Fluid Pudding

As you may or may not know, last week about 25 of us banded together and raised $500 for a woman who was having trouble giving her kids a nice Christmas. We raised that money in 24 hours, and I can’t remember the last time I felt quite so giggly and amazed. Thank you again so much. (I delivered the money in a card on Friday. I didn’t stick around to watch her open it, because I didn’t feel like it was necessary. BUT, I have a funny feeling that she was happy for the help.)

On Friday, I went to Pilates.

Proof:

(It’s a long story. We’ll save it for next week.)

A few days back, I had a great discussion with a friend of mine about Ego. As a result, I’ve been severely aware of my own inflated ego lately. With that said, I’m about to put my big horse blinders on and go whole hog ego/vanity on you. Do you remember back in May when I got my nose pierced? (Take a second. Click the link. Learn the history. (Or not.)) Anyway, I absolutely LOVED the nose ring for the first few months. THEN, we went to Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, where everyone and their brother’s girlfriend’s waitress had their nose pierced. It made me feel old. (I’m 42, which sort of qualifies me as old. If not old, Ripened.) After that trip, I became hyper-aware of everyone else who had their nose pierced. A LOT of people have their noses pierced, and that doesn’t mean that I *shouldn’t*, but I’m starting to feel like I either need to amp it up or back down, and being that I tend to find myself in bed wearing a retainer at 10:00 each night, amping it up is not completely realistic.

I was at the grocery store yesterday, and the woman in front of me was very mean. She had her nose pierced. Earlier this evening, I found myself purchasing laundry baskets. The girl in front of me in line had her nose pierced. The woman at the register had her nose pierced. I have my nose pierced. We were the hat trick of snout studs, and it felt so silly. When I look in the mirror, it’s not the same as it was in May. (I dig Quirky. It no longer feels quirky.)

I asked a few people to vote. The only person who was a straight up “Keep It” was Jeff.

I took this photo four days ago as I sat in my driveway drinking tea and listening to Elvis Costello. I filtered the hell out of it so you can’t see that I’m 42.

Me, me, me, me, me. Ugh. Jeff is watching CNN right now, and I’m refusing to listen. Meredith, who is supposed to be Mary at the Christmas show at church tomorrow morning, threw up earlier this evening. And here I sit asking for your nose ring opinion. Ego.

Although I’ve been fast forwarding through Ben Folds a lot lately, this song shuffled this morning and I played it twice.

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I JUST KEEP EDITING THIS POST! Here’s an announcement! We just hit the $500!!! Thank you so much to all who donated! Can you tell how excited I am right now? I KEEP USING EXCLAMATION POINTS AND ALL CAPS!!!

I’ve been helping to arrange a holiday gift drive at the girls’ school. Every student was asked to bring in an item (favorite game, pair of socks, grocery store gift card, etc.) and depending on how many items come in, we will assemble baskets for some of our more needy families in the district. This morning I went through all of the items that have been donated so far. We have lots of hot chocolate, candy, a few fuzzy blankets, a few games, some bath lotion shower gel thinger dingers, a few books, some toys, and a few kitchen odds and ends. (The oddest contribution? A Larry the Cable Guy Christmas CD.)

Anyway, on Friday a few of us will be getting together to assemble the baskets and make them “specific” to certain families. Do you ever get the feeling that you’re doing exactly what you need to be doing? That’s where I am when I’m thinking about these families.

Last week I went to Walgreens. (I go to Walgreens at least three times each week. It’s a two minute drive from my house, and I’m always out of tape.) My favorite checker in the afternoon is one of those people who could be either 60 or 20. It’s impossible to guess her age. Anyway, when I asked her if she’s ready for the holidays, she told me that sometimes she wishes she wouldn’t have had kids so early because she’s only 26 (not 60!) and although she puts in a ton of hours (she does!), it’s becoming really difficult to give them the Christmas they deserve. She went on to say that if she could do it all over again, she would have gone to college and waited to have the kids.

