FluidPudding

2002-05-12T22:44:00.000-05:00

My birthday.
To celebrate the event, Jeff has presented me with the challenge of maintaining Fluid Pudding Dot Com for a year.

Visit if you want. Right now it feels like moving into a new apartment. Things are not yet in their place, and I can't seem to find my underpants...

2002-05-07T09:54:00.000-05:00

Five Lessons I Learned During the Weekend

1. If you catch a fish, but are afraid to grab it and remove the hook from its sad little bleeding lip, you should bang the fish (still attached to the fishing pole) against the side of the boat. If the fish hits the boat "just right", it removes itself from the hook, and no one gets messy or catches fish cooties.

2. Although chocolate waffles seem like a nice breakfast, they are actually quite bossy.

3. Washers is a game at which I don't completely suck. I will add it to my list: Badminton, Pillow Polo, Washers.

4. ATVs are somehow able to awaken muscles that have been stagnant since birth. My ass hurts in a place I cannot find, and I've been wiggling and rolling around for two days straight...

5. If you correctly spell the word "amphetamine", everyone in the room will think you are sexy.

2002-05-01T17:44:00.001-05:00

The Weekend with the Lovelies is upon us.

As a sign of protest, I have been pulling an Oskar and Tin Drumming myself down the stairs all morning in hope that everyone will assume I am delayed and drop their guards around me.

The large bump on my head is unsightly, and will serve as insurance that all Lovelies maintain their distance and avoid the suggestion that we braid each others hair.

I can hold my breath until I pass out. This skill may come in handy.

Also, I'm making dark chocolate raspberry brownies.
Because I'm in high school again.
Because I'm in the math club and they are cheerleaders.
Because I want to fatten them up...

2002-04-26T11:37:00.000-05:00

This morning Jeff approached me in the kitchen and said "Lisa 'Left Eye' Lopes? Dead."
Of course, I heard his comment as "Lisa left Ilopez dead."
I love how dialogue has no punctuation! Such funny, funny misunderstandings! Who is Lisa? Where is Ilopes?

A few Haikus for Lisa "Left Eye" Lopes
She don't want no scrubs.
She'll burn your F-ing house down!
Crazy...Sexy...Cool?

What's up with that patch?
You've been chasing waterfalls?!
Rest in peace, "Left Eye"...

2002-04-22T08:58:00.000-05:00

My Bs have been stolen!!!

Yesterday afternoon, Jeff and I decided to walk to the Compton Hill Water Tower. It was open to visitors, and only 198 steps to the top!

Before the trip to the tower, I decided to stop by my car to grab my superstar sunglasses and my athletic tennis shoes. (Sure, the huge clunky tennis shoes I was wearing make me the queen of style, but will they help me to the top of the tower? Also, no one but me seems to care that the footprints I leave behind while wearing them says "Nose." Does no one else see the coolness in that?!) Anyway, Jeff retrieved the glasses while I rummaged through the trunk for the non-Nose shoes.

Found shoes. Put them on. Closed trunk. Noticed something peculiar...

"AAAUUUUGGGHHHHHH!"

Jeff: What happened?!

Me: Someone stole my B!!!

My license plate (like most others) holds three numbers and three letters. The final letter is B. Someone had approached my vulnerable little Nissan during the night and bent the license plate back and forth until the B came off in their hand. I walked to the front of the car to check out the front plate.

Me: Someone stole my front B, too! Why did they steal my Bs?! No one else got their plates busted up! AND, no one else has Bs! Was it a scavenger hunt? Or, better yet, do you think someone on our street is named Bobby? Maybe just Bob! Maybe it's a "spell your name with license plate letters" scavenger hunt thing! If there is a Bob, I bet he broke off my Bs! Bastard!

Jeff: Settle down. I bet whoever did this wanted your April 2004 expiration sticker--not your Bs.

Me: Oh. Yeah. Ok.

So, in order to get free replacement plates, I had to file a police report. The police woman seemed to be more interested in what I do for a living than finding the scoundrel who bent off my Bs.

Policewoman: You work from home? I bet you have little babies!

Me: No. No babies. Just missing Bs. They're blue. Blue Bs. And, that sticker thing, too!

Policewoman: Yeah, but working from home will be nice when you have some little babies!

Me: Find my Bs and drop the babies...

Deep down, I know my Bs will never be found. First of all, there are no witnesses. (I'm still working on my Bob theory, but I won't mention it to the police until I have found the guilty Bob...) Secondly, St. Louis has been known to have the highest crime rate in the nation. I'm sure the police have more things to worry about than a few blasted Bs...

2002-04-18T12:59:00.000-05:00

My Watercolors 101 class begins tonight at 7:00. I've been spending the last few days buying things like masonite and salt and little expensive tubes of paint. I love going to art supply stores. They make me feel, well, artsy. I can only imagine that art class will stir up the same feeling.

Now that I have my supplies, the only thing left to do is choose something to wear to class... Something that says "Hey! I might be very good at this watercolors thing!" without being overly "Please bow down to the Queen of Watercolors." In other words, no denim shirt that already has paint splotched on it. Also, none of those off-white carpenter coverall things.

