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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

2006-04-20 ... 2:45 p.m.

Is the television show (HBO, I think) of George and Martha any good? Or the videos? Nora loves her some George and Martha and I do too, but I am always wary of filmed versions of favorite books. I know that I definitely do NOT want to read or see a filmed version of the other Amazon result for George and Martha, featuring, and I quote, "rather lackadaisical fellatio." Karen Finley, I already did not like you very much. And now you had to go and contaminate my sweet memories of best-friend hippos with your damn lackadaisical fellatio.

The Uptown coffee shop Dollop, whose terrible name always makes me think of animal poop for some reason,* has the holiest of grails on its premises---a tabletop Ms. Pac-Man machine. Except that it doesn't, exactly. The logo just says Pac-Man, but the game features all the fruit and secret tunnels that you remember from Ms. Pac-Man, and there is a small, poorly-rendered bow on our hero's head. I think maybe it is Cross-Dressing Pac-Man.

*The poop association seems to be my own personal problem, because here is a poop-free selection of the top Google results for the phrase "dollop of":

Self-serving crap
Sour cream
Deeper American values
Literary genius
Tomato sauce

Mix it all together! Mmm, delicious! You can really taste the self-serving crap.

Nora's nanny is getting married, and it is shaping up to be a rather ad hoc pagan-officiated affair held on the beach, with cake and drinking afterwards, which pleases me immensely. When I first heard the news I admit I hyperventilated a little, because we like her so much and she is so groovy with Nora---they are more like a Laverne-and-Shirley-style pair of chums than a caretaker and her ward (although in their case the buddy configuration is Tall And Responsible vs. Short And Wacky instead of the other way around, thank goodness). After a minute or two I calmed down and my congratulations became much more sincere because really, it is not 1899 anymore, and matrimony no longer means that you quit work. Why would the primitive lizard part of my brain even think that? We all had a good laugh about my panic afterwards.

I have been wondering what to give as a wedding gift. Money seems weird because it's something I give her weekly (although not as a gift). Or maybe it's not weird, I am not good at these things. You tell me: is it weird? While I don't want to be the only dweeby adult lugging a crystal vase to what is obviously a body jewelry/sex toy occasion, neither do I want to blur any employer/friend boundaries. Or at least not in a creepy way.

Sometimes Nora has good ideas, so I asked her what would be a good wedding gift for the nanny.

Nora: How about a banana?
Me: A banana?
Nora: She likes bananas.
Me: Okay, but...
Nora: We could just break one off our bunch.
Me: So not just a banana but a re-gifted banana.
Nora: Come on, let's go wrap it.
Me: A re-gifted, spoiled banana, since the wedding is not for another week. Problem solved!

Okay, I have now officially posted any old crap just to get the ball rolling again, since the bulk of my April was spent on vacation in Distraction Valley, a magical place full of shiny bits of foil, work projects that keep mushrooming out of their defined boundaries, and a kid whose "PLAY WITH ME! LET'S PRETEND WE'RE PIECES OF CHEESE!" is so cheerfully imperative that I cannot possibly do otherwise. All these things have conspired to keep me from diary-keeping. Even now, when I'm holed up in here with the headphones on, there are distractions---for one, even though I know it is a pathetic fallacy to ascribe specific traits to the iPod's shuffle feature, I can't help but think that today's playlist is particularly "male." Lots of 4/4 martial rhythms, lots of controlled shouting in the Pegboy vein, and lots of that irritating fake Socratic dialogue that Ian MacKaye likes to try and engage us in. Do you know what I mean? Every other Fugazi song has a structure like "You think it's BLAH BLAH! Well, I'm here to tell you it's really BLAH BLAH!" And in the space between those first and second lyrics I always want to grumpily say, "Excuse me Ian, but I thought nothing of the kind," which proves that I really am becoming a cranky old lady.

---mimi smartypants likes to walk around it.


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