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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

2002-11-29 ... 9:14 a.m.


My thanksgiving was totally non-excruciating. Everyone was normal. I ate a lot of mashed potatoes, as this is not the most vegetarian-friendly day, although my father-in-law rose to the occasion and made a nice chick pea/couscous thing. The children were cute. Pies had whipped cream on top. So other than the drive out to Buttfuck Nowhere, it was fine. We went far enough away from Chicago that the nearest big city is Rockford, they don't have 911, you don�t need any special permit to keep some fancy Scottish cows, (which our hosts do), the best pizza in town comes from a gas station, and it's considered perfectly normal to have pieces of rusting farm equipment everywhere. Do I sound prejudiced? I guess I am. The John Cougar Mellencamp lifestyle appeals to me not.


After the Thanksgiving battle was over, and it had been decided whose cuisine reigned supreme, we drove all the way back to the city and drank the shakes away at Delilah's, which, since it is open every day of the year, really should position itself as the post-Family Trauma Bar. I have been there after funerals, on Thanksgiving, and I think once on Easter. They could give you an armband to wear detailing what event you were there trying to forget (a coffin, a turkey, a bunny) and there would be half-price deals all night. I was in the mood to drink really cheap, evil, American beer. My beer was only a dollar and it said right on it that it captured the "spirit and strength of America." It was fairly awful but if I drink good beer I think the terrorists win, and Mimi Smartypants stands united. Or maybe she sways united, or slouches united, or sits on your lap all holiday-tipsy united, but the strength and spirit of America is strong within her.

(I must mention that the spirit and strength of America feels profoundly less spiritual and strong the next day. Ouch.)


I now have truly memorized all the words to Foreigner's "Hot Blooded." Are you in a band? Can you learn it? I don't have the best voice but I need to get this out of my system.


Tuesday, after standing around in the eyeglass store while LT picked out frames (and after we both got a clue that he should try on glasses while not wearing his porkpie hat, because sadly he is not wearing a porkpie hat all the time, although rest assured his inner self wears a porkpie hat continually), I realized that I, too, want new glasses. I want one pair of new glasses and then I want to get these updated (new prescription, and tightened so they are not always slipping down my nose and making me look like a cross between a disapproving librarian and a sleepy owl). I am thinking about getting some slightly updated cat's-eye frames, or is that too overdone? I don't want to look like some girl who keeps an internet diary or anything. (Ha ha. START LAUGHING. That's better.)


Sometimes I wish I were a band promoter or a starmaker like the man who put together N'Sync, because I think America is ready for hardcore punk bands featuring midgets in their underwear, with band names that explicitly refer to the fact that the wee are up there rocking out in their underwear. I know, I am scared of midgets, we've been over that, but indulge me because I think this could be big. Here are some band names I've come up with so far:

Yoda Briefs
Leprechaun Jockstrap
Elf Thong
Hobbit Speedo

I could say more but that's pretty much the whole idea, right there, and I'm tired.


I keep forgetting to tell you all that I have lung cancer. Okay. I'm sure I probably don't have lung cancer. But I have been toying with the lung cancer thought for a few weeks, because I have this cough that is not very irritating or severe, but it is a periodic, steady, unchanging, non-productive cough. (I love it when doctors talk about a "productive" cough, because although I know that they are really talking about phlegm, doesn't the phrase sound appealingly postmodern and self-reflexive? A cough is productive. A cough gets coughing done. The cough produces coughing. Man, I'm losing it.) And I have a slightly constricted-airway feeling all the time, so either (a) I am having a constant mild panic attack, (b) I have lung cancer or pleurisy or some other similar dire lung disease, or (c, and most likely) because of the cold air and being shut up in here in the dry with all the allergens, I have the mild asthma chest all the time, just like back in the day when I was a wheezy little child, and I should go back to the doctor and get some of that asthma medicine that makes me all nervous and jumpy. Oh what a joy. However, if I do go to the doctor there's always the chance that I will indeed find out that I have lung cancer, and I think I'd rather not know.


[get ready for the whining] And I am always cold. Pajamas don't turn out to be enough for me the other night (whoa, this is weird, using the present tense about a past event), so I end up wearing pajamas and an extra t-shirt and a COLLEGE SWEATSHIRT (oh god) over that like some sort of godforsaken trust-fund heroin-habit East Coast preppie, and brown socks that do not even begin to go with the purple pajamas, and I am still cold so I put on a tan cashmere scarf and a blanket over my lap while I eat pizza and drink Old Style and LT says I look like a homeless street urchin (which he finds endearing rather than unpleasant, I hope). He claims that the house is a comfortable temperature and I believe him, I think this chill is entirely of my own body's making.


I just woke up from a dream where I had a conversation with Paul, a friend of a friend that I haven't seen in a while. We were at a party at this house in Madison where some friends used to live, and we were standing by a keg of beer.

Paul: So, I heard you slept with a Russian nun.
Me: Wha...what? No.
Paul: Man, that's so hot. Gettin' all lesbotronic with a Russian nun.
Me: I didn't sleep with a Russian nun.
Paul: What I want to know is, was her head totally shaved or does she just have a little crewcut? It's hard to tell under the habit.
Me: Where would I even meet a Russian nun?
Paul: Mother Russia! Oh yeah! More like HOT MAMA Russia!
Me: [leaving]


Did you know that Knight Rider was not the car? I always thought Knight Rider was the car. The car was called KITT. If you ask me, Knight Rider would have been a much better name for the car. It is the name of Herbert Kornfeld's car, maybe that is where I got confused.

Nice. Look at them all, there's lots of cool ashtrays. Of course, back when I was a smoker, there was a saying among the people who majored in ceramics: EVERYTHING IS AN ASHTRAY.

Year in which the birth control pill became legal in Japan: 1999. Percentage of Japanese gynecologists who refuse to prescribe it: 78. Sorry, I lost my source for this one. But jeez.

Here's a paradox for you. I love minutiae and I always want to know what people are thinking about. However, do you know how wrong it is to ask somebody, "What are you thinking?" Never ask this. When your significant other or best friend gets that faraway look and you ask, "What are you thinking?" you are going to be very disappointed when the answer is "How vile it is to use the word 'nugget' in context of a chicken product" or "Whether I should just go all the way and shave off all my pubic hair" or "I'm trying to remember The Chicago Manual of Style's recommendation on alphabetizing German proper names." Never, ever, ask directly. Instead create an atmosphere of warm loving encouragement wherein people want to tell you what they are thinking, spontaneously and without prompting. Then you can use that atmosphere of warm loving encouragement to tell them how totally, completely wack that is.

---mimi smartypants isn't just hooked on phonics, she's jonesing for phonics.


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