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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

2004-01-02 ... 2:26 p.m.

I cannot decide if I am hungry or queasy, and this strange digestive quandary has plagued me since New Year's Eve. The empirical, scientific thing to do would be to procure food and attempt to eat it, and to see what happens, but the part of me that is queasy is terrified of vomiting (I have big Issues with that), and the part of me that is hungry is not hungry enough to do anything radical like make a decision about what to eat. So far this is the only negative thing I have to say about 2004.


CHRISTMAS: Homemade ravioli at my mom's house. Nora sucked all the filling out of the one I gave her and tossed the pasta on the floor. I received a cashmere hoodie and if I had my way it would never leave my body, at least not until angry mobs smashed in my windows to drag it to the dry cleaners or to pummel me with bottles of Febreeze.

Someone* should do a commercial for Febreeze that does not center around the busy working mom with pet odors archetype but rather the more prevalent archetype, the high-functioning alcoholic with many dry-clean-only clothes. Also, my brand-name-dropping hip-hop song would totally feature Febreeze. And roasted-garlic Triscuits. And the iPod, and TiVo, and the whole phenomenon of InterCapping. Maybe Old Style, too, for the obligatory hip-hop liquor reference, and also because it would be easy to rhyme.

*(Hint: I am vaguely photogenic and articulate and have already revealed myself as a SELL-OUT WHORE for signing that publishing contract, or at least that is what a lot of angry teenage boys who never grew out of Usenet seem to think, so why not take the next step and become the spokeswaif for my favorite laundry product?)

Christmas gifts were mostly sensible, except that LT's stepmother thought Nora needed a hideous porcelain rocking horse, and then wrote some sappy note on the box lid about it being a special heirloom for all her life. Which made me morally unable to go smash the thing in the alley, as per my first impulse. The grandparents did redeem themselves with a small Little People playset or two, god bless Fisher-Price for being all sturdy and cute and for making such chubby, baby-grabbable Little People. Though LT and I both agree that the zookeeper in the zoo playset looks a hell of a lot like Ron Jeremy, or perhaps Ron Jeremy looks a lot like a Fisher-Price Little Person these days. Probably a bit of both. Incidentally, as I wrote this section my fingers kept mistyping the toy company name as "Fister-Price," and now I will have a hard time playing with those things without brightly colored porn scenarios unspooling in my head.

Also, on Christmas my kid was a little bit too cute. See below. Bonus: the picture includes LT's hands! Stalk him by his knuckle-shape!

MY BIRTHDAY: Archer Prewitt apparently did not Google himself in time to see my plea and invite me to lunch. Plus I did not get any taller.

One of the strangest things about motherhood is the constant stream of words that flows out of you. Were there not a small child near me, people would be shaking their heads sadly at my schizophrenic monologues about putting on "our" shoes, why eating the cat is not a good idea, and how we knocked down the blocks, yes we did! Wow! That was great! From the next room, pronouncements like "Don't be ridiculous, you've got to wear pants," or my songs about Nora and how she's from Tora Bora and wears a fedora (she's not and she doesn't, obviously, but her name is sadly lacking in rhymes unless I want to sing about intestinal flora, studying the Torah, or erstwhile Bon Jovi guitarist Richie Sambora) have got to sound slightly demented. I took her to the park the morning of my birthday and since I am new at this mommy thing I am still kind of self-conscious about the running commentary on everything we saw along the way ("Look Nora! An empty condom box! And a dead bird! Well, most of a dead bird.")

LT asked me what I wanted in the way of birhtday gifts and I told him, "Time to read. Seriously." I got my wish and the reading stretched deliciously into a nap as well. And then even though I was all knackered from Christmas and was quite adamant about No More Stuff, LT presented me with a new lock for the back door with the kind of deadbolt you can lock from the inside, which almost made me cry because it proves that he really does listen to my late-night pillow-talk anxiety attacks, where I express implausible fears that someone will break into the house, through the non-double-locked back door, and steal the baby while we are sleeping.

And then much sushi was consumed.

THE NEXT DAY: Went out drinking with S., who got renamed "Sophie" in the dead-tree version of this Thing because HarperCollins was not fond of the Kafka-style one-letter pseudonyms. It was obscene how much I looked forward to this drinking session. I was like a kid in a candy store deciding where to go, and we ended up with the ever-reliable combination of Rainbo and then Club Foot (why do they not open until eight? Do they really think they are a "dance club"? Someone should wallop them with the cluestick. HELLO WE ARE ALL JUST HERE TO DRINK OURSELVES SILLY. NO DANCING NECESSARY. SO PLEASE BE OPEN IN THE AFTERNOON.) I had a great time staying out past my scheduled stopping point and felt only moderately guilty about doing so, especially after I heard from LT that he managed Operation Bedtime with no fuss or strife. I think I behaved myself except that I kind of got on a ninja kick and kept talking about how I can remove the spines of my enemies with one supersecret ninja move, just crack and then AHHHHH and then I'm saying HEY LOOK AT YOUR SPINE and whipping it like a bike chain right in your face, and you are all blubbery like a bag of wet cat food.

NEW YEAR'S EVE: Party at Chez Smartypants once again, smaller than usual but just as drunken. I discovered that big fat joints are not 100% ideal for me in the party setting, as I have serious Brain Way, Way Ahead Of Conversation syndrome, which is the main source of all my seeming non-sequiturs. And I have a tendency to get kind of snuggly with friends and family, including my sister's boyfriend. It's not even that I am attracted to him, it's just that I guess I consider him family and fair game for snuggling like my sister is. The whole thing seems chock full of the potential for disastrous Jerry-Springer-style family misunderstandings. So I will try to keep my astronomically stoned mitts off the party guests from now on.

SOMEWHERE IN THERE: (1) I had an IM conversation with a friend where we managed to link the topics of anal fisting and William James' concept of the specious present. (2) LT and I invented a musical instrument made of croutons and a piece of string. Our ambitious plan for this stupid invention is to give it a verisimilitudinous name, like maybe the "Appalachian Garnish Harp," then to hack into the website of the Old Town School of Folk Music and offer a fake class in it. With a simple trip to the salad bar and the office-supply store, you too could become a master of the Appalachian Garnish Harp.

---mimi smartypants says: 2004, Iím ready for your ass. Bring it.


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