last thin patina
ADVENTURES IN AUTHORSHIP
Nora has written another book, about a piece of macaroni that decides to have a “dance party.” (What is it with her and anthropomorphic food? Oh wait, it's my fault.) So he calls up his other pasta friends on the macaroni-phone and somehow a crocodile is there too, and for a while they all dance on top of the crocodile (not very nice) but then the crocodile starts dancing on top of them (karma!) (cue noodle sad faces), but of course the main-character macaroni transforms into super-macaroni (consider the author—you saw that coming) and saves the day. I considered scanning this one, but Nora and I recently had a discussion about publishing and maybe I should not be giving away her intellectual property like that. Unless she insists, of course (she does like seeing her stuff on screen), or unless it is extra-super-awesome and features crime-fighting lunchmeat.
There was also a homework assignment that showed different parts of a house in cross-section—people cooking in the kitchen, doing laundry, and someone greeting an elderly man at the front door. Nora was supposed to write an “exclamation” for each one. For the kitchen, she wrote, “Ahhhh! The food is burning!” Then for the laundry room she wrote, “Help! The clothes are burning!” I held my breath, hoping she would draw flames surrounding the old guy on the porch and write, “Ahhhh! Grandpa is burning!” and wondering if I were bold enough to suggest it. I wasn't. Stupid sense of propriety. It would be the first thing I gave up for Lent if I gave things up for Lent.
I'LL TAKE AN EMERGEN-C AND SOME ACIDOPHILUS
The following is a combination of a bunch of ideas/hallucinations/daydreams I had. The first happened in my usual stare-out-the-El-window stupor, where I was sort of imagining Chicago after the apocalypse, all the awesome heaps of rubble. I suppose the CTA would not be running after the nuclear attack, considering they cannot seem to handle a little ice, but never mind that. My dystopian daydream then morphed into a longing to see something, anything, other than the usual winterdull brick and rooftops, and I wished that someone would release a bunch of giraffes into the city to wander at will. Would that not be amazing? To have giraffes all over the place? Nothing looks weirder than a giraffe. And did you know that giraffes barely sleep? What are they doing the rest of the time? Why aren't there any giraffes on Twitter?
So anyway, that was the first bit: there should be giraffes roaming all over Chicago. But since those fuckers don't need to sleep, why not give them jobs? Giraffes are not all that bright, so it can't be anything difficult, but they could be super-tall street vendors. Like the tamale guy. We could even rig up some kind of automatic change-dispenser so that the giraffe would not have to learn math. The giraffe cannot sell tamales because it's taken, and maybe people don't want to buy food from a giraffe, so I thought that vitamins might be a good idea. No one feels like trekking to Whole Foods or Target when they realize they need some vitamins. And if you are out drinking or walking around and starting to get a scratchy throat, you can just walk up to Vitamin Giraffe and take care of that on the spot. Be careful he doesn't kick you in the head!
Perhaps my business plan is dubious. Mostly I am just enjoying the phrase “Vitamin Giraffe.”
TURN AROUND AND FACE THE BOOK
To be honest, I kind of hate the whole Facebook thing. Everyone I willingly stopped knowing after high school (which would be…everyone in the school) is just suddenly THERE, asking me to be their “friend.” I always say yes, if the name is even vaguely familiar or if we have “friends” in common, because who cares, really. Amongst all these strangers there is suddenly a lot of chatter about the 20-year high school reunion (wheeee, I am old). I am VERY on the fence about attending this event, mostly because I simply don't know anybody. I am not being a hipster-poseur about “oh god I was such a dork in high school,” because I wasn't, or at least not entirely—I am pretty sure I had at least a few friends. I just have near-complete amnesia about the social aspect of those four years of my life. I remember my outfits and haircuts in (painful) detail, I remember weird sensory things like the institutional color of the carpet and cinderblock walls in my fortress-esque suburban high school, but people? Were they there? I guess they must have been.
If I do attend the reunion, it will be the just about the first time I have seen anyone from my graduating class since the actual graduation. If I hurry I might be able to obtain some strange facial piercings before then, or custom-order a latex dress with octopus tentacles all over it.
(Wow, after typing that I want that dress for real. My new “What Not To Wear”—NOTHING THAT DOESN'T HAVE SEWN-IN TENTACLES.)
There is also a Facebook “friend” from high school who always updates his status with eight million exclamation points and happy self-centered thoughts. He is like the white Kanye West or something. Status updates like “[Name] IS LOOKING FORWARD TO A TERRIFIC DAY!!!!!!!” I cannot decide if he scares me or if I want to seek him out at the reunion and share his drugs.
—mimi smartypants will sell you a Vitamin Giraffe franchise.