Fluid Pudding

I’ve been listening to a lot of Roderick on the Line. I can’t name more than four people in my life who would enjoy this podcast, but I (mostly) enjoy it a LOT. I’m currently listening to episode 77, and as I drove home from purchasing 272 popsicles at the store this afternoon, I heard John Roderick mention the scene from The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo during which Lisbeth Salander tattoos the sentence “I am a sadist pig and a rapist.” onto Nils Bjurman’s body to warn others of his crimes against her. Roderick goes on to explore the idea of Yelping and/or tattooing people to warn others of their shoddy driving skills and/or character flaws. I LOVE THIS IDEA. (Sort of. Obviously, history has proven that forced tattoos are never a good thing.)

Wouldn’t life be (sort of) easier if, at age 18 and every five to ten years thereafter, we could have descriptive words or phrases UV-tattooed onto our arms/legs/abdomen to allow others to see (if they are willing to haul around a blacklight) what they’re up against? The phrases, obviously, would be submitted by peers (or a public tribunal. I haven’t ironed out the details, because I don’t really believe anyone will make this happen. Please know that I’m willing to toss twenty bucks into a Kickstarter campaign…) and would serve as a warning and/or recommendation to possible employers and/or life partners and/or friends. Think of all the games we would no longer have to play!

In the past few years, I’ve met people who I’m SURE would have phrases such as “champion at lying” and “acts incompetent, but is actually just lazy” placed somewhere on their bodies. I’ve also met folks who should have “selfless” or “drops everything to bring you a pie” or “sacrifices vacations to bottle-feed orphaned puppies” as their character trait tattoo (or CTT, as I will refer to it if *I* start the Kickstarter campaign).

I’ve been thinking about my own CTTs for the past hour, and I’m afraid they’re not all good. (I wonder if we would live our lives differently if CTTs were a thing. I know for a fact that I wouldn’t have indulged in the Pluot PLU Scandal of 1999 if there was a chance that my crap dishonesty would have been documented forever on my abdomen.)

(In case it’s not clear, my CTTs: Isn’t the best driver, Keeps opinions to self to avoid fights, Pluot PLU scandal 1999, Once pried open a live clam and it probably died 1986, Unhealthy self-image, Gives money to charity, Took standardized test in exchange for money, Adopted sick orphan cat/is allergic to cats, Doesn’t always refrain from gossip, Curses a lot, Raised money for stranger 2012, Not the greatest friend 1989.)

Any idea what your CTT would say? (If the tattooing consortium (or TC) would show up at my house right now, they would add “Throws stink eye to anyone blasting Bruno Mars songs in the elementary school pick-up line” to the left side of my neck, and balance it with “Helped lady who knocked shoestring display to the floor pick up ALL of the shoestrings” on the right.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

The following things happened in the period of time between the last time we spoke and right now.

Inspired by Karen (as always), I attended a henna party at my cousin’s house.

As a result, I now have a tree growing on my left arm.

I waved goodbye to my kids as they jumped out of the car to embark on the types of adventures that third and fifth graders tend to embark on. (You know, the types on which they tend to embark? On which! And Onward!)

After spending the summer not going to the lake and not running, this morning I went to the lake and ran.

I then went to the grocery store and purchased green onions, avocados, graham crackers, and chocolate icing. I have no photo to prove this to you, so please enjoy Meredith’s new shoes. It’s her final year in elementary school, and anything goes.

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Please be warned that I’ve once again been looking at myself from the inside out. Are you wearing a slicker? You might want to put on a slicker. (I’m not completely sure what a slicker is, but I know a few people who fit the description.)

My self-evaluation always happens in August when the summer is winding down and school activities are starting to pop up and I’m faced with having weekdays filled with silence that is broken only by dogs who have learned to knock on the door when they want in or out.

