Category: Daily

Due to circumstances that I won’t get into, my kids have been unable to text their friends for nearly two weeks. As a result, they have been pleasant—much more pleasant than they are when they’re looking at me over the top of an electronic device. Instead of sending thirty tiny cartoon elephant pictures to friends they see every day at school, they’re talking to each other. They’re reading. They’re doing science experiments. They would not agree with me when I say this, but: This has been a very good thing. Until we figure out some parameters, they will continue to be unable to text. I’m in no hurry to figure out parameters.

Eleven days ago, we planted 20 tomato seeds. As of RIGHT NOW, 19 of them have sprouted and have turned toward the sun. It’s time to plan the garden. We will have tomatoes, basil, peppers, radishes, lettuce, and what else? What else should I grow this year? The people who lived in the house before us grew sweet potatoes and grapes. I’m not sure I’m ready for sweet potatoes and grapes. I’m also not ready to remove the cartoon teacup curtains those people hung in our basement. We moved in exactly eleven years ago. Cartoon teacup curtains. Honestly.

Semi-related: Developments are taking place on Project: I Want To Move. Last weekend we were told about a great house. We drove over to it and verified that it was a great house. I CALLED A REALTOR, which is something I’ve never done before. 24 hours later, the realtor called back and told me that the house had been sold. Anyway, because of this, I’ve been bagging up clothes and eating lots of banana chips and thinking that I may invite the realtor into our house sometime in the next month so she can tell us exactly what we need to do to get ready. I’ve been talking about moving forever. Now I’m actually making phone calls. This is a good first step.

Okay. I know that winners never quit and quitters never win, but we’ve decided to let Meredith quit the violin before the end of the violin session. I don’t want to talk about it.

Oh! So, do you remember two paragraphs up how I was going on about how I want to move? As I type this very line, ten kids from the middle and high school track teams are practicing drills on my street and it’s one of the most heartwarming things I’ve seen. If the marching band shows up, all hope is lost.

Once again, I’m reminded that someone once declared blog entries to not be interesting without a photo. (Not that I believe a photo would really help this schlock. Honestly. I either need more time or more adventures or another month of writing every day.)

Anyway.

This morning I found my Superhero necklace. I bought it for myself as a reward for reading a Fluid Pudding entry in front of something like 500 people at BlogHer.

The audience looked like this.

That was back when I was marking up my face with eyeliner and stuffing marshmallows into my mouth and actually going to conferences and staying out late and talking to people and showing my elbows in public.

Things were much more interesting then. Girl, you know it’s true.

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On Friday, I took Harper to a Home Alone class. It had nothing to do with the 1990 Macauley Culkin comedy and everything to do with how to call the police and what to do when someone knocks on the door and how to answer weird phone questions when you find yourself alone in the house.

While Harper was learning how to trick scoundrels, I found myself saying the following words to Meredith:

“If something goes wrong, please call 911 first and THEN call Daddy. If I’m on the ground, don’t spend any time looking at me. Just call 911. I don’t want you to remember me as being on fire.”

Why so serious? Because I had to change a halogen bulb, and the light fixture is covered with engraved warnings about electrocution and turning off the power to the house before attempting to change the bulb.

(I did NOT turn off the power to the house before I attempted to change the bulb. Why? Because the helpful man at the hardware store (where I purchased the replacement bulb) told me it wasn’t necessary. Also, I crave DANGER. (I once either line danced or rode on the back of a motorcycle during a snow storm. My memory is fuzzy.))

Helpful Man at the Hardware Store: Don’t worry about powering down the house. What’s more important is that this bulb is never touched by human hands because the oils in your skin could cause the bulb to explode.

Me: Dear Lord! Should I buy special gloves or goggles?! I’VE NEVER DONE ANYTHING LIKE THIS BEFORE!

Helpful Man: Just use a paper towel. BUT BE VERY CAREFUL.

Meredith and I came home, I VERY CAREFULLY removed the old bulb, I put on my gardening gloves and unwrapped the new bulb, I VERY CAREFULLY put it in the socket thing, I closed up the glass panel on the fixture, I flipped the switch, and nothing. Nothing happened.

I then removed the glass panel and took out the bulb (while wearing the gloves, obviously) and turned it the other way and put it back in and replaced the panel and switched on the light and again—Nothing.