Last night I went to the store to buy food for the dogs. The woman who checked me out mentioned that she is one paycheck away from being able to buy her dad some funny boxer shorts for Christmas. (She has been giving him funny boxer shorts every year since she was a kid.) One paycheck away. Those words are still ringing in my head.

If I had an extra few thousand dollars, I swear I would spend December handing hundred dollar bills to anyone who expressed a need or a frustration. And I know that money doesn’t really make anything better, but I also know that sometimes it helps.

I’ve been pretty good about the whole Paying It Forward thing, but I need to be better. Perhaps I’ll devote 2013 to kindness. And preparing the house for a move. And figuring out how to knit continentally. I’ll complain less. I’ll write letters instead of e-mails. I’ll figure out how to run without breaking my legs. Less time thinking, more time doing.

EDITED TO ADD: A few people have made comments and sent e-mails offering to help the people I mentioned above. Please know that setting up a donation system was not my intention when I posted at Fluid Pudding today. With that said, sometimes you put something out there and someone offers to help and how can you turn down the offer if it means that something great might happen? After thinking about this for the past few hours, I’ve decided to make a difference for the woman who wants her kids to have a better Christmas. My PayPal address is the same as my e-mail address: angela at fluidpudding dot com. If you would like to donate, please mark it as “Gift.” (It’s my understanding that fees are waived when it’s a gift. I could be wrong.) I’ve decided to cap it at $500, and will let you know if/when we start getting close. My plan is to stop taking donations this Sunday (December 16th), and I’ll deliver a money order early next week.

Wait a second.

Did you feel that?

I think it’s the Christmas Spirit!

(Thank you guys so much. SO much.)

ANOTHER EDIT! As of 4:00 CST on 12/12/12, we’re up to $445! You guys are amazing. AMAZING!

AND ANOTHER! $470 at 4:23 CST!!!

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First off, I’m a little embarrassed about the post I put up a few days back. Secondly, I’m overwhelmed at the number of people who sent e-mails to check in on me! (I promise to respond to each and every one of them. I really do love you guys, and I don’t use the L word unless I mean it.)

I’ve probably told you this before, but way back in 1995, right after the bombing of the federal building in Oklahoma City, the company for which I fought traffic every morning decided to send a huge “greeting” card to Oklahoma City. Everyone was encouraged to sign. The woman in front of me drew a huge star on the card, and beneath the star she wrote “Turn your scars into STARS, Oklahoma City!” It was at that moment that my Cynical levels doubled. They may have even tripled. Turn your scars into stars. Turn your scars into stars?!

I didn’t sign the card. (I *did* donate blood, so there’s that. I’m not a monster.)

Anyway, whenever I get all Eeyored out over here, the universe tends to bonk me in the head to turn my scars into stars, Oklahoma City.

On Monday afternoon, I found out that I’m #62 on Babble’s Top 100 Mom Blogs of 2012. You can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a mom blogger, so this was a huge honor for me.

Meredith sings in her school’s performance choir, and this morning they held a mini concert at a nearby office building. You know how I am. If you fill my stomach with a pumpkin pie bagel and place a dozen kids in front of me who are singing Silent Night as cute tattooed office nerds buzz around eating pastries and cantaloupe cubes, I will cry. Every Single Time.

After the concert, I went to school and worked the PTO holiday shop for a bit. (Quick explanation: Tons of gifts, all priced from fifty cents to four dollars. Kids bring in money along with a list of people for whom they wish to shop.) While there, I teamed up with a fifth grade boy who was shopping for his mom, his dad, his grandmother, his aunt, his uncle, his cousin, and his best friend. He had twenty dollars to spend. First up? A coupon clip magnet for Grandma because she cuts coupons. The uncle got a fishing light because he sometimes takes the boy fishing. As we walked around filling his bag with gifts, he continued to tell me stories about his family. When it was time to choose a gift for the best friend, I thought he would head toward the sporty trinkets. Instead, he walked straight over to a jewelry box and said, “I think she’ll love this.” If I had any leftover fibrous tissue, this eleven-year-old boy magically transformed it into sparkling spheres of hydrogen and helium.

