Four days only!

So, last year I made a video of myself writing all over my face for Easter.

About a month after I posted it, all hell broke loose.

Let’s just say this: There’s an amazing dead pianist out there with a crabby family who doesn’t appreciate his music being played while a complete idiot marks herself up with Clinique eyeliner.

With all due respect (or whatever you say when you’ve decided to flip the kindest of birds), I’m proud of that stinking video. Seriously! I had to write on my face backwards, and you know how tricky that is!

Because my feelings of invincibility tend to hit in 96-hour spurts, I’m putting the video up again, but will be taking it down on Monday.

Happy Easter to you.

Happy Easter from Fluid Pudding! from Angela D. on Vimeo. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

It’s the First Annual Fluid Pudding BreadPuddingAlong!

As you know, the Oklahoma City bombing took place back in April of 1995. I was working my first full-time job at the time, and the folks I worked with felt quite helpless about the whole situation. We wanted to do something to help, but the company wouldn’t match any sort of financial contribution, and the money that WAS raised didn’t seem to really amount to anything and blech. It sort of sucked. We sent off a check, and still felt as if we hadn’t done enough.

And then one of the employees made a huge card for all of us to sign. (And by huge, I mean it was nearly forty eight inches tall. You know those stupid big cards that no one really wants to receive? Yeah. It was one of those. Made out of flimsy paper pulled off of a roll.)

Please know that I’m all for cards and well-wishes and heartfelt sentiments and whatnot. With that said, when the card got to me, I really hesitated before signing it. Why did I hesitate? Because, at the time, I was working with people who were actually writing things like, “Turn your scars into stars, Oklahoma! Love, Judy!” and “I once visited that building on my vacation! Get well soon, Oklahoma!”

Okay. Let’s fast forward nearly fourteen years to yesterday afternoon. As you know, I had a pretty sucky day. (And please know that my suckiest of days don’t even come close to the suckiness behind the Oklahoma bombing. That’s NOT what I’m saying. Gheez. I’m not even sure why I brought it up other than to tell you about that ridiculous Scars into Stars thing. Please know that the card also sported quite a few smiley faces with tears coming out of the eyes. I’m hoping they were all drawn by the same person, because if several people went in the crying smiley face direction, well, that’s sort of weird, right?) Anyway. Yesterday. All it took was me quickly muttering the term Bread Pudding, and the e-mails and comments started pouring in.

To summarize: You guys LOVE bread pudding! And so do I! Also, you guys are ALL having sort of sucky days lately! SO, let’s turn our scars into stars, people! Let’s all go to the grocery store and gear up for the First Annual Fluid Pudding BreadPuddingAlong!

What you need to do: Sometime this weekend, make a bread pudding. (I just might go with this one.) THEN, send a photo my way via e-mail or a link or whatever. If you don’t want to deal with a photograph, just tell me about your pudding! Write a stinkin’ poem about your pudding! And eat your pudding! And maybe make an extra for that friend or neighbor who seems to be a bit on the crying smiley face side of the fence! It’s the First Annual Fluid Pudding BreadPuddingAlong!

Tell your friends.

(I’ll contact Hallmark.)

Who’s in?

(Cue the crickets.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

This Makeout Party with the Dead has been brought to you by Levaquin!

For the past three weeks or so, I’ve had this coughing thing. It has made me sweat, it has made me vomit (Cranberry salad! I thought I was puking blood! But it wasn’t blood, it was cranberries (and grapes)! Enjoy your lunch.), it has kept me up at night, it has made my family hate me, blah, blah, blah. Ten days ago, my doctor gave me another round of antibiotics, as the Zithromax she had originally prescribed didn’t do the trick. When she wrote the prescription for Levaquin, she told me that the only side effect she’s heard of is weird dreams. And the skies opened up, and the angels began to sing, “Pay-YO-teeeeeeeeee!!!”

