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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

2007-09-06 ... 5:59 p.m.


As I am de-train-ing at the Jackson subway stop, I accidentally step on the back of some girl's flip-flop* and we both sort of slip for a second and it is jarring and awkward. But what could have been simply awkward soon became deeply unpleasant, thanks to one of the good citizens of Chicago! Things I did not actually say (but wish I had) are in parentheses.

Me: Sorry! Sorry. Sorry.
Her: What the FUCK???? Ow! You tipped me out my shoes! [ed note: ?]
Me: Sorry.
Her: Goddammit! Watch where you're walking!
Me [still moving, heading up the escalator to the street]: Okay, sorry!
Her [still directly behind me, more's the pity]: I don't want you to be sorry, bitch!
Me: What do you want, exactly?
Her: I want YOU not to STEP on MY FEET!!!!
(Me: Well, let me just go back in time and make that not-happen for you.)
Me: ... [as there is no conceivable response to this]
Her: Oh, now you ain't saying nothing. Now you ain't saying nothing. You a clumsy bitch, that's what you are.
(Me: And you're a tranny-looking crackhead!** Have a great day!)


I am sure I will hear more on this topic from the flip-flop folk because, judging by my daily observations, there are SO VERY MANY OF YOU. But why? I don't understand. The only thing between your naked feet and all manner of unspeakably foul effluvia is an inch-thick piece of foam rubber. And the tops of your feet are completely exposed to whatever comes their way. I cannot stress this enough: yuck.

On a daily basis, I walk near or at least on the same surface as dog poop, garbage juice from leaky sanitation trucks, globs of spit, discarded gum, ants, candy wrappers, suspiciously-ammonia-smelling puddles, and collections of that weird black city soot that ends up in small drifts along the curb. Occasionally there will be a truly spectacular gross-out, like a decomposing squirrel or a splash of Loyola-student vomit. Now, I am not saying that garbage juice or stranger-spit is a great thing to get on your shoe. But isn't it better than getting it on your foot?

Also, the aforementioned List Of Vile Detritus only includes things visible to the naked eye. I do not even want to think about the microscopic nastiness that so thickly slimes the streets and sidewalks of this great city. The microscopic nastiness that is pretty much swarming around your practically-bare feet, my flip-flop friends. Pshaw, you say! Feet can be washed! True. But feet cannot be burned, or tossed in the dumpster, or sprayed with cleanser and left on the back porch until a unspecified "decontamination" period has passed, the way shoes can.

(Note: I am not saying I would do anything as crazy as burn or throw away shoes just because of City Ick. I mean, what's a little frat-boy throw-up? I am made of sturdier stuff. However, I can conceive of things so gross that the shoes would not again see daylight, and if you cannot then you need a more disgusting imagination.)

Not to mention that always-in-a-hurry me will probably step on your plastic flip-flop footwear at some point! Iím a clumsy bitch, that's what I am. Just ask the tranny-looking crackhead.

Flip-flop people, it's your funeral. Which I will attend, wearing proper shoes. That is all.


I want to make it clear that these are just the first words that popped into my head, and that I have nothing against transsexuals or crack-cocaine abusers. I have known many lovely people who fit into both categories, although not (to my knowledge) simultaneously.


I am off to try and buy soccer shoes in a little tiny size that does not seem to actually exist in sporting-goods-store land. Yes, Nora will be running in fruitless preschoolerian circles, in all likelihood nowhere near the ball, starting on Saturday. Her uniform is GIGANTIC on her thirty-pound no-hips self and LT must get out the sewing kit and take in the shorts before then. And I must practice not feeling like a dork on the sidelines as I realize that I know exactly nothing about soccer and even less about how to interact with a bunch of our-kids-play-sports people. I'd bring a book but that would not win me any Supportive-Mom points, so I guess I will just watch and giggle. (I'm laughing WITH the children! Honest!)

---mimi smartypants rah rah ree, kick her in the knee.


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