Finally, as I walked back out to my car, I received a text from Jeff. Someone from church “…wrote me last night to see if Meredith would be willing to play the part of Mary in the Xmas pageant. I told her I thought she would, but that I’d check with her today. I think she’ll be excited about the upgrade.”

My small heart has grown three sizes this day. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

One of my very favorite people experienced the death of her father last week. In my world, no one should have to bury a parent. No one should have to bury a child. Or a grandparent. Or a sibling or friend or cousin or pet. (I realize my world might have a problem with overpopulation.)

The main character in the book I’m reading right now just said something about how grateful he is that he has never had to deal with anything that really matters. This observation struck me. I take the kids to school in the morning. I then sit at the computer and try to work through some freelance while letting the dogs in and out of the house and maybe I’ll do a load of laundry or clear out the dishwasher. I then grocery shop and run errands and pick the kids up from school and drive them to piano lessons or wherever they need to go. And none of it REALLY matters. And sometimes that’s the most infuriating thing. And sometimes it’s sort of a relief. (I could employ the Half Full Glass and say that it DOES matter because the kids end up where they need to be and they may (or may not) be wearing clean clothes and there’s food on the table, but I’m choosing the other glass right now.)

Sometimes I spend an hour cooking dinner and no one likes it. (This happens more often than it doesn’t, sadly.)

Sometimes I go through papers in a backpack and find that several of the forms inside required a signature and were due over a week ago. (This happens several times each month, proving to me that my timing is often horrible.)

Sometimes I ask the kids to pick up the stuff from their floor. And I ask them again the next day. And again on the next day. And when I finally “fix” the problem on Day 4 by taking everything from the floor and placing it into a trash bag, I’m met with tears and loud excuses.

Last night I tried to turn on our ceiling fan by pulling the chain, and the chain broke off into my hand, and now I can’t turn off the fan.

Henry’s been growling a lot more, and we’re not sure why.

The list of foods that Harper will eat is getting smaller and smaller. No pasta. No soup. No sandwiches. Last night I made a black bean and rice casserole, and it made her cry. (Tears over casserole made out of two of her favorite foods = Me in bed by 8:00 because I quit.)

This time of the year used to be my absolute favorite. It’s no longer my absolute favorite, and that sucks because September has always just been September. Nothing special. DECEMBER is now becoming September, and I used to have such high HOPES for December. December now feels like seeing Winona Ryder in an infomercial. You have to deal with it because it’s Winona Ryder, but you still feel the urge to wince and/or throw a broken fan chain against the wall and then you feel like crap because you LOVE Winona Ryder, even if she DID shoplift. (Please know that I’m all hormonal and cranky today, and I realize that’s such a hackneyed thing, but I’m still choosing it as my excuse for nothing other than a lack of creative spark.) Not only am I dealing with my normal load of Things That Don’t Matter, but I’m being approached by others who tend to add more Things That Don’t Matter to my list. (I just spent 15 minutes looking back through Fluid Pudding Decembers. I should chart my holiday moods. Maybe I would feel better if I could look at a graph titled, “Predictable December Funk.” It always starts with people asking me to create lists full of stuff that we definitely don’t need, and ends when I wash my face after returning home from The Final Holiday Party.)

This helps a little:

Back Seat Rudolph with Meredith and Harper (Rob Zombie) Rose from Angela D. on Vimeo.

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Oh! That’s right! Fluid Pudding exists!

