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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

2004-09-06 ... 4:14 p.m.


Whole-grain oat goodness, perhaps, but it still is not the best idea. I turn away for one second during a clothing change and when I look back Nora is frowning earnestly and trying to insert a stray Cheerio up in her business. Kids are natural scientists. And natural perverts.


There is vodka distilled from soy, beets, potatoes, hemp, and grapes. It is time for a vodka distilled from clams. We could call it Cläm, with umlauts, for maximum foreign-ness, since that seems to be an important element in the marketing of vodka.


Nora does not start her classes at the Montessori school until Wednesday, but I already feel like she has been there forever due to the MASSIVE amount of PARENTAL INVOLVEMENT this preschool venture seems to require. You have to understand that I am slightly conflicted about the fancy-schmancy Montessori preschool---sometimes it makes me feel like the very worst sort of New Yorker-cartoon cliché. This feeling is not helped by the seemingly endless string of orientations and presentations and get-acquainted meetings that the school invites us to, which are sometimes scheduled at incredibly awkward times (orientation to Nora's classroom was on a Monday morning at 8:30, and children were not allowed. How the hell is that supposed to work?) The evening orientation was more convenient, although LT and I still felt out of place among the other parents, many of whom were the classic North Shore combination of hippie and yuppie (lots of Indian-print skirts and yoga pants climbing out of Range Rovers).

On the other hand, I have no doubt that Nora "I Do My Own Thing" Smartypants will thrive in the anarchic atmosphere of a Montessori preschool, as long as she can keep cereal pieces out of inappropriate orifices, and I will just smile pretty and fake my way through the Whole Foods atmosphere.

There is a Waldorf preschool vaguely in our neighborhood as well. I never seriously considered sending Nora there, because I had heard they were freaky. Recently I became slightly obsessed with researching Waldorf schools and boy, are they freaky. One could argue that this weblog is not exactly impartial, but you can find out from Rudolf Steiner's own writings that he believed in the astral plane, that children should not learn to read or write until quite late, and that little kids should never have black crayons. My own personal rule: If an educational system has spawned a Yahoo "survivor's group," be slightly alarmed.


I recently received penis-enlargement spam from one Mr. Tweeters, which was the name of my very first pet, a parakeet who died when I was ten years old. The thought that all spam is sent by a zombie army of undead pets, working from an underground bunker on some remote island, has been bothering me for a few days now. Millions of hamsters, clawing their way out of buried shoeboxes, logging on to AOL!


How to make Nora happy on a Labor Day weekend? Take her to Taste of Polonia, stuff her full of pierogi, and sit in a beer garden next to one of the stages, so that she can point to the angsty teenage Polish hardcore band and solemnly say "guitar" a hundred times. The Polish fest made me very happy as well. Pierogi! Decent beer (so rare at a street festival, where normally a cup of beer-flavored foam is as good as it gets)! And plenty of drunk Polish men! I realize I could see drunk Polish men at just about any dank corner bar in Chicago, but drunk Polish men take on a special flavor (Drunk Polish Man Flavor!) when they are all gathered together in one space.

---mimi smartypants rose to the occasion.


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