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

booze and pills do not mix, Bob

This morning I went running and set a new personal pace record! Speedy Mimi!

Then I came home and ate a healthy hard-boiled egg and a bunch of blueberries. I drank filtered ice water and swallowed a vitamin.

Next came work, where they are currently trying to kill me. I am down a person, there is a lot of copy, we are behind on editing and processing it, and constant RUSH items keep getting sandwiched in. Amongst the chaos and the sandwiching I receive emails that ask me why these things are not finished? Oh, I can give you a dozen reasons why. Or I can PUNCH YOU IN THE FACE.

So lunch was a giant slice of pizza, a Coke Zero, and three Advil.* A bit of a step down from the morning’s monastic healthfulness. Tune in for dinnertime where I will be having Funyuns, tequila, and Klonopin.

*Once when I was complaining about monthly cramps to my doctor—and much of my complaint was philosophical, as in, “Isn’t this supposed to be a teenage thing? Why did I sail through this back then and now I spend at least one day a month wincing and cursing?”—she told me, “You know you can take more Advil than the bottle says, right? It says two, but you can take three at a time. Heck, you can even take four!” So either the accepted wisdom on NSAIDs has changed or the doctor is determined to destroy my liver.


I wear a bra all day at work and it bothers me not a speck. So why is it unbearable to wear one in the house? Why have I nearly ripped brassieres apart trying to get them off my body as I step into the house, often before putting down my bag or turning off the burglar alarm? I have even started unhooking in the building foyer on particularly bad days.

This is the second time in two entries I have mentioned my boobs. I am not normally this tit-obsessed, I swear.


My cats share a small can of cat food per day, plus dry kibble for snacking. Lola barely licks at the can gravy and prefers the dry, but Rocko is a man who needs his meat. The last time I went to the pet food store to stock up I did not look at the labels too closely and accidentally bought several cans of “kitten formula” food. Apparently kitten food is DELICIOUS, with all its extra calories and fat for growing kittens, because both Rocko and Lola stuck their faces in the bowl and did not come up for air until it was clean. It is unlikely ever to happen again, cats, so I hope you enjoyed my mistake.


I read the Washington Post article  too, just like I read every journalistic wankfest about working mothers, who are somehow worthy of scrutiny and hysteria while working fathers are not. This sums up my lack-of-feelings on the topic so succinctly that I no longer feel the need to comment.


This video gave me a terrible case of the creeps.

Inexplicable song and truly scary contortionism.

Lou Reed dancing (sort of). I like this song.


After this hellish work week, I want to gather my family and buy a pick-your-own pecan orchard in California. We will call it “Nut Sack Farm” because that will look nice woodburned into a sign out by the road. What? We give the children sacks, to pick the nuts. Why is no one coming to Nut Sack Farm? Another failed business venture.

—mimi smartypants wrote it off on her taxes.