The past ten nights have been amazing. (And please know that both Dreamed and Dreamt are acceptable as the past tense for Dream. I just looked it up!) Anyway, I dreamed that I belted out Seals and Crofts’ “Diamond Girl” as I chased after a bird with diamond wings in Africa. I dreamt (seriously—both are correct!) that Meredith was on probation at school because she couldn’t eat cake without stabbing it maniacally with a fork and screaming “I am the bride of Jesus!!!” I dreamed of eating toasted ravioli filled with sweet potatoes (and sprinkled with shimmering powdered sugar) while standing in line to ride a purple roller coaster.

I was sort of sad last night as I went to bed. I had taken my final Levaquin, and was getting ready to settle in for the final party in the Land of Nod. AND, that final pill did not disappoint. As Harper sat in a cabin and played with baby alligators (they were totally tame and toothless!), I made out with Heath Ledger (the Very Much Alive version). And holy smokes. That Heath Ledger certainly knows what he’s doing. Especially when it comes to Going Straight for the Neck.

Tonight, medication free, I’ll surely return to my old school dreams—me trying to attend a class that I never signed up for, me taking a shower (I dream it fairly often, and then I wake up sort of disappointed that I still need to take a shower), me accidentally driving a car off the edge of a bridge… Oh. I’m sorry. I believe I just put you to sleep with my simpleton dreams. Here. Let me cover you with a soft blanket and kiss your forehead.

I’ll miss you, sweet Levaquin. And, I heartily recommend you to anyone with a bacterial infection! (And wouldn’t it be great if I now yelled out something like, “And let’s have a giveaway! The fine folks at Levaquin would like to give out some free samples to any of you who are suffering from lung, sinus, skin, or urinary tract infections! Leave a comment below, and three lucky winners will score some dreamy pills!” Sadly, I am not allowed to offer drugs at Fluid Pudding Dot Com. But I AM allowed to offer Little Debbie snacks! And I’ll do that early next week.)

Heath Ledger! Whoosh! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Shoes and Delhi’s Chaat and Drake Bell and Pork!

2008 Pudding Christmas

First off and most importantly? Merry Christmas from The Puddings.

Our day has been filled with stuffed animals that whimper, a Drake Bell concert DVD, both sets of grandparents, a little of this, a lot more of that, Danskos, a two hour nap (for everyone!), and Gokul. It really doesn’t get much better.

AND, this afternoon the Random Number Generator spit this out:
Random Integer Generator!

In other words, Alli is the winner of the hat! And I have contacted her, and she is thrilled, and HOORAY! I really should do knitted giveaways more often.

I hope your day was as peaceful as ours. (And that unlike me, you didn’t have terrible dreams about your husband dropping your kids off at a stranger’s home just so he could enjoy a $4.99 plate of BBQ pork with a questionable woman.)

Dry rubbed pork plate in excelsis deo!

And on Earth, peace, good will toward men. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I’m simply mollycoddled!

Internet Friends, I am lucky.

In the past year, because of Fluid Pudding Dot Com:

  • I was able to share 60 boxes of M&Ms with you.
  • I was able to do that whole Bedroom Makeover thing.
  • I funded a trip to BlogHer in San Francisco by selling handknit socks and sock ornaments. (AND, Ornament Friends? I’m 1.5 ornaments away from sending out packages! I’ll be in touch with you sometime in the next week!)

And that’s just the Stuff part of it. To risk sounding all drippy and kissy-faced, I really can’t put into words just how amazing FPdotCom has been in regard to Community and Friendships and Goodwill and Whatnot. I know I’ve been guilty of being all, “Blah blah blah I QUIT! Here’s a Jeff Buckley video for you to prove just how much of a quitter I really am!!!” in the past. Right now? I’m at a Fluid Pudding Happy level of 9.6! (And you know who you are, Person Who Recently Brought Me Down By Four-Tenths of a Point!)

Anyway. A few weeks back I asked you guys to visit Secret Agent Josephine and enter my name in her monthly banner drawing because I’m nothing but a disaster at banners and I’ve always admired her work. (Yep. Check out those coffee cards. Is it wrong to be so in love with a set of cards?! Also, I have four words for you: Pockets the Lumpy Cat. Please adopt Pockets and then come right back here and tell me about the nice home you’re going to give him. Because I love that stinkin’ cat.) And you visited her. And she visited me. And now? Well, look at my banner. (Wait a second. Just looking at that banner shot me right back up to a 10! 10.4, even! Take THAT, PWRBMDBF-ToaP!)

