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the latest waddle:

good morning, wordpress - 10:36 a.m. , 2009-07-03

elaborate murder attempt - 2:56 p.m. , 2009-07-01

building a tractor in the basement - 10:42 a.m. , 2009-06-19

ask no questions tell just a few lies - 3:17 p.m. , 2009-06-09

my long lasting flavor really lasts long - 1:10 p.m. , 2009-06-04

2005-03-17 ... 1:06 p.m.

Someone a few offices over from me is screeching like a drunk Trixie at a Jimmy Buffet show. It is the sort of high-pitched hysteria often practiced by the not-very-bright, where you cannot tell if something wonderful (lottery jackpot) or horrible (flesh-ripping weasels) is happening by listening to the sound alone. It could be either.

Speaking of unbearable noises, has anyone seen the horror that is this new "reality" show, Intervention? While I am always up for the televisual exploitation of vulnerable people (see previous discussion of my inexplicable love for America's Next Top Model), the premise of this show (loads of lurid addiction footage, shallow therapy talk, very brief recap of the rehabilitation experience) is really rather awful. The only episode I have seen featured Gabe, a compulsive gambler with an emotional age of about eighteen months and possibly the shrillest person on the planet. I am puny and weak and not at all handy with a shovel, but I would gladly roll up my sleeves and bury him alive just to make the noise stop. I am not doing this whiny manipulative fuck justice, you kind of had to see it to believe it---which is not a very helpful thing or enlightening thing to say on a word-based weblog but I had to write down something about this guy in order to get him out of my head. It was completely awful and I was completely unable to stop watching. Someone should do an intervention about my trainwreck rubbernecking.


I had another amusing conversation with the man from the dumb book's publishing company, who has apparently been charged with "leveraging" my "intellectual property" into film and television. He is very enthusiastic and uses the speakerphone a lot, just like a media mogul stereotype. He noted that a web diary is published in episodes! And you know what else has episodes? Television! It's a natural! Film, however, he cautioned, could be a bit more difficult. Screenplays typically have three "acts." He identified two "acts" in my diary, but what's the third?

Gosh, I don't know. I wonder why I don't know? Oh yeah. BECAUSE I'M STILL LIVING IT.

It is simultaneously head-explodingly confusing and really fucking funny to watch people treat a real-time diary as a plotted-out, beginning-middle-and-end "product." To avoid an exploding head, I am cultivating an attitude of Detached Amusement. I have a sneaking suspicion that nothing will come of this, and anyway, I have no art to sell out. I would, however (if anyone from this media empire is listening), be interested in a me-themed breakfast cereal. Part of this complete bundle of neuroses!


Here is a gross restaurant-inspection report (although really, anyone eating at a place called "Golden Corral" is kind of asking for it) that I found by Googling the phrase "melted spatula." One of my own spatulas fell through the dishwasher rack yesterday and perished into melty goop on the heating element. The fumes were incredible, lingering no matter how many windows I opened or candles I burned, so I was looking for a webpage that would either say MELTED SPATULA FUMES ARE COMPLETELY HARMLESS or MELTED SPATULA FUMES = BEST BUZZ EVER, INHALE DEEPLY!


Nora spent yesterday morning at preschool gluing shamrock shapes to a piece of paper, in celebration of her Irish heritage. (Ahem.) My friend Kat has it worse, however---her daughter was encouraged to bring a St.-Patrick's-Day-related item to daycare, for a show-and-tell type thing. (God, who the hell cares about this holiday? Certainly not children.) Unfortunately, Kat did not have the courage to do as I suggested and send the tot off to daycare with a bottle of Jameson.


Do I "know" anyone in Atlanta? I have to be there in May for work, and when I am not busy running around screaming site-specific Outkast lyrics and eating cheese grits, it could be fun to meet a Person From The Internet or three. If that is too scary, feel free to just send me some restaurant/bar recommendations. I can only spend so many hours per day in dull beige hotel surroundings without freaking out completely.


Nora has taken to calling nipples "beeps." She will press her thumb through my shirt and say, "Beep!" I am not sure what my function my beeping nipple is supposed to perform, but I like her biomechanical point of view.

She has also found her Very Thing, and occasionally takes a moment to explore during a diaper change. She calls it her "area," which I swear I did not teach her, although it is really not that bad a compromise between the clinical and the cutesy. I have been introducing the more standard anatomy terms as well, just so we don't run into problems later with "area code," "Area 51," or the implied sluttishness of "all-area pass." Anyway, sometimes she will lie back and start feeling the specialness, and I just have to sit there with the new diaper like an idiot---um, don't want to rush you, don't want you to get the impression that your happy fun times are wrong or evil, but are you done yet?

---mimi smartypants: is she done yet?


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