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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

2004-04-27 ... 4:04 p.m.


Fun with Nigerian scammers.

Help help help oh god help.

Toad orgy!

If only I had a mummified cat.

smartypantsmimi: Tonight I am doing something Terrifying.
smartypantsmimi: I will be interacting with [name of college] alumni.
harrysinai: Oh dear god. . .do you need me to fly home?
smartypantsmimi: There is an alumni reception downtown, and here are the words "free hors d'oeuvres."
smartypantsmimi: However, there are also the words "[name of creepy professor]"
smartypantsmimi: and "[name of even creepier painter/poet who tried to seduce every smart-and-halfway-literary freshman girl]"
harrysinai: oh. sweet. Jesus.
smartypantsmimi: I know. The lure of the mini-quiche and cheap chardonnay is strong, however.
smartypantsmimi: I'm bringing Nora, and I will ask her to stage a tantrum if necessary.
harrysinai: You would bring Nora to the same room as [poet/painter]?
smartypantsmimi: I won't let him breathe on her.
harrysinai: His evil might be contagous.
smartypantsmimi: My most misguided crush ever. Luckily it lasted about one day.
harrysinai: You were so young.
smartypantsmimi: And so drunk.
harrysinai: So. Very. Drunk.
smartypantsmimi: Hopefully I won't collapse to the floor, mini-quiche in hand, at the triggering flashbacks.
harrysinai: Will there be any good people there at all, save for LT and Nora?
smartypantsmimi: I don't remember who else was on the list. I was all focused on mini-quiches.
harrysinai: Did they mention what sorts of mini-quiches?
smartypantsmimi: Now you've got me frightened because I realize I was PROJECTING about mini-quiches. the invite just says "hors d'oeuvres." Say a prayer for mini-quiches.
harrysinai: Does quoting Chekov when trying to explain why one can't leave ones girlfriend make one an asshole, or merely a pathetic freak?
smartypantsmimi: An asshole.
harrysinai: That's what I'm saying.
smartypantsmimi: That's worse than no excuse at all.
harrysinai: And why do people come to ME with these issues?
smartypantsmimi: They can sense the light from the Mini-Quiche inside your head. You have a quichey aura
harrysinai: But I wear hats to cover it!
harrysinai: Okay I should go, as I must wake up early and go to the synagogue and pray for quiche.
smartypantsmimi: Nail a quiche above your door.
harrysinai: No quiche during Passover!
smartypantsmimi: The blood of the first-born quiche.
harrysinai: Quiche of god you take away the sins of the world
smartypantsmimi: mmmm and you're good too


I bathe every day, barring an episode of suicidal despair or the occasional housebound Sunday (provided my head does not stink like an ashtray from the night before). But I do not enjoy bathing. Or showering. Many times I have expressed the wish that there was a magical way to be shiny soap-smelling clean without all the nudity, water, and washing. I find it tedious and I would rather not. But I don't like being dirty or smelling bad, so until that magical non-shower is invented it looks like I am screwed. I guess I could develop a heroin problem, since heroin addicts also find showering unpleasant but they are too messed up (on the heroin!) to care what they smell like. I am an expert at finding big, messy, dangerous solutions to tiny problems, as anyone who has ever watched me try to kill a spider or unclog a drain can attest. Maybe I should get a government job.

This weekend LT had many afternoon and evening obligations, so I wrangled Nora all day and performed the nighttime Nora rituals (bath/bottle/bed) all by myself, but it turned out to be less difficult than I feared. Particularly since Saturday night my sister came over for television and beer, and to be another set of hands for cramming a flailing tired toddler into her pajamas. Nora and I gallivanted all over town on mass transit, including to a Wicker Park coffeeshop since she needs to learn about facial piercings and about how to slack. I was a little worried that the coffeeshop would not have highchairs, or that the staff would be snooty about the oyster-cracker crumbs all over the floor or my strange baby-related requests for things like a single dry-scrambled egg. But that neighborhood is now thoroughly trendy and expensive and mommed up, a stroller on every block and baby-boutiques everywhere, so even the dreadlocked waiters (each sealed inside their own personal cloud of dope smoke) were perfectly nice and accommodating.


Nora almost got our asses kicked on our bus journey, though, because of her new favorite word. From her vantage point in the stroller, she pointed her finger straight at a little boy, probably about three or four years old, and announced, "Baby." The potty-trained do not take this appellation lightly, and the kid became very angry and shot back, "I'M NOT A BABY!" His mom tried to smooth it over (no of course you're not a baby), but he was distraught, saying, "She called me a baby! SHE'S a baby!" Picture Nora making matters worse by continuing to point and delightedly say "Baby! Baby! Baby!" Picture me trying to distract her and trying to control the urge to yell, "She's drunk! She doesn't know what she's saying!"

I just finished Twenty Days With Julian and Little Bunny, a strange little bit of text where Nathaniel Hawthorne chronicles spending a month as full-time dad to his five-year-old son, and it is surprisingly funny and fresh and only takes about an hour to read. The whole thing reminded me of some sort of parenting weblog, only written in 1851, and my favorite part is when Hawthorne encourages his kid to poop on Shaker property. He had some sort of beef with the Shakers, and he does not go into specifics except to rail vaguely against their personal hygiene and stupid rituals, and that kind of irrational prejudice cracks me up and reminds me of my Belgian thing. (You can Google me if you are sincerely interested in my Belgian thing, although I don't know why you would be. I keep feeling like I should link old entries for the benefit of new readers, but on the other hand SINK OR SWIM, DUDE, AND WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL THIS TIME. Wouldn't it be cool if there were Cliff Notes for internet diaries, with many wrongheaded interpretations of "symbolism" and such?)

I hope you agree that half an entry is better than none at all. I have a beer-shaped void inside of me.

---mimi smartypants says adios, tabbouli.


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