I then stomped around the house for a bit and when Jeff got home he returned the bulb to the store and exchanged it for another bulb and he brought it home and I became The Halogen Master by refusing help. I put the bulb into the socket and replaced the glass panel and when I flipped the switch, nothing happened. Again.

I’m boring you. I feel like I never have adventures any more, so when I do something that involves electricity and/or the possibility of death, I immediately think, “This! Yes! I shall write about this at Fluid Pudding!” And here we are. 451 words of me not being able to switch out a bulb.

Quick Ending: My dad drove up on Saturday morning and hooked a meter to the switch. The switch was fine. Jeff then took the bulb and wiggled it. He WIGGLED it. Suddenly, our back yard was filled with 150 watts of halogen brightness. Because Jeff wiggled the bulb. As soon as I saw the light, I left the house to get my hair cut. If you can’t be smart, you may as well look presentable.

Also, less than ten minutes ago I accepted the first freelance job I’ve had in several weeks. Suddenly, I’ve removed my Low Self-Esteem hat and I’m thinking about changing my lotion from Stress Relief to Energy! (Side note: If you want to see me cringe, use the word Cream instead of Lotion. Double the cringe for Body Cream. And don’t ever talk to me about your Bottom.) Anyway. Freelance!!!

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So, the lazy journal thing is going well, but it’s hiccuping me away from Fluid Pudding. That’s no good. Let’s catch up.

I drove to Weight Watchers, but never made it to the front door. It’s not a big deal. I’m in an okay place right now.

I’m a clencher. Sadly, although the new night guard will prevent the wearing down of my teeth, it does NOT prevent the clenching. Every night I wake up biting my tongue so hard that it’s numb. (I once had a dog who bit his tongue off during a stroke. I’m thinking about you, Thumper.)

A teacher at school told me about a restaurant that is less than ten minutes away from my house. I had never heard of it, and now it’s my favorite place. Old Taco Bell turned Greek/Italian. Lasagna? Yes. Baklava? Yes. BABA GHANOUSH?! YES!!! (Pizza? Yes.)

Last April I ran into my best friend from college. When we started hanging out again, I was so afraid that we would eventually revisit all of our memories and then have nothing left to say. Thankfully, we have a LOT to say, and I’m honestly the luckiest person to have so many amazing people on my boat.

Do you remember a few weeks back when I mentioned the Olympic spin-along? I finished my yarn.

I also finished my first skein of yarn spun from the fold. It’s fat and lofty and completely screwy. BUT, it will make a fun pair of fingerless mitts. Maybe. Possibly not, because it’s completely screwy! (It’s always good to try new things. Even that thing where someone named Amanda drops a shot of whisky into a glass of beer. (You don’t have to finish it.))

Jeff and I walked around the lake last week. My waterfall was still frozen, but we DID manage to come into contact with what I believe to have been a trench coat-wearing unmedicated schizophrenic man who had some words to scream about Jesus.

I didn’t get a photo of the man. Honestly, my adrenaline was amped to the extent that I probably would have stuck my thumb through my phone had I tried to snap a photo. (“I can lift a truck if it falls on my child” and all of that.) Anyway, the police were called, so I’m assuming everyone now has the help they need. (Not EVERYONE, but at least the man with the Jesus screams. I do hope that he’s okay. And his little dog, too.)

Today I attended a few red carpet ceremonies and I put off designing a brochure that I was supposed to finish yesterday. The good news? No one will be nervous about the brochure’s absence until Thursday, so perhaps I’ll hit it on Wednesday. And that’s tomorrow.

We’re having avocado sandwiches for dinner. Take a baguette and slice it lengthwise. Spread some sort of vinaigrette on the top half and dump some cheese (vegan or otherwise) on the bottom. Broil both halves until the cheese starts dancing. Take it all out of the oven and place avocado slices on the cheese. Sprinkle lemon juice over the avocado slices. Top it off with lemon pepper. Sandwich it up. It’s our favorite. (The recipe is from Betty Goes Vegan, which is still my favorite cookbook.)

I’ll try to be back sooner. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

The last time we spoke, I was getting ready to prepare for Friday’s colonoscopy.