Do you remember when I was talking/fretting about getting a job outside of the house? After sitting down with a notebook and pen, I’ve finally ironed out a plan which is more of a non-plan than an actual plan. For now, I’m NOT going to work outside of the home. For now, I’m going to try my damndest to turn up the freelance so that I’m working at least four hours each day. I’m also going to try to volunteer a little at the girls’ school if anyone will have me. (Some teachers dig having volunteers and some don’t. Some people play soccer and some people run. Jeff doesn’t like tacos. I don’t like seeing dead armadillos on the side of the road. We all have our stuff, and that’s what makes the world what it is.)

Anyway. Yes. I will be working from home. Still. And the good thing? After making this decision, I scored two freelance jobs with the possibility of two more BIGGER jobs coming my way soon. I’m manifesting my dream board and building it so they will come.

Okay. That covers the career. What about the other stuff on my wheel of life? (Seven people just clicked away because I said Wheel of Life. Quitters.)

Friends and Family: The girls and my mom and I visited my sister and her family last weekend, and it was the best weekend I’ve had in quite some time. I have no complaints about my family. The girls are gems. I enjoy spending time with my parents. My sister is my hero. Friends? I’ve got them, and the good ones understand my quirks and still choose to hang out with me. I’m currently on the (seemingly neverending) path of eliminating drama and gossip and similarly toxic behaviors. Bonus: I used to have to do a toxic flush of friends every decade or so. Lately, the toxic people are flushing ME instead of me having to flush them. It’s a good feeling that I’m sure is akin to wearing purple when I am an old woman.

Health: I still have my headaches, and they pretty much suck. I won’t bore you. When the kids go back to school, I’m going back to the J for Pilates.

Finances: Well, that’s not really any of your business, is it? (I always Prefer Not to Answer when I’m filling out questionnaires, which isn’t often.) We’re fine.

Core Relationships: Jeff is the greatest person on this planet, so I’ll be keeping him for as long as he’ll have me, which I hope is DEATH.

Personal and Spiritual Growth: I’m not at 100% with living the life that I want to be living, but I’m working on it. My latest thing? Meditation. Mainly for health reasons at this point, but I also feel like it’s the start of something bigger. I’m hoping it will eventually force my ears to let go of my shoulders. Also, God and I are cool.

Fun, Recreation, and Creativity: I knit, I spin, I write in a journal with a fountain pen. I read, I see my friends fairly often, and I hug my dogs at least three times a day. I wish I had a creative project, but I can’t really put my finger on what I mean by that.

Physical Environment: While we were gone last weekend, Jeff painted the house yellow, and it makes me happy every time I pull up the driveway. Next week I’m going to start tackling little projects to get our house ready to sell. Our goal? Sell in three years. Having more than 1,000 days is a good thing, unless it’s a bad thing.

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On Saturday night (which is alright for fighting)
I drove to a place where mosquitos were biting
my ankles. The itching! For all that is holy!
Thank God for Dos Equis and fresh guacamole.

(I’m not thanking God for Dos Equis at all.
Drinking ONE made me consider finding a pall
bearer for carrying me dressed up and boxed up and dead.
Cause of demise? A beer-induced pain in the head.)

But back to the story! Mexican food with friends!
I’ve known them for decades! I’ve used a few pens
to write stories about them in my old high school journal.
My core group. My favorites. Dare I say my diurnal?

(Please forgive my rhyming. I don’t try it often.
Evidence? Line seven. Reference to my coffin.)

Hacienda in Rock Hill. A table for six.
We’re so different now, but we know how to mix.
Speak of kids, not of politics. Mention food from your kitchen!
And if you can help it, please avoid religion.

(A shout out to Linda, for my beer she did pay,
She helped me find the bathroom when I lost my way.)
I learned many things that night before offering Goodbyes.
Did you know someone’s job is to blow horses’ eyes?!

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The morning temperatures have been amazing lately, so I’ve been looking up towards the right and picturing myself running again.