I wish I looked like Amelie. I think I would do very well at a watercolors class if I wore vintage-looking flowered skirts and boots. I know it's too late to grow out my hair. Is it too late to work on my French accent?

There are certain things I want to accomplish in the class.

When my Watercolors 101 class is complete, I hope the following statements are true:

Because of Watercolors 101...

...my painting skills have improved.

...I can appreciate Georgia O'Keefe even more.

...I have been nominated for a Fulbright Distinguished Scholar Award.

...I am much prettier.

...I can suddenly fit into that tiny, tiny dress.

2002-04-17T09:24:00.000-05:00

I spent the day yesterday in Historic St. Charles with my mom and Jeff's mom. We walked down Main Street with the intention of hitting only the stores that interested us. In other words, we chose not to waste our time strolling around in places that specialize in Americana Quilted Vests or Beanie Babies.

My favorite store in St. Charles is the Olde Town Spice Shoppe. They have hundreds of crazy, stupid (in a good way) kinds of teas! I was in tea heaven! Amaretto tea! Cherry Vanilla tea! Chocolate Raspberry tea! Blueberry tea with real blueberries (I bought some of it for Jeff—he thinks blueberries are the king of the bush-borne fruit world!)! Lapsang Souchong tea (what the hell would THAT taste like?!)! Snowmonkey Plum tea (are you getting the idea?!)! Lemon Pepper Mustard Seed tea (I just made that one up!)! It was Tea-riffic! Get it?! Tea-riffic, I said!!!

Sadly enough, I got entirely too amped out in the tea store. I can't have expensive tea. I'm afraid I'll get all hooked on it (like crack) and soon find myself living on the streets of St. Charles with a baby on my hip (because all effective streetwomen have a baby on their hip), wearing an Americana quilted vest and begging the St. Charles townies for some change so I can get my Lapsang Souchong fix.

"Shoeshine for a Souchong!" I'll cry.

"Hey Mister! Lapdance for a Lapsang?!"

We all know that no one wants a lapdance from a short-haired girl wearing an Americana quilted vest…

2002-04-15T09:13:00.000-05:00

When we lived in Nashville, Jeff became active in the Tennessee Green Party. He attended meetings. He built and posted signs. He handed out "Nader 2000" bumper stickers. He met Jonathan Farley.

Jonathan Farley is an amazing guy. He is a Green Party candidate running for Congress in Nashville. He graduated from Harvard with a degree in Mathematics. He received his doctorate in Mathematics from Oxford. He received a Fulbright Distinguished Scholar Award to the UK, and is currently on sabbatical in London. Wait. Did I mention he's only 32 years old? The guy is incredible.

Jonathan Farley was in town on Saturday (between speaking engagements in Madison and Nashville). Jeff entertained him during the day, and I hooked up with them for dinner.

Jonathan Farley met John Nash last week at an unadvertised mathematics seminar at Vanderbilt.

Next week he is going to record some of his essays onto CD, as CDs are easier to make than books.

He is spending his sabbatical solving theorems and writing articles.

I'm sure he will someday bring peace to the Middle East.

The one thing Jonathan Farley and I have in common is that neither of us is athletic. Like me, he will never sign up for a co-ed sand volleyball team. Unlike me, he can probably predict the winner of every sand volleyball game simply by using his theory of ordered sets (and spikes, perhaps), and by studying the lattice theory of the net.

I surrendered my Calvino "Cosmicomics" to him and sent him on his genius way.

(He has no idea that I'm keeping the coffee cup from which he drank in a sealed container under the bed. Perhaps I can somehow incorporate his DNA into the child Jeff and I will bring into the world...)

2002-04-11T21:17:00.000-05:00

Last night I picked up a message from one of Jeff's friends...

"Yo, JD! Keep May 4th open, because we're all going to spend the weekend at my cabin!"

An entire weekend with The Lovelies? This job is much larger than the superstar sunglasses.

I have constructed a list.
I will only attend Weekend Gorgeous if the following demands are met:

1. There will be no swimsuit competitions.

2. There will be no "Let's see who looks the prettiest without make-up" games.

3. No one will yell, "Let's see who can run the fastest!!!"

4. No switching partners.

5. No contests to see who can guess my weight.

6. No filming of amateur porn. No filming of any other type of porn.

7. No challenges to see how many of the girls can concurrently fit into my shorts.

8. No blow-job simulation with pickles. No blow-job simulation at all, in fact.

9. No asking me why I'm wearing my sunglasses after dark.

10. No asking me why I'm drinking so much.

2002-04-10T11:48:00.000-05:00

Later days, Dawson! Goodbye, Gilmore Girls! Toodle-oo, Ed! Sayonara, Seventh Heaven! Tomorrow I will be embarking on another adventure. I am going to attempt to survive one week (or more) without any television. I'm already quite pissed about it.

A woman I met in Nashville told me about a book titled The Artist's Way. The book consists of a twelve-week program that re-sparks hidden creative talents. Sounds hokey, right? Right. Wrong! This book is changing my life! In the past three weeks I have written over 80 pages in a journal. I have written letters to old friends. I have shopped for art supplies!

