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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

2002-10-22 ... 7:04 p.m.

I very, very rarely don't know what day it is. That�s not because I am like some superorganized superbrain, but for the sad-ass reason that my little complicated-as-fuck OCD rituals* are kind of numerically based on the date. However! Sometimes I actually do forget, or I completely blank out when I am filling out a form or writing a check, and I have to ask the clerk, "What's today?" And then invariably they say, "It's the 22nd" or whatever, and then, just for the pure comedy and mindfuck aspect of it, I like to stay hunched over my form or my check and ask, "What's...the...month?" in my spaciest Thorazine voice.

*I won't get into it, I really won't. I once had a therapist who ostensibly was there to help me STOP being such an OCD nerd, but she was really really into getting me to describe every aspect of my "systems," and it creeped me out because talking about it at that level of detail seems to me to be encouraging even more obsessional thinking. And more importantly, isn't it beside the point? For instance, if you went to a doctor and said, "I am going to kill myself," and the doctor said, "How?" you would just be like Oh right, she is trying to see if I really have a plan, but if you told her your intended method and she said, "Pills, huh? Hmm. Why not carbon monoxide? Have you ever considered hanging?" that would be a little weird. So although I am engaging in hyperbole to make a point, that is indeed what the long-ago therapist's abnormal interest in documenting my crazy compulsions seemed like to me. The end. (I am fond of saying, "The end." It is my new favorite way to end a paragraph. The end.)


More with the funny: There is something wrong with the yeti but there is nothing wrong with, except that the scrivener of said website is a hell of a lot cooler than me, which fills me with chagrin. ("Fill It To The Rim. With Chagrin.") I wonder if I could beat him in arm-wrestling?

Guess what? I don't hear you guessing, punk. Anyway, ba da da dum da dum (trumpet fanfare sound), this here is the 500th entry in this web thing. I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Do I get a prize? No, I do not get a prize. Do you get a prize, for coming back here all the time? No, you do not. But I think we should go out for a drink or something, don't you? I mean, jeez. Five hundred entries. What the hell.

I went out of my building to get some fresh air recently (my lungs were all full of Stagnant Business Air and it was making me miserable), and I was taking a little walk around, deedle dee, and I went by one of the many big hotels in the neighborhood and there was a midget (Little Person, Wee One, Native Shrimptarian, whatever term we are supposed to use) getting out of an airport limousine, with luggage and stuff. I thought nothing of it (my slight discomfort around the Wee, detailed here, is not like a visceral run-away-screaming reaction or anything), until I turned the corner and there were two more Small Guys in business suits smoking cigarettes and chatting with each other on the corner. Is there some sort of midget convention or small political action committee in town?

And then I came home, and I had wonderful mail for once. Button Magazine is going to reprint a tiny something of mine that you read here first, just a little list-type thing, and the inimitable Sally was kind enough to send me some sample issues, and ask me for a contributor's note* so she can get it all ready for the next issue. Button is just the sweetest coolest little zine and you would do very well for yourself by subscribing. (Not for the Mimi Smartypants content, which you will have read already, but for all the other wonderful bits. Oh, and it�s a small-format thing that will fit in your jacket pocket, so when you are at the rock show by yourself and you are not a smoker and you don't feel like staring into space looking deep and swigging from your lukewarm American beer, you can pull out your copy of Button and sit there reading it like you rule the school, and probably some rock-and-roll guy/girl with totally awesome shoes will come over and be all like "hey what's that zine?" and then, well, you know what happens next. Awww yeah. SO SUSCRIBE MOTHERFUCKER THAT'S ALL I'M SAYING.)

(*Embarrassing anecdote: I once had a poem of mine published in this tiny little journal called Pavement Saw, and they asked for a contributor's note as well, and because I was very young and very strange I wrote this: "Mimi Smartypants is 21 years old and glows with a mysterious blue light. She lives in Chicago." And then once again I was filled to the rim with chagrin because when I got my copy everyone else had normal, accomplishment-filled contributor's notes. Ah well. I am no longer very young but I guess I still am very strange.)

The mail today also included my copy of Yoga Journal. I keep letting this (and many other) subscriptions lapse, but then invariably I will get some ridiculously cheap offer, like they will practically pay me to receive these periodicals in the mail each month, so I usually cave because I am a whore for reading material in the worst way. Like not a high-class, outcalls-only whore for reading material, but the sort of whore for reading material who, if she couldn't get anything else, would let you hump her in a gangway for a week-old copy of the New York Post or even the back of a cereal box. I'm not proud but there it is. Anyway, this month's Yoga Journal has this headline on the cover:

Life Without Sex: Can It Lead To Greater Vitality?

And LT had put a post-it note underneath that and wrote: NO. I don't think he's even going to let me read the article. And then we had dinner, and then we invented a really dangerous appliance (what is with me and inventing appliances?): a deep-fat fryer for your car that plugs into the cigarette lighter. So you could drive to work and make onion rings at the same time. Except that your car would always stink of oil and then inevitably you would get in a fender-bender that would have resulted in minor whiplash at the very most, but now instead you have third-degree burns all over your thighs. Boy would that get recalled fast! Boy howdy!


---mimi smartypants has some nerve.


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