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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

2003-02-14 ... 4:01 p.m.

Good photos of the far northwest side’s famous boy caveman hot dog and girl sailor dress hot dog. I assume that dressing up like a caveman is just some sort of sex game that the two hot dogs play, and that the boy caveman hot dog was not transported forward into the future to meet the girl sailor dress hot dog in Terminator fashion.


Girl #1: I got e-mail from Karen yesterday.

Girl #2: I love Karen. She's so cool.

Girl #1: I like her a lot.

Girl #2: She is studying for the bar exam.

Girl #1: We need more people like her to be lawyers.

Girl #2: She likes cats.

(Since I did not see otherwise how that was relevant, I fervently hope that Karen is studying to be some kind of cat lawyer. I think cats would bring all kinds of frivolous lawsuits if they could, don't you?)

Little kid on the same bus singing/talking to himself: "BIGGER THAN THE BIGGEST PLANET!"

(That would be Jupiter, sweetheart!)

(Also, hearing little kids' personal monologues is a huge source of pleasure for me.)

It was a harrowing bus ride to the bar. The traffic was appalling and we almost got in an accident several times. The driver was doing that ride-the-brake thing that makes me all whiplashy and nauseous. Long before Ashland I was like, "Fuck this it is not that cold" so I got off and just started walking. I saw a rat, trundling down the street, which made me happy. Then I started thinking about "plague" animals, like field mice (hantavirus), rats and gophers (bubonic plague), and the plagues of Israel (frogs), and I had this weird panic attack when I could not remember how many legs a frog has. Specifically, I could not remember if a frog had front legs in addition to its swimming back legs, and I was mentally running through all the real and iconic frogs I had seen (and I discounted Kermit, because the image of a double-amputee Kermit was upsetting to me) and there was a big blank spot in my mind when I tried to think about frog front legs. I was trying it both ways in my mental Frog Gallery: front legs? or no front legs? and neither one looked right, and then I was trying to use a strange twisted sort of logic about evolution and tadpoles, and then I even tried a biodynamic theory but somehow I kept getting my mental frog to move about just fine, even without front legs, so that didn't help at all. Then I started to have a meta-panic-attack, wherein I am worried (a) that I am blanking on something this simple and basic---I mean FROGS! LEGS! WHAT IS HARD HERE? and (b) that I am so very worried that I cannot remember what a frog’s front legs are like. Why is this happening to me? And why isn't there a wristwatch version of Google or a pocket encyclopedia that could just settle this when you are out on the street having a problem like this? Or maybe a for-real Information Kiosk on every other block, and the guy staffing the booth could print out a Frog Fact Sheet for you and then you could be on your merry way. Anyway. All is well now. Frog. With front legs.

My parents moved into a house when I was around eight years old. Oh yeah, and they not only left me their forwarding address, they even brought me along. (You: Okay, smartass. Me: Listen, that joke had to be made.) It was my first experience having a backyard and I was all excited about it, there was even a crabapple tree that I liked to sit in and read, because that was my pointy-headed bespectacled anemic version of "playing outside." There was also a rope swing attached to a branch of a different tree, the kind that is just a board with a hole through it and a single rope, and frankly the swing was a bit too close to the tree, which caused many cartoony accidents when the arc of your determined swinging would reach its peak and the whole thing would begin to collapse on itself, or a gust of wind would come along and turn you just enough so that you lost control and smashed into the tree trunk at high velocity. I received more than one faceful of bark that first summer, which may explain a few things and can we get a CT scan over here? I want to check my skull's integrity. Thanks.

So the whole backyard-wildlife thing was new to me. Consequently I was delighted when that same first summer there was an explosion in the toad population, which never was satisfactorily explained and I don't think ever happened since. I liked to catch the toads and hold their squishy fat bodies in my hands, and check out their really weird, almost catlike, eyes. We had an outdoor basement stairwell that was almost never used, and one day I set up a Toad Environment, with grass and sticks and water for them, and I caught around twenty toads and let them hop around their new home. Of course, being eight years old I then promptly forgot about the whole project, and the stairs were too tall for any of the toads to hop out, and so a month later when my dad had to go down those stairs for something he encountered the Toad Holocaust, the Toad Trail of Tears, the Toad Gulag, all these dead starved toads littering the stairwell. And there was no Amnesty International for toads, so all those toads just slowly starved to death, forgotten, and it was all my fault and I am still upset about it. I am the Forgetful Toad Stalin, who tortures out of absent-mindedness rather than malice. Do the Toad Ghosts forgive me? Or will I be the sort of bug that is tasty to toads in my next life?

(What was the deal with that traumatic trip down Memory Lane? Do I have no present-day things to talk about? Apparently not.)


A ridiculous mouse will be born.

Want a peanut butter squid? Peanut butter squid. Peanut butter squid with a baseball bat!

Bear attacks. Be bearsafe.


A cooking show that slowly devolves into Dadaist gibberish. It starts out normal, with the camera on me, and I am talking in a gentle public-television voice about the recipe and adding ingredients to a pan and such, and then just a few nonsense turns of phrase start to creep in there. "Now we're going to add one cup of minced groin." Later, "It looks like our onions have combusted into a tarnished sheen, so let's embalm our pumpkin with this pulmonary enigma that I have already prepared. Remember, your kneecaps may commit Norwegian radio at this point."

A manuscript box just arrived here and there is shitloads of bubble wrap inside, so if you will excuse me I am off to Snap! Crackle! Bubble Wrap! until it is time to go home.

---mimi smartypants never thought she could take it this far.


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