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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

2003-08-28 ... 4:27 p.m.

How to say that you are cheese.

Somebody call Snoop Dogg: 40-oz collection.

Here is a page of things to read about Archimedes.

Beth and Chris. They sing. You cringe. But you also may smirk.

Stop the presses, I forgot to wear earrings today. Normally I am never not wearing earrings out in public. My ears are NAKED.

Speaking of ears, mine are hopelessly clean. Those people who can dig waxy golden treasures out of their aural canals fill me with envy, because my ears contain no such bounty. I have purposely gone for weeks without Q-Tipping,* in hopes of building up a reserve, and: Nothing. I have tried the peroxide drops, which fizz delightfully and feel cool and refreshing deep in your head, but: Nothing. I have even, though it got me a strange look, asked my primary care physician to take an especially long look inside my ears during a physical. "Clean as a whistle," she told me, probably in her ignorance of my Longing For Wax thinking she was giving me good news. I had been hoping she would say that I had some impacted earwax. This happened to me one time as a child and I was treated to a professional ear-irrigation at the doctor's office, with warm water, and because anything ear-related causes me to melt (hey, like wax!) into a puddle of erotic bliss, I enjoyed that very much. I was only eight years old but it ranks in my Top One Hundred Sexual Experiences.

I did have some black sooty ear stuff after several days in Delhi, because the place is so polluted, but it is very impractical to fly off to India every time I want to indulge in a quality ear-cleaning.

*Alternative meandering thoughts your brain could take when typing "Q-Tipping"---picture a gang of bored Midwestern kids jumping over a pasture fence and pushing over a giant Q. Or think of some alternative sexual practice involving a Q-Tip, or, better yet, involving the guy from Tribe Called Quest. Or, you could remember (no wait, you can't, because it is my memory) my friend Will, telling me the story of how his cat, a stray he took in, went into heat before he could get her spayed, and how the cat was desperate and horny and rubbing all over everything, and he called his aunt, who bred cats, to see if there was any way he could help the poor thing, and his aunt seriously suggested that he fuck the cat with a Q-Tip. And how this gave me the giggles for days, imagining poor Will stuck home on a Friday night nursing a beer and watching ESPN and fucking his cat with a Q-Tip. (In case you are wondering, he declined to pursue the Q-Tip option and just rushed the cat to surgery as soon as possible.)

Watched the Bears last night with Old Style tallboys, and my refrain of "this is only preseason" is starting to wear a little thin. Or maybe it was just depressing to watch a frankly better team have their way with us. Even playing semi-poorly the Patriots outclassed us. I think I like Ditka as a commentator, though. He is kind of insane, and says, "That kid's a good football player," too much (one of my most-hated sports phrases, since it tells us precisely nothing), but every so often you are treated to awesome on-air exchanges like this:

[many weird crackling noises and such]

Other Guy: Mike. Mike. How's about you put your headset on?

Mike Ditka: [chuckling] Just a...yeah, I'm doing it...

Other Guy: [also laughing] What are you...what you got there, cookies?

Ditka: I got cookies, I got water all over my pants, it's crazy up here!


The Day I Turned Uncool: This book thought it was much more funny and clever than it actually was. (Oh, the thin ice Mimi skates on---I am sure there are legions of people who think that I think that I am more funny and clever than I actually am---and if you can pluck apart what I just said, like a shoelace knot of hideous self-consciousness you deserve a medal. Now do you see why I have to drink? Some people can probably just say things, without anticipating and deflecting the criticism on and on in an endless loop. Not me.) Also, I have trouble with notions of "coolness" and "adulthood" and whatnot, and I know those types of musings would not be appropriate for a slender volume of so-so observational humor, but still. Either Dan Zevin is kind of a glib and facile guy or the nature of his book deal forced him to be glib and facile, which is no biggie, no one was harmed, and the hour I spent reading it was not missed, but as for something to read and think about you can do better.

Lemon: Dude. Why is this book not more famous? Except for the weird section in verse that bogged down the structure, this was near-great.

The Whore's Child: You know those times when you know something is "good," but you don't feel it? You admire the technical virtuosity---oh that's very nice, this guy is very skilled, I can see why he won a Pulitzer---but it does nothing for you? That's Richard Russo, in my opinion.

Vanity Fair, the issue about inbred royalty: my secret shame. There was almost nothing worth reading in this one, but sometimes a girl just has to look at page after page of obfuscated-signifier gender-troubled Prada ads.

Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror: Poems, good ones.

---mimi smartypants does not know but she's been told, the Parthenon is mighty old.


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