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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

2007-04-05 ... 11:08 a.m.

911 what is your emergency? My emergency is an agitated, belligerent senile! Come quickly! His tie is all askew and we need prompt control! Jesus, hurry!

Why are psychiatric drug ads no longer this awesome? They barely even depict crazy people at all anymore. Maybe a slightly bummed-out cartoon blob, maybe a nailbiting woman (always a woman) in a bathrobe, but more often it is just the happy smiling "I got my life back" folks. Well bully for you.

Man am I crabby. It makes me not want to write. When I am in a mood like this, my writing self does an eerie split-personality routine. With each paragraph I set the table, forks and knives and flowers and cloth napkins, glass of wine? Sure I'd love one. Oh won't this be nice. Let's eat! And then the other part of my head, the Drunk Dad from all those Irish Novels Of Great Domestic Misery, comes home with big boots tracking mud everywhere, and he is set off by some little nothing and the table's knocked over, the dishes are broken, the spaghetti is sliding down the wall, and then he's passed out on the couch while the rest of my psyche twists the dishtowel and says oh dear oh dear. Don't forget the kid part of my brain, headphones clamped on ears and nihilistic rap turned way up, thinking why even bother. And don't forget the narrator, third-person and entirely-too-omniscient, sitting back and saying ooooh you are so fucking clever with your little analogies. Anyway. To stop being so fucking clever, I will be plain and say that (a) while I know that typing helps lift me out of this bad mood, (b) the bad mood means that my typing tends to suck and my diary devolves into whining or fuck-the-world ranting, which (c) leads to both paralysis and self-hatred about how predictable I am, even to myself.

It does not help that everyone around me has been faithfully drinking their bitchjuice. Yesterday I was emailed a question and when I answered the question, five minutes later, the asker responded, "Thanks for repeating, I knew that already." I am sitting here looking at a timestamped email in which you did not "know that already," but how great that you can just configure reality to suit your needs. God. See I told you Drunk Dad would show up.

I am even annoyed by things online, such as endless AskMetaFilter posts wherein people try to interpret their cat's behavior. Hello you have missed the point of cats. Your cat privileges are hereby revoked. And by a skirmish I had over Bookmooch, of all things, where a moocher crabbed at me about some imagined violation of the rules. And the person's email was horrible too, full of "you really should" and "for future reference." Has anything good ever started with the words "for future reference"? Has anyone ever said, "For future reference, I will service you orally whenever you ask?" Or, "For future reference, please help yourself to this large pile of money?" No. "For future reference" is always followed by something shitty. I replied with a much nicer, non-profane version of "for future reference, go fuck yourself." A few hours later I noticed that the emailer had changed his feedback from "positive" to "neutral." I guess that showed me!

Here are some things that do not annoy me.

The End of Mr. Y: Read this, you'll like it. It's science and language holding hands. I could have done without the giant mouse-god, which reminded me of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sensei-rat (and who wants to be reminded of that?), and I could have done without that classic-science-fiction Garden-of-Eden analogy at the end. But otherwise, it was great.


Part of the Jodie Foster snoozefest called Flightplan---while I did not like this movie, I did like how the bad guy seemed to actually get hurt during the climactic Jodie Foster Ass-Kicking. (Great band name!) Most action-movie bad guys are all like, "Oh I seem to have been bashed in the head with a fire extinguisher, but I will continue to pursue you with nary a care." So congratulations, Peter Sarsgaard, for oofing and wincing and limping your way to believability. Quite refreshing, in its way.


Me [for no reason] Hey Nora, what's the difference between a boy and a girl?
Nora: A boy doesn't have a vagina. And boys are sometimes bigger, so sometimes they can't run so fast.


She shows me a stenciled Apatosaurus that has been filled in with stripes of colored pencil. "Look at my rainbow dinosaur. Doesn't he look proud?


What currently knocks 'em dead on the preschool Comedy Hour is to add body parts to common nouns. Get in the car? Get in the EAR CAR! Ha ha ha ha ha! Get it? No? I guess you're not four years old.

Nora: When I grow up I'm going to make candy in a factory.
Me: Awesome. What kind of candy?
Nora [on the edge of cracking herself up]: KNEE CANDY! No wait, hair candy! [convulsive laughter] No, no, no, no, nose candy. I will make nose candy! Everyone will love my nose candy!
Me: People sure do love nose candy.
Nora: Yeah! They will say, "Do you have any more of that nose candy?" And I'll say, "Yes I do! Come on over!"
Me: You should probably have a cell phone, because sometimes people have some nose candy, and then they go out dancing, and then they want some more nose candy at like four in the morning.
Nora: What?
Me: Nothing.

---mimi smartypants is a long-necked plant-eating dinosaur from the Jurassic period.


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