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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

2003-04-21 ... 10:36 a.m.

I may have mentioned the woman I know who is alarmingly, burstingly, time-and-space-distortingly pregnant. (Seriously, she is so pregnant that the air around her seems wavy with fecundity and I know she feels the time-distortion thing, as it must be irritating to have everyone around you jokingly say, "What, you haven't had that baby yet?" every six minutes or so. As a present the other day I gave her a dime-store squirt gun to keep at her desk to use on the next person who asks her that.) She and her husband elected not to find out the flavor sex of their kid and instead took the admirably Zen, gumball-machine route of just letting it roll out and seeing what you get. The only catch is that my friend decided she "knows" she is having a girl, and thus has not picked out any boy names. This drives me wild, because what is the point of being prepared for any possibility if you are not, in fact, prepared for any possibility? So in this last mad scramble before Baby Time I have been trying to make her think of some boy names, and because I am me I have been purposely thinking of very strange boy names. Yesterday I called her up and suggested she name a possible boy baby Plinth. "It's a tough, sturdy, architectural name," I said, "and fun for drunks to say." She flatly refused. Now I am slightly spleened, and I really hope she does have a boy, and is all confused and messed up on hormones afterwards, and "Plinth" is the only name she can think of, and then there will be a little kid running around named Plinth, ha ha. Of course, later in revenge he will probably track me down and murder me in my sleep. First Plinth on Death Row!


Interesting old seed catalogues.

The treatment of hemorrhoids with rubber bands in El Salvador. Bonus: Intra-anal video footage!

Wow. Silophone.

Bauhaus architecture in Tel Aviv: who knew?


My weekend was very disparate, almost as if one were leading a double or indeed triple life. Friday night LT and I took it easy, going out for quiet Thai food (despite the dorky, embarrassing name, I highly recommend Mr. Thai for anything noodly, anything tofu-y, and anything fried. If you can get all three of those things going in one dish, as in Pad Thai or fried noodles with tofu and broccoli, even better.) On the way home we splurged on a six-pack of good beer but ended up "going to bed" (heh-heh) early and forgetting to drink any of it. Saturday I went to a party where the five-oh showed up three separate times, as did some asshole frat boys with baseball bats (really), but my sister and I managed to stay mostly out of the way of all that, quietly socializing with a small group and smoking drugs out on the enclosed back porch, although even that got kind of surreal as we listened to the stop-and-start guitar noise of the band in the basement, the crashing of various mirrors/windows/glass things breaking in the next room, and the occasional abbreviated siren-burp that a cop car makes to clear the street. And then Sunday I went to brunch with my parents and BUILT MY OWN OMELET, just like the menu invited me to. It seemed like a lot to ask people to do first thing in the morning---to choose ingredients from a list and take responsibility for the tastiness of the finished product. It is like a little taste of existentialism, at breakfast. I felt up to the challenge of existence preceding essence and chose goat cheese, spinach, and roasted red peppers and it was lovely. My mother had also brought me potato haluski, which is an obscure Slovak dumpling thing that you have probably never had. Even a small bowl of haluski weighs about three pounds. It is some very serious working-in-the-fields, standing-up-to-Soviet-aggression food. Haluski are also rather gray, and misshapen, like little (extremely heavy) potato-dumpling storm clouds, and they are a little bit slimy-textured (gosh I am just making this sound delicious, aren't I), and all my life I have thought they look like a physical representation of doubt. If you could take all the anxious doubt out of your head and pile it up in a bowl, and cover it with melted butter and salt. Which you can't. Unfortunately.

So: omelet in the morning, haluski at night, some jellybeans in between, and basically one could say that I spent Easter in a food coma. Back on track now. Sorry about that, Physical Body! Hope you can forgive me!


My neighbors have this bag of wood chips, for grilling, out on their back porch. On the bag the words "THE COWBOY WAY" are featured very prominently. Presumably this is some sort of reference to cowboy cuisine, cooking over an open flame with mesquite chips or something, but of course LT and I just think it sounds dirty. So every time we leave the house together I have been mentioning THE COWBOY WAY, which we imagine as involving chaps (with no pants on underneath, of course), saddle grease, sunburn, spurs, bareback, lassos, and any other man-on-man cowboy accouterment we can think of. After a few conversations like this, the entire joke got shortened to just saying "leathery, sunburned cock!" when leaving the house, and one would have to retrace quite a few steps to remember the bag of wood chips from whence that sprung. It's all good, although I fear that someday I will be having a friendly discussion with my neighbors about grilling outdoors and my mouth will bypass my brain and say something about leathery, sunburned cock, thus ensuring that our neighbor-relationship will be forever awkward as they pity LT and his sadly brain-damaged, foul-mouthed wife, so dear Jesus and the Easter Bunny please do not let that happen amen. To be safe perhaps I should just avoid the neighbors altogether, or else quickly excuse myself should the conversation ever take a barbecue-esque turn.

Well hello look at that, we certainly have wasted some time here. Hoo boy.

---mimi smartypants, the quicker picker upper.


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