I prepared. I also had the good sense to send the girls out of the house on Thursday evening. When you’re 8 and 10 and unable to drive a car, the last place you want to be is trapped in a house with a parent who is chugging Gatorade mixed with Miralax. Thus it was, and so they went.

Jeff and I left our house for the hospital on Friday morning at 6:00. When we arrived, we were handed a buzzer.

Nurse (to Jeff): The buzzer will go off once when we’re ready to prep her for the procedure. It will go off again when she’s in the procedure room. It will go off a third time when you’re able to visit her in the recovery room.

We sat down and noticed that the number on the buzzer corresponded with a color coded screen.

Me: Look. My box is white. Does that mean I’m hungry for a doughnut? Because I’m hungry for a doughnut.

Jeff: Look at 87. He’s red. That means his blazing hot wings are ready.

With that, the buzzer went off for the first time.

Jeff: WELCOME TO THE TERROR DOME!!!

Long story shortened. The nurse took me back, asked me a bunch of questions, stuck an IV into my wrist, gave me a warm blanket, and told me to take it easy.

As I was taking it easy, I heard her greeting the woman in the next room. She started the same set of questions.

Nurse: Do you know why you’re here today?

Lady Next Door (LND): For a colonoscopy.

Nurse: Did you drink all of the prep mix?

LND: I didn’t.

Nurse: Oh. Okay. Did you refrain from eating solid foods yesterday?

LND: No. I had cereal for breakfast and some crackers last night.

Nurse: Oh. Okay. Have you had anything by mouth since midnight last night?

LND: Yes. I drank some coffee this morning.

Wrong answer, wrong answer, wrong answer. I suddenly felt very superior for drinking, refraining, and keeping my mouth closed after midnight.

Let’s skip ahead. I met the anesthesiologist. They wheeled me back to the procedure room. I rolled over onto my left side. I drifted into the most wonderful Propofol-induced sleep. The doctor piped me. I woke up.

Me: Have you talked to the girls?

Jeff: Yep. I texted Meredith just a few minutes ago.

Me: Good.

(Thirty seconds pass.)

Me: Have you talked to the girls?

Jeff: Um, yep. I just told you that.

Me: So you talked to them? To the girls? Have you talked to the girls?

Because Jeff is patient and Jeff is kind and Jeff does not envy and Jeff does not boast and Jeff is not proud, Jeff drove me straight from the hospital to a doughnut joint and then allowed me to shove a vanilla long john into my face while he ran into Starbucks and picked up a chai for me.

And we all lived happily ever after.

And I will NEVER miss an opportunity to put weird faces on my colon photos.

So, what’s that white thing on my colon? I don’t know! BUT, it’s normal.

Bonus: It is a rare delight to catch a glimpse of the elusive Colon Farrell. Luckily, my doctor is a wizard with the colonoscope and was able to capture a quick photo before Mr. Farrell disappeared behind my cecum.

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I spent most of January organizing our kitchen. It’s a year-long organization project, and the end goal is to put the house on the market before 2015. (February is bedroom month. Bedroom month is going to be tricky. I believe basement month is in March. I will cry more than once during basement month.)

It appears that we have two cabinets in our kitchen that are not square or rectangular. They are more like heptagonal trapeziums with all sorts of weird angles that don’t hold a can of beans or a box of couscous. These cabinets are useless to me because I have no idea what to put in them. These cabinets actually ruined my day yesterday because NOTHING is the shape of a heptagonal trapezium. Late last night I shoved a rusty sifter into my heptagonal trapezium, and it was just as distressing as it sounds.

Ah, but #lazyjournal is NOT distressing. People are actually doing it and tagging it on Facebook and Instagram and on their websites, and feel free to join us. Do you want me to share my Lazy Journal entries here, too? Let me know. I’ll share them today, but I’ll plan on NOT sharing them in the future unless you’re interested.

Also, last Tuesday I had all of my annual bloodwork drawn, and I believe my vein exploded in my arm (I’m a clencher). This morning it looked like this.

If it’s still there in a week, I’m going to return to my tattoo place.

I hope your weekend was a good one. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Let’s talk about that whole single sentence journal thing. I’ve heard from a few people who told me that Gretchen Rubin talks about a One Sentence Journal in The Happiness Project.

