Fluid Pudding : Page 87 of 123 : It's the old small talk!

Pudding’s Got the Juice, Newton.

I was going to start off by showing you this photo:

Then I was going to say, “This is the girls on their FIRST day of second grade and kindergarten.”

Then I was going to show you THIS photo:

And I was going to say, “This is the girls on their LAST day of second grade and kindergarten.” Then I was going to type something thoughtful like, “Meredith couldn’t speak Mandarin Chinese or write haikus on the first day of school, but now she can!” and “Harper couldn’t read or count by fives on the first day of school, but now she can!”

Ah! But then a big brown truck pulled up in front of my house this afternoon and all of my sentimental madness came to a screeching halt—replaced with what can only be described as Juice Potential. And Juice Potential is an insanely powerful thing.

Yes. My juicer arrived today, and as soon as I opened the box and washed the parts, I took nine carrots and a firmly packed cup of spinach and I made an eight ounce glass of Carrot/Spinach juice. (Despite the fact that the dog treats are right there with the carrots and spinach, I can assure you that they were NOT included in the juice.) ((They’re flavored with salmon, and Scout is crazy about them.))

Despite how it LOOKS, it actually tasted very good. BUT, I drank it entirely too quickly and I ended up feeling a bit ill for about an hour. I’m telling myself that my “ill” was actually the healing power of the juice going to work on my innards! Feel the cleanse! I CAN SEE IN THE DARK AND LIFT A HYUNDAI TUCSON!!!

Tomorrow I’ll be making Apple/Peach/Grapefruit juice! (1 apple, 2 peaches, and 2 grapefruits will make approximately 2.5 cups of juice!)

Side Note: Every meal I ate today was raw and vegan. Tomorrow is National Doughnut Day. Summer break in action! JUICE!!! DOUGHNUTS!!! (Yes. I still refuse to spell it as “donut”. I also still refuse to put that period inside the quotation marks.) We lack consistency! (Hence: Fluid Pudding.)
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She has been begging us to take her to Trinidad.

We’ve spent the past three weeks becoming familiar with Scout’s puppy quirks.

She is an ankle biter. If I’m in the bathroom, she tends to relieve herself on the floor outside the bathroom door. She loves running full speed under the couch, and has actually ripped up a lot of the fabric beneath both couches. We love her.

Scout’s latest quirk involves digging all of the water out of her water bowl. When the bowl is emptied, she continues to “run” inside the bowl. Because the bowl is stainless steel, part of me believes that she’s trying to engage the puppy she sees in the mirror. Also, part of me is Very Annoyed with this, as I’ve been spending a lot of time wiping up the water.

But wait a minute! My glass is just as half full as any other glass! Perhaps Scout spends her evenings dreaming of the day when she can audition for Caribbean Steel International! (We’ll just keep this little secret to ourselves.)

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Don’t even get me started on the mosquitoes.

I’m not a fan of the summer. I know you probably are, but I’m most definitely not, and I’m sorry if that means that we can’t be friends. I prefer cold to hot. I prefer chai lattes to fresh lemonade. I hate going to the pool and sweating and having to deal with wearing things that are not cardigans and jeans. (I currently own two pairs of shorts. Both were purchased while I was going through physical therapy a few years back. In other words, I associate Shorts with Pain.) When the temperature rises above eighty degrees fahrenheit, I start feeling dizzy and delicate. I despise sunscreen. I don’t want to go to the park or to Six Flags or anywhere that involves me walking on blacktop. I want crisp air and crunchy leaves and clogs and marching bands, and I want those things every single day! (Excuse me, Jackson Hole, Wyoming. I will change my name to Jackson if you give me a house and let my family live in you free of charge!)

The only thing (perhaps not the ONLY thing—please be patient with me and my drama) that makes summer bearable for me is this:

What you’re seeing here is a bowl of fresh tomatoes and green onions and Parmesan and garlic and sea salt and pepper and basil and the amounts of each ingredient are up to you and it’s pretty amazing by itself, but it’s even better when it gets married to lightly buttered rotini.

During the summer months, I make a batch of this stuff at least once each week. Usually more. And when it’s 100 degrees outside, I substitute Xanax powder for the Parmesan and then I park myself on the couch with a cold rag across my head and I dream of winter.

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I’m still truckin’.

More than 30 hours have passed since my cyst was removed, and I’m pleased to report that the excision was dreamy, and that I’m currently walking around with an ice pack in my pants because when the numbing shots wore off, my hip began to burn like a Blister in the Sun. (You’re welcome, Children of the 80s.) Oh, the burning! Like a fire beneath my waistband! (It will be better tomorrow.)

During the procedure (as I lay (dying, William Faulkner) on my side with shoes, glasses, underpants and everything else on, because everyone knows that I tend to roll with modesty), I asked the surgeon if the cyst was solid, liquid, or gaseous.

