Fluid Pudding

On Friday evening the temperature dropped and the four of us found ourselves sitting around in the family room with the windows open and the television off. Perfect night. Then, all of a sudden: “I SAID HELLO, MARY LOU! GOODBYE HEART! SWEET MARY LOU I’M SO IN LOVE WITH YOU!!!”

Jeff: Girls, do you hear that? The church up the street is having their barbershop quartet sing-off tonight!

Me: Wow! It sounds like they have a new sound system! Should we walk up and watch? There might be snowcones!

Meredith and Harper: NO!

So, we continued to sit and listen from our family room, and the music was a bit loud, yet sort of lovely, and the air was crisp, and all was well. (Five commas!) And then two hours passed, and it was bedtime for the girls, and the whole sing-off thing was quickly losing its charm.

“YOU MUST HAVE BEEN A BEAUTIFUL BABY! YOU MUST HAVE BEEN A WONDERFUL CHILD!!!”

“DOWN BY THE OLD MILL STREAM!!! WHERE I FIRST MET YOU!!! WITH YOUR EYES OF BLUE!!! DRESSED IN GINGHAM, TOO!!!!”

Me: Every time one of the songs comes to an end, I find myself praying that the show is over.

Jeff: I’m starting to wonder if the show will EVER be over.

Meredith: I changed my mind. Let’s go see the singers.

Jeff and Me: No.

Another hour passes.

“YOU HOLD HER HAND, AND SHE HOLDS YOURS AND THAT’S A VERY GOOD SIGN!!! THAT SHE’S YOUR TOOTSIE-WOOTSIE IN THE GOOD OLD SUMMERTIME!!!”

Me: I hate barbershop quartets. HATE them.

“GOODBYE MY CONEY ISLE! GOODBYE MY CONEY ISLE! GOODBYE MY CONEY ISLAND BABE!!!”

Me: I’m going to kill someone. If this doesn’t end soon, I swear I’m calling the police.

Ah, but it did end. And thank God for that, because I was starting to itch in strange places, which I believe indicates the onset of An Episode. I’m not sure who won, but I believe it was the gang who belted out Down by the Riverside. Now that we’re more than 48 hours past the trauma, I feel good admitting that they SHOULD have won. Two words: Harmonized Glissandi. (I’m all about glissandi lately—both the word and the effect. This song is getting a lot of play in my car.) ((By the way, I’m totally going to the barbershop quartet sing-off next year. And I’m taking you with me.))

On Saturday afternoon, we went to the school’s Fall Festival, where plates were broken, faces were painted, and severely awkward conversations were held (because that’s what I tend to do).

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As I pulled up the Add New Post screen, my milkman delivered the goods, meaning my refrigerator now contains fresh milk, along with hummus, pesto, Schlafly Pumpkin Ale, kosher baby dills, a sourdough bread starter, leftover spaghetti and meatballs, and a ton of condiments. Today is Respect for the Aged Day in Japan, so I’m going to hug my cat (who is something like 85 years old if I’m doing the math correctly), and dip a pickle in hummus. Let’s hope it sticks. The hummus to the pickle, that is.

Shall we talk about the Schlafly Pumpkin Ale? Every year our neighbors host a block party, and every year Jeff prepares for the party by heading to the store and purchasing a crazy number of bratwurst, buns, and a six-pack of some sort of seasonal beer. Most often, I drink one or two of the beers, and then I’m good for the next six months. A few years ago he purchased some sort of autumnal Budweiser, and it was very okay. Last year saw me holding a raspberry something or other, and I’m not sure I even finished the first one. The Schlafly Pumpkin Ale? Oh my. I drank only one, but I’ve been thinking fondly of it ever since. (I once had a Schlafly Pumpkin Ale Ice Cream Float, and it still goes down as one of the best desserts I’ve ever had.) I don’t really consider myself to be much of a swiller, but when beer tastes like pumpkin pie, I’m in.

Although I definitely don’t need any more sock yarn, I purchased some sock yarn a few weeks back. AND, if you knit at the correct gauge, ghosts begin to form. The last thing I want to do is become the lady who has a pair of socks for every holiday (Respect for the Aged Day!), but I really couldn’t pass this up.

ETA: Oh! I just sent a bulk e-mail to those who wanted the owl cozy pattern. Please let me know if you wanted it but didn’t get it. Thanks!

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You are cordially invited to admire my senior photo from high school and take a chance at winning $150!

Please read about my extraordinary family, and follow the links to win all sorts of prizes! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Last week I found myself at the Center for New Health Options for a bit of Physical Therapy, if you know what I’m saying. (I’m saying that my back has been bothering me for nearly three months, and our insurance covers physical therapy. They do NOT cover a new mattress. They DO cover 80% of an IUD installation, and I’ll be doing that on September 15th! Hello there!) After the paperwork was filled out and the proper introductions were made, Catherine, my therapist, took me back into an exam room to work up a general evaluation.

Catherine: Just stand against the wall, and I’m going to take some notes about your posture. Do you want me to tell you what I find as I go?

Me (Feeling curiously naked, yet fully clothed. In sweats!): Sure! Let’s hear it!

Catherine: Your left hip is slightly higher than your right hip, and as a result, your left leg looks slightly shorter than the right leg. Your arms hang in front of your body instead of to the sides. That’s because you are slightly hunched over. Your left shoulder is a bit higher than your right, and your head and neck are sitting about a half inch to an inch off-center toward the right shoulder.

Me: CrookedGirlSaysWhat?!

Catherine: Yep. Let me take you to a mirror so you can see what I’m talking about.

We walked to a room down the hall where Catherine stood me in front of a huge mirror and once again pointed out my slants, slopes, tilts, and warps. Before the appointment, I had never noticed just how crooked I am. But now it’s all I can see.

This is me on the outside, and if you look closely, you can see how my neck and head are choosing to side with my right shoulder. (It’s a mirror image, so right is right.) Also, please know that my skin is the same color as the wood on the bathroom door, and my dress matches the walls! You come and go, karma chameleon!:

This is me on the inside, sitting on a chair in our dining room and thinking about peach pie. Tis the season, you know!:

(I used to think of myself as being a bit Rubenesque. Now? I’m a total Picasso.)

After I came to grips with being all asymmetrical in awkward places, Catherine put me on a table where we engaged in myofascial release, which is quite an amazing thing. (Picture yourself lying down with someone’s hands in your mouth. Suddenly, you begin to feel the sensation of butter melting in your head. Your neck is no longer aching. We are in Xanadu.)

I’ve been approved for five more visits, one of which will involve the stretching out of my C-section and appendectomy scars. (I’ve been told to wear shorts. At this point in time, I don’t own a pair of shorts. Things are about to get Very Interesting.)
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