Fluid Pudding : Page 73 of 122 : It's the old small talk!

Seven. It seems old, because it’s the first age with two syllables.

Saturday is Harper’s seventh birthday. Sunday is Meredith’s ninth birthday.

Because I can’t deal with having too many things going on at once, I decided to let Harper have her friend party this past weekend. This coming weekend will be the family party. Next weekend will be Meredith’s party. (Who am I kidding?! Every DAY is a stinking party at our house! Not really!)

I told Harper she could invite three friends over, and that we would decide what to do based on how many friends will be joining us. She told me that since it’s her first sleepover at our house, she would rather have one friend over, and do a bigger party with more friends some other time. (She’s just like me. Easily overwhelmed. This evening I’m running a meeting at a restaurant and six people will be there and all of my work is done, yet I’m already thinking things like, “What if it’s loud?” and “What if I fall down and/or do that crying thing with my voice?” I know. At least I KNOW that I’m ridiculous. BUT, would it be better to NOT know, and just be ridiculous? I KNOW I shouldn’t eat an entire pecan pie. NOT knowing that I shouldn’t would be a lifestyle game changer. Where was I?)

Harper chose a friend. We picked that friend up on Saturday afternoon and headed straight to one of those places where you pay entirely too much money to paint ceramics. (My mom used to run a ceramics shop out of our basement when I was a kid. When I told her that I paid $21 to paint a mug for myself, she gasped. “That shouldn’t have cost more than six dollars.” She then said something about how Coco painted a set of mugs for Ice once and how he responded with “I love ’em all. I love ’em crazily!”) After the ceramics, we came home and ate pizza. When the pizza was finished, we jumped into the car and headed out to The Melting Pot to dip strawberries and marshmallows and cheesecake and brownies and bananas and more into two big pots of chocolate. (One of which was set on FIRE!)

Okay. I’m about to turn into a Pinterest mom. Buckle up.

On the way home from The Melting Pot, we stopped by a craft store to buy plain t-shirts, iron-on rhinestones, and medicine droppers.

Two hours later, we had Sharpie tie-dyed t-shirts!

I ironed the rhinestones onto Harp’s friend’s t-shirt yesterday morning. The finished shirt looks like this:

When the shirts were done, the girls were getting tired. SO, we decided to make fairy jars! I took a few glow sticks and cut off the tips. I then shook the sticks into the jars, and found that nothing was coming out. SO, I cut off the tips from the other side of the sticks. The glowing goop splattered out onto my Ben Folds Choking Lady t-shirt, which made me flip out on the inside. When I shook the sticks into the jars, the stuff STILL wouldn’t come out. SO, I put my mouth around the glow sticks and blew the goop into the spice jars. (I was still tasting the glowing goop at three in the morning, and that’s when I started wondering if it was toxic. And then I started comparing UPS shipping times with planning a funeral, because I had ordered a pretty awesome dress earlier in the evening, and if at all possible, I want that dress to be my visitation dress if the glow sticks are going to be my ticket out.)

Luckily, the phrase “met her demise after blowing glow sticks into fairy jars” probably won’t appear on my obituary. (I just read an article about metastasis, by the way. This may or may not have something to do with time-released glow stick poison and my fear of glowing from within.)

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American Girl Bistro? The Puddings want to live inside of you.

Do you remember last summer when we drove to Kansas City to visit the American Girl store? If I had become pregnant during that trip, I would be preparing to give birth right about now!

Coincidentally, St. Louis is currently preparing for the grand opening of their very first American Girl store! On Saturday morning, the front door will open, and hundreds of American Girls will fly out!

Fun Fact: If you enter an American Girl store and purchase a baby plus all of the things the baby will need (high chair, bed, clothes, etc.), you will spend more money than Jeff and I did when we welcomed Meredith into the world! And that included a five day hospital stay! (Okay. We had good insurance. But still!)

ANYWAY, because Meredith and Harper love the American Girl dolls, books, and movies, they were absolutely thrilled when the new St. Louis store was announced. They were even MORE thrilled when we were invited to be test customers at the American Girl Bistro this afternoon. (Get this: I picked the girls up from school almost two hours early to eat at the bistro. That is NOT the kind of mom I am! I schedule their dentist appointments on days when there is no school! What are you doing to me, American Girl?)

We arrived at the store early enough to do a bit of browsing before we ate.

(The bistro was running about 45 minutes behind on the reservations, so we actually had time to do a LOT of browsing before we ate. As you can tell by Harper’s face, we didn’t mind a bit.)

