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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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Today I am wearing a rather ugly seafoam-green sweater, a color that I normally avoid because it makes me look even more greenish, sullen, and furtive than usual, solely for its snuggliness. That is my mental state in a nutshell right now. I would have worn pajama pants to work as well, but somehow I managed to scrape a bit more of the Cake Batter Of Professionalism out of the Mixing Bowl Of My Rapidly Declining Standards and put on real grown-up pants with the ugly sweater. The cold and the holiday blah blah and the fact that my office never seems to operate on anything other than an OH MY GOD SUPER RED-HOT EMERGENCY level are all making me want to magically transform from a human girl into a patch of moss on a fallen log. (Wondertwin powers activate! Form of...lichen!) Moss doesn't have to deal with Christmas! Moss just grows and releases spores and stuff! On the other hand, moss doesn't get to drink, either. And drinking, my friends, is absolutely key. Although I am pretty much just ignoring the whole Santa* thing for another year, because we can totally get away with it and because there is plenty of time for Nora to learn about mythical omniscient father figures who pass judgment on your behavior once a year. I swear, there are so many holes in the Santa story that I think it is almost an insult to children to perpetuate it, but when I say that out loud everyone yells at me for being No Fun Whatsoever, and I fully expect to get several emails now about HOW CAN I DENY MY DAUGHTER THE JOY OF THE HOLIDAYS. *Through osmosis, the tyke somehow has learned to recognize Santa. And his goats. You know, those goats that pull his sleigh? I am so not going to bother to correct that wrong impression because sure, Santa can have goats for all I care. I am not totally against Christmas traditions: Nora is getting a tricycle this year, which means that LT and I will possibly have the traditional fun of assembling something while under the influence of cheap-ish Merlot (me) and high-end bourbon (him), and maybe having an argument because he won't read the badly-translated-from-German directions and because I obviously DID SOMETHING with the flat-head screwdriver, why am I always MOVING STUFF to OBSCURE LOCATIONS IN THE HOUSE, and maybe then we will make up and have hot monkey sex on the floor under the Christmas tree and wake up with cottonmouth and bruised knees to Nora's chanted "Mom-my! Mom-my! Mom-my!" over the baby monitor. ACTUALLY, CAN THE SARCASM BECAUSE THIS IS STARTING TO SOUND AWESOME. Yesterday I indulged in another Christmas tradition, and went to afternoon tea at the Ritz-Carlton with my mom, my sister, and Nora. Other than twice shouting, "ALL DONE!" at the top of her lungs, eating a sugarcube, and wearing a tea cozy on her head like a hat (which actually looked rather fetching), Nora behaved beautifully. She didn't even wiggle or protest during a Ritz-Carlton diaper change (maybe she was impressed with her swank surroundings), and she got big laughs by clapping and saying "YAY! BIG GIRL!" when the sound of a total stranger's urine came tinkling through the marble bathroom. The bus ride home was a different story, when the strain of good behavior and the crappy too-short nap and, very possibly, the sugarcube, all combined to cause a big public meltdown. Which was made worse by the fact that Nora has somewhere picked up the habit of saying, "SORRY! SORRY! SORRY!" through her sobs, in the midst of a freakout. This may be my fault, as I have been known to say things like, "I'm sorry you seem to be losing your little mind, but we still have to [fill in the blank with whatever is being protested]." Regardless, her sorry-sorry-sorry thing is really not so cool in public because it makes me look like a Mommy Dearest type whose toddler is desperately trying to apologize and avoid a beating. I baked some muffins and brought them into work, and from the reaction I got you would have thought I had shown up wearing a puffy-paint sweatshirt and spreading the gospel of Jesus. There is a place where we put up-for-grabs food in this office, and the woman who sits near that place says that all day she heard constant incredulity, "Mimi made these? Mimi? Our Mimi? She bakes?" This irritated me. Fuck all y'all, I can bake. You want a piece of me? You want to make some motherfucking cookies? Let's go, right now. Bring the Crisco. BRING IT. Just to prove how domestic I really am, I won't even mention how much my brain zooms right to a really unfortunate anal sex scene from a best-forgotten porn clip right after I mention the word "Crisco." Except in the meta way that I am mentioning it right now. Speaking of meta-commentary, I really dig the way Nora provides a director's track to all her activities. Running down the hall? She yells, "RUNNING!" If she is hiding behind the shower curtain, with her feet in plain sight, I enjoy how she further compounds the meta-irony by announcing, "Hiding!" Let's all start doing this, because it would amuse me mightily to hear shouts of "Snacking between meals!" or "Jerking off in the shower!" or "Updating a spreadsheet, with many breaks to search eBay for collectible crap!" coming from across the land. And then we would all be well-informed and up-to-date on each other's activities, as well. Thank you very much the end. ---mimi smartypants: typing!
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