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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

2003-05-01 ... 11:18 a.m.


My hair absolutely will not do any sort of normal hair-activity today, one side has this big ridiculous S-curve like Lauren Bacall in The Big Sleep, only instead of sexy-slinky like Lauren Bacall, it is dorky-dweeby like me. Incidentally, just like every time I think "David Bowie" I have to think "drank his own urine," which is something I read once and wish I could forget, every time I put on mascara, all leaning close to the mirror with my glasses off and my mouth open (it is impossible, or at least very difficult, to put on eye makeup with one's mouth closed. Try it. And then go write me a postgraduate thesis about sexual desire and mirrors and self-image and dopplegangers and female ritualistic adornment and the male gaze, oh MAN THIS COULD RULE I think I will do that tonight).


Right. Every time I put on mascara I have to think about Lauren Bacall, and about something she supposedly said, which is "If you want a great eye, you have to get every lash." And then every time I involuntarily think that I also think: What the fuck is that? Is that some kind of stupid Max Factor ad? WHY DO I HAVE TO THINK THAT EVERY TIME I PUT ON MASCARA?

You know, sometimes the idea of a frontal lobotomy does not sound all that bad.


There was a group of these people in Bahrain when I lived there, and there probably still is. They run and drink and sing songs and have their own "bible" and haze new members, reportedly. It is creepy. There were a lot of weird culty expat clubs* around when I lived in Bahrain, and I was so lonely there that I considered joining a few, even though I am not the sort who goes in for weird culty clubs. I don't run, so the Harriers were out of the question, but I did screw up the courage to call the American Women's Club, hoping that it would be just a bunch of big-haired Texas oil wives who liked to have mimosas around the pool, because that would at least be conversation and interesting anthropological observational fodder besides. However, that did not go very well. The president of the club was super-friendly and immediately started babbling to me about all the "bridge nights" they have, and how I should bring my "children" over to their compound for the junior Aramco basketball league. Then she said, "Oh, and don't forget to make something for the Craft Fair!" (Can you imagine? Forgetting for a moment that I have zero hand-eye coordination, and was the only kid in the class to actually get yelled at for building such a crap popsicle-stick log cabin, what sort of craft would Mimi Smartypants even choose? A vibrator cozy? A stenciled crack pipe? A heap of amputated doll limbs all glue-gunned together and then coated in glitter spray paint? [Hey, that last one is not half bad. Craft Fair, here I come!])

Needless to say, I had no Craft. I had (have) no children. I had a sneaking suspicion that the American Women's Club were not, after all, of my tribe. Unfortunately I had used up all my phone-courage just to make the call, and did not have any left over to admit that I was just a dork who had decided to accompany my then-brand-new husband on our scholarly Middle Eastern adventure, so I made a lot of socially acceptable polite noises and hung up. And then I got a job instead, which was all kinds of cross-cultural fun. It will probably be the only office I ever work in that employed a full-time calligrapher.

*Also firmly in that "creepy, culty, rather pointless" category: Burns Societies. Why would you spend an evening listening to speeches and reading a poem to a sausage? And frankly, Robert Burns was not all that, I mean thanks for "Auld Lang Syne" and all, but really. Let's be serious.

In the mornings, particularly if I am late, there is a guy who rides my bus who twitches, and giggles to himself, and sometimes gives the weather. Or at least I think he gives the weather, because sometimes we go along and he periodically shouts weather phrases like "PARTLY SUNNY!" or "WINDY AND COOLER, HIGH OF SIXTY-THREE!" These always seemed more or less correct, and I thought nothing of it. Well, I thought something of it, I suppose, I thought, "Huh, there is Twitchy McWeatherChannel* again, who definitely does not have all the mercury in his thermometer, shall we say, but as crazy people go it could be much worse."

*Sometimes I also call him Barometersaurus, or the Insane In The Brain Weathervane, or Lord Barmy Cold-Frontington.

Today, twitchy weather-shouting guy was giving PATENTLY WRONG weather factoids, saying that it was windy and warm and around seventy-five degrees (Farenheit, I assume, although he did not specify, since otherwise life would be very difficult indeed). Twitchy weather-shouting guy was off his feed, somehow. MAYBE IT'S LOVE. Because in between twitching and weather-shouting he was looking out the window a lot, and seemed anxious, and then this diminutive and similarly brain-damaged-looking woman in a baseball cap got on, and sat down next to him, and they held hands right away, and they did not say "hello" or make any normal conversation but immediately launched into a detailed discussion of the Rocky and Bullwinkle movie, giving the names of the people who voiced the characters and everything. It was like a Rainman thing, only in stereo, and fixated solely on the Rocky and Bullwinkle movie. Very disturbing, because if I was going to be slightly mentally sub-normal and get obsessive with something I would hope it wouldn't be the Rocky and Bullwinkle movie, of all things, but kind of cute too. Just like my grandmother used to say, "There is a lid for every pot." Even if you are a wacked-out weather guy. Even if you are an SUV-driving, Lincoln-Park-dwelling, fashionable-dog-owning (I recommend a golden retriever or black Lab), not-a-thought-in-your-head doofus. (Sadly, you will probably do very well with this formula, and there are lots and lots of lids for your pot. Just check the personal ads.) Even if you like to lie drunkenly in the gutter spraying aerosol cheese into your mouth. (NOW we're talking! Can I get your number?) Even if you are dumb as a sack of hammers and mean as a sack of Ashcrofts. There is someone out there who will be your friend.


Two fonts walk into a bar. The bartender said, "We don't serve your type here."


Al Gore's underwear!

---mimi smartypants, after all.


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