Fluid Pudding : Page 109 of 122 : It's the old small talk!

I’m eating my hair. I’m eating my hair!

So, I’m about to update my website software to the latest version, and I’m shaking in my boots. My hair is curling, my flesh is crawling, my blood is running cold, et cetera.

Confession: I am scared to death of driving around in a big city. I’m no good at it. I make lots of mistakes. (You can ask my Chicago companions how many times we were almost killed last week simply because I insisted on driving. I’m ridiculous!) Anyway, this Updating of the Software thing? Let’s just say I would rather be dropped in the middle of Atlanta rush hour traffic in a smoking crap Gran Torino than deal with this. (Ask Mr. Deal. He’s totally aware of my ignorance. We actually talked on the phone once, and I’m still feeling stupid about how stupid I can be!)

If something terrible happens, please know that I love each and every one of you for reasons only I will ever know. Blackbird? I know we’ll meet some day. This is just another bump in that road. Finslippy? You always ALWAYS make me laugh and laugh. Emily? We WILL have coffee. Amy? I finished your socks this afternoon, and they’re currently soaking in a lavender bath! I should join them! (Don’t worry. I won’t join them.)

Wait. Why is everything fading? Hhhmmmm. I believe I’ll start walking toward that light in the distance…

Seriously, all. Wish me luck. IhatethisIhatethisIhatethisIhatethisetc.

EDITED TO ADD: Okay. You can all relax. I think I did it. I think. And the funny (?) thing is, I just looked to my right and noticed a big smear of blood on the wall. I have no idea where THAT came from. (Really. I have no idea. Blood on the wall!) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Colon Firth—The Final Innard Entry

I come to you this day to report that my colon is clear and healthy, and I may now sit safely under the large (and slightly itchy) IBS quilt.

Wait. Did you just say you wanted to see a photograph of my colon? Well, here you go!

(That is not a hot dog, René Magritte!)

As you can see, what my colon lacks in personality, he makes up for in shininess! Pizazz, even!

When he gets spruced up a bit, he turns into an angry (and sweaty) chemistry teacher!

“Astatine!!! Einsteinium!!! Damnit!!!”

(Thanks to everyone for the comments and e-mails. I’m now off to Chicago for my annual Fiber and Sushi Hajj.)

Nothing to see here…

I’m sort of updating this as I go, until I end up doing an inadvertent impression of Glenn Close crying in the shower.

Breakfast: One cup of Earl Grey with (perfectly legal) honey, one half cup of cherry gelatin, one half cup of beef broth, one iced coffee with Splenda.

Mid-morning snack: One cup of apple juice, and one apple Jolly Rancher. Yeah. Seriously.

Lunch: One watermelon Jolly Rancher. More beef broth. Whee! I’m shaky!

Mid-afternoon snack: Chicken broth, because I like to Shake It Up. Two watermelon Jolly Ranchers. Iced coffee. Water. Cherry Jolly Rancher. Blue raspberry Jolly Rancher. Viva la Jolly Ranchers!

4:00 CST: Time for the purging of the innards. La la la la laaaaaaaah! Ouch.

Dinner: Beef broth. No more Jolly Ranchers. Two 32 oz. bottles of Gatorade, each spiked with half a bottle of Miralax.

9:12 CST: Hating it. The end.

Mood: Irritable. Don’t look at me. No. I mean it.

Frown upside down/scar into star/etc.: The tooth fairy had to make an emergency trip to Walgreens last night.

Also, we went bowling yesterday. Meredith tends to throw the ball and then twist her body around in an attempt to alter the atmospheric pressure just enough to attract the ball to the pins.

Harper handles the ball like a hot potato and follows every throw with a victory dance.
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I’ve eliminated friends who have broken my spines.

I’m in love with having signed copies of books. Seeing an author’s handwriting makes me feel closer to the actual writing process, and that jazzes me to no end. I keep all of my signed books on the top shelf of my bookshelf, and they are the only books that receive a semi-regular dusting. (Okay. I made that up. None of my books receive even a semi-regular dusting. Gesundheit!)

My copy of Remembering Denny is the first book I had signed, and is one of my most treasured possessions.

After listening to me drone on about the Mrs. Bridget character in Tom Jones’s “Henry Fielding,” Helen Fielding told me I was brilliant. (I don’t think she really meant it. I think we both know I was being embarrassingly pretentious and her “brilliant” was code for “Okay then, Spooky. Moving right along!”)

Jeff gave this to me a few months before he moved to Nashville. I have very distinct memories of sitting on a washing machine at my apartment complex and studying the pen dents left by William Gass.

Shortly after discovering I was pregnant with Meredith, I had Salman Rushdie sign my copy of The Ground Beneath Her Feet. I will not let anyone borrow this book. You know, because of the fatwa and all.

Jenny Boully dyes amazing yarn and spins amazing words.

SueBob gave this to me at BlogHer in San Francisco last year, and every time I open it, I think of her.

My friend Jen sent this to me for my birthday. It was one of my favorite gifts.

