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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

2001-10-24 ... 10:36 a.m.

Resolved: That I should update this Thing regardless of whether I have anything to say. Probably some of my best entries are precisely when I don't have anything to say. (Yeah, right.)

But since I still feel kind of dull, I will break this up into generic, predictable Mimi Smartypants sections. It's safe! Comforting! Familiar! No surprises! [Confession: I've never been a Radiohead fan, never understood the hoopla, but then I heard this song and I really really like this song. Perhaps I listened to the wrong album? Perhaps Radiohead requires repeated listening? Perhaps I am turned off by hoopla in general?]

Note: "Never Understood the Hoopla" will be the title of my first book.

I promised sections, and sections ye shall have:


Since I last updated this, I've been working a lot. Specifically, a bunch of my journals had board meetings, which meant I was lucky enough to spend all day in a room with rich white elderly mostly male medical specialists. Jealous? Of course you are. The two good things about these meetings are (a) I get to wear a name tag; and (b) they are on Fridays, and they end rather early, and thus I can go out and practice the drinking procedure, because if you don't practice, you lose your touch. That's a fact. So I hung out at a dive bar near the office with coworkers, drank a whole lot of cheap beer, played a disastrous game of darts (not disastrous in the sense that anyone lost an eye, I just suck at darts and got my ass kicked), and really didn't suffer all that much the next morning, considering what a late evening it was. Sunday was spent mostly at the Anti-Cruelty Society adoption center, squealing like a girl over all the cute cats and helping my sister pick out one of her very own. She has her own apartment now, so she needed a cat. A house is not a home without an animal of some kind.


Once again, these are work-related: I recently spent a business lunch in the forced company of a person whom we shall call Mrs A. The A stands for Annoying. At one point, we were talking about Chicken Run, which as you know is one of the very best movies of all time, and she said, "Oh, I couldn't watch that, I'd feel too bad for the poor chickens" (which, um, in this movie are made of clay, mind you) and then she launched into a diatribe about battery cages and factory farming and other overwrought descriptions of the Chicken Holocaust. Get ready, now: ALL THE WHILE SHE HAS CHICKEN PICCATA ON HER PLATE AND IS QUITE HAPPILY CHOWING DOWN. For crying out loud. Listen: I have enough food-related issues of my own that I'm the last person to condemn or even inquire about someone's dietary habits. But don't drone on and on about the evils of our agricultural production system and how it's wrong to raise chickens for slaughter and then EAT THEM at the same fucking time. "Mmmmm......the poor, tortured, chickens....the poor, tortured....delicious...chickens...." Eat them if you want to. Don't eat them if you don't. Neither choice is likely to cause a complete revamping of the way food is produced and eaten in America. For the record, I don't eat them, but I won't hand you a pamphlet if you do.


Week 2 of bombing, week whatever of bizarre anthrax shit. In some ways, emotionally, I think I'm even worse off than I was right after the WTC collapse. We sink deeper and deeper into the muck and now it's starting to hit home that it will be a long, long time before anything is "normal" again, presidential pronouncements and platitudes notwithstanding. I am, however, slightly disappointed with our anthrax terrorists' spelling, grammar, and penmanship. (Penpersonship?)


(1) Morningstar Farms' Oven-Roasted Veggie Burgers. I'm not sure what exactly is oven-roasted---the "veggies" or the burgers themselves---but I like them. (2) My new habit of calling everyone, "ass clown," as in "Shut up, ass clown." (3) The Italian word for spoon, which is "cucchiaio." To me it sounds kind of naughty. Also, in a special shout-out to Krapsnart, I have learned the Italian word for "kiosk," which is "chiosco." Let's Kiosk! (Note: in Italian ch is like k. Which is why it's brus-KETT-a and not brus-SHETT-a. Now you can order appetizers correctly and impress all your friends.)(4) My house. I was just looking around last night, and I realized I love my house. You don't care. Next!


This personality test will reveal you to be more insane than you ever knew. I'm extremely obsessive-compulsive (we knew that), but in other news, I'm also extremely paranoid! Hooray!

Weird! Disturbing! Kind of gross! But very informative! Warning: finish your omlette before reading.

All right, I'm going.

---mimi smartypants has an incurable typing disease.


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