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

2002-12-28 ... 9:00 a.m.

(in media res)...and then Mimi Smartypants disappeared into the Christmas Abyss, never to be heard from again.


Yes, I looked into the Holiday Void, and yes the Void stared back, but I! Have Emerged! Relatively! Unscathed! You have heard of man vs. nature, man vs. man, man vs. society, but my narrative conflict lately has all been in the realm of waif vs. endless rounds of holiday cheer, and I am proud to say it has mostly turned out in my favor. And in this corner, in the black trunks, we have me, having just delivered the biggest roundhouse punch ever to the holiday season. Red and green, black and blue, take that, YULE!

But you don't come here to hear me whine about my holiday social life and the many reasons why I have not posted in a while. You come here for the naked pictures. So here is a short, mixed-up summary of a few of the adventures I have had since the last entry.



Last week I had to go to a work-related party, and of course I left too early and got to the Andersonville neighborhood too early. I am the queen of getting to places too early. If I ever am a mom, I will be the sort of mom who makes you get dressed five hours before you have to leave for grandma’s house. And quit doing that because you are going to get those nice pants all wrinkled. Anyway, who wants to be early to the party? Making small talk while the hostess runs around filling chip bowls and such? So I stop at Simon's for some pre-party holiday cheer, and I load up the jukebox with ten or fifteen Jesus and Mary Chain and Mercury Rev songs, much to the probable chagrin of the few old men who were at the bar, but LET'S FACE IT MY GENERATION IS MORE INTERESTING. That first beer is quite enjoyable, and really, who wants to be on time for a party? So I have another. As I am finishing that, the pile of tan work jacket on the stool next to mine suddenly shifts around and starts to make noise. "Whoa," it says. "Whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa." This doesn't seem to require comment, so I finish my beer and stand up to put on my coat. The movement seems to further animate the tan work jacket pile, and it lifts its head to resolve into a more human shape, pitching forward alarmingly on its stool and increasing in volume: "WHOA! You are a STONE FOX!"

This is not deterring me from continuing with the coat and leaving process, but it does make me laugh. I mean, when was the last time you were called a "stone fox"? If you are me the answer is "never."

"Siddown siddown siddown," Mr Jacket slurs at me. "My name's Bob. Let me buy you a drink." He makes no move to buy me a drink (which is fine because I really HAVE TO LEAVE), but he keeps talking anyway, and I learn these things:

a. Bob is Polish and a contractor, and you want to know who runs this city? Polish contractors.

b. Bob has been drinking since 1 pm and I can't tell at all, can I? Can I? Tell Bob the truth.

c. Bob has Iraqis on his crew and it's too bad we are going to blow their country up because they are damn fine workers.

This is all very compelling but I need to go to my party now, so I continue with the coat and bag-gathering process, and suddenly Bob's mood turns serious and confessional. He leans in all Scotch-breath close and I notice the gold coke spoon glinting amongst a thicket of gray chest hair and realize I may be dealing with a Major-League Freak. "Aw, don't leave," says Bob. "You are such a fox! You are the kind of girl I could say things to. Things like STRAP-ON, WATERSPORTS, GIRL-ON-GIRL. Things like NIPPLE CLAMPS. Am I right or am I right? Here, call me if you want to play, and bring your boyfriend, I'm bi." Now I am the one thinking Whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa as he scribbles his phone number on a napkin, and I accept it because I am really too dazed to do anything else.

This scenario raises a few questions. (1) First, is there something about me that is particularly attractive to middle-aged construction workers? Remember Ray the Roofer? (2) "You are the kind of girl I could say things to." What the hell is that supposed to mean? Do I give off a kinky aura? Or is he just prepared to get a lot of drinks thrown in his face until he finds the right girl? (3) And finally, why didn't I just shut him down? I am not shy about that sort of thing: I have a great icy stare and a bad case of sass-mouth and I won't even let you masturbate on public transportation. But for some reason this freak starts reciting the Penthouse letters page at me and I just let him do it. Maybe I'm addicted to novelty, in the form of dirty-talking strangers in bars.

Anyway, I did throw his phone number away, so I'm not THAT desperate for new experiences, thank you very much. Ick.


Then hey ho what the fuck it was Christmas. Did everyone survive the holidays okay? No holiday suicides? No mortifying mistletoe incidents? No injuries when your mom or your grandmother or whoever is the Food Enforcer around your house came after you with yet another plate of cookies like Larry Allen with two good ankles? I had three different Christmas things with three different family sections, and although I am never against day-long wine drinking and hanging out, I sure am glad it's over. I gave good presents. My 8-year-old cousin is a Packers fan, because he is the twisted middle child who has to be an iconoclast, and where do you think you can get a child-sized foam rubber cheesehead? At, of course. It was a big hit.

My father-in-law is famous for giving strange gifts, but even he did pretty well this year. There were only two confusing items. First was a hollow crocheted snowman, covered in some sort of glitter paint. Why is this for me? The other gift proved conclusively to me that my in-laws huff a bunch of nitrous before doing their holiday shopping: I received an Elmo Bounce Around Ball. I wish I could find this product online to show you people exactly how strange this is, but basically an Elmo Bounce Around Ball is a round soft red ball, about 20 inches in diameter, with a somewhat Cubist rendering of Elmo's face on it. When you press the ball the whole thing vibrates rather strongly and the Voice of Elmo giggles and says "Whee! Look at Elmo go!" Why am I picturing entire preschools full of toddlers humping away on the vibrating Elmo ball? Hell, I would do it myself if I wasn't a little creeped out by the whole sitting-on-Elmo’s-face aspect. Maybe one of these days, after a lot of wine.

Oh. I am tired, and I am awake in the early hours after yesterday's Polish Night outing with Comrade Glossosaurus, which is where we go out for pierogi and drink lots of zimne piwo and do NOT get freaky with any Polish contractors. Why don't you have a nice plate of links and then go get busy with your Elmo Bounce Around Ball.

Mobile urinal for chicks.

This cracker story from The Onion never gets old for me.

The ultimate texture collection: hypnotic.

"You've got Alf talking about heroin, you've got Miss Piggy talking about cocaine."

Midget Kiss.

---mimi smartypants has a birthday tomorrow.


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