. Finally, the GPS was on and the START button was pressed, and off we go.

About fifty feet in front of me was an older man hunched over the trail. He was picking up rocks and putting them into a bucket, and he seemed to be concentrating pretty hard on the whole Picking Up Rocks And Putting Them Into a Bucket thing.

As I walked past him, he threw his arms up into the air.

Bucket Man (burning out his fuse out here alone): BOO!!! Ha!!! I scared you, didn’t I, Sweetie?!

Me (scared, and fidgeting with my wires to turn down the volume on You, Sailor, which is my current favorite walking tune): Yes! You did!

Bucket Man: That’s what I WANTED to do!!!

Me (speeding up because Guy With a Bucket of Rocks!): Success!

Bucket Man: Have a nice day!!! BE NICE TO GRANDPAS!!!

Me (slowing down because NICE Guy With a Bucket of Rocks!): YOU TOO AND I WILL!!!

I then clocked my fastest run in eight months, which means absolutely nothing because I’ve run only four times in the past eight months, and the one in January doesn’t count because my heel was broken.

One more thing. I promise that I’ll never be the type of lady who laughs like a maniac at a comedian who’s joking about menopause. Similarly, if a guy with a bucket of rocks ever tells me that I have to either eat an entire cow (cooked or uncooked) or sit through a 90-minute play devoted to funny lady menopause, I will ask him to take that bucket of rocks and call me Tessie Hutchinson, because I can’t make that decision. On a related note, I sort of want to talk about uterine ablation, but I’m not sure this is the time or the place. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>