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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

2003-08-05 ... 1:30 p.m.


Me (from a bar): How long does it take you to go two miles?
T: Sorry, I got held up. A pizza emergency.
Me: Well, hurry up and get here. I'm stuck talking to a Moroccan.

While Faisal was a perfectly normal young man whose only oddity was a desperate desire to convince me how hard Moroccans party,* isn't it more fun to imagine him as a big fat shady-looking guy in a white suit and a fez?

Fake Faisal [sinister Peter Lorre-type accent]: Mimi Smartypantssss. We want the artificatssss. We are prepared to make you a very handssssome offer.
Me [sexily blowing away smoke from my foot-long cigarette]: Faisal. We've been over this. Those artifacts belong to the people, and to get them you'd have to kill me first.
FF [evil laugh]: Oh, that can be arranged, my pet.

I don't know how the rest of this imaginary movie goes, but rest assured there is a pearl-handed revolver involved somewhere, and a shadowy alley, and maybe a charming scamp of a street urchin mixed up with the wrong crowd, and I get to wear really amazing hats.

*(Dude, I believe you, okay? Morocco is one big freaking non-stop weedfest and boozefest. Also, they surf. He repeated the surfing bit about five times.)


"Bright fucking pink and bright fucking blue."

"What's a kishka?"

"Milwaukee thinks too damn highly of itself."

Chicago El trains have ads on the outside. This is a phenomenon of which I am not terribly fond, because although I am all for funding public transportation it ruins the trains' silver-sided aesthetic, not to mention the larger issue of why does everything have to be branded? And do some products need advertising? For instance, do we need all these ads for breath mints? I always have breath mints (not picky about the brand) in my bag, because LT asks me for them a lot. Like when we are stuck in traffic and he is all jaw-grinding stressy or when we are leaving a bar. Yeah, I know, maybe he should just buy his own fucking mints, but it is the little things that make a marriage work, okay? Like carrying around mints. Or buying Christmas presents for his family.* Or blowjobs. (Hey! Maybe...with mints!)

*Which is my responsibility, despite my youthful declaration that I did not understand why women have to do all the card-addressing and birthday-acknowledging and present-buying. Apparently they do. Or at least this is the deal in every single hetero couple I have ever met.

Hey! Look over there!

Ha ha. I snuck back on topic when you weren't looking. My El train this morning was covered with ads, yes, but at least it was covered with those ads for pork. I did a little funky booty dance when I saw the pork train coming! People round the world! Join hands, and other body parts too! Start a pork train! It is like a love train, only porkier!

I am going to my ten-year college reunion in a few months. I wrote a long thing about whether or not I feel old (I don't), but then I deleted it all in a fit of pique because my fingers had actually typed the phrase "over the hill." What the fuck? I thought. When you use phrases like "over the hill," maybe you really are over the hill. Maybe I should buy a bunch of cardigan sweaters and brooches in the shapes of various animals, and be that woman with the stupid loud braying laugh who brings cake for every office birthday. Maybe I should buy a coffee mug that says "You Want It When?!?" Maybe I should just shoot myself in the head.

Another reason for deleting my blah blah (god, here I am posting and telling you what I did NOT post. You really might want to go read some simpler, happier diary that does not engage in such pointless mindfuckery), was that when I was typing away about age and such, I got all bogged down in rationalizing WHY I don't feel old, and inserting side notes about how I skipped a grade and thus graduated young, and how I used to almost exclusively hang out with people who were older than me, etc, and the whole thing started to have creepy lurking overtones of self-aggrandizement. Welcome to my world, where I never let myself get away with one single goddamn thought that could possibly be construed as self-indulgent, at least not without castigating myself severely for it. And now I am thinking that even telling you that I worry about sounding smug or self-indulgent is in itself a form of self-indulgence, because that kick-the-ground-and-shrug indie-rock faux-humility is just another way of saying, "Look at me, I'm so self-deprecating, although constant self-deprecation is really a sneaky form of self-aggrandizement, but hey at least I recognize that, oh me so clever, and in my post-post-post-ironic fashion let me explain my big crazy brain to you." The headline reads: GIRL COLLAPSES UNDER THE WEIGHT OF HER OWN METAFICTIONAL NEUROSES.

Noooo! I like the words "flaming spirits." Like some poofter Noel Coward afterlife? Oh wait, no, just a river of burning alcohol.

You can hear the rejected Ween songs about cheese here.


My great-grandmother, who is barely a skinny toothless ghostly presence on the edge of my memory (I think I was five when she died), spent most of her time sitting in an orange-upholstered chair with dark wood arms, like something you would find in a 1970s-style dentist's office. She owned a devoted dog, a black poodle mix. After she (uh, the great-grandmother...damn those pronouns) had a fatal stroke and was taken away in the ambulance, the dog jumped up in that chair and growled at anyone who tried to come near him. No one had ever witnessed the dog sit in the chair before, and various relatives really wanted to ascribe a big meaning to the dog's actions, that he was in mourning for Grandma Z. or that he was guarding her spirit (yeah, Catholics get funny about angel stuff). But honestly? I think he just wanted a chance to sit in the chair. I think that dog was like, "Finally, that woman moved her ass. Now it's my turn."

I tell you this because I worry that it may look like I am keeping some sort of online diary here, but really I just want to sit in the chair.

---mimi smartypants stole the kishka.


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