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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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One of you (and I love you all) wrote to say that I had been a "bad girl" for not updating, and to that I say: When I've been a bad girl, you will know it. It will be on the evening news. Lives will be shattered, compounds burned, deprogramming experts required. However, I concede that I have not, in fact, been updating. This weekend I attended a wedding in Madison, Wisconsin. Now there's a town that's just crawling with nonstop action. Oh wait! That's not action Madison is crawling with! It's actually crawling with FLEAS from all the FILTHY GODDAMMED HIPPIES all over the place. Man, I hate hippies. Overall, though, the Madison experience was tolerable. LT and I left Thursday night, drove through threatening thunderclouds although it never actually rained, checked into the Hilton at around 10 pm, and hit the bar. We were staying on a "Club Floor," which as far as I could tell meant nothing whatsoever except some robes in the room and the inconvenience of having to use a key card for the elevator. The wedding wasn't until Friday evening, so we spent the morning in Madison visiting the tiny zoo, where we witnessed sexual intercourse between two lions. The lion humping took all of 10 seconds. Afterwards, the female lion split and the male lay on the ground exhausted for a bit, then got up on the largest rock in the enclosure and roared for a while, as if to say, "Yeah! Woooo! I'm the greatest! Wooooo! LI-ON! LI-ON! LI-ON!" Acting like dorks after getting some sweet loving? It's not just for humans anymore. Also at the zoo, I got a Mold-A-Rama of an orange giraffe. If you don't know about Mold-A-Rama, I pity you, and that link won't really help you much. Mold-A-Rama is a souvenir machine that makes a useless plastic figurine, usually of an animal or a dinosaur. The best parts of Mold-A-Rama are (a) the name, (b) the swingin' 1960s font the name is printed in, (c) the fact that the whole Mold-A-Rama process takes place on display, through a plastic bubble, because there are very few opportunities for most of us to watch injection molding happen in person, and (d) the little mechanical spatula that scrapes your souvenir off the mold and drops it into the vending slot. I'm not sure why, but I find that mechanical spatula heartwarming. HEARTWARMING! MECHANICAL! SPATULA! Sorry. After the zoo, we ditched the car and walked around State Street looking at all the goddammed hippies, had some satisfying Indonesian peanut sauce noodles and an incredibly unsatisfying cup of tea, and then went back to the hotel to dress for the wedding. I even wore real stockings and real shoes with heels. There's a first time for everything. The wedding was quite nice, except for the fact that it was outside, in a garden, and I quickly became covered with mosquito bites, and the minister's extended agricultural metaphor that started to drive me batty after awhile. We plant the seed of love and harvest the crop of togetherness and reap the wheat of fidelity and fertilize with the manure of commitment and BLAH BLAH WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT. Luckily the whole thing was over fairly quickly and we could get on with the drinking and socializing. After the reception our group of dedicated lushes all met up again at the Hilton, where my dear husband quickly located the bar and bought most of it. I came home to the most awesome mail. Someone who works for Gold Toe found this entry from a year ago singing the praises of said socks, and she sent me a giant padded envelope bulging with Gold Toe footwear. All kinds of sturdy, practical socks, and some weird ones too, including a pair that have the mysterious theme of "clambake" and are decorated with little pictures of lobsters and clams and corn on the cob and say CLAMBAKE! around the ankles. Hooray! I'm not sure my Sock Benefactress wants to be named here, but she knows who she is, and I'm forever grateful. (Coincidentally, there's an Elvis movie with the title "Clambake," but it is too awful to sit through. Fast-forward to the part where Elvis sings the title song, which mostly goes like this: Clambake clambake, goin' to the clambake, clambake clambake gonna have a clambake. He dances around and tosses obviously fake lobsters into a pot on the beach. The minute I saw that I understood why Elvis had to spend so much time stoned out of his gourd.) Thanks for listening. To sum up: (a) heartwarming mechanical spatula; (b) goddammed hippies; (c) socks. clambake. Elvis. ---mimi "will this be on the test?" smartypants back/forward |