Surgeon: It’s solid with a bunch of scar tissue. Do you want to see it?

Me: NO!!!!!!! No, thank you!!! Um, yes. I do.

I turned my head around as the surgeon held up a little wiggly finger-like object.

Me: Vili Fualaau!

Surgeon: What?

Me: I was making a villi slash Mary Kay Letourneau joke. It wasn’t funny. Can I eat that thing so it remains a part of me? Never mind. I’m not making sense.

Surgeon: In a few seconds, you’re going to start smelling something that might seem a little strange.

(She was right.)

Me: That smells delicious! What is it?

Surgeon: Cauterization. It’s your skin. Basically, this is what you would smell like if you were cooking.

Me: I smell like a barbecued pork chop! Does everyone smell like a pork chop?

Surgeon: All skin pretty much smells the same.

Me: It’s funny, because I’m free range and corn-fed. I would imagine my burning flesh to smell more like a portobello mushroom!

Moral of the Story: You might think you’re better/smarter/cuter/et cetera than (insert your foe’s name here), but at the end of the day, you both smell like delicious pork chops when your skin is on fire. Sleep tight.
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Hey, Soul Cysta!

As you know, right now I look a little bit like this:

The next time you see me? I’ll look a bit more like this:

It’s hip surgery day at Fluid Pudding, during which I’ll be driving to the hospital, receiving lots of numbing shots in my hip, and having a cyst sliced off! And if that makes YOU cringe, imagine what it’s doing to ME!

Interestingly enough (???) (!!!), my cyst is the exact size of a Swedish Fish.

Some of you may say that’s a coincidence.

Me? I’m going with: You are what you eat? Manifested!

Next up? I’m going to eat Natalie Portman. Heh. HA HA HA HA!!! Okay then.
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I wanna meet her so that I can say, “Hey! Kate!”

I’ve often joked around about how you really need to know yourself before you can choose a ring tone or commit to wearing a pair of jeans with the word “skinny” on the tag. (I still don’t know myself well enough to go outside of the AT&T suggested ring tone box. This sad phone of mine will never sing a song or cluck like a chicken. It simply says, “Ding” when someone is trying to reach me. With that said: My Butt is not a subset of Skinny, HOWEVER, I now own two pairs of skinny jeans. I am a jelly-bottomed enigma!)

I received a Nook Color for my birthday. (If you click on that link and watch the video, please know that I wanna be Kate, and that I’ll use just about any opportunity I can create to give a shout out to Ben Folds.) Anyway, after having the Nook for nearly two weeks, I’m finding that I’m getting to know yet another snobby side of myself. (This one is located in my frontal lobe!) My swollen-headed side will NOT allow any mundane books to be placed on the Nook. Goofy romance novels have no place on my Nook. If I can get a book at my library and continue to check it out over and over again? I’m not going to spend nine bucks to put it on the Nook. My Nook has enough room to hold something like 6,000 eBooks, yet absolutely zero space for authors like Sean Hannity or Sarah Palin. (I know! I’m horribly mean! And such a LIBERAL!)

Currently, my Nook is holding the following: The McSweeney’s Joke Book of Book Jokes, The Namesake, 25 novels that I was able to purchase for ninety nine cents, and a sample from Appetite for Reduction. Here is where you come in. What else do I need? What have you been reading lately? (I know at least three of you will mention The Help. I own that in both hardcover and audio. I loved it, too!) Also, I just finished Bossypants and adored it. I collect books of letters, and am looking into the Thurber letters. What else? What books do you love? Do you want to be my Nook friend? (I’m not even sure what that means, although I know it’s a possibility!) Get all up in my Nook, people!
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A rose in the hand is worth more than Kate Bush!

Last year at this time, my parents presented me with a Disneyland Floribunda Rose Bush. A few days later, I decided to get all floricultural and replant the little bush in front of our house. Within seconds (give or take about a week), all of the roses and leaves fell off of the plant. I was devastated. (Where “devastated” equals “sort of bummed”.) I went to the gardening center and bought some rose food. My rose bush remained twig-like. I watered the bush not too much and not too little. No fruit, no flower, no leaf, no bud union. When winter rolled around, I took a metal bucket, put it over the “bush,” and stepped away for three months.

Wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles: When I took the bucket off of the bush in February, I noticed that a few leaves were beginning to sprout.

Three more months have passed, and I now have this:

There are no other buds, so this rose may be my only rose of the season. After thinking the bush was totally dead, I’m okay with a single rose.

Now, please watch this video and know that I am Peter Gabriel, and my rose bush is Kate Bush.

Speaking of videos (which we weren’t, really, but I do appreciate how patient you are with my anemic segues), my kids used to watch the following video over and over (and over) again.

I am here to report that Meredith and Harper’s favorite Bathtime association has been replaced.

It’s no longer Bathtime in Clerkenwell.

It is now Bathtime in Kitchen Sink.