My challenge for the next week is to give up television and reading. Supposedly, eliminating these two forms of media will shock my system into doing things like painting shelves odd shades of turquoise and baking foods that require more than four ingredients.

My biggest fear is that the only thing I will learn from this is just how much I love to take naps...

2002-04-07T12:30:00.000-05:00

Sometimes when a person plans a trip to Kimmswick, she does it knowing there is a slim chance that the plan will fall apart at the last minute. My Kimmswick trip was cancelled. I could have made a solo journey, but good cheese is often lost when you don't have someone to share it with. SO, I grabbed one of our Dillards gift cards from the wedding, and drove to the mall. Free money! And we need drinking glasses!

I scouted around Dillards for a bit, and was very excited to find that the glasses I liked best were the cheapest glasses they offered. Very heavy, and only twenty dollars! With the remaining gift card money, I decided to find a pair of pants I can wear while serving drinks in my new glasses. Since the pant size I want to wear wouldn't quite fit, I decided to choose a new eating disorder and look for a new pair of sunglasses. Nobody is too big for sunglasses! I found a swanky black pair with rhinestones. They made me look like superstar, and were quite affordable! I quickly threw down the gift card.

Yesterday, Jeff received a phone call inviting us to a winery in Augusta. Wine with The Lovelies. I believe this event calls for Superstar Glasses!

Me: Do I look like a superstar in these glasses?

Jeff: You look just like a superstar.

Me: Does my ass look wide and jiggly in these jeans, or do you find it hard to look at my fat butt when I'm wearing my Superstar Glasses?

Jeff: Those glasses look great on you!

Me: I believe that is the answer I was looking for! Let's go and drink wine!

So, we got to the winery at 4:00. Although we sat at a table where The Beautiful Ones were swarming with their frosted mauve lipstick and their excellent taste in cheese and crackers, I felt like I was okay. (These sunglasses must be filled with self-confidence juice!) I drank the wine, I threw my head back with laughter a few times for effect, I pretended to love the brie ("This is good cheese!"), I was one of THEM!

But then I noticed the sun going down over the river. Suddenly I was Cinderella at the ball. Slow down, Sun! I was just starting to fit in! I was considering a manicure! I was starting to deny the fact that I can read above an eighth grade level! I could feel my hair getting longer and bouncier! I was getting ready to sign up for a co-ed team! My ass was shrinking!!!

The sun completed its descent, I removed the Superstar Glasses, and we left. Apparently, the winery makes everyone leave when the sun goes down. However, I couldn't help but think it was merely a ploy to get me out of there. Without the Superstar Glasses, I brought the crowd down a few levels. Without the Superstar Glasses, I'm just a girl in large pants who doesn't play sports.

Also, I never buy good cheese...

2002-04-04T09:20:00.000-06:00

Today I will complete my annual pilgrimage to Kimmswick. My chosen companion for this journey is a friend who will join me for lunch at The Blue Owl restaurant, and will hopefully remain patient as I use the word "antique" as a verb.

Although I grew up less than a mile from Kimmswick, I do not fancy myself a Kimmswickian. (I don't believe they actually refer to themselves as Kimmswickians, although I may suggest it to the Chamber of Commerce this afternoon... "Sometimes it's twickian to be a Kimmswickian.") Anyway, what I'm trying to say is: I will never make a batch of apple butter. Rock candy is not my gig. My home will never contain decorative geese. If wearing a gingham apron would cure the eczema on my eyelids, well, I would choose itchy eyes.

Also, I will never reenact Civil War battles while sober.

I make the annual haaj to my almost-homeland to relive some of my fonder memories from the late 80s.

I once marched in the Kimmswick Apple Butter Festival. (Alas! I was not the butter queen!)

I hung out in a Kimmswick graveyard on Halloween during my senior year in high school.

It was also during my senior year that a group of friends and I attended the Kimmswick Candlelight Historic Home Tour. I remember the night started out with warm Christmas-like sugar plum fairy feelings. It ended by us being chased by either a scary dog or a scary man dressed in faux Dickens-esque garb. (Old men in knickers!?!? Scary Kimmswickers!)

Today I shall antique and eat homemade fudge until my pants explode.

2002-04-02T13:43:00.000-06:00

You know, I'm full of those "I felt stupid today because..." stories.

Jeff and I have been invited to a wedding. We received the invitation in the mail a few weeks ago, along with the response card on which you write your name and indicate if you want beef tenderloin or chicken florentine.

I want neither. I became meat-free one year ago, and although I joke about sucking on a Big Mac every now and again, I'm not planning on eating meat anytime soon. Becoming meat-free has been very tricky. My mom still calls to tell me about the great chicken sandwich I need to try at Wendy's. ("It's spicy!") Jeff's mom reminds me that I "challenge" her by not eating meat or foods flavored with meat. Because I am one of those people who constantly tries to please others, I often find myself standing in front of a mirror saying, "You're right. Pass the ham. I would love some bacon-flavored vegetables, thank you! Steak?! Bring it on, Sister!!" I feel guilty that I don't eat meat. How screwed up is that? It's very screwed up.

