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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

2007-02-14 ... 8:20 p.m.

Perhaps it makes me an asshole, but I am ever-so-slightly annoyed by shipping-address pull-down menus where the US and Canada are in their proper alphabetical position, rather than at the top. I do more internet shopping than most people from Afghanistan and thus I deserve the convenience of being farther up the list. I probably am just envious that Afghanistan has way more heroin than I do. Afghanistan is all, "First in the pull-down menu AND tons of sweet sweet heroin, ha ha suck it bitch." And then I say, "I'd have to take off my burqua to suck it properly. Is that okay?" And Afghanistan says, "Uh...let us check with the imam and get back to you."

Speaking of assholes, by accident I stumbled upon a certain Chicago-area weblog and it is so horrific and terrible that I cannot click away. It is the journal of a divorced suburban thirty-ish guy who rides a motorcycle and works in finance (I think) and it chronicles his dating "adventures." This man is deeply, sincerely saddened by the fact that he cannot find women who meet his exact requirements of perfectly groomed pubic hair,* daily wearing of four-inch heels,** and lack of "busyness" that enables them to be available for dates, sex, and running his errands. He makes a big deal about being well traveled but is still functionally illiterate and uses phrases like "a hare's breath away." Which is kind of poetically wrong (in the sense that it makes me think about rabbits and Listerine), but wrong nonetheless.

*He mentions this repeatedly. It is more than a little odd.
**In one entry he talks about buying this coffee-table book and HOW can you take someone seriously after they admit to buying that? How?

Anyway, that is how I have been spending my time: wading through the archives of this complete and utter tool. I cannot link the journal because that would be gauche. However, if you and I have shared beers or correspondence, and if you too want to waste your life being fascinated/repulsed by precisely how flaccid and colorless the life of the quintessential Maxim subscriber can be, email me for the URL.

Happy Valentine's Day, I guess. The creepy decorations are back at the office, but with new, awful additions. There is one with a girl teddy bear inside a gift box, and the ribbon is untied and the lid is off like she just had herself delivered like some big furry sex toy to her boy teddy bear, who looks either stoic or horny or a bit gassy, depending on the angle and my mood. God it's so disgusting, the teddy bears and their skull-fuckingly horrible heteronormative stuffed-toy relationship, their contrived and childish notions of what constitutes a romantic gesture. I long to rip down this decoration and set it aflame, but I stifle those good clean liberating impulses just like I do every day of my working life.

Valentine's Day is the deathiversary of a friend of mine, and as if the death itself were not icky enough I was fairly involved in the trauma of his sudden passing, so I no longer have the greatest relationship with the holiday. I am using wine and music tonight to blot out the evil (teddy bear sex and untimely death) and focus on the good things: purple tulips and hugs from LT, my daughter splashing in the tub and singing to herself, my recent discoveries of both John Barth and The Octopus Project.


1. Nora was getting dressed for school, and the sleeves on this particular sweater are somewhat too long. Historically, we have cuffed these sleeves one turn each. "Here, let me cuff your sleeves," I said, at which point she yanked herself emphatically away from me and declared, "No. I'm four now." Oh I did not realize all the implications of your recent birthday. My apologies.

2. Later that same day I was having her help me grate cheese for dinner, because (a) isn't Montessori all about the practical life experiences? and (b) because it is easier than pretending to be cowgirls in a weird stilted preschool radio play where I am fed all my lines and chastised if I don't repeat them verbatim. Which is often how "free play" or "let's betend" [sic] goes these days. Nora was really working that Reggiano chunk and that microplane when she asked, "What kind of cheese is this?"

Me: Parmesan.
Nora: What did you say? Kermit the frog?
Me: Uh, no. Parmesan.
Nora: Kermit the frog cheese! Oh dear, we're grating Kermit. [yelling at the cheese] It will be okay Kermit! It will all be okay! Your body is grated and you're going on noodles! Don't worry Kermit!
Me: ...?

---mimi smartypants with a Muppet News Flash.


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