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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

2006-03-20 ... 8:57 a.m.

For the last week, my cell phone has rung every day with a wrong number. My cell phone rarely rings---I use text-messaging for my "what's up bitches" friend shout-outs, and if I use the phone qua phone at all it is usually to tell the babysitter that I'm going to be a few minutes late because the CTA sucks donkey dick. So I don't hear my dull, out-of-the-box ringtone very often, to the point that I jump like a monkey when I do, imagining bad news of the highest order.

However, all of my phone-induced heart attacks this week have been courtesy of wrong numbers. Specifically, a deep-voiced African American man is looking for Antwon. Or Antoine. Or maybe Ant'awn. For days I politely informed the caller that Antwon or his alternate spellings was not at this number, but that was getting boring, and today I just deepened my own voice and said, "Yeah, who's this?"

It was Derek. What was up? Was I still coming over after I got off work?

"Naw, man, I can't," I said. "I'm cooking paella. That shit takes all day."

There was a long pause, and then Derek hung up. I really wished he would have stayed on and talked to faux-Antwon, because I had some follow-up remarks about how one has to be very careful not to overcook clams and how saffron is thirty bucks a motherfucking ounce.

No one has called looking for Antwon since---I hope Derek eventually got his correct cell phone number. Please feel free to discuss among yourselves as to whether I am an evil bitch for my reverse prank call.


1. The Container Store is now on my list of things I feel slightly religious about (along with particle physics, certain musical intervals, and Google). I get so excited in the Container Store---look at all those things! Meant to contain other things! I want to gather a large group of obsessive neat-freaks, feed them a mild stimulant, and then let them loose in the Container Store with the directive: "Clean up this mess."

2. I was supposed to attend a workshop on how to motivate my employees, but it got canceled. I guess Corporate Training needs to take a motivational workshop before they can get it up to teach a motivational workshop. Or something. I was kind of relieved, because I had not looked too closely at the specifications until after signing up, and it turned out the workshop on how to motivate people was three hours long. How in the world can it take three hours to say "money, sex, and food"?

3. Phrases that have offended my sensibilities in recent days: (a) a recipe called "Bon Voyage Chicken." Where is the chicken going? (b) The Duke of Perth has a "Sean Connery Burger" on their menu, which is not made with real chunks of Sean Connery, because I asked. (c) In looking at Chicago Park District programs, I noticed there are about eight million sections of something called "Moms, Pops and Tots Interaction" and every single syntactical unit of that phrase makes me want to bite somebody. "Interaction"? "Tots"? Blargh.


Nora is at an awkward stage where she is so over the stroller (god! it's for BABIES!), but she cannot walk to semi-far-away cool places like the llama playground without getting all tuckered out. She can ride her tricycle or scooter, but there is always the possibility that she will get bored with that and then I am either carrying it or spending a lot of happy! mom! energy! convincing her to ride the rest of the way home. Plus I get kind of sick of every intersection with the tricycle being a teaching moment, where we talk about how you don't go until the white guy walking guy says it's okay, and then I'm bent over holding onto her handlebars with my heart all poundy until we get safely across.

So as it slowly gets warmer and outdoor activities start to seem like possibilities again, I have been turning over this small dilemma in my mind. I have been thinking about how to get places without a stroller and without wearing a tiny 3-year-old out, and I have been Googling stupid phrases like "stroller alternative." I have been conjuring up fantastic imaginary contraptions like a skateboard, only less like a skateboard and more like a box that she could sit on, and with a string so that I could pull it...wait, what is that? A box, on wheels, with a handle for pulling? WHY IT'S A WAGON! Oh good gravy, I am such an idiot. Thus, Nora is now getting a wagon for Easter---I cannot remember right now why there are presents for Easter (happy Crucifixion Day!), but we celebrate it in just a plain old "spring, newness" sort of way, plus I like to make an occasion of gift-giving, so there you go.


Limbs and things! Limbs and things! How I would love to own some "simulated earwax."

And here's a butt! Five interchangeable prostates! And a carrying case!

I found these when searching for a tool to deal with my daughter's earwax, believe it or not. There is a chunk of the Great Wall in there and she's been complaining about it, and the pediatrician gave us the go-ahead to get in there with an ear spoon (Q-tips are useless for the dry stuff) and dig it out. I am vicariously excited. I need to get myself over to Argyle or down to Chinatown for ear-picking supplies---I could just order this adorable version, but I'm sort of worried about being forever on a mailing list with people who enjoy animated tentacle porn.

Earwax composition is not "heritage,"* but this seems as good a place as any to mention that LT bought Nora a "Kiss Me I'm Irish" t-shirt, and she decided she liked it and wore it to preschool on St Patrick's Day. I was equal parts tickled and horrified. Apparently the teacher thought it was funny, so we should not get a talking-to on conference day about our callous disregard for our daughter's ethnicity.

*That's a Communist-banner-worthy slogan if I ever heard one. EARWAX IS NOT HERITAGE. Of course, in an earwax-focused totalitarian state I would be doomed to do nothing but write self-criticisms all day. Poor me.

---mimi smartypants sing cuccu nu, sing cuccu!


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