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

2005-11-15 ... 9:33 p.m.


Dear CTA Masturbators: I told you once. Do I look like I'm fucking kidding? The other day one of your disgusting, reprehensible ilk came sauntering over with his hands in his pockets and sat next to me. With hands still in pockets. This is a serious red flag, and since I have oodles of unpleasant experience with the idiots who buy a ticket to ride the Onanism Express, I was instantly suspicious. I pretended to read but also kept one peripheral-vision eye on Mr. Pockets, who at first did not seem to be wanking but merely shifting a lot in his seat. However, apparently he was just shifting into a comfortable train-wanking position, because the next time I glanced over YES! WE HAVE WANKAGE! I said, loudly, "Oh HELL NO" and then I said "YOU DISGUSTING MOTHERFUCKER. MOVE. NOW." And he scrambled to comply, and went and stood by the door, and exited the train as soon as he could. My only regret was not doing more public shaming---my past masturbators were all sitting a short distance away, whereas this jerking-off jerkoff was RIGHT NEXT TO MY BODY, and thus I was more concerned with getting out of there than with dispensing justice.

Next time* I will dispense plenty of justice. In the form of lighter fluid. On the offending crotch. If any of you sad-ass dick-touchers doubt me, just give it a try. I ride the Red Line twice a day.

(*And there will be a next time. I have long since accepted that perverts have a special attraction to my particular pheromones, as I have been shown all manner of foul genitalia in public since I was a child. It is really very tiresome and I have not yet figured out a way to turn it into a superpower.)


Nora wanted to read that Over The Moon book, and we got to the part where the new parents, having gone to adopt an infant in an unnamed but probably Latin American country, first see the baby, "carried by the kind people who had taken care of her." I have always liked this part, because it gently reminds everyone that internationally adopted children most often have some post-birthmother, pre-forever-family history, and hopefully reassures kids that they were not just fending for themselves before the adoption happened. Nora then asked, in an oblique fashion, who took care of her before mommy and daddy showed up, and I reminded her of the "nannies" in our photos of the orphanage (who are pretty obvious because, for some strange reason, they are all wearing pink lab coats). Serious frowny face. Then she said, "I don't like them."

"Who, the nannies in China?" I asked. "They took very good care of you before mommy and daddy came."
Nora still looked grumpy, and then said, "I don't love those nannies. I love mommy and daddy."

Well, okay. I decided to just drop the subject, but the whole exchange was very interesting to me because it was the first time I have ever heard Nora say something negative about her adoption. Maybe she feels a little bit sad that she was not with mommy and daddy from the very beginning, or maybe in her mind the China nannies were a nefarious bunch who kept her from us longer than necessary. Regardless, I either handled it well or completely failed to handle it at all, depending on your worldview, but in general I think trying to talk kids out of their feelings is a bad idea. So hands off for now. Besides, there is no rule that you have to "love" an interchangeable group of orphanage caretakers, who you only knew for eight months.


Maisy is being mostly eschewed these days in favor of Blue's Clues (I love it when the didactic theme is just a bit beyond Nora's comprehension---she watches so intently you can practically see steam coming off her head), Sesame Street (Telly should really start Paxil or Wellbutrin or something---he is a WRECK), and lately, the moralistic and saccharine but not-really-objectionable Clifford The Big Red Dog. Have you heard the theme song? It may have pleasant lyrics, but it is sung by a very mopey boy-with-guitar in the most downbeat way imaginable. Every time I hear it I picture Elliott Smith all fucked up on smack and agreeing to sing the Clifford theme.


I was at work and a guy called to ask me about the timing of something. The people who schedule the something are at an entirely different office, and I simply follow my marching orders when I get them. I suggested that he call the something-schedulers directly, and he said, "Uh...can I just call you again? I mean, periodically? Like can I call you in a month or so?"

Sure, I guess. If you must. What is this "can I call you" stuff? Are we going out now?


The blossoming of a young mind is truly a wonderful, and very tedious, thing to behold. Every day is Obvious Day at Camp Toddler! Every day Nora figures out something new and different and totally astounding, and every goddamned day she rushes to share the news with me! For instance, a starfish is shaped like a star! At preschool, it's called "Circle Time" because everybody sits in a circle!

Nora, stop! You're blowing my mind! My mind is blown!

Wait, there's more! The flower outside is called a flower, and the flour that you use to make cookies is called a flour, and they are the same word! But they are NOT the same word, mommy! But they are! But they're not! And the anteater! Mommy! Listen! Anteater is TWO words! Ant! And eater! Did you know what an anteater eats? It eats ANTS!

At this revelation I am pretty much expected to scream HOLY SHIT and clutch my head and fall about groaning with the sheer amazingness of it all. And the thing is, I usually do. If she were showing off and being precociously fake-cute, it would be one thing. If she were one of those annoying eight-year-olds with the giant trivia book who likes to spout factoids about how a guinea pig is not a pig, it is a rodent, I could just go mmm-hmmm or "that's interesting" and be done with it. But I cannot look at that girl with her face all sunny and open and TRULY FUCKING FLABBERGASTED about a descriptive compound word (ANTEATER!!!!! WHO KNEW!??!!) without wholeheartedly playing along.

---mimi smartypants is punk in drublic.


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