Anyway, I called the reception site yesterday to see if there are any alternatives. Luckily, they always have vegetarian pasta on hand, and there is no price difference. I quickly called the bride and left a message for her: "Hi. Jeff and I are looking forward to your wedding and call if you need anything, and hey! I noticed we have the choice of chicken or beef and I don't eat meat, and I'm sorry about that, and I called the reception site and they said for me to say vegetarian pasta, so I hope you don't mind that I wrote in a third alternative on my response card, and I'm sorry, and it won't cost more than the other stuff, and Jeff and I are looking forward to your wedding, and call if you need anything, and I'm sorry I'm such an asshole, and I'll understand if you want to retract the invitation. Did I mention that I'm an asshole? I am. Goodbye. Call if you need anything."

I quickly wrote our names on the card along with "One Vegetarian Pasta", threw the card into the envelope, and mailed it. It just occurred to me that I forgot to order Jeff's food. Damnit! So, the following phone message will be left before the end of the day: "So, me again. Um, something about remember that pasta thing from yesterday? Well, count Jeff in for chicken, even though I didn't mark it on the card, and we're really looking forward to the wedding. Do you need anything? One veggie pasta and one chicken. Florentine! Sounds fancy! I think I'll stick with the veggie pasta that was not one of the options you offered. Ha! Um, finger-licking good or something! I'm sorry. I'm an asshole. Call if you need anything."

They gave us sheets and no grief when we got married.
I believe their wedding gift from us should be five house payments.
Perhaps that will serve as payback for my meat adversities.

Time to shop for more self-help books.

2002-03-26T14:56:00.000-06:00

Dear God, I've become one of THOSE people...

A vital lesson I've learned since embarking into the world of self-employment is the importance of routine. In the past few weeks, I've become the Raymond Babbitt of freelance editors.

6:45--Crawl out of bed.
7:00--Make lunch for Jeff. Make breakfast for myself. Eat breakfast.
7:25--Brew hot tea.
7:30--Write three meaningless journal pages to iron out my morning angst. (More on that some other time...)
8:30--Buns of Steel. (This item, of course, is cancelled more often than not due to lack of interest.)
9:00--Shower. Shave legs if necessary.
9:30--Load CD player with a good blend of music. Hit "Total Random" button and let the good times roll.
9:45--Begin working.
11:45--Prepare lunch.
12:00--Turn CD player off. Turn television on and eat lunch while watching Seventh Heaven on KPLR-TV Channel 11.
1:00--Back to work.
Et cetera...

Yesterday, when I turned the television on, Seventh Heaven had been pre-empted by an informercial for Super Blue Stuff. Pain reliever made from emu oil?! I tried to pretend I wasn't angry about the lack of Seventh Heaven. I'm not a complete creature of habit, right? I can eat my soup and watch local news! After all, news is good for you! Like soup!

Today, when I sat down for lunch, I discovered that the Super Blue Stuff infomercial was on AGAIN. That's when I lost control of my better judgment. I sat my soup down (Garden Vegetable with Mozzarella cheese on top!) and walked to the phone. I flipped through the phone book and found KPLR-TVs telephone number.

KPLR-TV: KPLR-TV, may I help you?

Me (freaking out a bit, because there is no way to sound cool when you're saying what I'm about to say): Um, hi. I'm wondering what's up with this Super Blue Stuff.

KPLR-TV: I'm sorry?

Me (realizing I'm beyond repair at this point): Um, I wonder where Seventh Heaven is, because the Super Blue Stuff has been on for two days now...

KPLR-TV: Ma'am, Seventh Heaven is being pre-empted until Monday. It will be back as scheduled on Monday.

Me (running my fingers through my hair as a schizophrenic would): So, I have to watch Super Blue Stuff every day until Monday?

KPLR-TV: I'm not sure what the schedule for this week entails. May I help you with anything else?

Me (almost crying because there is no way to take back my illogical utterances): No. I shouldn't have called. I mean, thank you.

God, I hope KPLR-TV does not have caller identification...
Damned Emu oil.

2002-03-22T15:16:00.000-06:00

Today I realized what my irrational fear is...

A few months ago, Jenny Jones showcased a bunch of people with goofy fears. One woman was afraid of buttons. Buttons made her cry. She couldn't touch them. She couldn't be near anyone who exhibited a large number of buttons. Jenny, of course, helped her overcome the madness. At the end of the show, the woman was wearing a tasteless craft-show-whore type of vest that appeared to be made entirely of buttons, and she was smiling about it. "Thank you Jenny, for helping me wear buttons!"

On the same show, another woman was scared to death of "little people". Jenny, of course, brought three little people onto the stage, and tough-loved the woman into hugging one of the little men. The woman was screaming and crying--inches away from having some sort of frantic seizure, yet she managed to hug him. At the end of the show, I believe the woman and the little man were fornicating in the green room.

