Back to Diaryland

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

2003-10-07 ... 11:20 a.m.


I had a great weekend. The fabulous Lisa, previously known to me as a mere e-mail pal, was in town and we had dinner together, a delicious risotto and bottle of wine at Bite, served to us by a man who was weary of his piercings. We know this because he told us---when complimented on the ear plugs, he accentuated his already-rather-boneless slouch and said, "Man, I'm totally sick of them because it's been like FOUR YEARS." Poor baby. But that's kind of the deal with piercings, particularly high-commitment, large-gauge ones. Then we had beer and chat until the wee hours and I put her in a cab back to her hotel. I don't really remember getting in a cab myself, but I do remember the ride because the driver was all nosy. Did I have a good time tonight (yes), what do I do for a living (for some reason I told him I was an accountant---I must have been in the lying-to-strangers stage of my drunk), and how long have I lived in my neighborhood (three years). Then he suddenly says, "Do you know Kelsey Grammer?" "No," I said, not placing the name right away. Then a microsecond later I asked, "From that show?" since I could not remember the name of it, and also I was not sure if the cabdriver meant did I know Kelsey Grammer personally. Which I don't. "Yeah, Frasier," the cabdriver said. "You know, that Frasier show. I gave him a ride once. He had bad skin." It surprised me a bit that this hulking Chicago-accented Da-Bears style cabdriver was noticing the condition of another man's skin, and I almost wanted to find out more (bad how? Acne? Wrinkly? Alcoholic-blotchy and dry?) but I got shy and just said "hmmm" and looked out the window.

By the way, a cursory Web search on how to spell Mr. Fraiser Bad Skin's name led me to an essay for you to plagiarize. But I don't recommend doing so because it is terrible writing and also misspells "hurdles." Really, if you are going to plagiarize for hire, you simply must do a better job of it. And pick subject matter other than Kelsey Grammer, for Christ's sake.

I have always thought I would be great at doing creative writing for hire, for sad little writers'-block-suffering kids who are cracking under the pressure of their workshops or MFA programs. Let me have a few hours with your portfolio, to get a feel for your style, and then I guarantee I could ape it. For a fee, I could turn out you-quality poems or short stories on a weekly basis. This would enable you to actually study and pass Chemistry instead of flailing around on the railroad tracks with a bottle of wine, or having alienated sex with near-strangers and then smoking a cigarette in the dark (blanket wrapped around your shoulders, semen dripping down your thighs). These seemed to be the main two themes of the poems in my program's workshops, and although it made me very teeth-clenchy at the time I am now resigned to the fact that many 21-year-olds consider these things to be poetic subject matter, and I swear I could write that kind of crap in my sleep. So: hire me.

Time out here for chastisement: although I was pleased enough with just meeting Lisa on Friday night, I would be remiss if I did not mention that THE GREAT AND POWERFUL ANIL DASH is a SMARTYPANTSTEASE, which is a bit like a COCKTEASE except I don't have one of those. Mr. Dash visited Chicago last weekend for a weblogging conference (I will not touch that topic with a ten-foot pole because I am sure he can make fun of it all by himself). E-mails were exchanged about a possible rendezvous. I gave him some sketchy information about where I would be drinking and invited him to show up and join us, but he never replied and the details were never firmed up, and come to think of it he has not updated his page since. Maybe Chicago ate him. This just in: CHICAGO ATE ANIL DASH! HE WAS SPICY!

Saturday was about recovery and then acting as a decoy for a Very Gay Surprise Party. I love these guys and their apartment is fantastic, which is not surprising since one half of the couple is an interior designer. However, all their friends are so groomed and gorgeous and gay that I feel a bit schlumpy in my hoodie, tights, and Doc Martens. And there is so much hugging! I am a pretty snuggly person, but I tend to be a bit more picky about it (unless I am drinking champagne). At the Very Gay Surprise Party, the hugs were innumerable and freely distributed. Kind of nice, in its way.

The garbage strike means that all my accumulated wrapping paper from Sunday stays in my house a while longer---I only want to burden the Dumpster with the absolutely necessary (ie, smelly stuff). Wherefore wrapping paper? Did Mimi Smartypants do something as girly as have a baby shower? Yeah. I got talked into it. At first I was adamantly against letting friends and family throw one, because I feel weird about being the only one receiving gifts in a group, and about having a party where the express purpose is to bring me things. But then my sister-in-law pointed out that Nora truly will require a certain amount of equipment, and my mom pointed out that there is a barn-raising aspect to baby showers that people actually enjoy (ie, everyone pitching in to help you get ready for the kid), and that it is part of our American culture and is actually expected. So I acquiesced, and my mother and sister-in-law planned everything and all I did was donate my house, open presents, drink beer, and eat cake. We kept the guest list nice and small and I must admit it was fun. Either (a) everyone has totally internalized my sartorial style and assumes Nora will dress accordingly or (b) I have really cool friends, because Nora's wardrobe is now all about the overalls and the hoodies. And lots of BLACK baby clothes, hardly any lace or frilliness in sight. And no Pooh because I hate that fucking bear. Rock.

1. Quote of the day: "I would definitely like to drink the Jane Austen range if it gave me a special early 19th-century vibe."

2. Subject lines of two pieces of spam I received today:

Watch body fat fly away
(Woooo! There it goes! Flap flap glug glug flap!)

Where are you sexy
(Where are you sexy? I am sexy RIGHT HERE. And also OVER HERE.)

3. Roz Chast, my favorite cartoonist, "stole" an idea I had for greeting cards and used it in a cartoon in last week's New Yorker. I have always thought there should be condolence cards for people who weren't really all that broken up about the death in their family, but who would appreciate your acknowledgement of their loss nonetheless. She executed the idea well---a boy looking at a rack labeled "Starter Sympathy Cards," which included such titles as:

No Way!
What A Drag!
That Majorly Bites
Yo. Tragic. (with vase of flowers on front)
I Am In, Like, Shock!

And the best card of all:

For You, In Your Time Of Freakedoutedness

4. Is there something wrong with me that hear the word "facial" and automatically think "blowjob variation" rather than "salon service"? Which is why I snicker when I see signs or advertisements for things like a "teen facial" or a "holistic facial."

5. In other news, LT and I are working on a musical about a meatball come to life. It's sort of like Pinocchio only with a meatball instead of a puppet.

---mimi smartypants gots to mojammamatize.


join my Notify List and get email when I update my site:
Powered by