This is one of my recent acquisitions. Bill Keaggy is one of the most creative locals I sort of know. He celebrates National Sandwich Month every year! He collects grocery lists! He takes photos of Sad Chairs!

Right here is where I would add a photograph of Eden Kennedy‘s signature in my copy of Things I Learned About My Dad, but it is currently sitting on a shelf in Springfield, Missouri. I took the book to San Francisco last year with the goal of having it signed by each of the contributors. Sadly, because I’m Angela R. Pudding, I didn’t have the guts to approach anyone but Eden.

Thanks to Angella, I just received a copy of the new Danny Evans book. And I have a huge grin on my face because of this:

Those words will keep me smiling for approximately 17.2 days. (And the words printed within will keep the smile going, I’m sure.)

Tell me your author stories. It’s fifty degrees outside, and I’ve busted out the jeans. (Figuratively. Shut up.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Care to relive our weekend?

Meredith had her first soccer game on Saturday.

Afterward, the team celebrated their loss with amazing amounts of sugar. (Not pictured, but definitely devoured: A massive doughnut.)

On Saturday afternoon, we went to The LOT, where the girls met Fredbird and I admired Courtney’s TwIsTeD creations.

Also, Harper was inked by the St. Louis Symphony.

Finally, we went to the Arch. (I’m convinced that it’s impossible to take an interesting photograph of the Arch, as it’s already been photographed (and photographed, etc.) from every possible angle.)

There was also a graduation party that contained the best corn bread corn casserole thing I’ve ever tasted. Also, I made turkey burgers flavored with crushed spicy pretzels. Best of all? We experienced sweater weather, and I drank a chai outside. Things are getting good.

(TCOB: Last call for t-shirts. If you didn’t receive an e-mail from me, I’m not aware of your t-shirt urges. If you received an e-mail from me and you didn’t respond, I’ll assume you’ve changed your mind. Either way, I drank a chai outside this weekend. And that, coupled with the tattoo and the goal tending and whatnot, is really all that matters.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Shiny things! Babies! Diversions!

Many of you have requested this video, and I figured today would be the perfect day to put it back up.

It moves the FAFPBPA shirt down a bit! It shows a kid with great (sweaty bedhead) hair! I’m sort of singing!

Anyway. Enjoy.

(I removed the related videos which all featured actual snakes biting actual babies. You can thank me later.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Your neighbors will be green, I tell you!

So, when Melissa designed the shirt for FAFPBPA, a few people stepped up and said something to the effect of, “I will not prep my bowels with you, but I WILL sport the T.”

And then Melissa stepped up AGAIN and said that she can make it happen for twenty bucks a shirt. (And then I squealed, jumped off of my chair, and high-fived everyone in the room.) ((It doesn’t take much.))

In other words, Yes! You really CAN buy a t-shirt that celebrates the clearing of my bowels! This is the opportunity of a lifetime, people!

If you’re interested, shoot an e-mail titled “BOWELS” to angela at fluidpudding dot com.

I’ll get back in touch about sizes and payment details.

I guarantee you this: No one else in your world has a bowel prep t-shirt. This will put you One Step Above.

(I’m buying one for my gastroenterologist.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Stock up on the Northern! It’s FAFPBPA time!!!

Do you remember back in March when I threw my fist to the sky and invited you to participate in the First Annual Fluid Pudding BreadPuddingAlong (also known as FAFPBPA, which is pronounced FafPuhBuhPah)?

Six months have passed, and I think it’s time we have ANOTHER FafPuhBuhPah! But this time? Let’s shake it up a lot more than a little, shall we?!

It seems that Wednesday, September 9th will find me knocked out (and rolled over) as I undergo both an upper endoscopy (to rule out ulcers) AND a colonoscopy (to rule out Crohn’s). Wheee! I’m not particularly rattled about these procedures, because the people driving the tubes around my insides do this stuff every single day. (Except maybe Christmas and/or their own birthday.) (I wonder how many times a tube-driving doctor has jokingly muttered “I shoulda taken that left turn at Albuquerque” while performing a colonoscopy. Because that is very (very) funny. To me.)

What I *am* a bit puckered up about are the events that have to take place the day prior to the procedures. Let’s call a duck a duck, shall we? I am dreading the idea of “bowel prep.”

This is where you come in. Wait! Get back here!!!

It’s the First Annual Fluid Pudding BowelPrepAlong (also known as FAFPBPA, which is pronounced FafPuhBuhPah)!!! On the morning of Tuesday, September 8th, which is Two Weeks from Today So Mark Your Calendars, we shall not partake of any solids. It’s a clear liquid day! AND, at four o’clock in the afternoon, the shivaree shall commence with the swallowing of four Dulcolax! One! Two! Three! Four Dulcolax!!!

Thirty minutes later? We shall drink a half bottle of Miralax mixed into a 32-ounce jug of Gatorade! At 8:00 in the evening? Yes! ANOTHER half bottle of Miralax mixed into a 32-ounce jug of Gatorade! According to my calculations which are nearly always incorrect, it looks like we’ll be ingesting three weeks worth of laxatives in four hours time! We are living the bulimic dream! It’s FAFPBPA!