This morning, as I ate my Blueberry Morning cereal (on sale at Schnucks!), Matt Lauer greeted me from the streets of New York. He was surrounded by professional team mascots. The only normal person on the street (sans Mr. Lauer) was a woman who organized the mascot convention being held right now in New York. There must have been twenty bigger-than-life characters jumping around Matt and the woman--all with the intention of getting the most face time on national television. Big wolves with football jerseys, an eagle with huge muscles, a horse that looked a bit like Fabio, lions, tigers, bears... As I sat on the couch watching this madness, I found that my heart was racing. I was terrified for Matt Lauer. How can he stand there knowing that there are twenty flamboyant people surrounding him, all dressed as big cheerleading animals? And they're all dancing! And they're hugging each other! Dear God, make them stop!!! Go to a commercial break, for God's sake!!!

If I were to be a guest on Jenny Jones, I'm afraid my "final challenge" would be to endure Fred Bird gently tapping me on the head with one of those giant "We're number one" styrofoam hands. And the tears would stream down my face...

2002-03-15T13:50:00.000-06:00

Last night I received an automated call from Cingular.

"…call us immediately to discuss your overdue bill."

Hhhhmmmm. They're right. I haven't paid them in a long time.

When I called the 800 number, Ms. Cingular and I figured out that I haven't paid them since I moved to the new apartment. We checked to make sure they have the correct address. Everything was correct—except for the last name. They had me listed as Angela R., and I'm now Angela D.

A few weeks ago our angry old postman stopped Jeff and asked him if his wife is Angela R. or Angela D. Jeff explained that both answers are correct, as Angela D. is a new development, but before October, I was Angela R. The grumpy (dick of a) postman growled to Jeff that we need to relabel the mailbox because he won't remember and (insert various passive aggressive mumblings here)…

I didn't relabel the mailbox. I forgot about it, and frankly, I figured the (dick of a) postman would remember the conversation with Jeff. What are the chances of mail being addressed incorrectly to land at another mailbox for which the recipient is ALSO named Angela?!

While talking to Ms. Cingular, it occurred to me that I never received my W-2, as it was addressed to Angela R.

I never received my Cingular bills, and they were addressed to Angela R.

My mail from Nashville has not been forwarded correctly, as it was (you guessed it) addressed to Angela R.

Eureka!

"Oh my God!" I said to Ms. Cingular. "My postman is playing power games with me!" We talked about it for a bit, and she said, "I know this isn't my place, but I would watch out for that guy in case he wants you to be Angela Postman!"

Damned postman.

Oh. Also, Cingular can't change the last name on my bills over the phone, although I knew all of the "secret" information they asked. I have to drag a copy of our marriage license to a Cingular store location, where they "…will be happy to assist" me.

Damned Cingular.

2002-02-26T09:29:00.000-06:00

Jeff's friends are all very athletic. Their girlfriends are all very thin, graceful, and without visible bruises. As a result of their physical perfection, I try my best to not hang out with them very often. It's not that I want to be the finest catch in the room. I simply am afraid of falling down in front of them. (I’m at least seven years older than them, I have braces (on my teeth—not my legs), and the size of my jeans is double the size of theirs. For me to suffer a fall would provide material they could laugh at for years.)

A few days ago, one of Jeff's friends came over to watch the gold medal hockey game. I carefully positioned myself in a chair and joined them. The friend's cell phone rang. It was his girlfriend on the line, and she wanted to know if Jeff and I would want to join them for an evening movie. Being that we already had dinner plans, Jeff mentioned that we would need to see something after 7:00.

"I'll pull out the movie listings in the paper." I yelled, a bit too enthusiastically.

I jumped out of the chair and took a step with my left leg toward the paper. When I tried to follow up with my right leg, I found that my right foot had gotten caught in the left leg of my corduroy pants. This was it. I was falling. I caught myself by slapping the palms of both hands onto the hardwood floors. It was the loudest noise ever made in our apartment—followed by the darkest silence anyone could imagine.

I laughed the laugh of a suicidal eleven-year-old and frantically reached for the movie listings, hoping my impressive movie-listing-reading skills would erase my fall from the mind of Jeff's friend. Too late. The girlfriend had already located the paper.

"How about 7:35?" he asked, a bit too quietly.
"Fine with me." Jeff said, wondering why I was still on the floor.
"Great!" I said, picking the cat hairs off of my pants and hands as I gathered the courage to stand up and walk back to the chair...

2002-02-20T08:40:00.000-06:00

Now that we're married, Jeff and I are learning odd yet fascinating things about each other.

He started his job a week ago. I asked him to give me a morning assignment to prevent me from staying in bed until 10:00 each day. "How about making my lunch?" he asked. "I want nothing more than to make your lunch." I replied. We agreed that he would construct the lunch while I observed on Day One, so that I could learn the Art of Sandwich Making.

He put two pieces of bread on the counter.

J: I eat ham every day for lunch. If it's the thick sliced ham, I usually go for two to three slices, depending on how many are in the bag, and if the number is divisible by two or three.

A: Really?

J: Yeah. But this is deli-sliced ham. So, I typically go with five or six slices...

A: Depending on how many is left in the bag?

J: Right. You see how I'm separating each slice? I'm incorporating air between them.

A: Okay.

