Will it make me sick? Archives : Page 8 of 8 : Fluid Pudding

Muffin Failures, Unicorn Videos, and Rear View Organs

Don’t you hate it when someone starts singing songs about giving away muffins and then they disappear for a week? Let the Truth Be Told: I never heard back from my muffin man. I’m going to contact one other person (Governor Muffin) to see what I can do, but right now it’s not looking good.

Speaking of not looking good, here’s the Testicle Unicorn, as seen on Pudding Laundry Day, which is pretty much every day, and I’m not sure why I need you to know that. Perhaps I’m just a bit embarrassed by all of the laundry baskets sitting around. Also, pay special attention to how the unicorn’s hair is gently blowing in the breeze. Please know that there was no breeze. The thing truly is magical. (Mythical? Testicle?):

Oh! And once again speaking of Not Looking Good, get this. The next time you see me you’re going to think “Wow. Something is different about her, but I can’t figure out what it is.” Here. Let me help you. It’s my gall bladder, or lack thereof! I’ll spare you the uglies. Just know that I have a surgical consult on Thursday! And the only thing that really gets my goat is the fact that this whole gall bladder extraction thing might affect my road trip to Chicago in a few weeks.

Turning Lemons into Lemonade, as I Often Do: Since I might not be able to deliver the muffins, perhaps I’ll knit up a sporty little gall bladder and one of you (very lucky) people will be able to place a spanking new handknit organ on your dashboard before the end of the summer (or winter, or whatever season you’re dealing with right now, turn, turn, turn). I’ll be in touch. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I like to think I was born to run, but I’ll take what I can get.

Last week I took the girls to my folks’ house to spend the day with my twelve-year-old nephew who was in town for the week. Justin, my nephew, is one of those kids who can pick up a video game he has never played before and pwn it. (Suddenly, instead of actually gaining worldly-wise points by using “pwn” I believe I’ve just morphed into your dead Aunt Gladys who used to smile through gloppy smeared lipstick and ask, “So, are you sweet on anyone? Hhmmm???”) Anyway, the game of the day was Mario Kart for the Wii, and before I could throw my keys onto the couch, I was challenged to a race. And although only two of us were racing, I actually came in sixth. (I’m still not completely clear on how that happened.)

MC: Mommy, sometimes I think you were born to lose.

Later that afternoon as I lost my balance and fell down while trying to rotate the lazy susan, I was once again told that I was born to lose. A few hours later, when I asked the girls to put their shoes on because it was time to go to the bathroom (I meant time to go home. Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if you could actually feel parts of your brain infarct. I’m imagining it’s not unlike Pop Rocks just inside the back of your skull.), it came up again. “You really WERE born to lose! Ha Ha HA HA HA HA!!!” And even at 39, when you’re told over and over (and over) again that you were born to lose, well, it begins to affect your mood. Maybe they’re right. No, they’re not right. Maybe they are. No. Maybe.

Later that evening, Jeff took the girls to the YMCA to swim, and I drove to the nearest bookstore to pick up a copy of Infinite Jest. Yes. I am one of the many who have ambitious plans to participate in Infinite Summer, and although many may believe I was born to lose, this is something for which I am fully determined to pass muster. (I recently learned that it’s Muster and not Mustard. Apparently, you can cut the mustard, but you must pass muster. Four synapses just began firing again, and it feels like butter melting behind my ears.)

As soon as I can figure out how, I’m going to add some sort of progress update to my sidebar (below the ad thing, of course, because I’m wearing a XXL “Plays by the Rules” jacket) so I feel a pinch of accountability. Please feel free to update me on your progress, as well. Even if your progress has nothing to do with anything I’ve mentioned to you today.

Speaking of improvisational dancing, my final Sports Active update is up. If you go here and then click on the line of text right above the photo, you’ll be directed to a super secret location where you may cast a voyeuristic peeper upon me in a skirted swimsuit. This is a once in a lifetime experience, internet friends. Born to lose, indeed. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Who says?!

It’s no secret that I went to the gynecologist a few weeks ago. It’s also no secret that I’ve been taking estrogen-free birth control pills for the past four years. (Seriously. Anyone who has spent five minutes with me knows that I’m on estrogen-free birth control. It’s my “How’s the weather?” ice breaker!) Wait. You know what else isn’t a secret? My gynecologist believes that I’m ready for some estrogen! (Did you know that estrogen promotes wound healing in both humans and mice? This comes as good news, for I am Wounded.) ((I’m not really Wounded.))

