never no pudding skin
ANY FANS OF WIT, NARRATIVE, OR INTELLECTUAL DISCOURSE SHOULD STEP OUT FOR A SMOKE RIGHT ABOUT NOW
I finally took some pictures of my new(ish) cats. This is Lola.
Lola is very soft and snuggly. She also has a certain skinny, exophthalmic, and snaggle-toothed quality that reminds me of That Dork In Your Seventh-Grade Gym Class. She deliberately knocks shit over (my earrings are constantly getting pushed off the dresser) and will also steal bottle caps, paper clips, the straw right out of your drink.
This is Rocko, lounging on our very unattractive back-door wipe-your-feet mat.
Rocko is my boyfriend. He is really into me. Likes to be touching me at all times. Cries if I pop downstairs to move the laundry. Sometimes I even catch him rolling around in my underpants if they don't quite make it into the hamper. And yeah, he is neutered, so he should not be under any delusion that he can actually execute his fantasy. Rocko’s love is pure, if excessive.
Rocko's love is also a bit on the Ike Turner/Miles Davis side, because if I don't pet him exactly as he imagined during his long, Mimi-less weekdays, he often puts his teeth on my arm. Not hard, just enough to let me know that he could. I don't dare break up with Rocko, he would be outside my house with my picture and a shotgun, waiting for me to get home from my date with Other Cat.
NOSTALGIA AND THE NETFLIX QUEUE
I guess I should check the list and rearrange more often, or maybe just stop drinking too much wine and going on add-to-queue sprees, because I am always surprised at what DVDs show up in the mailbox. This time it was Lady and the Tramp, which I remember loving with great intensity as a child, probably during one of my “please can we get a dog” campaigns. Nowadays I am much more skeptical of all things Disney, so Nora has seen almost none of the “classics,” but it was rated G and we all had slight colds one rainy day, so into the player it went.
Jesus god, what a cesspool. First of all, it took me a while to remember that the setting was so Victorian—the first few glimpses of anything besides dogs are of human feet and I'm all like WTF Is That Guy Wearing Spats? (Which, by the way, would be an excellent title for something, like maybe a memoir or an intro-level university course.) Then it did not take long for the racial stereotypes to start piling up: the Irish bulldog, the slanty-eyed Siamese cats and their faux Asianesque musical number, the worst portrayal of Italians outside of the drawings on the pizza box, etc. And wait, this young innocent falls for a wrong-side-of-the-tracks guy who gets her pregnant, disappears, and returns to do the right thing? All the ladies in the house say What? The pet-care scenes are disgusting, the baby-care scenes are more so, and I basically wanted to spit on Lady and the Tramp's creators for the entire 75 minutes. I did not want to make a big deal or create any forbidden-fruit syndrome by bailing, so we finished the movie, but I am happy that it seems to have made very little impression on Nora (evidenced by the lack of her twice-a-day retellings of the plot, such as during the reign of Toy Story 2).
MY SHE WAS YAR
I spent part of the weekend partying in Milwaukee with my homegirl, and hello Milwaukee where are you? Does anyone live in Milwaukee? I ask because it was a gorgeous day and the lakefront was all but deserted. Homegirl claims this is a common state of affairs. In Chicago, at the very first hint of non-gloves weather you will find oodles of people clogging up every patch of green; Milwaukee's lovely public spaces looked more like a mildly well-attended block party. We found our way to the PADDLEBOATS and PADDLEBOATED all over the motherfucking harbor (? It was a sort of smaller lake next to the lake, I am not up on my lake terms and do not know what to call it) for the low price of five dollars. I steered! And I only got us stuck once! This was actually hilarious, we waved goodbye to the be-pierced emo kid who unhooks the boats, paddled a short distance away, and promptly ran aground at a shallow muddy place. Luckily we managed to extricate ourselves without yelling for help, because that would have been very embarrassing. After that it was smoooooth paddling, singing sea shanties most of the way, and now I'd like my own paddleboat please. It would be funny to keep it at Montrose Harbor next to all the giant yachts, or tow it behind my car all teeny and motorless. I could paddleboat every day and never have to go to the gym again—like a recumbent bike with the added challenge of water resistance. Yo ho ho and a bottle of Gatorade, I will be the first woman to paddleboat around the world.
As we walked back from the paddleboats a woman was evangelizing on the corner and it sounded like she said, “Jesus needs to come into your apartment” but a few steps away I realized that she had actually said “heart.” I liked “apartment” better. The Jesus landlord, who always shows up needing to fix the sink at the worst possible moment. Jesus, can't you call first?
1. My favorite Garfield-with-commentary from this long-abandoned site.
2. I have gone and joined Goodreads, so come be my friend if you're on there. I got bored and overwhelmed when I contemplated adding every book I have ever read, though, so I am sticking to what I read or re-read from this day forward, unless there is a particular classic about which I wish to complain. (Ahem Sister Carrie ahem.)
3. If you were going to lose your karaoke virginity, would you choose (a) Foreigner's “Hot Blooded” (a song I love for its deep amazing generic-ness, with a guitar solo that sounds ordered out of a catalogue); (b) Young MC's “Bust A Move,” with a tattooed biker guy doing the backing vocals; or (c) “Rebel Rebel” in an Eastern European accent, while wearing a fake beard? Yes, of course you would.
4. LT was watching some History Channel thing about agriculture and climate change in the Middle Ages (no shit) and I left the room after hearing the phrase “the most user-friendly potato.” A girl seriously has to draw the line somewhere.
5. The Nirvana B-side “Pay to Play” perfectly matches my running pace, or rather it would if Dave Grohl were capable of maintaining a consistent tempo. It is mysterious how that band worked so well with such an erratic drummer. Oh crap Dave Grohl is coming to kick my ass sorry gotta go.
MAJOR LEAGUE BOO-BOO
Yesterday Nora and LT were playing catch, and in the process of trying to throw the ball precisely into her tiny mitt and thus increase her slim chances of success, he accidentally beaned her right in the nose. Blood gushed. Nora stood there dumbfounded for a split second, then threw down her mitt and ran straight for LT, wailing. I really wish the next baseball player to get hit with a ball would charge the mound in a similar fashion, crying and holding his arms up for a hug. The fistfights are so predictable.
—mimi smartypants hey batter batter swing batter batter.