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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

2003-06-23 ... 2:09 p.m.


Hi and welcome to The Making Of The Making Of The Diary Of Mimi Smartypants, an enterprise that is already completely transparent and non-mysterious. Once in a while, though, I get questions about how I type these things, whether I follow a schedule, how long it takes me to write an entry, etc. These types of questions embarrass me very much, because there are so many people who put time and care and actual effort into their webpages, while here I sit on my dorktastic subdomain blithering on about my favorite mentally ill bus patrons. So answering queries about "process" and "style" makes me a bit queasy. (What's with all the Q words? My brain is still in Scrabble mode.)

Anyway, the reason for even bringing this up is that some alert person wrote me an e-mail saying she had read Friday's entry, and noticed that there was an asterisk after the word "mustard," as if a faker footnote was about to be launched, and then when she refreshed the page some time later there was no asterisk and no faker footnote. You win the Eagle-Eye Prize, darling, because that is true. Although it smells of editing and versioning, I had originally planned to tell a Mustard Story with that asterisk, something that I always think about in a mustard context, but I forgot, so I later went back in and removed the asterisk. The Mustard Story is not so very interesting that it even deserves the label of "story," but I am in too deep now to get out of it. I can feel Good Cop over my left shoulder telling me to just go ahead, make it easy on myself and spin a little tale about mustard. Bad Cop is hovering over my right shoulder, quaking with rage and saying YOU STUPID HO GO BACK TO NARRATIVE SCHOOL YOUR SHIT IS TIRESOME.

Okay. Ignore the cops. Deep breath. Once, when roadtripping with friends through the very heart of Wal-Mart-Elvis-flyover country, we stopped at some diner for lunch. The waitress was right out of Central Casting ("Welcome to Central Illinois. You may now return your hair to its full, upright position.") My friend asked for mustard on something, and the waitress meditatively smacked her gum and inquired, "Ya want the thick yellow kind or the brown runny kind?" And although I love Dijon and all manner of fancy gourmet mustards, there is now a small sour feeling in my gut when I enjoy them, because I automatically think of the adjectives brown and runny. Thanks a lot, small-town waitress. Thanks a lot, good-at-remembering brain. Thanks a lot, reader who shall remain anonymous, for asking about the disappearing footnote and inducing me to type this crud. Be careful what you wish for.

Notifylist is having another little bout of the flu or ennui. Notifylist is lying around on the couch whining, "But I don't FEEL like notifying." This is not the hugest deal ever, since I doubt very much you are a Smartypants completist who needs to read every single one, and who needs to own the split seven-inches and the British version of the promotional poster and the limited-edition picture disc. But just in case you are, here is official notice of several un-notified entries, which, if you rely on Notifylist, you still won't know about, so all is moot! Anyway, poke the "previous" button and tell your friends. If you want.

My weekend kind of sucked. Friday night was moderately fun, as I spent it at the Fireside Bowl with my comrade, drinking Miller High Life, the champagne of beers. (The unusual plurality of that slogan makes me happy: "beers." Like "fishes" or "peoples.") We could hear the bands perfectly well from inside the bar and since it did not sound like anything special, and also since we are lazy alcoholics, we did not feel particularly drawn to leave our barstools. Last call was a total shock (where does the time go) and we had to scoot out of there fast, because Fireside with all the lights on is not meant for human eyes. A bedraggled man asked me for money as I was searching for a taxi, and I told him no, and then he got all aggressive about finding me transportation, whistling and flagging down cabbies and such, so I ended up giving him a buck as a finders' fee. Which was probably his intention all along, but ah well, it was worth it at two-thirty in the morning. Friday's cabdriver was Standard Grizzled Chicago Type #33, but he was listening to some sort of homemade girly-girl mixtape with that Kate Bush song about running up that hill, and then some Tori Amos and also that old Fiona Apple song, the one with the video where she writhes around in the bathtub half-clothed and looking kind of retarded. Not your typical Chicago cabdriver musical offering, to be sure.

On Saturday I had to go to my sister-in-law's MBA graduation. I was theoretically happy to help her mark this special occasion and so forth, but it was not a way I would have chosen to spend the whole day. There was a luncheon, and there were photographs, and then there was sitting in a gymnasium listening to speakers make all kinds of tortured analogies about school and life. Lots of sports metaphors. Lots of acronyms. One particularly cheesy speech tried to invoke something called "Life 101," which will be "your hardest class yet," and I briefly considered hurling myself down the stadium stairs to create a ruckus and make him stop, or at least borrowing a pencil to perforate my own eardrum so I would not have to hear it. At one point this guy said, "And this class [meaning Life 101] NEVER ENDS!" Ahem. Maybe you need to re-take Biology 101.

Sunday was fine, although I did not get my bike ride. LT and I met a friend for lunch. I am normally not a fan of eating alfresco, but it was quite pleasant sitting under an umbrella and watching Lincoln Avenue do its Sunday thing. I had two Bells Oberons (ah, summer has its good points) with my Caesar salad and then went home and took a nap, which was probably an error since I woke up with a headache and a feeling of despair, having been reminded, with vicious clarity, that alcohol is a depressant. I was going to go for a bike ride but leaving the house sounded like too much trouble, so I busied my hands by cooking a dinner that no one, including me, particularly wanted to eat. That helped a lot. Perhaps it really is the small domesticities that keep us away from the noose and the pills.


You Must Choose!

Possibly not safe for work, but that depends. On some sketchy gender lines. Can you distinguish man boobs from girl boobs?

I think you probably want to play Pastaroids.

I am so excited about the prospect of giving my hypothetical future child an interesting skull.

No, it really hurts when I pee.

---mimi smartypants wiggles out of her chrysalis.


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