It appears that Thanksgiving has come and gone. I was all bitchy and sad on Thanksgiving day because the people with whom I’ve spent the past 42 Thanksgivings were in a cabin in Tennessee, and we didn’t join them. And I thought I would be okay with not going, but then Thanksgiving came. We spent the day with Jeff’s parents and his brother’s family and that was nothing but nice, but the fact remained that I was feeling on edge—as if something wasn’t quite right.

(Meanwhile, speaking of something being not quite right, out in Tennessee, someone tried to break into my parents’ cabin at three in the morning on their second night there, and someone actually DID break in on Saturday, and although the trespassers didn’t remove anything, they used the hot tub and plugged in the Christmas tree, and it definitely was NOT a housekeeping courtesy, so the family’s trip was cut short by a night due to the creepiness factor. Bummer. Even more of a bummer is the fact that the cabin rental place has not offered to reimburse them for the night that they lost. Maybe I’m expecting too much.)

I have an important announcement to make. I went to Old Navy today (it’s 40% off day if you have an Old Navy card) and, all-caps please, I FOUND SOME JEANS THAT FIT AND I DON’T DESPISE THEM! According to the Old Navy classification system, I am not a Diva, nor am I a Rockstar or a Flirt. I am a Sweetheart. And I think that has something to do with the shape of my butt, but I really don’t want to think about it much more than I need to. Much more than to which I think I need? I am a SWEETHEART.

Because of my newfound status as Sweetheart coupled with the fact that I didn’t shed even one tear in the dressing room, I celebrated the 40% discount by piling my cart with TWO pairs of Sweetheart jeans—one skinny and one boot cut. (They were only $18 after the discount!) And then I added pajamas for the girls’ Christmas Eve. (I give them new pajamas each year on Christmas Eve so they aren’t wearing ripped t-shirts in the next morning’s Christmas photos. Look at me manipulating the situation to make us look like we’ve got it together!) I finished up by throwing in a few shirts for the girls and moseying over to the checkout line (which was already VERY long at 10:00) where it was discovered that despite what I believe, I don’t actually HAVE an Old Navy Card. So, I held up the line by applying for one and I apologized over and over (and over, because being annoyingly polite is both my best and worst habit), and then I got an EXTRA 10% off because of my New Cardholder (Sweetheart) status. When I threw my (Sweetheart) fist to the sky and demanded that the checkout girl have a great day, she mentioned that she kicked off the day with a Frappuccino from next door, and any day that starts with a Frappuccino is always a great day. I was completely jazzed about the fact that I didn’t cry in the dressing room and even MORE sparked that I scored such a good deal, so I did what any Sweetheart would do. I threw my bags into the car, walked to the coffee dump, and purchased a $5 gift card. I then walked that card back to Old Navy and gave it to my checkout girl. And she was thrilled, and I was thrilled, and this completely erased my experience from yesterday which involved me trying to shove my butt into a pair of Jennifer Lopez jeans while staring into the mirror and chanting, “Don’t be sad. Don’t be sad. Don’t be sad.”

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Have I spent the past two days watching the Twilight movies to prepare for this afternoon’s Breaking Dawn 2 viewing at the Cinema Suites? Yes! I have. (I read only the first two books. I’m slowly coming to grips with the idea of not ALWAYS having to read the book before seeing the movie. Please know that last weekend I saw Fellowship of the Ring for the first time ever. I haven’t yet read the book. And that’s OKAY. I read To Kill a Mockingbird and Revolutionary Road before seeing the movies. I read all of the Harry Potter books, yet haven’t seen all of the movies, and it’s all okay. I’m still a fairly decent person who doesn’t bear false witness against her neighbor, although I do covet some of their stuff. (And that’s NOT okay. I’m working on it.))

Where were we?

What you see here are my quesadillas (which were delivered to my seat) and my water (which I drank while lounging on a leather recliner!)! AND, although my gut instinct is to say something lame like, “Weight Watcher points don’t count when you’re sitting in the dark!”, deep down I know it’s just not that funny, and this evening finds me literally busting out of my jeans.