(Please know that I’m really not liking Flickr’s new photo editing options. I’m no good at it! Argh! But back to my story!)

Check it out. This is McKenna. She is the Girl of the Year for 2012, and she’s a gymnast, and she has a really amazing purple loft bed, and she’s injured.

(Because Harper’s heart bleeds (and rejoices!) when anyone is suffering from a bum wheel, we actually came home with a set of American Girl crutches this afternoon. They will go very well with the American Girl wheelchair that Harper purchased last summer. I’m not kidding about this.)

The six of us (four humans, two dolls) were eventually seated, and it was 100% heartwarming (and slightly weird, but you just have to go with it) when the girls’ dolls were treated like real people. (When the server brought our drinks, she brought teacups for the dolls and mentioned that they looked thirsty. This is when I began to cry. (Not really.) (But almost.))

We started our meal with a curly fry appetizer. (We had ordered fruit kebobs, but when the server brought fries, it almost seemed like she knew us better than we know ourselves. Sure, we pretend to want fruit, but really? Yes. The fries hit the spot.)

I decided to go with the afternoon tea platter as my meal option, mainly because I’m a sucker for meals served on a tower with a pot of steaming chai.

The bottom layer? Fruit kebob and yogurt. In the middle? Two cheese and tomato star sandwiches and a tiny bowl filled with the best macaroni and cheese I’ve had in a long time. On top? A chocolate chip cookie, a brownie, and a cupcake. Perfection.

When Meredith finished her meal, she proclaimed it to be the best meal she has had in her life. In her LIFE!

On the way home, Harper said that today was the greatest day ever.

The grand opening is Saturday. I highly recommend the macaroni. (And the crutches.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Three Things for Wednesday

1. I am now the proud keeper of my medical records, and I didn’t have to pay a dime for them. This just reinforces my belief that life is so much easier when people are kind to one another. I was kind. The medical records lady was kind. As a result of all of the kindness, I treated myself to a chai latte and a naked burrito, and am getting ready to head to my favorite vegan restaurant for hummus and knitting. Today is a good day. (By the way, if you haven’t read the comments to my post from yesterday, please do. Kelly’s comment (#27) changed me. It’s always good to hear what’s happening on the other side.)

2. I finished a cotton Liesl to wear over tank tops because I’m not happy with my upper arm jingle jangle. (I’m not sure why I’m standing like that.)

This evening I’ll be knitting on a sock whose partner has been waiting for over four years. It’s time to finish what I’ve started.

3. I cannot get enough of this song.

I’m liking the entire album, but this particular song is speaking to me today. (Actually, it spoke to me at least ten times today as I made the trip to the doctor’s office and back and to lunch and back and school and back.) The way the singer handles the phrase “This I know” at 0:59 gives me happy shivers. (Sometime I’ll tell you about how Les McKeown from the Bay City Rollers sang the word “right” and how the way he sang that word intrigued me so much (at age 6) that I spent days listening to nothing but the first fifteen seconds of the song over and over again—just to hear that word.) (If the acoustic live version is a bit too screamy for you, go here. So good. I love this one, too, mainly because Harper mentioned that it sounds like it could be a new theme for The Lion King.)

4. I know I said three. This one doesn’t really count. I just want to make it official that I’m growing out my hair. Starting yesterday. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Break-ups and Hoops and Gas and The President!

As you know, my orthopedic doctor appointment was scheduled for 9:00 this morning.

(Fourteen people just clicked away. That first sentence isn’t very compelling, is it? Here. Let’s move faster.)

I shaved my legs this morning.

I dropped the kids off at school and hauled it to my appointment so I wouldn’t be late.

I signed in at 8:55, and then sat down.

At 9:15 I was still sitting. (Three other people were in the waiting room.)

At 9:25 I was still sitting, and starting to feel squirmy.

At 9:30 I went up to the reception desk to ask how late the doctor was running.

Receptionist: There’s one more person in front of you.

Me: Well then, I think I’m just going to go.

Receptionist: Just a second.

(She walked away for a few seconds, and then came back.)

Receptionist: All of his rooms are full.

Me: The thing is, my appointment was scheduled for 30 minutes ago, and history has shown that he’ll spend no more than 5 minutes with me. I don’t want to wait in a SMALLER room for MORE time just to earn 5 minutes of HIS time. I’m going to go.

