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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

2004-07-14 ... 9:58 a.m.

My vibrator is broken. I thought it was just a battery issue, but new batteries have been purchased and installed and the Barry White vibrator* still is non-operational. Although I confess that I am more consistently an analog, rather than a digital,** girl when it comes to doing the Darling Nikki thing, I am kind of sad about my broken vibrator. Who wants to go sex toy shopping? I will also take product recommendations, if you have them. Be my Orgasmic Consumer Reports!

*I feel compelled to explain that I do not actually think Barry White was sexy. The vibrator's appellation came about because I used to have a smaller, buzzier, pocket-rocket-style vibrator, and I thought it was perfectly pleasant. Then LT got me the big purple vibrator for a Christmas present and whoa, what an upgrade. The new vibrator was all serious and adult and not to be trifled with. Once, when trying to describe the difference to LT, I said that the old vibrator was like the voice of Doug E. Fresh and the new one was like the voice of Barry White, and the name kind of stuck.

**However, I guess that being "analog," with regard to masturbation techniques, means that I am by definition "digital." See what happens when you try to be clever! It's too confusing! Next time, Mimi, just say it straight!


1. I was walking down North Avenue and a drunk, homeless-looking guy across the street pointed at me and yelled, "Great socks!" He actually made me stop and look down at my own ankles like an idiot because there was nothing special about my socks: plain black foldovers worn with my favorite buckle shoes. Maybe he was being sarcastic, as in, "Great socks. Loser." Yeah, well, GREAT PANTS DUDE I REALLY DIG THAT VOMIT STAIN.

2. At work, a woman gets on the elevator and pushes a button, then gasps, "Oh my god!" and pushes a different button. She turns and looks directly at me with these big Stricken Hurt-Animal Eyes Of Great Pleadingness. "I am so sorry," she says. "I pushed the wrong button!" "It's okay," I say, and stare off in the middle distance with my special This Conversation Is Over posture. She tries to laugh but it comes out shaky and weird. "Now we're going to have to stop! Sorry! Oh well." The elevator stops at the floor neither of us want and she jabs at the Door Close button a million fucking times, saying, "Sorry." I fully expected her to start punching herself in the head and saying "stupid! stupid! stupid!" like a retarded kid in an afterschool special. Elevator Lady? Listen carefully. The medication is not working.

This weekend Nora met my grandparents and some other distant relatives for the first time, and that went relatively well---who could not like Nora? Well, one of my cousins might not, by extension, since I am Nora's mother and she does not like me very much, due to my inability to remain silent when she says bizarre and offensive things. This cousin has two sons and one on the way and they just found out it's a boy, which makes her very happy because "girls get so spoiled," whereas with boys you just "smack them one and they straighten up." Leaving aside the whole "smack them one" thing, I had to say that I didn't see why girls would necessarily be any more or less "spoiled" (another concept I have issues with) than boys, and why would boy and girl children be treated differently in the first place? "Because boys and girls are TOTALLY DIFFERENT!" she said, laughing. Hey, cousin? Thanks for the biology lesson but I will be over here on the other side of the room drinking a lot more wine, because it is better for everyone if the wine goes inside me. Instead of on your head. Which is where it would end up if I had to hear any more of your parenting theories.

A lot more fun was my friend's birthday party, which was billed as a Cuban barbecue. That mostly translated into a fun and kitschy mishmash of Latin-slash-Caribbean culture as interpreted by white people: mojitos and Corona and salsa music and lime-marinated chicken and tamales and fried plantains. But who needs authenticity when there is plenty of liquor to be had? Nora had a great time dancing her adorable little side-to-side Peanuts-character dance, pointing out all the babies (this particular circle of friends seems to be of the reproducing variety), and bartending. That's right, my girl became quite fixated on the patio's tub of ice cubes, and spent a good amount of her evening digging out ice cubes by hand and dropping them into the waiting cups of my very patient and very un-germ-phobic friends.


1. Notifylist is not notifying. I suggest that you constantly F5 this page, biting your nails and begging, "Come on Mimi! Post something! Anything!" because I like it when you beg. Or you could just check in with me once in a while, because Notifylist is not treating us right and I am just about ready to kick it to the curb and go back to the olden days of non-notification.

2. Consuming the Romantic Utopia was a fairly interesting read, although it kind of skewed my thinking for a few days and I went around making neo-Marxist analyses of everything I encountered. Including things like specific Sesame Street sketches and grocery store salad bars. I am glad that's over.

(Not sure where to put this, but maybe it kind of fits here: Social History of the Pineapple.)

3. A while ago, I made fun of the hype surrounding James Frey's addiction memoir A Million Little Pieces, without having read it. I have since read it. I can say without reservation that it was one of the worst books I have ever encountered, and I basically had to hold my nose and throw it back like a shot of schnapps. Underneath its tough-guy, vomit-or-other-bodily-fluids-every-few-pages, bizarre-capitalization, no-paragraph-indents, faux-Bukowski wrappings, this book is vapid, banal, schlocky, sentimental, boring, unoriginal, and hilariously, accurately parodied here. I hated it more than I have hated any book in recent memory, and believe me I have hated some books. It makes me doubt the judgment of Nan Talese. I think memoirs are neat and all, and I have no doubt that this one will resonate with people who have addictions. However, that resonance does not translate into fun/elegant/intelligent/interesting prose. There are only so many times in nearly four hundred pages you can read a variation on I'm in pain I'm in pain I'm in pain, and only so many times you want to hear people described as either "tall and thin" or "short and fat" (I counted twelve combinations of the useless "height and shape" non-characterization thing before I gave up). If you want a good, junk-foody, voyeuristic prose window on someone else's agony (and who doesn't want this once in a while?), I recommend Wasted instead, which at least manages to put together a pretty sentence every couple of pages.

4. Recently I learned that it is not the best idea to let Nora have all the blueberries her heart desires unless one is prepared to deal with the rather shocking consequences. Is that memoir-worthy? Would tough guy James Frey be able to handle blueberry poop, or would it send him right back to the bottle and the crack pipe?

---mimi smartypants is the freshmaker.


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