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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
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As regular readers are aware, I take great delight in those occasions when I hear myself say unusual sentences, such as (to take a few examples from this weekend) "Now THAT'S a groovy Jesus" or "You can be an elephant after you finish your applesauce." Speaking weird things is good, but shouting them is even better. Shouting opportunities are rare in daily life. This is probably at least fifty percent of the reason that people attend sporting events---where else are you encouraged to scream at the top of your lungs? Last week I was waiting for the bus and watching two teenagers share a joint in the alley. From my vantage point I could see the cop car coming the opposite way, but they could not, so in an effort to be helpful and further my "street" "cred," I yelled "FIVE-OH!" and then was treated to the hilarious sight of two stoned kids panicking mid-spliff. They dumped their devil weed, acted casual, and the cruiser passed without incident, but as they sauntered past on their way out of the alley I could feel them eyeing me curiously---who is this person with the librarian glasses and mom haircut, who warns us of approaching law enforcement? Or maybe they were just in awe of my street cred. Because is there is one thing I am dripping with, it is street cred. (Aquarium street cred. ) MORE NORA 1. She has discovered the joys of feedback, and has more or less stopped playing with this toy in the manner intended by the manufacturers in favor of moving the microphone against the speaker and listening to the resulting noises with an intense, blissed-out look on her face. My little Kim Gordon! 2. Our babysitter (am I bourgeois enough to use the word "nanny"?) has now been clobbered with the duck eating pizza meme stick. Apparently Nora requested not just the duck eating pizza TV show, but also wanted to read the duck eating pizza book. (Is it a "novelization," or is the show based on the book?) NORA, WE STILL HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT. PLEASE GIVE THE ADULTS IN YOUR LIFE A BREAK. 3. The semi-precocious vocabulary is cute and fun, but the weirdly adult way Nora phrases things is what has really been freaking me out lately. The other day she was having a pretend picnic with my mom, the doll blanket spread out on the floor and all the fake food from her fake kitchen arranged on it. There was a hot dog bun but no hot dog, and Nora said, "Don't worry, I will find it" and then searched the toy area for a good five minutes, showing much greater perseverance in the plastic hot dog search than I would have. Finally she came back, patted my mom's shoulder, and gently said, "Grandma, just eat the bun." 4. Besides the assertions that Nora will be both a turtle and a plate-spinning circus performer when she grows up, other recent career ambitions include having large breasts (I hate to say it, baby, but your heritage works against you here) and driving a "dumper truck." Apparently LT and I are going to accompany her, because she added that while she will drive, we will have to help her work the levers. Although I will love my adult child no matter what, the thought of a silicone-breasted female construction worker with an unhealthy attachment to her parents, who moonlights in the circus and spends weekends dressing up like a turtle, does kind of give me chills. Of course, if we all had to stick by the career ambitions we had as preschoolers, I would be Popeye the Sailor Man right now. GIRLS GONE MILD Last weekend I was out until all hours, but there was less drinking than one would expect. I think draft beer instead of bottled slows me down somewhat. That glass is so heavy! I was drinking with people I did not know very well---a birthday party where I knew the honoree, but only a few of his friends. Somehow I got embroiled in a conversation with a bunch of women about which female celebrities they would "switch teams" for, and after a few rounds of this someone asked me point blank for my own team-switching triggers. I really should have just offered up the names of some attractive movie stars and left it at that, but because I was kind of tipsy and oversharing I said something like, "Um, I think I might be a bit further along the Kinsey continuum than some of you---historically it hasn't taken much for me to switch teams." On the one hand, why don't I just shut up once in a while? Why god why? On the other, I am (almost) glad I blurted that out, because the notion that switching sexual orientation is just a matter of encountering an extraordinarily beautiful member of one's own sex, or for that matter that any same-sex hanky-panky automatically means that you have "switched teams" once and for all, is kind of borderline offensive to me. The universe made a further joke at my expense when, shortly after that semi-awkward moment, I reached in my purse to pay for another drink and instead found a pair of girl underwear that did not belong to me. However, since they were size 2T and patterned with Care Bears, this entry can remain rated PG. The stage between No Diaper Bag Needed and Occasionally We Still Don't Make It To The Potty In Time is confusing, and both LT and I carry these little "emergency kits" of extra underwear and pants just about everywhere. THE KIND OF PHILOSOPHY YOU GET AT WALGREENS Between the heat and my last not-radical-enough cut, my hair is driving me crazy, so I stopped at the drugstore to pick up some more barrettes. The package says "Dream. Imagine. Create." Or maybe I could just get my bangs out of my eyes, would that be okay? God, I hate feeling pressured by my hair accoutrements. ---mimi smartypants shakes and bakes. back/forward |