She started hers to build on the idea that happy times from the past can make you happy in the future. I’m starting mine because I’m lazy, but I really enjoy sitting down with a blank page and a pen. She types hers on the computer. Mine will always be handwritten, but I plan on sharing it on Instagram. She has really great hair and I think I want to be friends with her. My hair barely exists and I’m much more charming on the computer than I am in real life. I could live on bean burritos and snickerdoodles. I may have to have a colonoscopy in a few weeks. The two previous sentences may (or may not) be related.

Anyway, because the hashtag #onesentencejournal is taken by Happiness Project enthusiasts, I say we just forget about hashtags. (Honestly, don’t get me started on hashtags. I once found myself all bent over in a closet and one of the reasons why had to do with hashtags (and my lack of spine).)

So, anyway, although the official start date is February 1, I’ve been warming up.

If you’re joining us and posting your stuff online, please share the address. If it takes less than fifteen minutes to accomplish, I’ll create a sidebar link list of our blurb journals. Wait. Blurb Journal. Hashtag Blurb Journal?! What just happened? ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Ten years ago, I got up every morning and wrote three pages in a journal. It was a time to puke my head out onto paper before getting started with the day, and I always loved the results.

I’ve been trying to get back into keeping a written journal for years, but I’ve always failed.

This afternoon I picked up a sketch pad and decided to write down a sentence that summarized the day. (Please know that my definition of sentence is loose. It can hold two periods. And can be capitalized. Burgers don’t have to look like burgers.)

Anyway, because the whole thing took less than two minutes and I was able to play with the pen Jeff gave me for Christmas (I love that stinking pen) and now the day is documented, it occurred to me that I should be doing this Every Day. One (or two) sentence journal entries. No need for elaboration.

Would you care to join me? Take a week to find a notebook and/or pen, and we’ll get this thing going on February 1st. Maybe we’ll even create a hashtag for it. We deserve a hashtag, right?

#singlesentencejournal #quickiejournal #keepitquickjournal ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

On January 20, 2012, Meredith finished her school spelling bee in the third place position. The word that took her down? Defiantly.

On January 31, 2013, Meredith tied for the position of first runner-up. The word that took her down? Evaluate.

This year Meredith once again won her class bee, making her eligible for the school bee. Once again, she studied her butt off to prepare. Once again, before leaving the house I grabbed a hot tea and a notebook to keep me busy so that I wouldn’t fidget, cry, or chew off my own arm during the assembly.

I arrived at the school at 1:50, and the spelling bee was scheduled to begin at 2:15. At around 2:00, the participants arrived, drew their order numbers, and took their seats. Meredith was lucky number four, and I would show you the photo of the kids lined up, but I didn’t have model release forms with me, and I have a funny feeling that a photo with Meredith and nine “hidden” children wouldn’t stir up much excitement.

Here. Wait.

Moderator: Meredith, your word is Gorgon.

Meredith: GeeOhAreGeeOhEn. Gorgon.

Moderator: That is correct.

Now wait a second. In case you didn’t follow that first link at the top of the page, look at how much Meredith has grown since her first appearance at the school spelling bee.

Oh, my heart and songs from Fiddler on the Roof and in ten years she’ll be 20 and my hair is so gray and my neck is starting to look like a gobbler neck and my ankles are the same size as my knees and every other sentiment that involves somehow saving time in a bottle, Jim Croce.

Anyway.

After Gorgon, which was a Round Five word, the other participants started dropping fairly quickly. Meredith hung in there with words like Infringe and Disarray and Vouch and Bolide and Forbidden.

When it got down to the final two participants, Meredith was given the word Vitriolic.

She spelled it correctly.

Moderator: Fourth Grade Boy, your word is Pontiff.

Fourth Grade Boy: Pontiff. P-O-N-T-I-F. Pontif.

Moderator: I’m sorry, but Pontiff is spelled P-O-N-T-I-F-F. If Meredith spells the next word correctly, she will win the spelling bee.

Meredith approached the microphone.

Moderator: Meredith, your word is Piety.

Meredith (without hesitation because she’s cool like that): Piety. PeeEyeEeeTeeWhy. Piety.