(I said all of that very nicely, because as soon as I get nervous and stop saying things nicely, my voice gets all shaky and it sounds like I’m going to cry. Every time I spoke during the PTO meetings, it sounded like I was going to cry about the checks I wrote and the balance of our savings account. Such a hoot. But not really. Sometime I’ll tell you about the time I called the cable company and my voice started shaking and then I actually STARTED crying because I couldn’t watch The Food Network or something. My head is filled with monkeys.)

Receptionist: Just a second.

(She walked away.)

Me (to myself): Quietly muttering something under my breath about how he doesn’t inspire my confidence! Nervous shaky voice that sounds like crying, and this doctor has made it clear that he doesn’t care about my ankle because I’M NOT A PROFESSIONAL ATHLETE! No one can hear me and I’m starting to look a little bit crazy with my darty eyes and handful of tissues (ALLERGY SEASON!), so it’s time to go now.

And I walked out. And I called my mom and got the name of HER orthopedic guy, and I drove home and called him and his office is close to the girls’ school and HE can see me next Tuesday morning as long as I can get my medical records from the first doctor before then.

Me: Um, so, that might be a little awkward. Don’t you guys take care of that?

New Doctor’s Receptionist: Well, we CAN, but the offices tend to drag their feet if we ask for it. It’s more effective if you pick up the records.

Me: Will they charge me for that?

New Doctor’s Receptionist: No.

So, I called the old doctor’s office and explained that “Hiya! I just rode a high horse out of your office about an hour ago, and now I need a big favor! Medical records! Yee Haw! SorryI’mAnAsshole!”

Medical Records Lady: If you pick them up, there will be a fee.

Me: No! I’m so confused.

Medical Records Lady: If we fax them over to the new office, there is no fee. But you still have to sign a form to release the files. What’s your fax number?

Me: I am a person living in a tiny house with no fax machine.

Medical Records Lady: Then I can either mail the form to you, or you can come to the office and sign it.

Tomorrow morning I’ll be making the drive BACK to the doctor’s office so I can track down the medical records lady and sign the form to allow my records to be faxed to the new office. (If I actually TAKE the records to save them the trouble of faxing them, I will be charged a fee.) After signing the form, I will drive straight to Target and purchase 14 hula hoops, and I will spend the afternoon setting them on fire and jumping through them. Because that’s how it feels.

(And I know everyone is doing their best and that this is no one’s fault.)

((Except for President Obama. It’s totally his fault.))

(((It’s not really his fault.))) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Still Running Up That Hill, Kate Bush

Yesterday was the GO! St. Louis Marathon. I didn’t run in the marathon, but I know at least 10 people who did.

As you know, I decided to start running back in September. I started off slowly with the Couch to 5K gig. I ran for three weeks (and hated/loved it) before busting up my ankle.

After going through physical therapy for two months, I started off slowly once again. AND, once again, I ran for three weeks (and hated/loved it) before shattering my leg in three places. (Okay. I realize three stress fractures doesn’t really qualify as shattering. We all know how dramatic I tend to be on April Mondays.)

My orthopedic guy told me to wear the big 11 pound boot for a month.

A month later he told me to wear it for another month.

A month later he told me to wear it until my leg stops hurting.

Tomorrow morning at 9:00, I’ll be seeing him for the fourth time. Has my leg stopped hurting? Sort of. (It still hurts right under my knee and my ankle has started waking me up at night again (It claims to be down on its luck and is just needing a few bucks for an inhaler for its asthmatic child. Meanwhile, its breath reeks of Mad Dog, and it won’t make eye contact with me, so I’m not sure I can trust it.).)

Anyway, if the doctor (who has been known to make jokes about infidelity) tells me to keep wearing the boot (which I haven’t worn in nearly three weeks because so what I’m still a rock star I’ve got my rock moves and I don’t need you), I’m going to find a new doctor. One that will HEAL ME. (I’ve been reading about tent revivals.) One that will get me running again. Soon. Because, you know what? I felt a few little pangs of jealousy when I saw yesterday’s photos of friends with running bibs crossing finish lines and high fiving each other—knowing that I’m still dancing around in the Can’t Even Run to the Mailbox category.

This morning when I drove the girls to school, I saw two 26.2 stickers in the school parking lot. On the way home, I passed a car with a 13.1 sticker. Seven months ago I set the goal of having a 3.1 sticker on my car before 2012.

Harumph.

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To Kale a Mockingbird

This is Tuesday’s haul from the produce co-op.

