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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

2005-06-06 ... 9:43 a.m.


A while ago my big fat floppy fourteen-year-old cat came weaving sideways into the bedroom like one of those fancy show horses, sank down to her belly, and stayed there. She was not having a seizure, did not seem to be upset or in pain, and a quick check of the liquor bottles showed that all was well (cat, for the last time, BUY YOUR OWN). Nora and I crouched near her (Nora: CAT? WHAT'S THE MATTER YOU, CAT?) while LT got on the phone to the vet, which was of course closed, and then with the emergency vet office, which of course said nothing beyond "bring her in," and by the time he was through talking with kittycat 911 the cat was up and walking around and acting like WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT and WHY DON'T YOU TAKE A PICTURE, IT WILL LAST LONGER. I made her run in the kitchen for a treat and she ran fine. I made her jump up into her cat bed and she jumped fine. I made an appointment with the vet anyway for later in the week.

And that, friends, was my big mistake. The vet ascertained that big fat floppy fourteen-year-old cat had suffered a stroke and that (a) she could have another one, either soon or in the future, that would be much worse and leave her brain-damaged/paralyzed; (b) the heart disease that caused the stroke could just gradually get worse, until she dies of a massive coronary; or (c) she could just live the rest of her life sleeping a lot, eating her food, sitting on our laps, and being annoyed by Nora. You know. Business as usual. This is a diagnosis that really is no diagnosis at all, because couldn't we all either die suddenly or live long? How is this information useful?

So basically I feel like a good cat owner for taking her in, and a terrible cat owner for wishing I hadn't. A good cat owner for hoping she lives a long time, because I like her, and a terrible cat owner for hoping she lives at least long enough for Nora to develop some concept of death, because I cannot imagine explaining the cat's demise to her right now. She would be both baffled and sad, which is humankind's most miserable combination.

Speaking of baffled and sad, I can't believe the terrible news about Alicia. I "knew" her from online and met her and Jes in person one evening long ago at the Goldstar (until they abandoned me to go eat BBQ), and she was talented and funny and cute and interesting and obviously a good friend to have.


I have been saying that a lot lately. Whatever that means. "He says he's bisexual, whatever that means." "She has a degree in project management, whatever that means." I think my postmodern tendencies, while always present, wax and wane like a bipolar's moods, and right now we must be entering a particularly distrustful-of-language cycle.


"And then we cut to anime robots slapping each other with ham."


I giggled at the black metal dialogues.

Christopher Walken eggnog.

Going where pudding hasn't gone before (ahem.)


1. She's been singing a lot lately, although she has a tendency to mix up all the songs. A-B-C-D-E-F-G/Up above the world so high/Like a diamond had a farm/E-I-E-I-O!

2. Although it's a big cliché that kids are resilient, I cannot imagine having a weekend where I fell down the back-porch stairs and landed on my face, resulting in a bloody nose and fat lip; barfed up my breakfast for no apparent reason; and then was attacked with a shovel by some ill-bred sandbox maniac.* Each of these things resulted in trauma and tears, of course, but much less so than one would think. Personally, I'd still be crying.

*Sandbox maniac's mother apologized a million times to me but never said one word to him. Oh, how I judge.

3. Nora has started to draw people. They are rather psychedelic, with huge eyes and stick arms that come right out of the sides of their heads. Yesterday she drew me, LT, and herself, as well as some random blobs up in the corner. When I asked what they were, she said, "Croutons." Thinking I must have heard wrong, I asked again, but she firmly repeated, "Croutons. For salad." Her first family portrait, and LT and I have to share the limelight with croutons.


Updates, stupid and sketchy as they have been, are bound to be even more stupid and sketchy in the month of June as I will be spending much of it in naughty Brighton, and one of the brilliant side effects of international adoption is that one becomes very cavalier when it comes to overseas journeys with little kids. Seven hours with a talkative and squirmy toddler? Pish! Try seventeen hours with a freaked-out, screamy eight-month-old! Nothing scares me! Bring on the in-flight meal, the sticker books, the pressure-equalizing kiddy earplugs! Given Nora's mania for rock collecting, my only fear is that we shall come home with half of Brighton beach in our suitcase.


I went out drinking Friday after work and three beers stretched into five (?) as more people showed up and encouraged me to stay for "just one more." Not that I need all that much encouragement. Finally a group of us northsiders detached ourselves and headed for the red line. Everyone else got off at their stops, until I was all alone, ready to get off at Loyola. However, the train had other ideas, and stopped dead at Granville. VERY dead. Another train had to pull up alongside us, and some kind of PLANK was deployed for people to walk across the track-chasm from one train to the other, and some stupid CTA employee kept shouting "Everybody okay with this? Everybody okay?" I guess that was some preemptive thing in case a rider were to freak out about the idea of walking across a twelve-inch board several feet above track level, but it's still stupid, because what if it weren't okay? Would they let you just sit on the disabled train all night? Would they call fucking Batman to rescue you?

Finally, drunk and angry, I get on the nearly empty bus. A few stops later: it's Charlie! Everyone's favorite tense and angry neighborhood retarded guy! Although there are only three people on the train TOTAL, Charlie makes a beeline for me. "Can I sit there?" he asks, pointing to my bag, which is occupying the seat next to me.

"No," I say. "There are lots of open seats. You can sit somewhere else."

"MOTHERFUCKER SHIT PISS!" yells Charlie. "I want to sit with you! I like sitting with somebody! I always sit with somebody!"

"Well, this time you can't," I say and turn to look out the window with the clear "I Will Be Ignoring You From This Point Forward" posture.

Charlie goes and sits somewhere else, muttering his trademark stream-of-obscenities, and when I next glance at him I notice he is crying a little bit. Which, ah crap, I am not some kind of unfeeling monster, but there are limits to my milk of human kindness and there are definitely limits to the amount of Charlie-proximity I am willing to tolerate.

So let it be known that:

---mimi smartypants makes retarded people cry.


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