mimi smartypants
Seriously, though: what's with the penguins?

where's the funny soap?

This page on squirrel parasites is totally gross. I know, you were thinking that learning about squirrel parasites was going to be a shiny happy thing that would leave you feeling blissed out about the miracle that is life, but WRONG is now spelled Y-O-U.

In contrast, this made me happy: a very funny review of what sounds like a very terrible book. I will let you read for yourself (it is so worth it), but basically a woman's child dies, she writes a memoir about it, and some time later she walks out on her husband and surviving children and goes to some creepy retro artists' retreat where she meets—da da da dum!—another man, and they get married and she has found herself and is healed. You know! The usual crap! Only instead of using a book (IF YOU REALLY MUST WRITE ONE) to explain exactly what sort of brain-damaged morally bankrupt buttmunch she is, the author apparently wrote it to pat herself on the back for being so brave and strong as to create a new life for herself. God, I am so sick of women telling each other how “brave” and “strong” they are for every little thing, when ninety-nine times out of a hundred it is severely overstating the case. And in this instance, criminally overstating the case. I somehow doubt this woman's kids were right there giving her “you go girl” snaps in Z-formation when she moved out.

I was ranting about this the other day, before I realized that I should stop torturing my email/IM friends with it and start torturing the Internet with it, and then I spent the rest of the day cracking myself up by calling all the chicks I knew “brave” or “strong.” Except I almost forgot that not everyone is in my head (where it truly is a non-stop party, I tell you what), and that not everyone was in on my personal brave/strong meme. A work colleague apologized over email for giving me some wrong information, and I had a reply all typed out that it was okay, and that it was very brave of her to say that, and then I remembered that it would make no sense. But would anyone have noticed?

You all are very brave to have read this far. Stay strong! You're a strong Mimi Smartypants reader, you can get through this!

CAN'T BLAME YOU FOR TRYING

Remember that Nora is two years old, that except for the occasional string cheese stick out of the refrigerator she very rarely obtains her own food, that there is no way that she can reach the freezer, and that, even though they are only the frozen-juice kind, I consider popsicles to be a special after-dinner treat because I'm mean like that. When you keep all that in mind, this becomes a lot funnier.

Nora: I think I'm going to have a popsicle. Do you want one, Mommy?
Me: No thanks, Nora. And popsicles are for after dinner, remember?
Nora: Sometimes they are for before dinner! Maybe! Sometimes! Maybe sometimes I will get a popsicle. One for me, and one for you. Okay?

All this was spoken in the doorway of the living room, as if she was just about to dash to the kitchen to get us both popsicles on my say-so. Seriously, kid: A++ for effort. You are one slick customer.

—mimi smartypants must be fine because her heart's still beating.