We scored cilantro, two bunches of kale, bananas, cherry tomatoes, Baby Bella mushrooms, broccoli, green peppers, limes, lemons, corn, zucchini, garlic, mangos, oranges, and pears. All for a total of $23.

Now I shall share a dark secret with you.

I have never eaten kale before.

On Wednesday afternoon, I typed Kale into Pinterest, and quickly came up with 4,392,493 recipes. 4,392, 490 of them were for kale chips. (My numbers might be a little fuzzy.)

Because I’ll eat anything whose birth had nothing to do with a canal, I knew kale chips had to happen. (Side story: When I told my mom that I was going to make kale chips, she said, “Well, Ice didn’t like them very much when Coco made them.” My mom and I live in two very different worlds.)

Here’s what I did: I de-spined my kale and threw the leaves into a bowl with a few tablespoons of olive oil. (I took the spines and buried them in the back yard with my placenta! I’m just kidding!)

I then mixed the leaves and olive oil together and threw it all onto a foil-lined baking sheet, where I sprinkled it with sea salt while listening to Enya.

Finally, I baked the leaves at 350 degrees for twelve minutes, removed them from the oven, and placed them upon a plate with some Carolina Creole.

(If you don’t know Carolina Creole, you should probably get to know it. Jeff cooks shrimp in it. I dip chips and vegetables into it. I almost feel like when I use it, I’m one step closer to hugging Bobby Flay. (In my world, that’s a good thing. He voted for Andrew Cuomo. Politics! Look at me!))

Do you see that plate of kale chips? I finished it off in less than ten minutes, and then I made another batch. Later that evening, I made another batch, and this afternoon I’ll make another. I’m going to keep eating kale chips until my body is GLOWING with sulforaphane. (If you really are what you eat, imagine what could happen if I became a sixty-six inch breathing model of anticancer. Dream it and achieve it, Oprah!)

Kale Chips. Make some. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Jeff is in Orlando. I just turned the furnace back on.

Back in 2009, Jeff decided to take a family photo after we returned home from church on Easter.

I have never seen a photo represent our family as well as this one. Jeff? Happy. The rest of us? On the edge of something wicked.

We did a bit better in 2010.

(The kids weren’t cooperating, so Jeff and I decided to make the most of it.)

This year’s photo is Very Much Okay.

(I’m not liking Flickr’s new photo editing options. Change is so hard, people. Especially when you lose your white balance option.) A much better photo from our Easter is this one:

When I was a kid, my favorite cake was chocolate chip cake with no icing. Although my mom doesn’t recall making it for me, she made it for me. Fairly often. I’ve been searching out a similar cake recipe for years, and I’ve finally found one that I love. (The layers of cinnamon and sugar take this cake right over the edge. Go make it right now. I’m making another one tomorrow. Really. Because I’m still hungry.)

I was going to tell you all about last night’s produce haul at the co-op, but today is the only day this week during which I have a four hour block of time to work on freelance. My four hour block begins in ten minutes.

Tomorrow is another day. A day for discussing mangos and kale chips! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

The oven is my beetbox and I just ordered a pizza. Good Friday, indeed.

It feels like Saturday, doesn’t it? It does.

This morning I hung out at the hospital while my mom had surgery on her ankle. (Necrotic tissue, bone spurs, ice machine and elevation for a week, you get the picture. All is now well, although she got really sick to her stomach right after I left. I tend to have that effect on people.) While at the hospital, my dad and I strolled over to the cafeteria where I ate the worst hummus in the history of chick peas. I really should have known that hospital hummus wouldn’t be good. Lesson? Learned.

This afternoon? We picked up one of Meredith’s friends and then quickly dropped Harper off at a friend’s house. Do you remember that scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark where Harrison Ford replaces the golden idol with a bag of sand? We’re doing that with kids this weekend. Drop off a kid, pick a kid up. Pick a kid up, drop off a kid. Harper weighs about 43 pounds. I’m guessing Meredith’s friend comes in at around 58 pounds. (Harper’s packed suitcase weighed around 15 pounds.) Equilibrium has been achieved.

Earlier this week, I attended my second-to-last PTO meeting as Treasurer.

The Things I Love The Most In Life On Friday, April Sixth
1. My family, my friends, my church, and all of the other stuff I’m supposed to list first.

2. Beets that have been wrapped in foil and baked at 400 degrees for an hour, then sprinkled with sea salt and olive oil. Seriously. Try it.