These are the GAP jeans I’ve had for nearly seven years. They’re my absolute favorites, and now they’re broken. A very kind friend of mine told me that I shouldn’t fret, because the hole upgrades them to Cool. I quickly reminded her that I’m 42 and that wearing these seemingly cool jeans takes me back fourteen steps on my journey to look Polished. I need advice on jeans, my friends. I’ve been told by a VERY reliable source that those blingy jeans (I hate the word bling, by the way) with silver thread and baubles on the rear look absolutely ridiculous on anyone over the age of 30, so I don’t want to go in that direction, yet I’m also not quite ready to surrender myself to a pair of pants that shows the world that the back of my knees and my butt are becoming a bit closer with every trip around the sun. Suggestions are hereby solicited.

Last night was nearly perfect.

One of the local parks is getting ready to open their Christmas light display to cars and carriages, but they always reserve the first weekend for walkers. The four of us bundled up, walked through the park, and then visited the food trucks for hot chocolate and gooey butter cake. Consider the holiday season kicked off in style, despite the gap in my pants.

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On Friday, I dipped 74 red velvet cake balls, and then I took those cake balls to an adult toy party if you know what I’m saying and I think you do.

Do you want to know what I purchased at that party? (Seven people just clicked away and might not ever return.) I bought this oil spray stuff (called Body Dew, and be warned that if you Google Body Dew, you might be led to the adult toy site! I just warned you!) that you spray on immediately after a shower and it smells good (because it’s filled with pheromones, naturally) and it keeps your skin soft and winter is coming and winter means dry skin. Body Dew!

This morning I sprayed myself with Body Dew, I participated (passively) in my annual mammogram, and then I went to Trader Joe’s to purchase chia seeds, roasted flax seeds, agave nectar, and jojoba oil because we are becoming the stinky  hippies that we used to make fun of. (I also purchased a cinnamon whisk. I have no idea what I’m doing.) Anyway, fifteen people followed me home from Trader Joe’s. Three of them just wanted to see if I live in a hut fashioned out of patchouli leaves. The remaining dozen are wandering around the house asking me to make out with them, and they have no idea why—because a semi-androgynous 42-year-old me clomping about in ill-fitting jeans and Birkenstocks is not normally the chosen brew of monkey love. (I like to dabble in challenging the minds of those who think they crush on The Lovelies.)

And the thing is, I know you want me to talk more about the toy party, but I can’t. Because I took a pretend vow. Just one thing: I can now say that I’ve seen someone I previously knew only on a professional level (can you tell how careful I’m being right now?) standing in front of a crowd holding a simulated organ (not the kind that plays music. Rest in peace, Ernie Hays.) up to her forehead, and for whatever reason, it seemed Okay.

When I was 18 years old, one of my very favorite people gave me a copy of Illusions by Richard Bach. That book came to me at exactly the right time, which always jazzes me to no end. In Illusions, Richard Bach wrote, “Every person, all the events of your life are there because you have drawn them there. What you choose to do with them is up to you.” Clearly, on Friday evening I chose to have a highly-respected professional acquaintance enter my extended social circle and put a fake penis on her head.

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Clinic Doctor Guy in Doc Martens (CDGDM): How are you today?

Me: I’m great.

CDGDM: It looks like you’ve seen better days.

Me: I have. I was just being polite.

CDGDM: What’s up with the leg?

Me: Stress fracture in my heel.

CDGDM: And I bet you have no idea how it happened.

Me: Actually, I do. I’ve had four stress fractures in the past year. All because of running.

CDGDM: You would probably be better off with swimming.

Me: If I knew how to swim, maybe. My chances of drowning are greatly decreased if I stay on dry land.

(I then told him about my sneezing and coughing, which is the reason I drove to the clinic in the first place, although the side trip to the store for butternut squash soup was a great excuse to leave the house, too.)