J: Now for the mustard. I like to put it on the other slice of bread so that it sinks in a bit. I prefer mayo, but I think mustard gives me the zip I need around lunch time.

A: (Silence.)

J: Do me a favor and put sixteen Pringles in a sandwich bag.

A: Why sixteen?

J: I eat my sandwich in eighths, and between each bite, I eat two Pringles.

A: Shut up.

J: No, really. It takes me four bites to eat a half sandwich, and I like two Pringles between each bite. A few more is okay, but no less than sixteen.

A: (Silence.)

Every morning at seven o'clock, I can be found in the kitchen separating ham slices and counting Pringles. It's all about the love (and the appreciation of individual differences, of course...).

2002-02-05T14:04:00.000-06:00

I'm really starting to get into the freelance gig. I just ate tomatoes and rotini and watched Seventh Heaven. Now I'm drinking Mountain Dew Code Red (tm) and trying to remember how old my socks are. No one else has the inconvenience of being master of my time. I am in complete control of the daylight hours of my life!

Jeff and I are jumping on a train Thursday morning. We have decided to celebrate the end of our two months of unemployment by going to Kansas City for the weekend. I am trying to talk him into reenacting the train scenes from North by Northwest as we travel. He does a mean Cary Grant impression, and I'm trying to learn how to apply lipstick like Eva Marie Saint.

What Jeff doesn't know is that I've hired a crop duster to chase him through the streets of Kansas City.

The honeymoon is over.

2002-01-18T14:42:00.000-06:00

The guy who lived in the apartment before us had cable television. His subscription has not yet expired, so one of my guiltiest pleasures has been reacquainting myself with MTV.

I have not had access to MTV since I lived in my parents' house--and that was many years ago. I'll never forget the day I came home from school and saw that we had cable. I flipped around until I found MTV. "Rosalita" by Bruce Springsteen was on, and I was immediately hooked. These were the days of Amuck in America. MTV showed only videos. Do you remember that? Of course you don't.

I was too young to buy albums or cassettes, so I would sit in front of the TV in our living room with a tape recorder. When one of my "choice" videos came on, I would press Play and Record and wave frantically to everyone in the room to let them know their silence is requested. The quality of my first mix tapes was shoddy. My dad was cutting grass during Sunday Bloody Sunday. The phone rang during The Girl is Mine. The dog barked during Take On Me. But it didn't matter. I was beginning to carve the musical interests that are still being whittled today. MTV introduced me to Joe Jackson, XTC, and Public Image Limited. I couldn't get enough. I DID want my MTV, damnit!

When I turn on MTV at this point in my life, I become a bit disheartened. I will never be able to bring guests into my kitchen and say, "This is where we get our eat on." I will never be told that I have a hot ghetto booty. No one will ever want to see me in those low-cut-so-I-better-shave-down-there pants. My house will never be as swanky as Mariah Carey's. (However, my underpants will ALWAYS be cleaner than hers, so there is the trade-off...)

Hi there. I'm 31. I take an allergy pill every night before I go to bed. I have nose spray in my medicine cabinet. My husband has a toe for a thumb. My cat has dandruff. I sometimes get eczema on my eyelids. I have read books selected by Oprah.

I used to know all of the words to the Beastie Boys' "Licensed to Ill". Does that count for something?

I know, I know. Time to settle down with some Fibercon and a multi-vitamin. God knows, it's almost bedtime.

2002-01-13T21:39:00.000-06:00

Before the wedding, I often had dreams that involved being lost in a shopping mall ten minutes before the wedding was to start--and me with no dress or shoes. More often than not, I would grab a swanky short sequinced dress and any size 8 1/2s that would fit so that I could haul ass to the church and get myself hitched. In the dream, I would make it to the church right after the ceremony. (Yep. Jeff went through it without me...)

Now that we're over two months into the marriage, I'm having dreams of a different sort. My recurring dreams now consist of Jeff and I needing to renew our vows in front of all of the people who didn't get invited to the wedding the first time around. I decide to forget about the hair and cosmetic regiment, and although the re-wedding is to start in 10 minutes, I haven't even considered cleaning my dress--much less taking it out of its bag.

So here we are, 10 minutes before the re-wedding. My hair is a mess. My skin? Terribly dry and old-looking. I pull the dress out of the bag, and it's covered with blood. Big fist-sized spots of blood all over the back of the dress. Plus, now there's a swatch of maroon fabric sewn into the train. (As I'm dreaming, I always remark to myself, "When I wake up, I really should check to see if my dress had that maroon thing...) So, I put on the bloody dress, and I saunter all Courtney-Love-style down the aisle in front of a bunch of people I don't like. When I finally make it to Jeff, all of the diamonds from my ring fall out, and I'm left crawling all over the church floor. When I'm finished finding the diamonds, the church has emptied. The reception has been cancelled.

I took a nap this afternoon. The only dream I can recall involved me eating a bunch of brownies and drinking something called Maximum Code Red. It's a much happier dream...