I come to you today as a sassy snarling woman who wads up imaginary paper and yells, “Who says all birth control pills have to be the same?!” I am repunctuating my life! My carefree curly-haired Logical is having talks with my straight-haired (and argyled) Emotional! (They even play Toss the Pills together at 0:11! How cute is that?! Also, did you know that fewer periods equals cuter clothes? Everything I know comes straight out of the Seasonique ad!)

(WARNING: All hell is going to break loose around here during the week of September 6th. Just in time for Labor Day, Jerry Lewis!)

(If you’re interested, I’m shrinking a bit. Scroll down to the photo. Right above it is the Week 3 link.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

My butt is eager, yet not quite ready for its closeup.

When I was in college, I often found myself working out in my room using a Jane Fonda cassette I had made by sticking my cassette recorder up to the television as the VHS tape played. The recording was really crappy (or charming, depending on your perspective), as it featured several dog barks, a few door slams, and my mom asking, “Why are you recording this?!” (Of course, I answered with a sharp “Ssshhh!” which was also caught on tape.)

I’ll never forget the night I was working out in my room (with the door closed and locked, because as much as I loved my college roommates, I really didn’t want them to see me in those positions) and I suddenly felt the need to use the restroom. I ran from my room to the bathroom wearing a tan sports bra and green parachute shorts. Nick, one of my roommates at the time, saw me and yelled, “Hey! Angie! Damn, Girl!” (That’s an exact quote, by the way. It’s still bouncing around in my head.) You see, Nick thought I was working out topless.

Secretly, I enjoyed the fact that from that point forward, Nick probably assumed that I was in my room doing a topless Fonda every time he heard my cassette player kicking into action.

Fast forward something like seventeen years.

Last week I told you that I would provide video footage of me actually working out with the Wii Sports Active Thirty Day Bacon Lettuce Tomato Mustard Mayonnaise Crosby Stills Nash and Young Workout. Two nights back, Jeff actually shot some video of the workout, and it was shot from behind and it seems that my butt is a big old camera hog, and watching it almost made me cry and instead of showing it to you, I would much rather you assume that I’m working out looking all svelte-like with just a bit of glistening sweat providing a healthy and almost angelic (or vampire-esque, whatever you prefer) glow to my skin.

With that said, my “I’m Halfway Done” update is up. If you go here and scroll down, you’ll find the link to my notes right above the photo. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Miss Crazy in Prison with the Makeup

I stopped by the Crazy Lady Starbucks last night on my way to work. While there, I asked if they experienced any sort of customer disturbance on Saturday morning at 9:45ish. And they had! Apparently, the woman who yelled at me in the parking lot entered Starbucks and started acting all crazy and screaming out her drink order. The manager wanted to avoid a scene, so she escorted Miss Crazy (I know, that’s mean. But I refuse to keep calling her “the woman”. Wait. Let’s call her Beyoncé just to add some sparkle to the story.), I mean, the manager escorted Beyoncé to the head of the line where Beyoncé continued to yell out inappropriate things to the employees and the other customers.

After getting her coffee, Beyoncé sat in a corner and talked to herself for nearly an hour. And here’s the part of the story that haunts me: She didn’t bring her child into Starbucks with her. In other words, I really should have hung out a bit longer, because Beyoncé left her child in a car seat in a van in a parking lot (in St. Charles, in Missouri, in the United States, in North America, continue to pan out, etc.) for an hour while she sat inside muttering battys and whatnots. Hhhhhhhh.

Funniest Thing The Starbucks Guy Said to Me: Yeah, thanks for waiting four days to check in on us. If she had been swinging a knife, we would still be bleeding while you were “out there” doing your ugly hair thing!

Insert seamless segue right here, would you?