CDGDM: Is anyone else sick?

Me: You mean, like, in the world? Because, yes. You should watch the news.

CDGDM: No. In your house.

Me: My husband was sick.

CDGDM: So, this is his fault?

Me: Yes. What a jerk. Actually, no. I was sick first.

CDGDM: But it’s still his fault, right? HA HA HA HA HA!

Me: Maybe if we were living in a lame sitcom, but I like to think we’re more creative than that.

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Did I vote yesterday? Of course I did!

(Parenthetical Trivia: How many times did the man behind us in line touch my shoulder and tell us that he plays the guitar? Three times! Please don’t touch me. With that said, Rock On.)

Am I happy with the outcome? I am.

Would I be happy if we were waking up to a President Romney? I would be. I’m just sort of happy. Mostly. (Knitting and spinning will do that to you. I’ve heard running does, too—if your bones aren’t made of porcelain.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Last Saturday, I was doing this.

For the next three weeks, I’ll be doing this.

(My left foot has become unbearably cocky.)

My heel and ankle were feeling sloshy as I drove home from the race. It’s gotten worse instead of better over the past few days, and in the evenings I find myself wincing and walking around on the ball of my foot. Diagnosis? Stress fracture, right heel.

Ortho Doc: You need to immobilize it in the boot for three weeks.

Me: This might sound crazy, but can I take it out of the boot for a few hours on the 17th to run another 5K with my daughter?

Ortho Doc: I think you know the answer to that question.

Me: Last year I had three stress fractures in my left leg. Now I have one in my right heel. What am I doing wrong?

Ortho Doc: Some people are prone to stress fractures. Your bone density is great and your labs are great. I think you’re just one of those people.

Me: Are you saying that I’m not graceful?

Ortho Doc: I would never.

So, Jeff will be running the Girls on the Run 5K in my place. And I’m bummed. Like, the most bummed I’ve been in awhile. (I just reached the point where I can run for thirty minutes without wanting to die. This stress fracture has squashed my delusions of invincibility.)

Go on with your day. I’ll be sitting over here in the corner eating Halloween crap and fighting the urge to take a nap in our hornet bed. Sort of like Macaulay Culkin in My Girl. But not really. (Know that I know that I’m being dramatic. I’m giving myself 24 hours for operatics. And Indian food.)

Oh, wait. One more thing. Please don’t tell me that I should probably stop running. My ortho doctor and I both disagree with you. My road to “Status: Runner” simply has more than the average amount of hiccups and blips. I’m not closing down my shop. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

First off and most importantly, thanks for hanging out with me during my month of updates! I’m terrible at responding to comments, and you guys are so kind and patient with me. I do appreciate it. (Thanks so much to the folks who left comments for the first time ever. I love that so much. AND, thanks to those of you who commented every single day! Amazing!)

As you know, it’s Halloween. My greatest Halloween occurred in 1992. Some drummer friends of mine shared a house and some ashtrays, and I went to their Halloween party dressed as their floor. Two decades have passed, and I haven’t been able to come up with anything that beats the floor.

Earlier this evening, as Husband Jeff and Neighbor Jeff walked the kids around the subdivision, I did this:

(I’m going to see a guy about an ankle in the morning, and the only time he can meet up with me is 7:45. The thought of sticking my foot in someone’s face always gives me the cringing willies, so a pedicure seemed to be the right thing to do. (I know you sometimes think I’m crazy.))

The girls had their Halloween parties today. Chili cheese dogs were consumed, children were wrapped up in toilet paper, apples were dipped in caramel, and googly eyeballs were attached to pipe cleaner spiders with hot glue. It doesn’t get much better than that, does it?

So, yes. Halloween + the final installment of Daily October at Fluid Pudding. It feels right for me to leave you with the song that used to scare the crap out of me as a kid. At 42, it still scares the crap out of me, but for entirely different reasons.

Thanks for sticking it out with me. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>