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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

2004-06-25 ... 12:36 p.m.


I cannot stand President Bush. But I also cannot stand Michael Moore. And thus I love writers like Christopher Hitchens, who is willing not just to slaughter sacred cows but also to smear himself in their entrails and leap about howling and shrieking doom like an epileptic Cassandra. Good for him. (Disclaimer: I have not seen Fahrenheit 911 and it could be brilliant for all I know. I am just allergic to self-righteous alpha-baboon blowhards, whether of the Limbaugh or Moore variety.)


Corndog posters.


I find this story upsetting, as a mom, adoptive mom, and human being. I feel the baby should go back to her family of origin, but the whole thing is just awful for everyone involved.


Nora wants to see your belly. Her own is a source of fascination to her and she will stop her activities several times a day to lift up her shirt and take a look at her belly. She will also lift up your shirt and check yours out, which can be kind of awkward in a social setting but could possibly go over great with certain gym-rat/twink or possibly even bear subsets at this weekend's PrideFest. I will probably be too lazy to sunscreen up the baby and brave the crowds, but you never know.


Anyone who has been reading this webpage for a while knows that I am a dedicated observer of human quirks and oddities, particularly the collection of human quirks and oddities that rides Chicago public transit. I honestly enjoy the parade of weirdness that I see there. Even when my transit experience is objectively unpleasant---when someone is yanking it on the El, vomiting off the platform, or yelling about how God made vegetables---I still feel that I am better off for having witnessed it.

Well, that's changed. Yesterday on the way home I sat behind two individuals who completely and truly grossed me out on every level. Maybe I was just abnormally sensitive that day, but you can judge for yourself.

a. A tweaky-looking African American man. His clothes are kind of dirty, but not in a "homeless" way, just in a "not giving a fuck about stains" way. There is something odd lodged in his hair, and try as I might to avoid looking more closely at it (eyes on the book, Mimi! Eyes on the book!), my morbid curiosity forces me to note that it is a large clot of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.

b. His girlfriend, a very overweight and much younger-seeming white woman wearing a hospital bracelet and carrying a wad of clothes in one of those "PATIENT'S BELONGINGS" shopping bags. She has a tattoo of Tweety Bird on the back of her neck.

c. The couple is having a loud argument/discussion of some sort. It seems to be about money, and it is kind of cryptic in that the terms "fives," "tens," and "twenties" keep getting tossed around, along with many foul-language accusations and recriminations about someone named "Nancy." The more I listen the more it is obvious that they are drug dealers involved in some complex crack-for-rent scheme, and Nancy is their main customer and landlord.

d. The conversation shifts to a discussion of whether or not the woman half of this couple slept with someone named Darrell, with her swearing it was "just that one time." Tweaky Guy gets kind of upset but Big Mama soothes it over, repeating "it was just that one time, it was just that one time" like a mantra right through his litany of complaint, although at one point she switches it up to be, "It was just that one time, we needed the money."

e. I wish I were making this up.

f. Abandon hope, all ye who read further, because it gets worse. As part of calming Tweaky Guy down, Big Mama conciliatorily reaches over as the argument dwindles and starts popping the zits of her Kraft-headed paramour, squeezing and pinching and yes, there is blood and zit-juice, which she dabs off with her forefinger and wipes on the shoulder of his shirt. At this point I literally have my hands over my face and am peeking through the fingers like a girl at a horror movie, and am considering climbing over the woman next to me and running for the exit, crowded El train or no crowded El train.

g. After a hellish eternity of zit-popping, Big Mama lays her head on Tweaky Guy's shoulder and sighs, "I want a baby." "Damn straight you want my baby," Tweaky Guy says. "You going to have a dozen of my babies, bitch." They smile at each other. They get off the train at Wilson. I wish that I could pluck out my eyes and soak them in bleach. The end.

So now we have proved that not every transit story is quirky-sweet-uplifting, or even "roll your eyes at our urban existence" funny. A drunk peeing his pants and singing the theme from The Love Boat? I smile indulgently and look the other way. Trixie types yammering about nothing on their cell phones? The flame of annoyance flares, but soon dies down. It took Tweaky Guy and Big Mama's vile inappropriate grooming and moronic, circular, in-any-other-context-it-would-have-been-performance-art arguing to make my brain cringe. I guess I should thank them, really, for showing me that even a dedicated amateur anthropologist like me has limits.

This is short, but I am full-time mommying today, and Nora is sitting here in the highchair watching me type and "brushing her teeth," which mostly means chewing on the baby toothbrush and every so often taking it out of her mouth, pointing it at me, and loudly saying "YA YA YA YA YA YA YA." Although I am having fun imagining that she means "I WILL DISMANTLE YOUR HARD DRIVE WITH THIS HERE TOOTHBRUSH," I think she is really trying to say "JESUS MOM, HOW LONG CAN I BE EXPECTED TO BRUSH MY TEETH WHILE YOU WRITE UP YOUR SELF-ABSORBED DIARY ENTRY?" Miss Thing may have a point.

---mimi smartypants is going door-to-door to make you this incredible offer.


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