Fluid Pudding

(I suppose I should say re-produce. My oven? It is bunless. My countertop? It is full. Of produce.)

Because I’m trying my best to be one of those stinky hippies who eat only from the ground (also trees and bushes!), I decided to sign The Puddings up at our community produce co-op. $21.50 for a big basket/box/bag of fruits and vegetables that will feed a family of four for two weeks? Count me in! (Please know that I know that my kids will probably refuse to touch roughly 73.4% of the score. This means that every two weeks I’ll be picking up enough fruits and vegetables to feed MY family for three point two weeks! If I had the patience to do the math and I could somehow figure in the fact that both kids will probably move away for college, it means this: If I buy in to the co-op every two weeks for approximately seven point eight years, I think Jeff and I will have enough fruits and vegetables to feed us until we’re ready for assisted living! I NEED TO LEARN HOW TO CAN AND/OR DEHYDRATE!!!)

When I paid for the first installment last week, I was sent an e-mail that held a short list of what may or may not be included in the next delivery, along with the address of the home where the truck drops everything off (or: …along with the address of the home off which the truck drops! Everything!).

“Please pick up your produce between 5:30 and 6:00.”

Because the girls and I are nothing if not punctual, we left our house at 5:10 and arrived at the delivery location at around 5:20. We were told that this week was a bit weird because the truck normally arrives at 5:00, which gives everyone time to unload and sort before people start arriving at 5:30. Personally, I was thrilled with the delay, because helping unload the truck and divide the gazillions of zucchinis and cabbages was possibly the most thrilling thing I’ve done in months! (Someday I’ll attach a cord to my torso and jump off of a bridge. In the meantime, I shall sort produce!)

At the end of the day, we ended up with a huge pile of food.

6 bananas
5 apples
1 bag green beans
2 eggplants
1 pineapple
1 container of strawberries
1 container of baby bella mushrooms
1 bunch of green onions
1 puppy forehead
4 zucchini
1 cabbage
1 Bibb lettuce
1 head of broccoli
2 bunches of cilantro
6 kiwi
1 puppy nose

The girls will enjoy the bananas, the strawberries, the apples (they’re already gone), and the pineapple. The green beans are questionable because they don’t come in a can. I’ll be “forcing” five bites of the eggplant. This evening for dinner I’ll be grilling zucchini. Tomorrow for lunch I’ll be roasting broccoli. The kiwi will all go to Jeff, as kiwi makes my tongue go numb, and Meredith and Harper have complained that they suffer the same effects.

I’ll be making baby bella lettuce wraps with the mushrooms and Bibb lettuce.

I’ll be removing my Birkenstocks from their box in just a few hours.

Harper owns a broom skirt.

I haven’t shaved my left leg in nearly two months.

It’s happening.
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The chocolate chip banana bread did not last long in our house.

I haven’t shared a Henry photo in quite some time.

My pewter Damask is folded in half and is currently blocking on my bed. (I tried to stretch it out, but trying to even out the scalloped edges was driving me insane. You know how it is with those scalloped edges.)

I’ve been spending a lot of time with this thing lately. The perfect cup of hot tea every single time.

Do you remember when Harper went to that dance with Justin Bieber?

I finished this sock four years ago, and it STILL doesn’t have a partner. Unacceptable.

Speaking of socks, I finished my very first pair five years ago today.

We went to an engagement party today, and it was lovely. Very happy for that couple, we are.

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How many times do I have to hear/think the old line about God never giving you more than you can handle?

In the past week, I’ve had lengthy conversations with two people, and both conversations have led me to sit in my car afterwards and think, “I have no idea how I would handle that. How would I handle that? Could I handle that?”

(I was once able to handle Haydn. I hid from Handel. Five minutes ago those two sentences were VERY funny to me.)

Last night I asked Jeff if he believes that you are never given more than you can handle. He replied, “Anne Frank was given more than she could handle.”