At that point, I grabbed my tea and started chugging it while writing PIETY! in my tiny notebook and my eyes welled up and I was clapping by slapping my legs and when did I lose all of my coolness? Because, honestly: It’s all gone. All of it.

(By the way, today is National Pie Day, and Meredith won the spelling bee with piety. I love that. Because I love pie. (And piety isn’t so shabby, either.))

Because the Puddings tend to celebrate all of our accomplishments with some sort of burrito or another, this evening we braved the freezing temperatures and burritoed it up. And burritoed is not a word. Until now.

When we last spoke, I mentioned that I wanted to pick the girls up from school and take them to Disney World. This was just my way of telling you that I was about to pick the girls up from school and take them to Disney World. Jeff was there for a sales meeting, and because the girls had a four day weekend, hooking up in Orlando made sense.

David Sedaris has taught me a lot of things, but one of the most memorable is this: No one wants to hear about your travel stories. No one wants to know that our flight was delayed to the extent that we were going to miss our connecting flight, meaning we would be at least a day late to Orlando. No one wants to hear that I had to pick the girls up earlier than I wanted and that we had to run like jerks who run through the airport and blashen blashen blashen ofdiuvhdvfkneipr98yshoa.

When we arrived in Orlando on Thursday night, Jeff picked us up from the airport and broke the news to the girls that they would be sharing a bed during the first night of the trip. To Harper, it suddenly didn’t matter that we were in Orlando. It didn’t matter that Jeff had a huge stack of snacks waiting for us in the hotel room. What mattered is this: Apparently, Meredith is a kicker. A KICKER.

(When Meredith was in kindergarten, the art teacher wrote her name on the back of one of her projects. Instead of writing “Meredith” she wrote “Meredlo”. It’s Harper’s favorite misspelling EVER, and sleeping with Meredlo is not hashtag how Harper does.)

I shared a bed with Meredlo on Thursday, and there was no kicking. The End.

Because the temperature was below freezing in St. Louis this morning and because freezing St. Louis people don’t want to hear about Florida, I’ll keep this short.

On Friday, we went to the Magic Kingdom, and the sky was amazing.

(Please know that castle cleaning crews were cleaning the castle and I really needed them to move the crane so I could take some decent photos, but they wouldn’t. So I didn’t. I did, however, almost get run over by at least 3,291 strollers that carried children who should have been walking. Let me just say this: If you have a child who is over the age of four and that child is perfectly capable of walking, please don’t rent a stroller. Your eight year old may be tired and cranky, but that doesn’t mean she needs wheels. There are other kids (and adults, for that matter) who need the stroller/wheelchair space. Don’t take up more room than you need. Someone please change the subject because I could go on and on about this and I’m starting to not like myself.)

On Friday evening we went to the new hotel, and it was a place where no one had to share a bed unless they wanted to.

Saturday was for Universal Studios, and Hogwarts was breathtaking.

My only recommendation? Buy ONE butterbeer. There is a good chance that the thought of butterbeer is much better than the actual butterbeer. And maybe you’re the only person in your party who really likes the butterbeer so you end up drinking most of the butterbeer because you don’t want to waste money and then you end up feeling really sick. Like, so sick that you are unable to go on rides because the thought of vomiting in public terrifies you. I’m 43. I know.

On Sunday, we went to an outlet mall and purchased absolutely nothing and then we went back to the hotel where Jeff and the girls swam and I watched the end of one of the Twilight movies and worked on a cardigan. That evening we went to Downtown Disney and ate at the Rainforest Cafe. Also, I made out with a statue.

Here’s the thing. If you give me a statue, there’s a good chance that I’ll make out with it. It’s hashtag how I do.

On Monday we checked out of the hotel and drove to Cocoa Beach to spend some time with the Atlantic Ocean.

At 6:40 we jumped on a plane and flew back home. After we went to bed, it began to snow. School was canceled. I cleaned out a cabinet and a closet, made fake steak veggie burritos, and set up an appointment with a new dentist.

(Edited to add: Thanks to Beth’s curiosity, I did some research and I now know that the statue with whom I was making out is a statue of Patrick Kavanagh, a colorful Irish poet who died of bronchitis in 1967. The statue is outside of Raglan Road, an Irish pub named after one of Kavanagh’s poems. Thanks, Beth!) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>