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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

2003-09-23 ... 11:35 a.m.

Hey. Ho. I suggest that we go. There is a mysterious floating speck of something in my cup of green tea. Instead of burning my fingers to fish it out, or sticking any foreign object into the tea, I am playing a sort of Zen carnival game with the mysterious floating speck. I concentrate on each sip and stare down into the cup while doing so, to make sure the mysterious floating speck does not find its way into my mouth. Of course, inevitably, at the end of the cup of tea I will find that the mysterious floating speck is gone and is now inside of me. But I am accepting of this inevitability! Like a rock in a stream, or a speck in tea! Speck outside! Speck inside! All One!

Speaking of carnival games, remember the one where all you did was grab a plastic duck out of a kiddie pool? There was a number on the bottom and that corresponded to a particular Box Of Plastic Crap (also known as your "prize"). No skill involved and that's just the way we like it! Even the blind drunk can play! As long as they resist the urge to treat the kiddie pool as their urinal and the ducks as their targets.

I have no good excuse for the lack of updates here, beyond the usual "I had the pleurisy" or "No one told me that was your grandma." Thursday LT and I went to a baby CPR class. Uncharacteristically, LT is turning out to be one of those READ EVERYTHING LEARN EVERYTHING parents-to-be, while I am turning out to be the kind who just plans to make it all up as she goes along. However, baby CPR definitely falls under the heading of Good Idea, so I had no objections. We showed up at the hospital and took our seats, trying not to be self-conscious about being the most conspicuously un-pregnant couple in the room. Our instructor was blonde and loud and lifeguard-y, sort of a Brandi Chastain type, and she was very blonde. And loud. Wait. I said that already. (Maybe that mysterious floating green tea speck was psychoactive in some way! Oh, we can hope.)

(Back on the narrative track.) The class is structured in the usual way---watch the video, practice on the dummies, repeat the key points back to the instructor, et cetera. My very favorite thing about the class was that the loud blonde instructor talked a lot with her hands, and made a lot of emphatic gestures, and often used her infant CPR dummy as a gesturing tool, including: Whacking. It. On. The. Table. With. Each. Key. Phrase. Like Khrushchev, only with a plastic baby instead of a shoe. Frankly, it ruled.

The rest of the weekend was good too. Friday I drank with coworkers, which became especially fun as all the dilettantes drifted away and there was only the more serious drinkers left. The metaphorical gloves came off a bit, both professionally (the loud questioning of the competence of a few choice senior managers) and personally (the startling revelation of a sordid past, in the form of a tabloid-worthy divorce, from one of the quietest and most unassuming members of the team). Unfortunately the bar we chose turned into a karaoke place all of a sudden at 10 pm, so we moved on to some generic Irish pub for one last beer and then all took the El home together. I live a few stops beyond my compadres but iPod and the newest Baffler kept me company.

Saturday we cooked for friends. As I served the meal I realized it was not suitable for Muslims or twelve-steppers, as my entire menu had booze in it: bourbon in the salmon's marinade, wine in the asparagus risotto, and more wine (spiced up with cinnamon and cloves) in the berry composite that I served over ice cream. It is a fine-dining concept whose time has come.

In two weeks, if I am not yet in China, you can bet your booty I will try to be here:

OCTOBER 8: The Schubas building is 100 years old today. Downstairs: The Polkaholics! Upstairs: Disc Jockey CB (The Metro), DJ Blake Smith (Caviar), DJ Lee Gutowski (Bloodshot), DJ Magic Donut (The Hideout), DJ Matt Fields (Califone/Schubas), DJ Mr. (Schubas), DJ Poseur (Jam) and others TBA. $5 at the door and $.25 bottles of Schlitz.

This gives me the creeps.

Oooh. White hole theory.

Four years exactly of this ridiculous Internet thing, are you kidding? I guess not. Dang.

Work is kind of sucking right now. The stacks of paper grow ever larger and my motivation dwindles in proportion. Is it selfish to (partly) look forward to impending motherhood for the change of pace alone? Probably. I have not had a vacation this year, because I was saving it for the Big Trip, and I am starting to feel ground by the grind. And not in a skateboarding way either. Just now, in order to cheer myself up, I had to listen to a two-year-old voice mail from LT, where he pretended to be one Doctor Pouchenbaggen, inquiring about his upcoming article in the fake urology journal, Schlöng, called "Dein Scrotum Saccen, Das Noblebaggen." It cracks me up every time because who doesn't like fake German accents and scrotum jokes? No one, that's who. Nobody doesn't like Sara Lee or fake German accents and scrotum jokes. No one never not no nothing. Now it is time to go before this negative, Miranda-July-esque stream of consciousness takes over my entire brain. Bye.

---mimi smartypants seeks same.


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