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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

2002-01-15 ... 12:37 p.m.

Some housekeeper I am. Last night I was lying on the floor (don't ask) and noticed a pack of cigarettes under a living room chair, apparently left over from the New Year's party. Either that or the box of Parliament Lights belongs to my cat (I'm holding them for a friend! she protests in her squeaky voice).

Yesterday I wrote about the difference between "vice" and "vise," and today I was thinking about how the only tolerable moments in my dreadful and mercifully brief job at the photographic processing plant were when I got pulled off the double-print matte-finsh 4 x 6 machine and told to process disposable cameras for a while. You put them in a VISE and crush the case to extract the film for processing, and then chuck the broken bits over your shoulder into a gigantic garbage can. Everyone enjoyed this task. So when you drop off a disposable camera, think about that.

It really was a horrible job, and I only worked there our of financial desperation for a few weeks on a college break. It was winter, and freezing cold, and because I was new I had pulled some wack-ass night shift, and thus I got the joy of sleep deprivation and stumbling out to start my unreliable car (yes, this was that long ago: Mimi Smartypants drove a car!) at 1 am every morning (night? I was just as confused as you are). And while you might think the ability to look at total strangers' snapshots would be a boon to a nosy bitch like me, those blur together really quickly: everyone's vacation, everyone's baby, everyone's birthday are exactly the same.

Or almost everyone's. At one point I was assigned photo-Christmas-card duty, and an order came in for 500 photo cards, an unheard-of number (I don't know about you, but I don't have 500 friends). They said "Merry Christmas From Justin" and featured a pudgy white guy outside in the snow, naked except for a cowboy hat, cowboy boots, and a strategically-placed guitar. I can only hope he was sending them to random strangers in the phone book as some sort of art project.

I just went across the street to Nordstrom to buy some tights (because there's no such thing as owning too many pairs of black tights), and I think Nordstrom's fashion watchword for Spring 2002 is "hooker." Right down to the short rabbit-fur jackets, sequined miniskirts, bad posture, and purple fishnets. This season, how will we ever be able to tell the actual hookers and the fashion victims apart? I foresee comic mishaps.

Here's an old Slate article that I totally agree with, about poetry readings. I know that "spoken word" is all the rage, and I like to be down with the kids and all, but call me old-fashioned because every time I attend a poetry reading I wish that everyone had spent more time working on their poems and less time growing their pointy sideburns out to the perfect length.

Speaking of, why don't you have some Hart Crane for lunch? This poem may be the only one in English that can contain a kitten and get away with it.

---mimi smartypants is a very kinky girl, the kind you don't take home to mother.


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