3. This song, which is full of bad words and 100% better than the original, which is sung by a woman who is known at The Pudding House for having dirty feet. (Last week Harper went out to get the mail with no shoes on. Meredith yelled, “No! You’re going to get Ke$ha feet!” My job here is done.)

4. Knowing that after May 1st, I will never have to sit at a big PTO table in front of a group of 20 (or so) people ever again. My voice has shaken and my eyes have rolled into the back of my head many times this year. (Incidentally, I’ve been reading a lot about introversion over the past several months, and I’ve learned that it’s okay to be me (la la laaaah!) and it’s okay to absolutely hate being at the front of the room and it’s okay to not attend events that make me feel awkward and it’s okay to be known as the person who always cancels. Similarly, it’s okay that not everyone wants to be my friend and although I’m still struggling with that one a bit, I *do* know that I have a few friends with whom I’m tight, and I just finished a 32 ounce cup of Diet Dr. Pepper, and the caffeine is sort of manifesting itself in this parenthetical aside. My whole self-awareness thing is so boring for you, isn’t it? I should warn you before I go off like this! Anyway!) Last Tuesday we held the election for next year’s officers, and it was announced that I wasn’t adding my name to the ballot because I want to increase my volunteer time at school. That’s not necessarily true. My volunteer time completely depends on the girls’ teachers and if they would like me to give spelling tests or grade papers or do anything else I can to save them some time. The reason I didn’t run again is because I would rather sit in the back of the room than in the front of the room. When the May meeting is over I plan on driving straight to Houlihan’s and treating myself to a chocolate martini with a Ding Dong sidecar, and it will look a little something like this.

Something Completely Different: I’ve been on a kick to finish a few knitting projects.

A few weeks ago, I finished my Damask. I really should have placed a quarter or a squirrel or something on the shawl so you could get some perspective. It’s really more of a shawlette, I suppose.

Last week I finished my Guernsey Wrap. It’s huge and cozy and I’m finally figuring out ways to wear it that don’t inspire Meredith to accuse me of trying to look like Jesus.

Last night I finished my cotton Liesl. It’s red and blocking and maybe I’ll show it to you next week. I’m currently working on a Seraphim for Jeff’s author who sends us towers of gifts each Christmas, along with handspun fingerless mitts for Gina. AND, I’m feeling the urge to try to spin a pound of fiber and make a sweater out of it. (It’s the Knitmore Girls Spin Along, Knit Along (aka SPAKAL)!)

Also, I’m seriously thinking about planting a salsa garden in my front yard.

Enjoy your Easter.

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I probably think this song is about me…

Do you remember back in December when Harper had that weird fever thing that ended up being an unusual strep strain?

She had the weird fever thing again last week. No other symptoms, just a fever that went as high as 103.6. Sadly, the only time the doctor could get us in was thirty minutes after Harper performed a fashion show for me—complete with a black velvet dress and black eyeshadow. (I let her keep the dress on for the appointment, but made her spend the entire twenty minute drive scrubbing her eyelids with makeup remover pads.) The verdict? “I think it’s a sinus infection.”

By the way, stay away from the internet when you’re searching out information on high fevers with no other symptoms.

Today I’m at a bit of a standstill with my latest freelance project, so I’m meeting my mom for lunch, getting a haircut, and thinking about cleaning the bathroom and the kitchen for Meredith’s sleepover on Friday. (Harp is attending her very first sleepover that evening, so we’re letting Meredith have a friend over for the night. Sadly, because of the weird timing, we’ll be missing one of my favorite church services of the year. It’s a quiet service. A powerful service. It’s the service that killed me dead two years ago when the flaming wick from the candle lighter’s big golden candle lighting tool thinger dinger broke off and fell onto the aisle carpeting—forcing the candle lighter to do a hilarious little dance to extinguish the flame. I could barely hold myself together, and then I started thinking about the time I watched a fly die in church and the time my thumb busted open and started squirting blood in church, and I can barely type right now because the tears are starting to roll.)

Sunday is Easter. Last Easter was my very worst Easter ever.

I just realized that I’m spending this entire post linking to myself. (Please know that right before I begin each new paragraph, I smile at myself in a mirror for twenty seconds. Well, hello there, Lady! Hi, Lady! Lady! You’re my night in shining armor, and I love you.)

Four years ago I wrote backwards on my face with eyeliner for Easter, and then I almost got sued. To keep with my me! Me! ME! theme, here you go.

Yes. The paper towels are off of the holder. Please know that we replaced that ridiculous paper towel holder after finally admitting that unscrewing the top to replace the roll was just too much of an ordeal for us. What a living hell that thing was.