(Quick recap: My legs break when I run. Four stress fractures in less than a year. Vitamin D deficiency. Squishy knee condition. Physical therapy. Wearing of the big boot. Sports medicine doc planning a hedonistic (wifeless) trip to Florida with a colleague instead of looking at my x-ray. Doctor switch. I haven’t REALLY run since October, when I broke my right heel during a 5K with Meredith, but I *did* do a lot of spinning (the stationary bike kind) as well as Pilates over the winter and spring. Sadly, I’ve done nothing since April when I had the flu. This is not really a quick recap, is it? Are you still with me? I’m wearing a skirt right now, but I think it might actually be a tube top dress, and that’s sort of funny because it’s not really socially acceptable to pull your tube top dress down around your waist before dinner, is it?)

This morning I woke up and thought, “Yes. This is the day.”

I then remembered that I had plans to eat pie with friends at 10:30.

I then thought, “Well, good. Today is NOT the day.”

(Pie is always a good excuse to NOT run. Put that in your toolbox.)

In a few more weeks, I’ll have no more excuses. This both excites and spooks me, and that’s a fun road to be on. (A fun road on which to be.) And then I’ll hopefully be back on THIS road. (It’s less than five miles from my house, and I share it with deer.)

It’s my favorite place to be, unless airplanes are falling from the sky or the mom with the triple-wide running stroller shows up. (She straps a laptop to the stroller so her kids can watch movies while she runs. Movies over deer. Honestly.) ((I run faster than her, which really isn’t a thing when you remember that she’s running while pushing the stroller equivalent to a Cutlass Supreme. Regardless: I run faster than her.)) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

This morning I took Meredith to the pediatric ophthalmologist, and that’s a really difficult word to spell. Since we were able to stop patching back in 2011, we see the ophthalmologist only once each year, and every visit is a bit of an adventure—mainly because he shares his office with six other doctors, none of whom are ophthalmologists. This morning the office was full of adults and tiny people and we didn’t have many chair choices. I went with the fabric chair next to the sweaty man and his cranky wife so that my kids could sit next to each other by the television.

I won’t go into Sweaty Man’s family details because I signed a HIPAA form many years ago, and the last thing I need right now is a police car hauling me off to God knows where simply because I’m not following a rule that appeared somewhere in the fine print of that form. (I was pulled over two weeks ago today because although my license plate sticker is on the license plate, it’s actually in the wrong place. I hate the fact that I’m driving around potentially creating work for police officers, but with that said, it really *did* seem that this particular university officer didn’t have much else going on. (I freaked out a little when he turned his lights on, and to get off the road I chose to pull the wrong way onto a one way street—giving him a bonus ticketing opportunity. Thank God I didn’t have beer in the car, or I probably would have cracked one open before telling him about the dead guy in my trunk who I just prostituted and murdered (in that order, obviously), if “prostituted” can be considered a verb. I’m breaking Every Single Rule over here.))

Anyway. The sweaty man was sweaty (as they say), and as the perspiration dripped from his face, I noticed that he began smelling more and more like cigarettes. It was the most disgusting yet fascinating thing I’ve smelled/seen in years. This guy has smoked so many cigarettes that he has actually BECOME a cigarette. Because the doctor was running late, I was given the opportunity to sit and wonder what has gone into my mouth more than anything else in the past few years. The answer? Delhi’s Chaat! Have I eaten so much of it that it drips from my temples after a run? Sadly, no. My sweaty self smells more like salty lavender disappointment, thanks to Tom’s of Maine.

(The guy running behind me in this photo actually caught up with me five seconds after the photo was taken. He begged me to lower my arms because although my scent was oddly soothing, he found that it was also leaving him feeling very disappointed. I just nodded and whispered, “What you are smelling is my truth.”)

What do I smell like right now? Bath and Body Works Sensual Body Wash and Lotion. (The Jasmine Vanilla scent. Don’t even try to talk me into the Black Currant Vanilla scent. I Will Not Have It.)

Talk to me about your smell. (I hope I’m not weirding you out right now. Wait. Do you hear that siren?!) I once told a friend of mine that without any lotion or deodorant, I sort of smell like toast. She smelled my arm and agreed. Jeff recently told me that people don’t really know themselves as well as they think and that it’s too easy to make your world smaller just because you believe you know your own limitations, when in actuality, you should be challenging yourself to break down those perceived walls. All I know is this:  A not-sweaty me smells like toast, but after a shower? Sensual Toast.