So, I’ve got this fresh thing under my arm (you WANT me to spare the details.), but I can’t go see my dermatologist BECAUSE HE IS IN PRISON. (So, I’m going to see my gynecologist instead. Monday morning. 8:15. Don’t worry.) By the way, did I mention that my dermatologist is in PRISON? I do hope they crown him Dermatologist Amongst the Prisoners, because he did cure the ugly batch of eczema on my hand (Remember when I had to wear the gloves? Yeesh.), and I’m a firm believer in requiring dermatologist prisoners to palliate the perplexing pustules of their prisoner peers. (I know. I’m making light. And the reason he is in prison is so completely horrible. Unforgivable, really.)

Another segue here! You’re getting good at this!

I’m giving away a hefty amount of Max Factor stuff over here. And even if you’re not into scoring makeup, you should at least jump over and witness the disaster that is me after applying 39 years worth of makeup in one sitting. (My mom doesn’t have any photographs of me playing with makeup as a child. Now she does. You know, minus that whole Child thing.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I should have stuffed the jumbos. Instead, I embed.

Last year, to commemorate the anniversary of my birth, I stuffed quite a few marshmallows into my mouth to see if I could get past a dozen without choking. This year I fully intended to do the same thing, but really. How many marshmallow stuffing videos does the world need? (Plus, I’m wearing my new favorite scarf right now and I can’t risk the slobber. You know how it is.)

Enjoy your day, especially if you have either graham crackers or chocolate in your possession. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Ramona Quimby Pudding

“I’m ten weeks old, I weigh three and a half pounds, and I’m ready to flap your jack, twisted sister.”

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Care to follow me down a side road?

So, I posted the following few paragraphs and reviews earlier today, and then it seemed weird to be posting anything in light of the terrible news about Madeline. (You can donate to March of Dimes in her honor by heading over here.) Anyway, I’m always completely speechless in these situations, and then I read what Velma wrote about her own daughter. And she summed up my feelings so perfectly.

My book club is meeting next week, and for the second month in a row, I have not yet read the book. Instead, I’ve been reading The Household Guide to Dying. And I’m loving it, and I talk all about it right over here.

Also, I’ve been eating yogurt. And I made a video of myself eating yogurt (follow this link to see), because sometimes that urge just strikes, don’t you agree? Actually, I believe we should pick a day and all make videos of ourselves eating our favorite food. Would you be up for it? (I choose Delhi’s Chaat (#11 on the menu), and I choose May 12th, for obvious reasons.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

FafPuhBuhPah! It’s catchy! (And it smells good.)

When I was a kid, our family ate lunch at my grandma’s house every single Sunday after church. Grandma would cook a full lunch for ten people, and all of her kids and the grandkids would gather around the table and stuff themselves before wandering out to the driveway where the older kids would shoot baskets and the younger kids would burn ants to a crisp using a magnifying glass and the sun. (I was in the ant burning group, but I tended to shift my focus toward leaves.)

When I was 23, my grandma stopped hosting the weekly lunches. Suddenly, I began to realize that people get old and lose energy and eventually die. (Honestly. I remember when the whole Mortality thing really hit me. It was a sad day back in 1993.) Anyway, for Christmas that year, I asked Grandma to write a cookbook that would hold recipes of the stuff she would often make for Sunday lunch.

This is the first page of the cookbook:

(Please note that Hog Potatoes are listed as “Angie’s Favorite” and the last line of the recipe is “After you eat these, you will look and feel like a hog.” Interesting.)

Anyway, this has nothing to do with anything, but it seems oddly related to the First Annual Fluid Pudding BreadPuddingAlong (Also known as FAFPBPA, which is pronounced FafPuhBuhPah!) (Funny. The whole cookbook story is really not related to FAFPBPA at all. The book contains a recipe for peach cobbler, but no mention of bread pudding. Go drink something while I indulge in a little disorganized reminiscing, okay? Okay.)

Anyway, since Grandma’s recipe isn’t available, I went ahead and used the recipe from Moms Who Think.

The result?

Very tasty for my first bread pudding!

A few participants have e-mailed links and photos, and I’m positively giddy about how we’re making the world a better place One Bread Pudding At a Time! (I’ll try to add everyone to the list as you submit your puddings! There is no cut-off date for the First Annual Fluid Pudding BreadPuddingAlong!)

Participants in the First Annual Fluid Pudding BreadPuddingAlong:

Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

My Dad!

Poppy Mom made Curried Bread Pudding!

Nichole

Carole’s Onion Pudding ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>