They're poopy and they're kooky, the Pudding family!
Harper told me that she wanted to get a few things off of her chest.
After completing the interview, she signed away all of her rights.
And then we changed her pants.
Tonight we'll reach for the stars. We'll rent expensive cars.
Tonight I will be getting another haircut. No further details are available at this time.
Tomorrow? A day of mental preparation. Also, chicken enchilada preparation! Delish!
Thursday? Tempe and I will be drinking martinis until we feel the uncontrollable urge to try on discounted prom dresses.
I normally stand firm on my belief that malls should not contain bars.
However, for this plan to fly, a mall bar is completely necessary.
Specifically, a mall bar that plants a freaking Hostess Ding Dong on the side of their chocolate martini glass.
It has been twenty one years since I was semi stood up for my junior prom. (Did I ever tell you that story?)
AND, instead of going to my senior prom, I went to a Cardinal baseball game. And I don't even LIKE baseball!
Wait. Let's go ahead and get this out of the way.
You: You don't like BASEBALL?!
Me: No!
You: What is WRONG with you?!
Me: I don't know!
You: You are obviously not an American.
Me: 'Cause the players tried to take the field; the marching band refused to yield. Do you recall what was revealed the day the music died?
You: Okay then.
Anyway, this is the time of year when I often feel the urge to put my hair up and squeeze into something floofy.
So, yes, kids. You WILL regret not going to your prom.
(No you won't. Believe me. You won't. Wait. Why am I crying?)
If I can get the proper release forms signed, I will be taking photos at this event.
AND, if the martinis are particularly effective, I will be pinning a corsage through my bare skin just to prove that I'm hardened when it comes to high school disappointment.
Cheers.
Talc Radio at its Finest.
Last night Jeff and I packed the kids up and shipped them thirty miles south so that we could attend This American Life Live, which was being shown at two local theaters—both within 15 miles of our house. (Incidentally, I have now (essentially) been in the same room with Ira Glass twice in the past eight weeks, with plans to see him again in September. At this rate, I will have spent more time with him than I spend with most of my relatives. And I'm okay with that.)
Anyway, we arrived at the theater, paid for our tickets, grabbed a coffee (non-fat sugar-free almond latte, if you're curious), and found The Best Seats in the House. What made our seats The Best Seats? The fact that we had bars in front of us (perfect for the resting of the feet), and two seats down from me was a man whose resemblance to Santa Claus was completely uncanny. (By the way, I don't believe the opposite of uncanny is canny. Are there any other words whose un- partner does not form the opposite?! The world is a crazy place.)
We got comfy, I knitted on a sock because I'm one of Those People who can't really sit still unless I have something to do, and we watched the crowd roll in.
Fluid Pudding Fun Fact: When technology is involved, I am a huge Doubter. When I first learned that this show was happening, I really didn't believe my local mall theater would be able to pick up on the broadcast and put it up on the screen with no problems. I hate that my glass is half-empty in these situations, but there you go.
And I was right. When the show started, the live coverage was shot up to the screen, but there was no sound. And I was pissed. And everyone in the theater was pissed. And the thing I found to be sort of funny was the fact that the audience was comprised of fifty or so NPR fans. These folks don't really strike me as the ass-kicking type. But, like me, they ARE quite passive-aggressive. So, although no punches were thrown, many idle threats were made. Threats like, "If they don't get it rolling soon, I'm going to politely ask for My MONEY BACK!"
(By the way, I once again became annoyed when the audio started working. Instead of shutting up and watching the show, the audience erupted into a loud cheer that made me miss the first fifteen seconds of sound. But anyway.)
((I'll never be happy. You know this, right? Hold my hand.))
The show itself was wonderful, yet hard to describe. We saw an amazing animated short illustrated by Chris Ware—the guy who does the Jimmy Corrigan books. We saw a raw cardboard-animated video of a pornographic story written by a twelve year old. (It sounds a lot racier than it was. The dirtiest line, which was also the best line, was "I Frenched him. Completely." I'm going to incorporate that into my frequent sayings, by the way.)