All of this to say, if I ever need a stage name? Sensual Toast it is. Enjoy your weekend. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

It is Monday, July 14 and I did NOT go to my high school reunion on Saturday evening and because so many photos have been posted of the people with whom I shared a big cubical building a quarter of a century ago, today I’m feeling a hint of what I normally feel the weekend after BlogHer—comfort knowing that I lived in my nearly dead jeans all weekend sprinkled with a tiny bit of “Because of my own goofiness, I’ll now have to wait five more years (or a lifetime, because who’s the boss?) to speak with a horse whisperer.” Actually, to my knowledge, there has never been a horse whisperer at BlogHer. Such a long sentence, such a weak comparison. (One of my favorite people in high school later spent some time horse whispering. Isn’t it crap that life is so short? If only there was more time to do All Things. I’m 43 years old, and if I try to do a cartwheel, both of my legs will shatter. So many missed opportunities.)

Do I wear the jeans in public? I do. Because I’m David Lee Roth in a yellow floral tunic and Panama-aw-aw-aw-aw-aw.

Earlier this morning I read a Brain Pickings article about the passage of time and why it seems to get screwy during vacations and faster in old age yet slower when one is waiting for a train. Apparently, Nabokov was into the proportionality theory which says something like, “When judged in the context of your life, time seems faster when you’re an adult because a year is 1/43rd of your life rather than 1/6th of your life, and you can eat 1/43rd of a pie in two bites but I’m sure you would rather have 1/6th of the pie, unless it is a mincemeat pie, unless you are my grandpa who loved mincemeat pie.” (I’ve elaborated a bit with the pie thing, as I do.)

Some people believe that the proportionality theory is complete crap. Other people (so many people!), who refer to themselves as nostalgia psychologists, mention the reminiscence bump (a time during the late teens and early twenties) during which memories are so much clearer because it’s a time of milestones. (Streaking around an apartment building in the middle of the night! Eating a turkey on the roof of a house in the dead of winter! Line dancing during a snowstorm in the middle of a street on Groundhog Day! My reminiscence bump goes on for miles!) I can’t really remember when East Timor became a nation, but I can spout out every word of Licensed to Ill by the Beastie Boys. I can remember certain outfits that people wore in high school, yet I have no idea when I received my most recent tetanus shot. (I once met a man who had polio because he accidentally received two polio vaccinations. This information haunts me.)

I’m going to start referring to myself as a nostalgia psychologist Right Now.

Today will find us at a doctor appointment and at piano lessons. I’m also going to clean a bathroom and bake strawberry bread and practice writing some words—knowing that I won’t remember this day in 2018. (Or next week if we’re really being honest over here.) I hope your Monday is a good one.

I mean what I say,
Angela D.
Nostalgia Psychologist

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Do you remember five years back when you helped me choose an outfit for my twenty year high school reunion? And then I actually WENT to the reunion and experienced Sweet Victory when I found that the girl who didn’t like me in high school is now a horribly mundane Poison lyric dancer?

My 25th high school reunion is coming up on Saturday. (Tupac Shakur died when he was 25. It’s really weird to think that I graduated from high school an entire Tupac Shakur ago!)

Will I be attending my reunion on Saturday? I will not. (I just spent nearly twenty minutes trying to type out WHY I won’t be attending, but an explanation that includes phrases like “pitiable purple sequins” and “me with my terrible eye contact” and “the drunks just get drunkier” isn’t really a nice explanation, and if you don’t have something nice to say, well, Pitiable Purple Sequins it is, and Pitiable Purple Sequins it goes, Bambi.)

Let’s get sidetracked! The Tour de Fleece is happening right now, which means spinners from around the world are making yarn as bicyclists are racing around France.

Do you want to see what I’ve completed so far? Do you? If you stick around, I’ll reward you with my 1988 senior photo! I will!

