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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

2006-02-17 ... 10:16 a.m.


Eventually Nora will learn how to lie, right? Because things like this just make me embarrassed for her:

Me: Nora, please don't [do some crazy, possibly dangerous, unnecessary thing].
Nora: Okay. Please go away so I can do it.

Because if I don't see it, it can't bother me, apparently.

Similarly, the other day I was at the dining-room table reading while she played in the living room. She got quiet, and then called out, "Mommy? Iím being careful."

Oh Nora. If you want privacy for your hijinks, you simply must be more circumspect than that. But thanks for the reassurance!

In case you donít know, I did a little reading on Friday night, and most people have informed me that it did not entirely suck. I have a somewhat different opinion, but I cannot be counted on for my opinions when I am full of beer and doing that wacky dissociative thing that I do whenever I get in front of a microphone. It is very weird, how I just float away and let my mouth do its thing (oh MY, ahem), although I guess it is useful because I rarely get nervous! Since I know that I will not really be there, I'll just be performing!

I get to do it all over again in April, but with a few major differences. A former friend who is now a high-school teacher has all but begged me to come talk to her creative-writing classes, and initially I was going to decline with extreme prejudice because of my oft-stated opinions on "creative writing" and the teaching thereof. Also, I don't really think that what I do (what exactly DO I do?) qualifies as such. However, she was very persuasive, and I sort of have free rein to say whatever I want, no matter how insane or cranky, as long as I donít swear (fuck!) or read anything dirty (tittyfuck!), and the prospect of a platform from which to MOLD YOUNG MINDS, plus a day off from work, was too tempting to turn down.


I was walking very fast (superhumanly dreamworld fast) on a bike path, and instead of saying "on your right" or whatever when overtaking people I was flapping my arms and screaming, "FREAKOUT!" at the top of my lungs. Then, a few strides later when I overtook the startled pedestrian I would turn my head and say, in a just-for-your-information tone, "Le freak. C'est chic." I woke up smiling.


At the doctor's office recently, I read a copy of this magazine called Body + Soul, and it was pretty much the most annoying thing ever with its woo-woo preciousness and repetitive, empty-headed articles. All I can think about when I read most mainstream female-focused periodicals, particularly parenting and fashion and "healthy living" magazines, is how relaxing it must be to be a staff writer there---oh is it deadline time already? Wait, I'm sure I have five hundred words on Finding Time For Yourself somewhere on this hard drive. Anyway, Body + Soul had this thing on inner harmony/daily affirmations blah blah, but what really caught my eye was this sentence: "You are special to the universe."

Here is my question: Do you find this a comforting thought? Leaving aside for a moment the highly debatable assumption that the "universe" is sentient or at the very least gives a cosmic fuck somehow, how is this a helpful way to think? What the hell is gained by considering yourself special? And if everyone is special, no one is special, right? Which yeah, you can get philosophy-cute on me and say, "That's exactly the point," but that just makes me want to smack you. If that is the way you want to play, then the affirmation could just as easily be "You are totally insignificant to the universe," but that doesn't make for very good Body + Soul copy and no one would want to use that as a meditation mantra. Except me. But I am weird like that. Remembering how totally un-special I am to the universe is particularly helpful when shit is going poorly, because then I feel less picked on.


I have never been good at the unfortunate female art of competitiveness and snark hidden behind a faÁade of small talk and faux-friendliness. Luckily the people I consider my friends do not engage in such things, and I usually don't participate in activities (playgroups, PTA committees, etc) that require a lot of superficial conversation. Of course, once you have a kid, other people with kids sometimes seek you out for this kind of behavior whether you look for it or not.

Someone I sort-of kind-of know has a son about the same age as Nora. Every time I run into this woman, she has a bunch of weirdly anxious questions about the sorts of things Nora is up to lately (is she dry at night? can she draw people?), and I hate answering her because I just know she is comparing our children on some dumb checklist in her head. She also has a tendency to try and score bizarre uber-mommy points by constantly saying how well-adjusted Nora seems to be to preschool and to her nanny, and falls all over herself to say how great it is that we don't have daily tears when I head off to work. Then this woman likes to fake-complain about how her son cries and cries when she drops him off at the babysitter's, and how he is just so attached to her. As if having a big old crybaby of a kid is a normal source of pride.

Usually I just nod and smile and get the hell away as quickly as I can, but the other day I decided to go ahead and play her retarded game. When she mentioned Little Lord Crybaby for the umpteenth time I sweetly said, "Wow, it's very unusual to have such severe separation anxiety at his age...have you ever tried to find out what's causing it?" And then she got flustered and I said I had to be running along and I felt good for about ten seconds. I would really rather just opt out of the Competitive Mothering games but sometimes you just have to give people a taste of their own medicine. Right?


To LT: "Reading about racism in the welfare system is making me want ice cream."

Reply to an automated email message from the CTA about how I had supposedly used my 30-day pass in an incorrect manner, received AFTER I had spent 45 minutes on the goddamn phone straightening out this very issue: "YOU'RE WRONG, ROBOT."


1. At my Tuesday lunch meeting, the catering company formed the salami on our "deli tray" into the shape of a rose.

2. Purple tulips and post-kid-bedtime takeout sushi from LT. Awww.

3. From my stepmother-in-law to Nora: stickers inside a huge, glittery card that said, "To My Fairy Princess Granddaughter." I am not sure how to break it to her that Nora is an actual human child.

4. From Nora to us, her parents: decorated cookies and handmade cards. For some reason she has been drawing the sexual organs on her drawings of people, which is probably going to get us another sideline "talk" from the preschool teachers before long. When I asked her why she always draws the penis on her figures of Daddy or her little male friends, she got exasperated and said, "That's how you know they are BOYS." She has a point there, but still. Anyway, my Valentine card has me holding a flower, and I have oversized knockers, which is not very true to life at all. LT's Valentine card has him with (visible) food in his belly, and his penis is there and labeled as such, and it is not oversized. Or rather it is a realistic, proportionate size. Not to say that LT's penis is not not-huge or anything. It is the size it needs to be. I think I am going to stop typing now.

---mimi smartypants is smooth like butter.


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