We saw clips that were deleted from the This American Life television show, we saw clips from the upcoming season, we met David Rakoff, there was a Q&A session... Wait. What is that noise? More importantly, what is that SMELL?!
Oh! It's Santa Claus! And he has fallen asleep! And he is snoring SO loudly. And I suppose, since I am sitting the closest to him, that it is My job to wake him. But I can't get myself to do it, because every time he exhales, it smells like baby powder. (And I wasn't even sitting THAT closely to him. But seriously! Every time the guy exhaled, the theater smelled more and more like a gigantic fresh-out-of-the-big-boy-tub baby.)
Santa did the open mouth sounds-like-a-bear snoring for the final thirty minutes of the show, and by the time we left the theater, my diaper rash was gone.
These are the Things that Weigh
1. The possibility of opening my own personal checking account. Will it remove all guilt to spend My Own Money on seemingly frivolous things, or will it just make it more obvious that my yearly income is paltry? (Gwyneth Paltry!!! Laugh, Clown, Laugh!)
2. Summer clothing. For the past five years, Summer has meant "stop wearing long-sleeved t-shirts under my short-sleeved t-shirts." Should I purchase some legitimate summer clothes? On a similar note, I'll be 38 in less than two weeks (WTFFTW!). Is my shorts window closed? Because whenever I put shorts on, I feel a bit silly. And exposed. Am I a Wearer of Skirts? Oh my God. It's once again time to sit down and get to know myself. Wait a second. Are people still wearing capri pants?
3. Is it time to take a break from podcasts and start reading books again? Yes. It is. Mostly. (I'll always make time for Ira Glass, Grammar Girl, and Lime and Violet.)
4. Eyeliner—for top lid only, bottom lid only, or strictly for those videos during which I write all over my face?
Strangers are friends you haven't met yet, Mrs. Bluesky!
As you know, last weekend I ventured out and had the pleasure of meeting up with several Women of the Internet.
This past weekend I had a wonderful time eating Indian food and drinking beer with Liz, when she journeyed to St. Louis for The Loopy Ewe Spring Fling.
Get this. In a few weeks I'll be kicking back with a group of crafty women--including the creator of Choppa Charms and the genius behind the sock zombies.
The Internet can be such an ugly place.
But for me? Lately it's been very good.
And it smells like beer, chocolate, and Delhi's Chaat.
(If I said something like, "Dear Delhi—Meet me in the Chaat Room!" would you still be my friend?)
Brainpan. Bacon. The Butt Thing.
A human skull was found less than a mile from my house.
Okay.
Now read that again, but like this: A human HEAD was found less than a mile from my house. BOO!
It's a shame that the news anchors don't share my love for tiny embellishments. If they did, I might actually tune in.
Head? Much sexier than Skull. Everyone knows that. AND, ending potentially spooky stories with a big "Boo!"? Genius.
Dear Katie Couric, Take note.
But anyway.
I ate one of these a few days back.
Yes. That is a Maple-Bacon Lollipop.
It was everything I imagined it to be—sort of syrupy, sort of salty, sort of bacony, sort of weird.
And now I can separate myself from those people who have never enjoyed a Maple-Bacon Lollipop.
Oh! Wait! Speaking of human head and separating oneself and whatnot: I once embarrassed myself at a happy hour by getting a little tipsy and yelling, "Okay! Anal! Who's done it?!"
The room suddenly filled with chirping crickets, and one of my co-workers sheepishly raised his hand.
Shortly thereafter, seven people went home and I proudly showcased my recently acquired belly button ring for those who lingered.
"You're a shotgun! Bang! What's up with that thang?! I wanna know! How does it hang?! Burp. Excuse me. Wheee! See you at work tomorrow! I'm an editorial assistant!"
Lesson to be learned from this? Stick around, because the young unprofessional sauced girl will probably lift her shirt in a few minutes.
Human head! BOO!