Skirting Around the Biliary Dyskinesia

A few weeks ago I suddenly got the urge to fill my closet with skirts. In the past, when similar urges have struck or stricken depending on your preference, I simply made a trip to J.Jill where I tried on a handful of skirts, did the math while standing half-clothed in the dressing room, and walked out empty handed (yet fully clothed) with the skippy feeling you get when you have saved $439.85 by NOT filling your closet with skirts.

(I know. I don’t HAVE to go to J.Jill. BUT, if I were to choose a store based on the style I think I want to represent, stinking expensive J.Jill it would be.) ((Um, by the way, I would love to be able to carry this off. I believe I would drink more green tea if I dressed like that! And I know I would smile more! And I would be right on track with Infinite Summer!))

Anyway, instead of making a trip to the mall this time around, I made a trip to the fabric store.

Last weekend I put this together:


I wore it out on Monday, and it didn’t fall apart when I sat down, so I headed back to the fabric store a few days back with my biggest critics—Harper and Meredith.

Me: I would like you to help me choose some fabric for a skirt that would look good with either a white or a black t-shirt.

Meredith (after browsing less than three minutes): This is the one. You can wear it when you go to a restaurant.

And I know that it’s probably best suited for a pot holder or a tablecloth, but Meredith actually put a bit of thought into it, and Harper agreed with her. So now I have one of these:


AND, because my brain is completely wrapped up in skirts, I went out this morning and bought the fabric to make another. You see, I’m going to a party tonight (who? me? what?), and I believe the party calls for something with neon dots, as most parties do.

(Please stay tuned, for my next update will contain actual photographs (or cartoony drawings, depending on your preference) of my gall bladder—specifically, my sphincter of Oddi, which has absolutely nothing to do with the large-tongued dog in the Garfield cartoon strip.)


Edited to Add: Finished with the Friday Skirt! (See what I mean about the skirts?! It’s all skirts all the time over here! Simplicity 2906!)


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The Sparkling Scrotal Steed

The girls have been playing with the most annoying unicorn purchased by my mother at a garage sale a few years back. (And that sentence is funny, because it now sounds like my mom often purchases unicorns at garage sales. The one in question was voted Most Annoying by the army of unicorns that are currently filling our home with sparkling rainbows and magical happiness and blue eyeshadow and whatnot.) When you press the eyes (or perhaps the ears or the horn or something) the unicorn begins to belt out a song that goes something like this: “I’m a something-cal unicorn something something glowing horn. We’ll have lots of fun today something something something play.” The only part of the song that really intrigues me is the “I’m a something-cal unicorn” phrase. For the life of me, I cannot figure out what the unicorn is saying. Yesterday as we rode to the store, I turned down the radio and sang “I’m a PRACTICAL unicorn” to see what sort of response I would get.

Meredith: No. I’m a BEAUTIFUL unicorn.

Me: I don’t think so. I’m a FUNCTIONAL unicorn?

Meredith: That doesn’t make sense. I’m a FESTIVAL unicorn?

This morning, Harper rode in on the unicorn singing the most perfect interpretation ever.

“I’m a testicle unicorn.”

Harper wins.

Testicle it is.

(Perhaps I should record the unicorn’s anthem and ask you to help us with the lyrics? Also, I’m in the mood to give away some muffins, so we could make a contest of it…) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

“Staring at the Candle, Part II” by Meredith Pudding

I’m going to stare at the candle all night long.

Look! Did the candle blow out? No. It’s still lit. And, there’s another one lit! Uh-oh! We don’t have any more candles after that second one is lit. We’re going to have to light a match.


Are we inside a cave? Or are we at home? OR ARE WE AT HOME AND THERE’S A BEAR IN OUR HOUSE? Tough question, you know. Are there bears in here, because they might pop out and catch us. RUN! IT’S A BEAR! We have to drive at the highest speed mark.

Is the bear behind us? Or is it in the trunk? THERE’S A BEAR IN THE TRUNK! HELP! Could someone call Animal Control? “I don’t have a phone,” said Daddy. “Neither do I,” said Mommy. Harper said, “I do.” So she handed the phone to Mommy and she quickly dialed.

Finally, Animal Control came. They took the bear out of the trunk and Mommy, Daddy, Meredith, and Harper jumped out of the car. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I couldn’t tell her what you really do with it, because I hate the word “insert.”

I tell you the following story with a great deal of hesitance, because it touches on Female Stuff and Whatnot. (Please know that I still have a hard time saying the word Bra out loud, so speaking of The Monthly Event is not something I do lightly. (No pun intended, if there’s one hiding out somewhere in there.))


When it’s That Time Of The Month, I tend to keep a tampon (unused) in the front pocket of my jeans when I’m at home. We don’t have cabinets in our bathrooms, so I find that the pocket method is the safest way to go if I’m in need of a gear switch.

I didn’t realize that Meredith was completely aware of my pocket protection. I also didn’t realize that a five year old could be so in tune with my monthly mood changes. (There are so many things in life for which I was (or am) unaware. For instance, I just learned that orange juice tastes crappy after you brush your teeth because of the sodium lauryl sulfate contained in most toothpastes. Boring, but there you have it.)