Here goes.

264 yards of fingering weight (also known as sock weight) BFL/silk along with a mini-skein made while I practiced chain plying.

Also, 610 yards of lace weight (or maybe light fingering) Polwarth. This is the best yarn I’ve made, and I need to once again give a shout out to Tempe for explaining fractal spinning to me.

What’s currently on the wheel, you ask? Sock weight Cormo!

I’ve gathered you here today to talk about how it’s time to heal our women, be real to our women, and if we don’t we’ll have a race of babies that will hate the ladies that make the babies. Keep ya head up, Tupac.

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I moved into this Stewart Road apartment at the beginning of my second senior year. I was 22 years old and had recently met with my advisor to tell her that I STILL didn’t know what I wanted to study in school. (I had already changed my major six times—piano performance, communications, elementary education, industrial psychology, nutrition, and nursing. Sometimes these were official changes in an office. Sometimes they were done in my head just because I was so embarrassed about my desultoriness. So many interests! Impossible to choose just one!) She studied my class history and grades, sighed, and said, “I can get you out of here in a year with a degree in Psychology and an area of concentration in Religion. Anything else will take more time.” Psychology it was and psychology it is! With an area of concentration in religion!

This apartment was my Final Year apartment. This was the place where studying was KEY, because one mistake could bump me back another year, and that was unacceptable.

On my first night in the apartment, the manager (whose uniform consisted of Hobie shirts and puka bead necklaces) came over with a wine cooler and told me that I was the only American girl in the place. “It’s you, a couple of American guys, and a bunch of Asians.” (The manager was a bit of a tool, although I do believe he meant well when he visited from time to time to “check in” on me.)

A few months into the semester, he knocked on the door (with a wine cooler) and asked, “Well, are you ready for the story about your apartment?”

Of course I was.

Four years before I moved in, an American girl lived in Apartment 306. She had a boyfriend and their relationship was pretty rocky. One night, the boyfriend came over for a visit. He was drunk, they got into a fight, and he swung an ax at her. Sadly, he had ax skills. The neighbors were freaking out and calling the police and eventually the guy was hauled off and the girl was dead.

Hobie with a Wine Cooler (HWC): You look like you don’t believe me.

Me: I’m not sure I do.

HWC: Then let me show you something.

He lifted up the framed emergency stairwell plan and removed it from the wall. AND, there was the tip of what looked like an ax still embedded in the brick. (Was it really brick? It may have been concrete. I can’t quite remember. Anyway: YIKES.)

HWC: It gets better! TWO years ago, an American girl lived in this apartment, and she went missing. We don’t know if she was kidnapped or what, but the door was wide open and she’s still registered as a missing person. I had to help her parents clear out her stuff so we could rent the place out again! SO, four years ago, and two years ago with zero incidents in any other apartment. I wonder if this will be another crazy year in Apartment 306!

(Edited to add: Both stories were verified by the ROTC guy who lived a few doors down, and I trusted him for three reasons. One, he often wore military fatigues, two, he had lived in his apartment for five years, and three, he wrote really bad poetry and was always willing to read it out loud, which resulted in many awkward “That’s a great poem! Well, I need to get going!” moments.)

((Edited AGAIN to add: His poetry may have actually been very good. I have no idea. Similarly, I sometimes can’t distinguish between Good Jazz and Bad Jazz. Onward!))

And it WAS a crazy year in Apartment 306. It was the year that I hosted a Thanksgiving dinner for some friends and was able to cook a 36-inch turkey in a 27-inch oven, all while stomping the roaches that had traveled over from my neighbor’s apartment. (When I reported the roaches to HWC, he came up and we walked over to the next apartment. When he unlocked the door, roaches scattered away from what was probably 38 unwrapped and half eaten snack cakes that Tan (the neighbor) had left on the floor. (I’ll never know why he couldn’t finish a Little Debbie treat. I can eat a Star Crunch in three bites.)

