the past is an inoperable tumor
CLIMB EVERY MOUNTAIN
On Monday morning I was asked to run* for board of directors at a certain organization.** They wanted me to provide a bio, headshot, and “vision statement” by the end of the day. Fastest vision I have ever had! Luckily I keep magic mushrooms in the desk drawer for just such an emergency. One visionquest and one burst of bullshit inspirational jargon (dimly recalled from my ad copywriting days) later, and I had turned that mother OUT. Props to my totem animal, by the way. I owe that invertebrate big time.
*The “election” is pretty much a joke, you have to vote for three people but usually only three are nominated. Which is sort of sad, really, but on the plus side it means I don't have to go all Tonya Harding on my fellow nominees in order to win, win, WIN! VICTORY IS MINE! MEANINGLESS VOLUNTEER POSITION, HERE I COME!
**I am being coy because I hope you will think of a cooler organization than what it actually is. Like the Mafia. Oh you didn't know that they have elections and stuff? Mimi “The Mouth” Smartypants, if elected, will take this Thing Of Ours forward with continuing developments in cutting-edge throat-slitting technology.
MORE LURKING STORIES
I have already confessed to my fascination with messageboards populated by people who are very much unlike me. I love to soak up the insanity at mothering.com and the taxidermy forums, and now I am all about the Urbanbaby “community.” It's fantastic. It is like watching a time-lapse photography slide show of decomposing meat. It is status- and money- and Bugaboo-stroller-obsessed, plus it has this weird nested format where everyone posts in the subject line, mostly all in lowercase, and insults her fellow posters freely. I don't know about you, but there is something laugh-out-loud awesome when the first reply to “13.5 mo dd skipped her nap today, what do I do?” is “you are a stupid cuntwhore.”
SPEAKING OF WHORES
Trader Joe's guy gives me my total, $12.49, and then starts to put the stuff in my reusable canvas shopping bag. (YOU'RE WELCOME, PLANET EARTH. You can mail that thank-you card any time now, ahem ahem.) Then, because Trader Joe's employees are beaten in a back room if they don't endlessly hype the company, he decides to comment on what a bargain I got.
TJG: Pretty good haul here! I'm always impressed with what you can get for $12.49.
Me: Not hookers and blow, that's for sure.
TJG: Not these days! Not with this economy!
Me [mentally giving him credit for hanging in there with the banter]: Hard times, man.
The iPod got philosophical this morning and played, in a row: The Cure's “Pictures of You,” Elliott Smith's “Pictures of Me,” Film School's “Harmed,” Def Leppard's “Photograph” (shut up, that song is hilarious), and then Susan Sontag's first single, where she rapped excerpts from On Photography. What, you don't own that seven-inch? Oh. [Here I give you the look of Pitchforkian disdain.]
SCALLOPED, BAKED, MEAN
Maybe it is a growth spurt or the seasons changing, but my normally laid-back and amenable Nora has been really working my nerves lately. She is not being “difficult” so much as just crazy. Constant knock-knock jokes, constant rhyming, constant singing, constant chanting of nonsense syllables like a hebephrenic. And I have not been in much of a mood to just let it go and tune her out, either. We hit a low point of not-listening last night, and I raised my voice to her, and she sassed back that I was a “meanie potato.” I was still very angry so I said, “Excuse me madam but I am NOT a meanie potato,” but I started to giggle a bit when I got to “meanie potato.” Which sucked because I was TRYING TO BE STERN. Then I decided to save The Stern for something more serious than excessive silliness, and we both cracked up about “meanie potato” for the next hour or so.
Besides being a meanie potato I am also very sleepy all the time. I have the opposite of what Nora has. Spring fever vs. spring malaise. I have been having good dreams, though. A conspiracy theorist was very carefully explaining the deep meaning of the fact that “Obama” backwards is “Amabo” (sadly, the gist of his argument is something I cannot recall). I was called in for questioning about a murder and needed a ride to the police station, and a coworker offered to drive me in her white minivan (in the dream I was quite cheerful and unconcerned about all this, so I had either truth on my side or huge metaphorical balls). And best of all, I was working in research and development for a company trying to find a “deep-dish laundry substitute.” That phrase has been stuck in my head all day.
—mimi smartypants has ring around the collar and extra cheese.