I can handle quite a few things. I can handle cooking meat for my family and I can handle the dry skin on my hands that results from washing them at least fourteen times after handling said meat. What I can’t handle is knowing that whatever I’m cooking won’t be enjoyed by the girls unless it is named Toasted Ravioli or Crazy Bowls or Sloppy Joe or Homemade Pizza Roll. (As a result, I now call EVERYTHING Sloppy Joe. I currently have a pork tenderloin in the oven for tonight’s dinner. When the girls come home from school and ask what’s for dinner, I will say, “Sloppy Joe.” They will cheer and high five one another. Later, when it’s time for them to eat, I will be at the PTO meeting—where I won’t be able to hear their cries of disappointment.) I can handle being the treasurer of PTO and I can handle writing checks and depositing money and keeping track of the checks and the money. What I can’t handle is sitting at a table in front of people every month at the meeting and trying my best to smile, keep my mouth closed, and not fall down. (As a result, I am not “running” for a second term. (I am not running for anything. My life is all about the stroll these days.) Oddly enough, shortly after I announced that I’m going to Jimmy Carter the treasurer position, I was recruited to be on a committee at church. Door. Window. Bonus: I will not be asked to sit at a table in front of people. I will be asked to eat pizza, and I’ve already made it very clear that if anyone tries to sneak a slice of pepperoni onto my lunch, there will be hell to pay. Big crazy table-flipping hell.) I can (normally) handle my freelance stuff along with volunteering at the school and keeping up (mostly) with laundry and playing with the dogs and grocery shopping and (sometimes) wearing eyeliner and baking the occasional chocolate chip banana cake. Ah, but last week I *couldn’t* handle two of my freelance projects and I had to admit that they were beyond my level of experience and I actually cried my eyeliner away about the whole thing and I didn’t do laundry and I made toasted ravioli TWICE just to avoid the whole, “Do I HAVE to eat this?!” gig. (As a result, I’ve eaten way too much of that chocolate chip banana cake. Get this. Last week I hit my “goal” weight at Weight Watchers. I know. This week I’m no longer there. Oh, Chocolate Chip Banana Cake. You were 117 points of hard to handle craziness. The good news? I’ve accepted a new freelance project. Please know that I know how lucky I am.) This paragraph keeps on going and going, doesn’t it?

For Jeff, Bruce Springsteen released his new album today. For me, Andrew Bird released his new album today. For the girls, Big Time Rush released their new EP today. Television off. Music on. The towels are in the washer.

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And I’m all, “Whadya MEAN you don’t carry Fresh Take? The store ad says it’s on sale and I have a COUPON!!!”

Yes. That’s where I am right now. The good news? I was able to score the very last Katie’s Pencil Box dress while Jeff was seeing Radiohead in Tampa earlier this week. (He was there on business and sort of fell into the Radiohead show. (Oh, the good life. Full of fun. Seems to be the ideal…))

This week has flown, and I have fig marmalade to thank. Before last Friday, my “List of Experience with Figs” both started and ended with “1. Ate Fig Newtons with Grandpa once.” Ah, but then I received word that my church’s Adventurous Women Out Late (AWOL!) group was gathering at a tapas bar! I put on my glad rags, drove ten miles south, and enjoyed an evening full of flatbread covered in fig marmalade and Gorgonzola cheese. I returned to the restaurant on Tuesday and discovered that fig marmalade and I are capable of much more than a tipsy one night stand. Fig marmalade and I are in this love together, Al Jarreau.

A few weeks back, I listened to The Moth’s Chicago Grand Slam. My favorite story didn’t win. In fact, and I hesitate to admit this, I felt like the Chicago Grand Slam was mostly a waste of my time. (I know! Look at me trying to be all highfalutin while wearing pilled leggings and mismatched socks! If I knew any French phrases, I would type them right now! Poorly!) ((I’m still wearing the boot on my left leg. No one knows that my socks don’t match. Until now.)) (((Speaking of the boot, I saw the ortho guy a few days back. I’m in the boot for another month, AND he wants me to go swimming. (Not with him.) It’s almost like the guy can see into my soul. He knows exactly what to say to piss me off. And I KNOW that “You should go swimming.” wouldn’t piss off the average person, but here I am. Unable to swim, highly self-conscious about being seen in a swimsuit, and pissed off.)))

Back to the Chicago Grand Slam. Peter Sagal, who was the host of the show, shared a quote from Dr. Stephen Weeks at Lewis and Clark College. Dr. Weeks once said, “The best way to live your life is to choose the experience that will have the most anecdotal value.” I love that. Given the fact that in one month I have to return to the ortho guy and tell him about my swimming adventures, you would think that swimming lessons would be the obvious choice for a high anecdotal value life experience.

And that’s why I’m signing up for a pottery class. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

After four and a half days of NOT being in school, the kids are now back in school. Like Jeff, the girls allow their bodies to shut down on holiday weekends. It’s almost as if they store up the germs and release them the second they step off of the bus onto the edge of a long weekend. I checked the calendar, and Meredith was sick all through the Presidents’ Day weekend last year. This year she and Harper were both sick. Every time Jeff takes a mini-vacation from work, he ends up sprawled out on the bed listening to me yell things like, “You should call work and TELL THEM TO SWITCH THIS FROM VACATION TO SICK BECAUSE THIS IS *NO* VACATION!!!” (I’m a joy to be around when people are ailing.)