2001-11-29T09:03:00.000-06:00

I used to get really angry when I heard people say our generation is lazy and doesn't share the same work ethic as our parents' generation. I came into work this morning at 7:00. I felt motivated. I was going to get a vat of work done, I tell you! Then I saw a showcase of several free holiday screensavers and desktop themes. It is now 8:54. I have not done a lick of work. Not a lick. The screwy part is this: Tomorrow is my last day. I don't need a snazzy holiday screensaver to cheer me for the next 36 hours. I NEED to get some damned work done.

Also, my dad hasn't called in sick for five years.
I give myself a day off every two months. You know, because I need to rest.

The following conversation occurred last night in our apartment:

A: We're moving on December 14. Holy cow. We need to pack.

J: I know. Shit! I can't believe Ed is not on. Do you want to watch Dawson's Creek?

A: Yes. I love Joey. You know, I dyed my hair the same color she uses in that commercial.

J: I know. But, you don't look anything like her! Maybe I'll pack tomorrow.

A: Maybe I look like her a little bit. She's so skinny, though. Do you think I'm fat?

J: I think you look great. I need to get some packing tape.

A: Joey's not THAT cute. I need to call the Ryder Truck place.

J: She's cuter than Jen Lindley, though. I need to call Geico.

A: If Joey showed up at the apartment, and I was gone for the weekend, would you have sex with her?

J: No.

A: Yes you would.

2001-11-26T10:28:00.000-06:00

This goes down as the most embarrassing moment of the year...
I have a bladder infection. Not a big thing. It's normal for every female to have one every once in a while. It started yesterday morning, and although I thought I could be a gladiator about it, I realized late last night that I might need some type of medication.

I just called my doctor. (Please know in advance that I sit in a cubicle, and the only wall between me and five other people is made of cheap plywood and felt.)

Nurse: This is Flo, may I help you?

Me: (whispering) Hi, Flo. My name is Angela, and I'm a patient of Dr. Ross. I woke up yesterday morning with a bladder infection, and was wondering if it would be possible to get a prescription for antibiotics.

Flo: Please describe the symptoms for me.

Me: (turning red, as for some strange reason, EVERYONE around me is silent at their desks) Um, well, I guess I pee a lot, and it burns, and when I stop peeing I experience a jolt of pain.

Flo: Is your urine cloudy, smelly, or bloody?

Me: No to the first two, but yes to the last one.

Flo: I'm sorry?

Me: Bloody. My urine is bloody. (At this point I'm starting to get angry with her for making me describe my urine. I keep reminding myself that I made the call, not Flo.)

Flo: I'll need you to come in for a urine test.

Me: I CAN'T come in for a urine test. This is my last week at work. I've had bladder infections before, so I know exactly what this is. Please, just give me the pills.

Flo: I'll call a prescription in, but if it's not better in a week, you'll need to come in for a urinalysis.

Me: (to myself) If it's not better in two days, I'll give you all the pee you want, Flo.

Is it my imagination, or are all of my co-workers now avoiding eye-contact with me?

2001-11-08T16:34:00.000-06:00

I work at the largest Bible publisher in the nation. It's probably the largest Bible publisher in the world. (I haven't really done my research, I suppose.) This is the company who gave a ten million dollar book deal to the parents of Jon Benet Ramsey. (The book was a dismal failure, and is currently being grinded.) This is the company who turned down the Left Behind series. This is the company who purchased a publisher of gardening materials as a step towards their goal of becoming 40% secular by 2005. I am part of that gardening publishing company. I turned in my resignation last week.

Our weekly company newsletter always begins with a Bible verse.

Our division lunches always begin with a prayer.

My boss can be quoted as saying things like, "I'm gonna raise H over this!"

I've overheard women in the bathroom passing verses on patience to each other.

I've heard men in the hall complaining that they don't have time to pray with their wives anymore.

I have fantasies of creating a Naked Women of the Bible pin-up calendar and distributing it via interoffice mail to the people who would raise some H about it.

2001-10-24T13:12:00.000-05:00

Now that the wedding is over, it's time to come up with our next adventure. We have decided to move, and are currently looking into Chicago, Cincinnati, Sheboygan, Austin, and Madison. St. Louis is also on the list, but seems to be falling into the "last resort" category.

The wedding was good. I've already received three phone calls about the au gratin potatoes and the pasta salad. Weird. I suppose we could have skipped the wedding and simply thrown an au gratin dinner party. Everyone is hungry for cheese.

And someone bought the $100 chip and dip platter we registered for. This goes to show that people will spend a lot of money in order to avoid creativity. But we're grateful. And we'll fill it with cheese and potatoes for the next family gathering, and everyone will smile.

2001-10-04T14:28:00.000-05:00

Marriage is in many ways a simplification of life, and it naturally combines the strengths and wills of two young people so that, together, they seem to reach farther into the future than they did before. Above all, marriage is a new task and a new seriousness, - a new demand on the strength and generosity of each partner, and a great new danger for both. --Rilke

Sixteen days until Jeffrey and I embark on a great new danger. Come to find out, our pianist embarked on a great new danger a few days back and now has a cracked shoulder, several broken ribs, and gasoline in his eyes. Not a big deal. The shorter the ceremony, the more time everyone has to haul their fancy selves to the reception.