And that’s not all. After I wrote that post, I was contacted by an old college friend who took time out of her day to design some sample banners for me! And look at how cute they are.

So fun. So cute! It’s a cross-eyed cat! (AND, if you’re interested in contacting Linda for a possible banner and her schedule has room for some freelance work, shoot an e-mail my way (angela at fluidpudding dot com), and I’ll forward your request on to her!)

Anyway. The phrase Embarrassment of Riches comes to mind a lot these days. And for that? I thank you. And you. (But not YOU, PWRBMDBF-ToaP. I’m a huge grudge holder, you know.)

Pockets the Lumpy Cat! Go get him! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Perhaps the sun reflected off of my sparkling mouth and blinded the guy in the truck.

This morning, while wearing my brand new sparkling lip gloss, I witnessed a car accident. And because I was running late for volunteering at Meredith’s school, I kept driving—feeling really crappy for not stopping. Because, seriously? These twinkling (and supposedly pouting) lips need to speak out! Especially in situations where insurance companies and police officers are involved!

As I helped a few of my kindergarten friends learn the difference between 12 and 15 (those numbers are especially tricky, and probably should have been named twoteen and fiveteen), I shimmered and set the plan of calling the police the minute I got home to tell them (using my glimmering mouth) that I saw the accident, and it was totally the guy in the white truck’s fault, and I’m sorry I left the scene, and I am now ready for my community service assignment. (My new glossy lips will really pop when I match them up with an orange jumpsuit.)

After the final kindergartener was able to identify the numbers with no mistakes, I drove to Walgreens to purchase a new set of tweezers. (When your lips are like diamonds, your brows beg for a proper taming. Girl, you know it’s true.) While in the parking lot I saw that a tow truck, holding one of the cars involved in the accident, was across the street at the gas station.

I crossed the street and let my flickering lips lead the way to the tow truck guy.

Me (sparkle, sparkle): Everyone from the accident is alright, right?

Tow Truck Guy (TTG): I’m not really supposed to discuss it.

Me (with lips like shining stars): I know. BUT, I saw the whole thing. And I want to make sure that everyone knows that the guy in the white truck was 100% at fault.

TTG (sort of hypnotized by my glowing yap): Yeah. The guy in the truck knows it was his fault. He’ll be responsible for the whole deal.

Me: Ohmygoshyouwanttokissmethisiscrazy.

TTG: Ma’am?

Me: YoucancallmeSheila. Nothing. Okay then.

So, justice is often served, men who drive white trucks might be all Greased Lightning but at least they’re also sometimes honest, I’m going to write President Obama about my twoteen and fiveteen recommendation, and my lips are luminous with no sticky or tacky feeling. Enjoy your day. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

He kissed my cheek before bucketing my noggin.

A few nights ago Ben Folds gently placed a bright pink bucket hat on my head and crowned me Queen of the Shirtless Crab Walk.

But let’s start at the beginning, shall we?

When Jeff and I were shopping for wedding rings, we ended up at a jewelry store in a mall in Nashville, Tennessee. After making our selections (Jeff’s ring is gold with black ridges that remind him of record albums, mine is platinum and has eleven tiny diamonds embedded into the band for no real reason at all), we were asked if we wanted anything engraved onto the rings.

Me: Yes. Put ‘My Only Friend, The End’ inside Jeff’s ring.

Jewelry Store Kid: Seriously?

Me: Yes. If engraving costs less than five dollars.

After our wedding ceremony, it occurred to me that Jeff never answered the question about engraving. I slid the ring off of my finger, expecting (and sort of hoping) to find a fabulous William Gass quote. Instead, I found one word. Ben.


Me: Jeff? Why did you do this?

Jeff: Um, I didn’t do that. Actually, it sort of looks like the engraver screwed up someone else’s ring and then put it back into the case to be sold. Look at the messed up N.