About a week before my graduation ceremony, my best friend and another friend came over to watch movies. At around two in the morning, it suddenly struck me that I had never streaked and there is no time like the present and no present like time! I went into the bathroom and changed into my robe. The plan? Stand in the back doorway (pictured above) to make sure no one is coming. Hand the robe to Best Friend (who promised to keep her eyes closed and to stay at the back door), RUN LIKE THE WIND to the front door and actually enter the front door if anyone was out but if no one was out? KEEP RUNNING all the way around to the back door.

I’ll never forget that run. Not because it was amazing and freeing and TO LIFE! TO LIFE! L’CHAIM!, but because I could hear my heart beating in my head and I was no runner and what if my heart explodes and HEADLIGHTS! DAMNIT!!! sprinkled with a hefty dose of What In The HELL Am I Doing?! I am a BAPTIST!!!

When I returned to the back door, Best Friend handed the robe to me and if I remember correctly, I got dressed and we headed out for Swiss Mushroom Burgers or Ham and Cheese Melts, as we often did.

I was definitely changed after my year in 306, and I’m pleased to report that I made it out alive with a diploma and although a little lost, very much Not Missing. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

So, I just made a fake chicken wrap that’s holding fake chicken, lettuce, avocado, tomatoes, corn, and red onions, and I’ve been stewing on something all morning. I’m sitting the wrap down to talk to you, so this must be important because did you read what I wrapped?! Delicious! The thing I’ve been stewing on sounds like this: It’s almost time for me to find a job. One that makes me get dressed and drive somewhere.

The idea of working outside of the home sort of terrifies me for many reasons. (Terror is a strong emotion, hence the Sort Of. I tend to avoid strong emotions when I can.)

First off? People. I’m not very good with people. I get crazy nervous when there are more than four adults in the room, and I’m not sure many businesses would be all, “Okay. We’ve got a new hire who can’t do more than four adults. Let’s meet in shifts.” More than four adults? I’m staring at a notebook, drawing stick people, craving doughnuts, and simply not paying much attention—especially if people are talking about numbers or using words like Sales Projection or Marketing Estimation Spreadsheet. (It was really hard for me to type those words without falling asleep.)

Secondly? Migraines. I still get them every month. Sometimes I can control them with my cocktail pills and a cold washcloth, but sometimes I have to take what I call Monster Pills, and those make me loopy and dizzy and I need to lie down for a few hours. You can’t just do that at work without being That Lady Who Is Always Sleeping. (No one wants to pay the sleeping lady. I know this is true. It has to be.)

Another thing? The kids. I want to be able to be here when they’re here. If they’re sick, I don’t want to have to juggle. I want to be home. I want to be able to take them to piano and take them to doctor appointments and I don’t want that to be A Thing. I want it to be smooth. Meredith is getting ready to start middle school, and I don’t want to be the stressed out lady who gets home after five and never has time to talk. I don’t like that lady.

Let me just take a break right here to say this: I know I’m whining. I KNOW IT! I actually just requested a book from the library that will help me be a better person, so let’s focus on my blue-skied aspirations instead of my exhausting inability to SUCK IT UP.

The freelance gig has served me fairly well over the past dozen years (I come and go and am here to do laundry and make dinner and shuffle kids and take pills!), but it’s getting a bit harder to find enough work to pay bills. (Please know that we’re not struggling to pay bills. This has nothing to do with that.)

Finally? Because I haven’t worked an office job in a dozen years, I’m terrified (Not sort of. It’s the real thing this time.) that I’ve become unmarketable. I’m a 43-year-old freelance developmental editor, and I can’t really describe what I do because it’s often a clever combination of mish and mash. This means I’m probably destined to go retail, but because I have no idea how to get Netflix to work on our television, I also have zero confidence when it comes to running a credit card.

To quote Lloyd Dobler (because who wouldn’t?): I don’t want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don’t want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don’t want to do that.

It’s time to start brainstorming and making dream boards (???) (!!!) and figuring out what color my parachute is or who moved my cheese or something (or other) and I need to eat this wrap because can you smell that? It doesn’t get much better. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>