A bus hijacking/wreck occurred yesterday morning in Manchester, which is not too far from Nashville. Of course, everyone at work is itching for another terrorist event, and I had to spend the day hearing ridiculous comments such as:
"They say the hijacker was Croatian. Wasn't Bin Laden Croatian before he moved to Afghanistan?"
"I'm sure Taliban fighters are more inclined to ride a bus once they get to our country."
"I hope the train companies are getting ready. It's their turn."
"Pretty soon nobody with dark skin will be allowed on planes or busses."

Dear Lord, help them. Of course, I blame it on television's glamorization. To see a fireman walking in slow motion towards the rubble in Manhattan as Enya sings the same song that she sings when we find out that Rachel is pregnant on Friends... We're being played like a fiddle! And all of us with gasoline in our eyes...

2001-09-27T16:45:00.000-05:00

The young woman sitting across from me at work is getting married on October 6th. Unlike me, she can speak of nothing but marriage---which may explain why the company is throwing a bridal shower for her, and not me. The squeaky wheel gets the grease... All day I hear her lamenting over earring styles for the bridesmaids, problems with the hotel in Ireland (where she and Paul are honeymooning), the availability of pussy willows for her reception table centerpieces... Best of all, I have heard the following sentence at least 18 times: We're getting married in a castle in upstate New York.

Jeff and I are trying to figure out how to work some of the lyrics from Pour Some Sugar On Me into the reading his brother will be "performing" at our ceremony. Something like Pour some sugar on me, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. I can't get enough. I'm hot, sticky, sweet chariot. Comin' for to carry me home.

2001-09-26T16:33:00.000-05:00

I went to Bevo Mill to order the wedding cake. As I sat sampling different icings and cakes and what-not (Oh! How I prefer cream cheese icing over butter cream!), I looked up and noticed several deer heads hanging on the walls in my reception room.

"I'll go with carrot," I said as I wiped the cream cheese icing from my chin. "And what can we do about those deer heads?"

My Bevo Coordinator said "Lots of brides put top hats and veils on the heads."

"No," I said. "I mean, can we remove the heads altogether for my reception? I'm sort of against the dead animals on the wall thing."

She stood up and walked over to one of the deer heads. She grabbed it by the antlers and tried to remove it from the wall. "Nope," she said. "Those heads are bolted up there for good."

"Can you tell the bakery to leave the raisins out of the cake?" I asked.

"Nope," she replied. "It's a mix."

2001-09-20T10:55:00.001-05:00

Last night I told my mom that I'm going to let myself eat crap for a few more days, but Friday night is it. As of Saturday, I hit the "four weeks until the wedding" mark. At four weeks, there shall be no more cake. There shall be no more gummy bears. No pie, no cookies, nothing you can buy out of a machine. In fact, I'm considering ONLY eating fruits and vegetables for four weeks. (Along with my Woman's One-A-Day Multivitamin, of course.) That's IT, man.

Perhaps I should fill a small bag each morning with the only things I can eat all day. I'll be forced to ration, because I'll be able to see exactly how much food remains. I will not allow myself to venture outside of the bag. No trading ice cream for an apple. No switching chocolate for a vegetable when I'm not looking. Hhhhhmmmmm. That might not be so bad. Two apples, a banana, a can of green beans, a can of corn, and 5 graham crackers. (And a Woman's One-A-Day Multivitamin, of course.)

Last night we purchased my wedding band. When I asked what the grade of the diamonds are, the high school student who sold it to us looked at it and said "Um. It looks like a Negative 2 SI." As if he had any idea what he was talking about. Of course, he could have said just about anything, and I wouldn't have understood. Sometimes I just want to LOOK as if I'm smart. When I told him that I'm surprised he can grade a diamond with his naked eye, I could tell that he felt very uncomfortable. So did Jeff. So did I.

2001-09-19T17:01:00.001-05:00

This morning I stopped by Starbucks on my way to work. Behind me in line were three boys of high school age. They were dirty boys with closely shaved heads and flannel shirts. They were the kind of boys I have always liked, and they weren't interested in me. They weren't talking to me. They weren't looking at me. They probably couldn't describe any of the people in front of them in line. Nevertheless, I felt very self-conscious. I was cursing myself for wearing socks with my capri pants. I was cursing myself for wearing capri pants. I was wondering if I really look like I'm 31. I was wondering if they would approve of my tall non-fat chai order. I felt like I wasn't pretty/smart/clever enough for them. I cursed myself for not being younger/taller/dirtier. It all came back to me in a high school rush. AND, it didn't stop when I walked out the door. By the time I was situated in my car, I noticed that they were sitting on the back of a car drinking their cool-boy drinks. I rolled down my windows and turned up my stereo as I drove by, to prove to them that I have good taste in music. They didn't even look up.

Why do I need the acceptance of 18-year-old boy strangers?
I'm not *upset* about not being as cool as them. I was merely perplexed by my own behavior. I'm already hearing myself say things like "My back hurts when I stand up." and "I think I have a bladder infection." and "I want to have a baby."

I'm getting married in a month, and I fear I'll always be the piano-playing choir lip-syncher.