Last night I was a bit stressed out about laundry and back to school and freelance projects and Christmas trees and just about anything else you can imagine. During one of my Puking o’ the Uglies, Meredith walked out of the room and returned with a tampon (unused). She reluctantly held it out to me and whispered, “Mommy, I think it’s time for you to eat your medicine.”

A few hours later, Meredith wrote a song. Sort of. And because I love it so much (you know, because I’m her mother or something), I think she should come out with a series of life lessons put to music that the five year olds would dig.

An Apple A Day from Angela D. on Vimeo.

And now I jump onto a completely different horse. I’m doing another giveaway thinger dinger in a few days, and it’s food! And it’s good! So keep in touch! (And eat your medicine.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>


While working at the yarn store, I often find myself yelling, “Oh, fun!” whenever someone talks about the project she is working on. My Oh Funs are annoying, brainless, and as unpredictable as an explosive sneeze.

Random knitter: And when I’m done with the scarf, I think I’ll use the leftover yarn for a hat.

Me: Oh, fun!

Today, after my 83rd “Oh, fun!” I wondered how people would respond if I substituted another F word for the Fun.

Random knitter: I’m determined to learn how to knit two socks at a time on circular needles.

Me: Oh, f**k!

Meredith, while in the tub this evening, told Jeff that she has some good news and some bad news.

MC: The good news? We’ll be landing in a few minutes. The bad news? It’s going to be a crash landing.

Me: Oh, fun! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Some might say I’m calling it in. I say, “Memories light the corner of my mind.”

Two years ago today, we were getting our Christmas cards together.


Today Meredith told Harper that you really shouldn’t share underpants with your kindergarten friends.

Harper answered, “Yes. And if you pee in your underpants, it’s okay. You just have to clean it up. It is NOT a big deal.” ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Banner, Schmanner. David, Schwimmer.

It’s sort of funny.

After putting up the Fluid Pudding Hippo Banner, I quickly received six e-mails saying, “I’m really hating that hippo banner.”

One of my six unsolicited banner judges even said, “I don’t think I can come back here as long as you have that hippo banner.”

Yesterday I woke up and said, “You know what, Hippo Haters? I’m not really liking the hippo, either.”

So, I put up a photo of my hand getting ready to make out with a zombie. And that banner sort of sucked, too.

Please be patient with me as I learn to work with banners. Better yet, go visit Secret Agent Josephine. While you’re there, go ahead and nominate me for her free monthly web graphic drawing. Look at me over here. I’m all naked, severely unperky, and in desperate need of something adorable to cover my top.

Because it’s Sunday, I’m about to leave you with some words of wisdom. Last night, Meredith called me into her room and said the following: “Mommy, you can’t just keep getting a new cat and then letting it die and then naming your next cat after the dead cat so you always remember the dead cat. The best thing to do is make a picture book with a million pages to help you remember your dead cats. Fill out a page every time a cat dies, and then you can name your new cat whatever you want.”

(Meredith did not hear us joking about cat chili yesterday. I honestly have no idea where the million-paged dead cat notebook idea came from. But I DO think that everyone needs a million-paged dead cat notebook. Wait! I have just unstumped you on the holiday shopping for the Person Who Already Has Everything, haven’t I? You’re welcome.)

Quick! Get thee to Secret Agent Josephine! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>


I almost forgot to post something! Hey there!

(This is the perfect time for you to go somewhere else. May I suggest a trip over here?)

My mom came over, we went to Starbucks, and then we cleaned the girls’ room and decorated it for the holidays. Winter comforters, flannel sheets, snowman rugs, spotless floor… It looked really nice.

We picked Harper up from school and when she saw her room, she lost her mind in a really crappy way. The tantrum that was kicked off at the sight of a blue snowman rug lasted nearly two hours and included kicking, screaming, and (my personal favorite) spitting. Tiresome. Disappointing.

Meredith came home from school and ate soup. I found this to be completely delightful. (Especially after spending two hours with a Tasmanian devil.)

I put together a pesto pizza.

We headed to school for Harper’s parent/teacher conference. And because of her tantrums (I’ll spare you the details.), we are going to be teaming up with a developmental pediatrician and a social worker. This, aside from the soup thing, was The Greatest Thing to Come Out of This Day. (Wait. Coffee with my mom was good, too. Nonfat chai!)

We returned home where Harper played soccer in the kitchen and Meredith wrote the following:

“I pledge my honor to serve God and help people get their Kleenex if they don’t have any. 24 times to 24 sneezes to 24 Kleenex. And if you don’t mind, we will help you. We will serve your students to live by the friendly scouting wishes and to live. To live by the live.”

As you read this (if you read it immediately after I hit the Publish button), I’m either washing my face, jumping into pajamas, or sitting in bed reading until I drift.

May you all have 24 Kleenex for your next 24 sneezes. To live by the live. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

He’s crotchety, too.

Harper: Does Ella have a sister?

Meredith: No. But she has a brother. A mean brother.

Me: She does? How old is her brother?

Meredith: He’s 68. NamastĂ©.

(It’s Cultural Awareness Week at Meredith’s school. She’s particularly fond of India.)

((I love the thought of Ella, who is five, having a 68-year-old brother who is still sponging off of their parents. In my mind, he looks a bit like David Crosby. And he spends a lot of time sitting around in his underpants. Eating applesauce straight from the jar.)) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>