Back to Diaryland

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

2006-06-06 ... 1:48 p.m.

When it rains it pours: now I can't find my goddamn ATM card. I know I had it last Saturday, when I stopped at some Logan Square bank to get extra money for a cab that never materialized (I ended up on the #82 bus at 1 am, on International Mister Leather weekend, along with a huge group of leather daddies going god knows where [the bear bars at Clark and Devon, quite a hike east?]). So I actually am hoping that I left it in the machine, where it has a chance of being simply sucked back into the bank instead of picked up by some scuzzball. Although I have canceled it anyway, and am waiting for the new card now.

(Did I ever mention the very fabulous outcome of one aspect of that debacle? A year or so later, I got an email from an acquaintance of the guy from the car dealership who was such a dick to me. This acquaintance thought I would find it amusing that Honda Dealer Dickhead was about to have a day in court on a misdemeanor charge, because HDD had been out in back of his suburban home when a duck wandered by from the subdivision's fake pond, and the duck angered HDD in some way, and HDD started kicking said duck. And then a neighbor came out to say, "Don't kick ducks" and HDD apparently took a swing at him. And charges were pressed and probably anger-management counseling or community service mandated, and I LAUGHED MY ASS OFF. Best. Follow-up. Ever.)

Fudge judge.

Rock's differently abled. I like the description of Tupac getting shot "right in the digital underground."

The three-armed baby is adorable. Even with three arms. It is too bad neither left arm works very well, because having three useful arms would be fantastic. I for one would enjoy shouting out, "Give me a break! I only have three arms!" every time someone asked me to hurry up.


First, I went to pick up the goop I had to drink. On the phone the receptionist kept calling it a "test prep kit," as if I were going to take the GRE and not just lie on a table and get scanned. When I showed up at the hospital I did not have to give my name or anything, I just asked for a CT test prep kit and they handed me one, which makes me think that next time I should walk in and say "Hi, I'm here to pick up some medical-grade marijuana." I was in a hurry and did not look inside the bag until back on the El platform, at which point I groaned an involuntary "oh FUCK me" when I saw the huge container of "Banana Smoothie"-flavored barium. (Do you see how that web page says "Safety Never Tasted So Good"? I don't know where to start with that one. It sounds like the slogan for a flavored condom.) That was my sad, sad Sunday night: watching that incoherent mess of a Sopranos episode while trying to choke down banana-smoothie-flavored barium. With a blanket on my lap. And my handy device nearby, in case I fall and can't get up. Jesus. Will they have Internet access in the nursing home? Because that is obviously where I am headed.

The day of the scan, I was instructed to shoot two syringes of clear liquid into an eight-ounce bottle of water and drink the resulting concoction. There was some precise timing involved, and I ended up having to do this on the train, which got me some strange looks even from jaded Chicago transit riders. Supposedly this stuff was the gastrograffin. It had a yucky fake-fruit taste with a vaguely alcoholic undertone, and I am not convinced that it wasn't really Zima. Then an iodine IV at the hospital ("this will make you feel a little warm") ("this will make your whole body, but particularly your personal business, feel like it's too close to the french-fry lamp at McDonald's") (you want vulva with that?), and then they slid me in and out of the scanner about seven times while an authoritative recorded male voice told me when to breathe and when to hold my breath. It was all very phallic (my entire ordinary-citizen body as penetrating organ, the military-industrial-giant General Electric CT scanner as huge orifice) and fraught with metaphors of illness and dominance/submission, and I hope I never have to do it again. Results should be available on Wednesday.

I am so ready for a decadent night or three after all this health business---meet me at the bar and let's get stupid. And although I have never been one for retail therapy (unless you count shopping for beer), I did go a little insane at Sephora afterwards, because of course if I do turn out to be riddled with cancer it will be important to have young-looking skin. Was it just me or are the Sephora robots getting more aggressive with their offers of help and samples and "consultations"? They are even worse than the department-store face-masons, as they are not trapped behind their counters but can roam free.


Nora has been pretty intense the last few days. There is incredible, mind-blowing, heart-melting sweetness and helpfulness and verbal aptitude. There has also been premature teenage pissiness and a general testing of the rules. Oh, you said no to this? Well, how about I do it just a tiny bit? What about if I do it really quietly? What if I do something just-similar-enough that you will have to tell me "no" about that too? What kills me is that I know, deep down, that we want the same things. We want to play, we want to be happy, we want to keep our respective shit together. So why the occasional Spasm O' Willfulness, Nora?

We all have myths that we tell ourselves, and mine is that I am a pretty laid-back parent and not overly concerned about discipline. Which is partially true, but only because I don't need to hand out consequences to Nora very often. We communicate well. We avoid trouble before it starts. She only rarely (see above) deliberately breaks the rules. If you explain your reasoning to Nora, she usually sees the wisdom of it (and is so excited to be included in the discussion that she is putty in your hands anyway).

The more complex truth about me and discipline is that I seriously want the kid to do what I say. Pretty much immediately. I don't know if that's because I am used to being the boss at work or what, but there it is. The things I ask for (put on your shoes, don't annoy the cat, do not take a whole box of Q-Tips and poke them through the little holes in the radiator screen) (what the hell?) are not all that nutty, so damn it: just obey.

Last night was particularly awful---Nora went to a pool party and came home exhausted, reeking of sunscreen, and in a particularly foul mood. First, she lay down for all of a ten-minute nap before getting up again, and was severely cranky with me when I insisted that she at least stay in her room and "rest" a little longer. After that it seemed that each infraction/consequence just led to another, culminating in the deliberate splashing of bathwater on the floor, and my (for once) very calm and unruffled removal of her small body from the tub (because you do that and BATHTIME IS OVER, MY FRIEND), and her shrieks of protest. Even in the midst of the horror, I remember thinking, "This is the first time I have ever heard Nora actually shriek in anger" and being mildly fascinated by that fact. (All of the parents who have shrieking toddlers right now are clenching their mental fists around their imaginary knives and making plans to stab me to death out of envy. And then while I do my own shrieking during the stabbing process, they will be like "Is that all you've got? Whatever.")

Calm came fairly quickly, and we hugged and talked about being angry and bedtime was fine. And I had a big drink of something that was neither banana nor smoothie, and am feeling better now. Boring as hell, but better. Onward! To the next, hopefully less coma-inducing, diary entry!

---mimi smartypants packed a shank up in her socks when she started kindergarten.


join my Notify List and get email when I update my site:
Powered by