(Scout came out smelling like a rose.)
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I’m more Woolly Spice than Sporty Spice.

Today is the annual Field Day at the girls’ school. Because Jeff is The Athletic Parent and I am The Couch Parent, he took a vacation day to spend seven hours playing outdoor games with the kids. Sadly, yesterday he came home sick with a terrible stomachache and a fever. Because he has an assigned job, it seems unacceptable to not step up and act as his replacement.

Guess who will be lugging around a huge cooler full of water this morning from 9:00 until noon? Me! My official job is Water Relief, and I really should do some push-ups or something because I can barely move the vacuum around for three minutes before my arms start flashing the gang sign for Extreme Fatigue. The instruction sheet says, “Please walk around with the cooler and ask adult volunteers only if they would like a water bottle.” (The kids will have their own bottles.) Here’s hoping another parent has the assignment of asking me if I would like a cot! (Because I would like a cot! Or a scooter!)

The Water Relief shift will require more brawn than brains. To compensate for that, I’ll be spending the afternoon shift in charge of Gym Choice which involves Beach Volleyball, Basketball, and Beanbag Electronic Game. I’m cool with Beanbag Electronic Game, but I have absolutely no clue on volleyball or basketball. (The coach has provided detailed instructions, and I’ve been studying those and trying to picture it all in my head for the past hour.) Funny. I own three shirts that say Mid-County Volleyball Champion. The girls believe that I *am* the Mid-County Volleyball Champion. In reality, Jeff gave me those shirts nearly a decade ago. He was on the winning team. I was on the couch.

I wonder if I could shift focus and teach 500 kids how to crochet a bookmark or roll a cake ball?
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Death and Shawls to the Age 16, Spalding Gray!

Last night, as I tucked her into bed, Harper said, “I don’t want you to die before I’m 16.”

Me: I’m with you. The good news? I probably won’t!

Harper: Will you die before I’m 40?

Me: I certainly hope not!

Harper: I don’t want you to die.

She then began to cry. And cry. And my heart broke, and so on. When Harper is 16, I’ll be 51. When she’s 40, I’ll be 75.

Yeesh.

Meredith still cries about our cat that died three years ago, and I really have no idea where I’m going with this. (I’m working on very little sleep, and to keep up with my One Raw Meal Each Day! plan, I just ate 30 almonds. Because that’s all I’ve got over here. Nuts. Where is the Asparagus and Tomato Delivery Truck when I need it?!)

Let’s change the subject! I have less than two weeks to finish my Taygete shawl, and I think it’s going to happen! This is a huge deal! (It’s not really a huge deal.)

When it’s washed and blocked and gifted, I’m going to work on some things that have been in the works for entirely too long (Asparagus and Tomato Delivery Truck!), and then I may just make one of these. With this!

Oh! Just so you know, we pulled Scout out of Eileen’s obedience class, and have enrolled her in a different class that begins in June. Here’s hoping the crazies stay home on Wednesday evenings!
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There’s one (or more) in every crowd.

A few days back, we took the puppy to her first session of obedience school.

We were instructed to bring three things to class: immunization records, a leash, and treats.

One puppy owner didn’t bring any of those items.

That particular owner (Shall we call her Eileen? Let’s do!) sat on a stool and watched her dog run up and hump every other dog in the class. As the rest of us were scrambling a bit to get the humper away from our dogs, Eileen simply laughed and yelled, “She’s been doing that to my Rottweiler all week!”

Note: Scout is not yet spayed. Her siblings are scheduled for their surgery on Friday, and her surgery will most likely take place in the next two weeks. Please know that we cannot officially adopt her until she has been fixed. Back to the story.

As our instructor talked to the class about basic disciplinary tools and how to use treats as incentives, Eileen approached me and said, “My grandkids are nine and they’re unschooled, and they’re reading a series of books that I can’t remember the name of, but they’re really great readers, and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, et cetera!”

What I wanted to say: Unschooled like your dog? The dog who is unleashed because you cannot follow instructions and is trying to get my puppy pregnant as we stand around and discuss something you can’t remember?! I paid money for this class!

What I did say: That’s great! I’m sorry, I just missed what the instructor said!

During the entire class, Eileen paid little to no attention to her own dog. Instead, she asked Jeff to help her figure out how to e-mail a photo of Scout to her son. Also, she yelled out to random store employees to bring her a pet gate, a jogging vest, and a leash with neon paws on it for her dog. (They didn’t have the leash with the decorative paws, so her puppy remained leashless. Leashless and Humping.)

All of this to say: I have zero patience for flaky folks who don’t pay attention.

Also, I will never appreciate unschooling after hearing about it from Eileen.

Meanwhile, Scout is learning how to drive a car. Because she’s brilliant, and I’m becoming one of Those Puppy People who say things like, “Coot Widdle Pahpee.”

(I promise to not sing more songs about the puppy in my next post. You’re welcome.)

The End.

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