Incidentally, the very eyeliner I used to write on my face fell into the toilet yesterday morning. Gone forever. (As much as I love my eye doctor, I don’t want to risk needing to see him because I’ve been blinded by makeup that may or may not have been contaminated by human waste.) ((And, yes. I don’t use eyeliner very often. After having it for more than four years, it was probably time for that thing to go. I know makeup tends to last longer than raw chicken, but I can’t really keep any of it straight.))

Hey! I finished two knitting projects. Let’s talk about them next time.

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P-Funk All Stars Perform The Anxious Puppy Blues

I’m moving back to Nashville.

(I’m not really moving back to Nashville.)

As you know, we spent a few days in Nashville last week. The entire trip lasted less than 60 hours from start to finish, which wasn’t nearly enough for me. I often wonder how my life would be different had we stayed in Nashville after getting married in 2001. I can’t help but think we would be struggling a bit more. AND, because I’m a clever blend of “The world revolves around me” and “Every time a butterfly flaps its wings, it changes the course of something else” I wonder if Nashville would still be Nashville without us there. I love Nashville just the way it is, so perhaps leaving it was the best decision. If you love something set it free or time keeps on ticking into the future or step off the crack, Jack and make a new plan, Stan.

A day will soon come when my kids no longer want to sit in a gigantic rocking chair. During our trip to Nashville, they sat in it twice and posed for photos. Together. Last night Meredith pulled me aside and asked if she could help pick out her summer clothes this year. The basic short/t-shirt combinations that I tend to buy in bulk at Target are no longer her style. Also, late last week she told me that I shouldn’t be wearing black shoes with light jeans. “Maybe a different pair of black shoes would work, but those don’t look that good. No offense.” Her Smiling in a Big Rocking Chair days are numbered.

One of our favorite meals in Nashville was breakfast at The Pfunky Griddle. Each table had a griddle built in, and if you go for the all you can eat pancake breakfast, the griddle is turned on and the staff continues to deliver wheat and white batter to the table. (Everyone gets to choose one topping. Harper went with M&M’s. Meredith went for chocolate chips. Jeff? Blueberries. Me? Banana slices, plus a side of vegetarian sausage. I mixed it all together and made banana/sausage pancakes. Not bad.)

Did you notice that Meredith is wearing a hoodie in that photo? I’m telling you, the child is living on the edge these days.

While we were gone, we boarded the puppies at their vet office. When I called on Wednesday, I was told that Henry was a bit of a “Nervous Nellie” at first, but he was now doing well with eating and playing. When I called on Thursday, I was told that both dogs were “doing great” and playing/eating/having a great time. When we arrived to pick them up on Friday, the woman in charge of the boarding facility came out and told us that Henry had a horrible experience during his stay. They couldn’t get him in and out of his crate very well, they had to get the help of one of the veterinarians because he was starting to get aggressive, he never pooped, and on and on until I interrupted and said, “Every time I called to check on the dogs, I was told that they were doing really well. Why didn’t anyone tell me about this?”

Vet Tech: Well, I guess it depends on who you talked to. They may not have been familiar with the situation.

Me: They may not have been familiar, yet they gave me a glowing report. That bothers me.

Vet Tech: Well, the next time you board, you could consider having a sedative prescribed for Henry so he deals with the situation a bit better.

Me: Had I known he was going nuts, I could have asked for him to be given something during THIS visit. Again, it really bothers me that I wasn’t told what was going on.

Vet Tech: There are a lot of big dogs here right now.

Me: I sometimes dream about taking a nap in a bathtub filled with scrambled eggs. That doesn’t change the fact that something could have been done to help my dog.

When we got Henry home, he pooped for three hours (I’m exaggerating. Slightly.), and then slept for nearly twelve hours. I don’t believe we’ll board him again. (The thing that bugs me? I really like everyone at the vet office. And I know their job is hard. And I know that it’s a busy time of year. And I know, or at least I hope that everyone was doing their best. Still, I hate that Henry was terrified for sixty straight hours.)

In my mind, this truck is filled with the pink slime everyone seems to be talking about. Also, it could be filled with a scrambled egg type of substance that stays at ninety nine degrees indefinitely. For my bathtub. Because I’m sleepy.

(Heads Up: Yesterday I renewed Fluid Pudding for two more years, so you’ve got me until I’m almost 44, if not longer. Cheers to us.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>