Me (muttering a few expletives, some that begin with an F): I’ll be clearing this up when we get back to Nashville.

Get this. When I returned to the store to clear up the Ben issue, I found that all of the jewelry cases had been removed, and the store had closed down leaving no forwarding address. Interesting. (I immediately took the ring to have it appraised. I have no idea why, other than: What if those aren’t really diamonds?! What if it’s not really platinum?! It seems that everything is fine, except I still have Ben rubbing up against the finger that holds the vein that runs directly to my heart or something.)

Let’s fast forward seven years, shall we? (Seven years that involved purchasing every Ben Folds album and familiarizing the girls with his music to the extent that they can name Gracie in less than three notes.) ((If you follow that link, please know that I have no idea who the people are in that video, and I sort of wish they wouldn’t have interrupted the song with their baby’s first cry. Then again, I tend to be insensitive when the moon is full.))

On Thursday night, Jeff and I took to the streets to see Ben Folds play at The Pageant. And I won’t tell you that I was clearly the oldest person in attendance, because that fact tends to make my eyes well up a bit. So, let’s skip over my realization that several of the kids in line were born when I was already drinking beer. Legally. Wait. Can I just tell you that I heard a girl say “It’s on like Donkey Kong!” as we stood in line to enter the building? She was totally serious about It being On like Donkey Kong! (She had spent nearly two hours in the Big People line, and was slightly distressed about being asked to move to the back of the Under 21 line. When we heard her story and discovered that it was about to be On like Donkey Kong, we quickly surrendered our place in the Under 21 line and went in search of our fellow Big People. I do not regret that move.)

We found our seats, we made out a bit (I might be stretching the truth on that one), and we prepared for the opening act. (Prepared = Continued to sit. We were very lucky to have seats.) Opening act? Missy Higgins. And during her first song I developed one of those I Want to Buy All of Her Albums Right Now crushes. I also want to figure out how to knit the cabled tank she was wearing. But you don’t care about that, do you?

The Ben Folds performance? As expected, it was flawless. Had you been sitting next to me, you would have noticed me giving my cranial approval by cocking my head to the side in that “I’m really feeling this” way, and nodding to the rhythm as if to say “Yes! Uh huh! Uh huh!” over and over again. Let’s see. Do you mind if I simply run down the set list with you? (I know you’re really wanting to get to the part about the shirtless crab walk. I’m getting there. I promise.)

And right now you’re wondering what the Fake Leak thing is, right? I know! Before their latest album was released, Mr. Folds “leaked” songs onto the internet with the same titles as the album tracks. But they weren’t the album songs. SO, the folks who grabbed up the fakes thought they were getting actual album tracks. But they weren’t. And I would say something about getting pleasantly punked, but I’m 38, remember?! (You can find some of the leaks on this site if you fish around a bit.)

By the way, we left after the fake leak version of Frowne Song. If you were at the show, please don’t tell me that we missed a second encore. Please. And please don’t tell me that it contained Philosophy. Seriously. Because I don’t want to know that. (Philosophy was on the CD that Jeff and I gave out to everyone at our wedding reception. And that was Seven Years Ago tomorrow. October 20th. Seven Years. I’ve never held a job for seven years. I’ve never done Anything for seven years. (Except for the Fluid Pudding thing. Fluid Pudding and Jeff. There you go. Cheers.))

When we got home after the show that night, I sat up and watched The Office. And then I fell asleep and had a dream during which I was crab walking around The Pageant without my shirt on. (As I sometimes do. The employees are very patient.) I eventually found myself backstage balancing a bottle of beer in Billy Pancake, and Ben Folds walked up, bent down, kissed my cheek, and placed a bright pink bucket hat on my head. “You are Queen of the Shirtless Crab Walk!” he proclaimed as he tapped my head with his own bottle of beer, which is just as good as slipping an engraved ring containing eleven tiny diamonds onto the finger that holds the vein that runs directly to my heart or something. And it all seemed very Just Another Day in the Life.

If your heart is in your dream, no request is too extreme. When you wish upon a star as dreamers do. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>