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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

2003-07-17 ... 3:42 p.m.


Hi, my name is Mimi, and I have a hole in my pants. And I am at work. Unless someone bends me over a desk to do unspeakable things to me, the huge hole is unlikely to be noticed, since it is kind of up in there and underneath, if you know what I mean. (Actually, the bending-over person with the unspeakable desires might appreciate the hole. A sneak preview, as it were.) These pants are made of a baggy, summery, cotton/linen, and thankfully I am wearing coordinating black underwear. But still, the hole in the pants is not making me very happy. Normally I do most of my job sitting down in front of a screen or trapped behind a stack of paper, but today I have meetings. Damn those meetings. Damn them all to hell. I am going to have to be late, and stay close to the wall, and not let anyone get behind or underneath me. No table-dancing today, sorry colleagues.

I think this happened because my pants are cheap and old (in more ways than one, since I thrifted them about six years ago), and because I rode my bike in them a bunch of times (the ankle-length-ness is very handy if you have fears of getting all tangled up in bike chain, like I do). I scrounged some safety pins from the supply cabinet and pinned up the hole in the bathroom. When I emerged from the stall, a coworker was doing some hairstyling and putting on lotion and generally taking a long freaking time to finish grooming herself, and I was trying to wash and dry my hands really slowly, because there is no polite way to say, "Can you get the hell out of here? I need to check my ass in the mirror. I need to do some exotic-dancer-style deep forward bends in front of the full-length mirror and make sure that no especially luscious pieces of my bootylicious booty are popping out or showing through. Thanks." The safety pins should hold until I get home and can have LT stitch me up.* Those who are dying to see London, France, and my underpants are out of luck.

(*Yes, my multi-talented boy does all the mending. I would probably fatally stitch my hand if I tried it.)

This is really happening to me. The classic cliché dream, showing up somewhere public naked or in your pajamas or with a big hole in your pants. I would have rather had that one than my own early-morning dream, which bored me right into waking up: I dreamed that we had a new Tupperware container, one I had never seen before. "Where did we get this?" I was asking LT, in the dream. YAWN. Might as well not sleep at all if that's the way it is going to be.


I had a very weird encounter yesterday, at the baked potato place. I order my potato (broccoli, cheddar, black olives), to go, and sat down to read until it was ready. Soon the diminutive Hispanic lady yells out, "Potato!" (even though I had an order number. I guess she preferred the direct approach). When I go to the counter to retrieve it, this guy in hideous wraparound sunglasses is right behind me. "Uh-uh no no no!" he sings out in this weird Pee-Wee Herman voice. "That's not your potato!"

I don't enjoy being spoken to like a preschooler, but whatever. I only want the potato that is rightfully mine. I am not trying to usurp your potato, dude. He has his hand on the bag and is trying to wrest it away from the counter lady, who refuses to relinquish it. "No," she keeps saying, "hers. Her potato."

"I don't think so,” says the guy. "I ordered first, and this is my order: broccoli, cheddar, black olives. This is my potato." For fuck's sake, I am thinking. Do we need some kind of potato paternity test here? 1-800-WHO'S-THE-SPUD-DADDY? Two potatoes of the same genus and species were ordered, so you can take this one, you silly git, if you want it so badly: some of us don't mind waiting a whole extra two minutes. The counter lady insisted, through broken English and pointing, that I take the potato, that it belonged to me, so I did. Now I am wondering if she insisted just for the pure comic value of seeing the sunglasses guy sigh, and pout, and curse her out under his breath, and generally throw a fit like some horrible child actor or stereotyped queeny interior decorator, because it really was quite funny and I left chuckling. Avec potato.

LINKS FOR MINKS (not really)

Useful rock-show listing site for Chicago.

The No-Chew Cookbook.


I don't think I have been watching enough TV. My arteries feel suspiciously clean and blood seems to be flowing through them at a nice steady clip, instead of that sluggish garbagey feeling that comes from watching truly bad television. Now that I am a TiVo person, and have a nice big stack of library books, and often feel like typing or playing computer games in the evenings, my TV cholesterol has dipped alarmingly and I think I need to squirt some TV Lard into my mouth, just for an hour or so. Are any of those "reality" shows, where a bunch of people behave like giant sluts, still on? If there is enough alcohol in the house, maybe I could use one of those to remind myself of just how much most television resembles a deep-fried, maggot-ridden, rat's head. Yay, America! And I mean that sincerely.

---mimi smartypants is the girl your friends warned you about.


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