I’m trying to decide if I should liveblog the event. I mean, seriously. If people can liveblog the Grammy Awards, why can’t I liveblog the clearing of my colon?

Okay. Who wants to design the shirts?

(CROSSING MY Ts, IN ALL CAPS, NO LESS: YOU EXPRESSLY UNDERSTAND AND AGREE THAT YOUR USE OF THE FLUID PUDDING WEB SITE AND THE INFORMATION THEREON IS ENTIRELY AT YOUR SOLE RISK. ANGELA PUDDING AND HER AFFILIATES AND LICENSORS WILL NOT BE RESPONSIBLE TO YOU OR TO ANY THIRD PARTIES FOR ANY DIRECT OR INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, SPECIAL, OR PUNITIVE DAMAGES OR LOSSES YOU MAY INCUR IN CONNECTION WITH THE FLUID PUDDING WEBSITE, YOUR USE THEREOF OR ANY OF THE INFORMATION, DATA OR OTHER MATERIAL TRANSMITTED THROUGH OR RESIDING ON THE WEBSITE, REGARDLESS OF THE TYPE OF CLAIM OR THE NATURE OF THE CAUSE OF ACTION, EVEN IF WE HAVE BEEN ADVISED OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE OR LOSS. TO THE MAXIMUM EXTENT PERMITTED BY LAW, YOU HEREBY RELEASE AND FOREVER WAIVE ANY AND ALL CLAIMS YOU MAY HAVE AGAINST ANGELA PUDDING, HER AFFILIATES AND LICENSORS FROM LOSSES OR DAMAGES YOU SUSTAIN IN CONNECTION WITH YOUR USE OF THE INFORMATION CONTAINED HEREIN.)

Edited to Add: Who wants to design the shirts? Melissa wants to design the shirts! So she did! (This is EXACTLY why I love Fluid Pudding Readers!)
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Letters and Sodas

Thanks to you, Internet friends, I can now search out the chili and swill a chai and read Infinite Jest outdoors and pick apples and attend a marching band competition and devour a funnel cake and make up dances to Andrew Bird songs and stomp on some crunchy leaves and throw on a sloppy cardigan and attend an Apple Butter Festival. And I can do these things with amicable kicks.

I’ve named them Jem and Scout.

They just giggled and whispered, “You’re the prettiest lady.”

(And when I went on my first solo drive with them, this song was the first to play. It doesn’t get much better, does it? I’ll answer that: Nope.)

(For those who asked about the tattoo? It’s Georgia O’Keeffe’s hands—based on a photograph taken by Alfred Stieglitz. A friend of mine designed it, and it was inked on nearly twenty years ago at the home of a man named Spyder.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I’ll drive all night just to buy you some shoes.

This morning I decided to be in the market for athletic shoes. (Would it look like I’m trying too hard if I said something like “This was no small feat!”?! I like to think that I’m cooler than that. Let’s shift focus a bit, shall we? It was one year ago tonight when Jeff and I found ourselves invited to attend a Bruce Springsteen sound check, and as if that wasn’t enough (We were the only “civilians” in the stadium! Seriously!), we got a personal tour of the backstage area, AND we went home that night with the handwritten set list. I’ve met some pretty amazing people through the Internet, Internet. I’ve been thinking about that show all day. Ah, Mr. Springsteen.)

Anyway, my main goal for the athletic shoe thing was to get something user-friendly and perhaps brown. These were pretty much exactly what I wanted. To me, those shoes say, “I’m a climber of mountains. I could run if I need to, but really, I’m just strolling down the road looking for a chai and some chili.” Perfection.

As I drove to the shoe store, I set Sparky up to play the overture from Selmasongs. It’s sort of my own personal Rocky theme, and it never fails to stir up my much needed Invincibility Vibe. Drama! French horns! I am Flo Jo! (It was one of the songs that played as our wedding guests entered the church. (I absolutely LOVE the build up to 2:24. It makes my lip quiver every time.)) When I entered the store, I headed straight for the New Balance display. Sadly, the perfect brown shoes were not available in my size, and a wicked step sister I am not.

I tried on over thirty pairs of shoes this morning, and in the end, feeling weary and very vincible, I settled for something that ended up being over twenty dollars cheaper than The Perfect Shoes.

I suppose you could say that they’re silver, but deep down we all know that they’re white (actually, they’re >>>WHITE<<< and partly pink, even), and not at all chummy. In fact, they’re very standoffish, and after wearing them all day? My feet feel as if I’ve jumped into a vat of chattering teeth. As I type these words to you, the shoes are sitting in the corner quoting Kafka (in German, of course. Jackasses.) and tossing lit matches at the cats. Earlier this afternoon I found them spitting and whispering nasty things about my butt.

I believe I’m meant to sit barefoot on the couch eating sweet potato pancakes for the rest of my existence. Would you care to join me? ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>