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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

2007-05-15 ... 11:30 a.m.


Sometimes I worry about going to prison. I do not plan to break the law, but I have this anxious fantasy that my life will take a Kafkalicious* twist and I will be sentenced to life without parole, owing to some case of mistaken identity or administrative error. I am not being funny. (I am pretty much never being funny. Never ever. Most of the time I am being totally serious and people laugh anyway and this should be the subject of another post.) Going to prison is something I actually worry about and I halfway believe that it will happen someday, which is why I try to think of A Plan. The government suggests that you keep bottled water in your house for a Disaster Plan but how will that help me in my personal false-imprisonment disaster?

(*I am tired of "Kafka-esque," aren't you? Meet "Kafkalicious"! It's more fun to say and would also make a great ice cream flavor. Do you think Ben reads this? Or maybe Jerry?)

So I try to keep several Huge Boring Books around the house. I do not have the time or the inclination to read them right now, but I'll have all the time in the world when I get sent to prison! I will also consider a jailhouse conversion to some really time-consuming and nitpicky religion like Islam or Orthodox Judaism. Probably the latter, because it's more original and you get to be a bigger pain in the ass with the dietary restrictions, plus as a chick maybe I could wrangle regular mikvah visits. Too bad you are probably not allowed to put bubbles or bath salts in there. Mikvah, take me away!


I was the mildly-hungover mommy at yet another birthday party on Saturday---the hosts had coffee but no beer, which is semi-unforgivable seeing as how the party was a lunchtime thing. The party was a wild-and-crazy backyard affair, and while I don't mind chatting with other parents, and while Nora certainly benefits from a little extra supervision and gentle reminders to eat something other than frosting, I will be looking forward to the age when I can drop her off at the door and spend two hours at the bookstore. On the other hand, I am so curious about Other People's Houses that maybe I will regret the lack of décor-ogling opportunities when that day comes.

The party was winding down, post-cake and candles, and kids were getting tired. Suddenly there were about six accidents at once: Nora did a daredevil headfirst thing down the slide and got stepped on, a kid tumbled down the ladder of the climbing structure, someone else tripped while running and got a fat lip, etc. It was like a birthday-party terrorist had set off a boo-boo cluster bomb, and it was kind of awesome in its own way to hear overlapping wails and see simultaneous parental scoop-and-kiss missions and the mass application of ice packs. I kept expecting to see Magen David Adom come running in with stretchers and neon-colored reflective vests.


I keep forgetting that I go to Austin this weekend. Something about this age of electronic plane tickets makes travel less real, and I barely remember that there are confirmation numbers and limo reservation receipts sitting in my in box. Should I go see the animatronic LBJ? (Why not animatronic LBJ on the toilet? What a missed opportunity!) (Also: wow.) If you and I have made vague plans to hook up and drink ever-so-much beer, do you have my cell phone number? Do you remember the rule about only texting and not calling, because every time my phone rings I think someone has died or that the District Attorney is calling with news of my prison sentence? And about those airline safety rules: vibrator goes in checked luggage, right? Okay then.


1. "There's not that much sand. It's not like a beach."
2. "You want some water? For the kids? I got some water. Kids drink water."
3. "That movie ain't got no Jesus in it."
4. "It is expensive for a wallet, but not expensive for a purse. You know what I mean?"
5. [angrily] "I do NOT understand the problem. I just do NOT understand. It's NOT that hard to figure out. Egg substitute comes in a CARTON. It is shelved NEAR THE EGGS. If you have EYES you will SEE IT because it's RIGHT THERE."


I got in a momentary hard-boiled mood and read an anthology of Mickey Spillane novels, which I did not like at all. Mike Hammer meets a beautiful woman, insert description of clinging satin dress to luscious womanly curves here. Let me guess, this woman will get shot in the gut, either purposefully (because she's evil) or tragically (because she's too pure and innocent for this world). Oh what a completely expected development! That is indeed what happens! Each time!

There is one unexpected thing about the Spillane novels, though, and that is the rods. "Rod" is apparently the Spillane slang of choice for "gun," and I just could not get used to it, despite nearly 500 pages of rods-aplenty. I reached for my rod. I ran out of the room with my rod in my fist. The rod was still warm to the touch and I knew it had been fired very recently. I got on top of the guy and jammed my rod in his face. WHOA WHOA WHOA MICKEY SPILLANE. Enough with the rods. I know you cannot blame 1947 for the word-associations of 2007 but it was very distracting indeed.

---mimi smartypants kissed you deadly.


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