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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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I like the people who cry and eat. Eat and cry. Emo kids a-snacking. Wasn't that one of the Twelve Days of Christmas items? Recently I followed a link from my own stats where the blogger mentioned my numbered-paragraph habit as if it were something original and/or chock full o' meaning, which made me snort because I consider the numbering of paragraphs to be so transparently an intellectual failure on my part. It is a visual admission that I have no ability to tie the bits of flotsam together. A feeble attempt to construct a narrative out of bottle caps and bits of string. In my brain it is like a troubled and destructive child took scissors to a down comforter and in the morning the Diary-Keeping Self has to run around with a dustpan chasing tiny bits of fluff. And when you see the numbered paragraphs you will know that it is not working. Help I need a bigger dustpan. 1. Nora partied at my gym's childcare center for only the second time ever (I am neurotic). Despite her lack of drop-off care experience, she barged in with a hearty "Hello again!" Then she started taking off her coat while asking the childcare worker, "Do you guys still have that Spiderman guy? The one that looks kind of odd?" The bewildered woman gestured to a box of action figures, handed me the sign-in sheet, and said, "She's not shy, huh?" I had to YELL my goodbye to the other side of the room, where Nora "Yeah Whatever Mom, See You Later" Smartypants was telling another childcare worker that oh by the way, she would like to paint a picture while she was here, are there any smocks because this is her favorite sweatshirt and she doesn't want paint on it, blah blah blah blah non-stop. In retrospect, perhaps I have been avoiding the gym's drop-off childcare out of sympathy for the employees. 2. Things that would be worth every penny had I actually paid for them, and are even more lovely considering I did not: Charles D'Ambrosio's (what a name!) The Dead Fish Museum (library), Laura Mercier eye cream (birthday gift), and Ghostface Killah's Fishscale (iTunes giftcard). I just noticed a fish theme in the foregoing, if one can call two out of three a "theme." (No.) 3. I turned 35. Which, as I have been telling everyone within earshot, is halfway to 70! My mom responded that I had to stop thinking like that. 4. Banana the cat seems to have dreadlocked herself up for the new year. I was petting her last night and noticed that her undercoat is horribly matted, which seems like a new development although I can't be sure. What is to be done? Can I shave her and start over? Do I really need to take my shelter-adopted, teen mom, ghettofabulous cat to the groomers? If so, will we find out with one stroke of the groomer's comb that Banana's long luscious hair is really just a cheap weave? In the meantime, I have been using my Banana voice* to declare, "Don't touch my dreads!" (*Although it is embarrassing, I can't be the only person who "talks for" her pet in a certain voice, right? Our dead cat was very high-pitched, regal, and WASP-y and swore coldly at us a lot; Banana talks trash like she is permanently on the playground basketball court in the toughest neighborhood in town; and my best friend has a cat with, oddly, a sexy Italian accent.) 5. If anyone wants to hear a somewhat garbled, out-of-sequence recitation of Toy Story 2, just ask Nora. Actually, she will happily perform the movie for you whether you want to hear it or not. This DVD was a Santa afterthought, meaning Santa took a look at the pile and her heart swelled with holiday spirit and her body and her credit card took a last-minute trip to Target. Nora sat for several minutes after opening it just staring and stammering, "This...is Toy Story...this is another Toy Story?" It must be pretty mind-blowing to suddenly find that there is a sequel to your favorite movie in the world. Anyway, there have been repeated showings, and in a way I am a little angry at Toy Story 2 for being so damn good because I often get sucked into certain scenes and end up sitting on the couch instead of cooking or typing or whatever. Self, take a memo: When using TV as an emergency babysitter, make sure it is crap TV that you won't end up watching yourself. 6. Speaking of Pixar, I have to give a shout-out to Jessica for sending me a birthday gift (damn, girl---unnecessary but much appreciated) and for sending Nora some swag from a movie that is not even out yet. Although if she knows any Pixar render-ers, she might not want to tell them that Nora originally called the rat a "gopher." 7. Winter dry air is here, even if winter temperatures are not, and here be nosebleeds. LT and I were just about to get busy when we heard tiny footsteps and a sad voice saying, "There's a problem." (Don't worry, no primal scene ensued. Nora did not question my shirtlessness, but she did wonder aloud why our light was on while we were "sleeping" [at 10 pm? Sorry Nora, we don't go to bed when you do.]) For some reason I had not really looked at the child before scooping her up and heading back toward her room with motherly murmurs of "there's no problem"---however, when I felt something wet on my cheek and realized that her sleepy face had slimed me with its lifeblood that changed to, "Oh wait. There is a problem." We cleaned her up and all was well and yes, it did kill the mood a bit, thanks for asking, but with a little effort the trains were soon running again. Such an earthy evening, with the sex and blood! Let's go roll around in the dirt and build a bonfire too! (On that note. Wow.) 7. Edging out Toy Story 2 for best Christmas gift ever: the bike. That smile is the smile of freedom. It is only a matter of time before she starts asking for the LIVE TO RIDE/RIDE TO LIVE tattoo.
---mimi smartypants is slathered in mayonnaise beaten from the evil eggs of dark chickens force-fed to dogs by the hands of a one-eyed madman. |