Here I sit with a looming deadline, a butter toffee coffee (that’s what I said) in my hand, and an ear bent toward the door so I can listen for the mattress man. About a week ago, Jeff and I spent an hour walking around a large room filled with beds. We lied down. We stood up and walked to the next bed. We suddenly felt the need to lie down again. The other customers in the store were also lying down and standing up and walking a few steps only to become exhausted once more. I started laughing The Laugh of No Sound and singing the opening theme from Koyaanisqatsi as we all napped, arose, took a few steps, and napped again.

(Meredith eventually killed the joy by asking, “What if someone in this room has lice?” With that, our bed hopping came to a screeching halt.)

In the mattress store, I learned that I enjoy sleeping on a firm bed. A VERY firm bed. Jeff learned to appreciate the adage from that old cross-stitch sampler that states, “If Momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.” We put in our order for an Honorable Firm, and here I sit. Waiting for the delivery. I have a three hour window and a sweet potato in the oven.

Wait a second. I have huge news! Do you remember when we moved into this house (nine years ago) and I said something like, “The house is good, except for the pink carpeting in the family room and hallway. The pink carpeting has to go.” Every six months or so (for the past NINE YEARS) I have harumphed onto the couch and complained that the pink carpeting is so disgusting and I really wish we could DO something about it. (It’s easy for me to sit on the couch and complain about how things need to be done. Don’t get me started.) The pink carpeting has prevented me from inviting people over. The pink carpeting tells me I’m a terrible mother. The pink carpeting does not allow me to lose weight at the rate I desire. The pink carpeting steals socks. The pink carpeting sucks joy. The pink carpeting does not share my political beliefs. The pink carpeting listens to Celine Dion.

For the past nine years (!!!) we have lived not knowing what was under the pink carpeting. We suspected wood, but we also suspected urine or blood stains. (Why else would someone cover wood with pink carpeting?!) On Saturday morning, Jeff went to the hardware store and purchased a few utility knives.

A few minutes later, we saw this:

Wood! AND, it’s not ugly! In fact, it’s lovely! Jeff spent the entire day cutting and ripping and waiting to unveil a huge blood/urine stain, but there was no blood or urine to be found! (If you start your day anticipating an unpleasant discovery of blood/urine and no blood/urine is to be discovered? THAT is a good day. A *crazy* good day! I’m now planning on beginning ALL of my days with the anticipation of unpleasant blood/urine. If it happens, it’s no surprise. If it doesn’t? Hallelujah chorus!)

You might look at this floor and think that it needs refinishing or resomethinging. I look at this floor and suddenly the Ugh! of the past nine years has been lifted! No more Celine Dion! The pounds are rolling off! I’m a good mother who provides complete pairs of socks! I’m a bleeding heart liberal with a wooden floor! (Gasp!)

Nothing but happy songs today at The Pudding House.

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The parties? They are over. The first graders hated the dreamcatchers, and that was sort of a bummer because the principal dropped by during the craft portion of their party. In other words, the principal got there just in time to see seventeen first graders on the verge of tears during what is supposed to be a happy-faced celebration of love and candy. (I’m just warming them up for the Love Sucks parties they’ll surely attend in college. Those were the greatest. And the worst.)

From what I hear, all but one of the third graders had a great time at their party. The one in question was a puker. Apparently, he had been sick all day, and the ice cream took him over the edge. I’m now done with parties. I’m done with parties! (Picture me doing a really difficult to watch dance with my hands in the air!)

Speaking of the principal (two paragraphs up), because the school reached (and exceeded) their goal for the Jump Rope for Heart event, the principal allowed the students to tape him to the wall.

(I could never ask permission to publish his photo at Fluid Pudding (imagine the awkward explanations: um, it’s a personal website where I talk about our family but I try not to exploit the girls and I never mention the school by name and sometimes I knit or something), so I daisyfied him. It’s much easier that way.)

You’ll be pleased to know (I tend to assume a lot, don’t I?) that Meredith and Harper were the top fundraising students for the American Heart Association. Thank you so much for your donations. (Confession: If you were to divide their total amount in half, it equaled the amount of the second place student. In other words, I went home feeling a bit weird that it wasn’t announced as a three way tie. (Meredith and Harper looked to be the only sibling team.) I didn’t want to appear all manipulative and scheming, SO I made another quick donation. I know. I’m always swimming in guilt and assumptions. It’s part of my charm? Question mark?) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>