#1 Hypertension - What Does Metoprolol Succ Er Look Like (Metoprolol), Lopressor Is Used For What http://mimismartypants.com Seriously, though: what's with the penguins? Fri, 04 Apr 2014 10:24:35 +0000 en-US hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.8.3 as often as you like http://mimismartypants.com/2014/04/03/as-often-as-you-like/ http://mimismartypants.com/2014/04/03/as-often-as-you-like/#comments Thu, 03 Apr 2014 17:21:26 +0000 http://mimismartypants.com/?p=1815 RECOGNIZING MY ASS

I have been at my place of employment for what seems like an improbably long time. They keep promoting me and raising my pay and giving me different and more interesting work to do so I keep staying. I was recently informed of an upcoming anniversary and told of the policy that allows me to “choose” a “gift.” (Quotation marks are because I have some philosophical problems with the idea of choosing a gift. Doesn’t that make it not a gift? Anyway.)

Besides the fact that I choose it myself, the gift comes with several complex stipulations. I am not allowed to choose money, a gift card, or things like travel, hotel, or spa vouchers because that is considered taxable. It has been indicated to me that it would be preferable if the gift were something that could be bought from Amazon. The gift is supposed to cost $150 or be as near as possible to that amount.

Of course any first-world fool could put together a $150 Amazon cart lickety-split, but I know my supervisor would like me to get a thing, something concrete that can be pointed to in the sense of “We award you this thing for your mumblenumber years of fairly adequate service.” I don’t wear a watch. I don’t currently own any jewelry that costs anywhere near $150, and I don’t know if I want to. I am not really a purse person, and although I am slightly obsessed with the seatbelt bags, I already own the size I wanted for work stuff and don’t really need another. I would like a new food processor but that’s too much money, I need a new wallet but that’s not enough money. Fancy electric toothbrush? Expensive knife? This appallingly overpriced facegoop? Suggestions? Help me acquire things I possibly do not deserve!

The only two material desires I have in the category of “frivolous indulgence just for me” are a high-end vibrator or a portable vaporizer to use with completely legal or at least decriminalized herbs. (Cough…but one coughs less with a vaporizer! Or so I hear!) My boss is a lovely person but I cannot imagine her efficient, LL-Bean-wearing self encountering such an expense report.


Speaking of work, there is a dude who is supposed to create a presentation that is part of a big meeting. I am sadly in charge of assembling all the bits and reports for the big meeting, and said dude is dragging his dudely feet like crazy and everything is complete except for his bit. I am very close to telling him I will do it myself. I will add his name to every slide and insert awesome clip art of my choosing. Hope you like large, veiny cocks, bro! I bet there are some awesome PowerPoint effects I could add to make them glisten and glow.


LT and I needed a new mattress. Neither one of us can remember exactly how old our mattress is, and we have never liked it in the first place. Our mattress of indeterminate age is pretty damn saggy and creaky and feels about as still and stable as a pile of Pop-Tarts. Whenever one of us has insomnia or a cold or itchiness or just can’t lie still for some reason, the other one ends up feeling every twitch and quietly seething. GODDAMMIT, LOVE OF MY LIFE: QUIT MOVING OR LEAVE THE BED.  

I tried to research mattresses on the internet. Never do this. It’s true that every purchase of every item in the world can be researched to death these days—indecision paralysis is a true modern affliction—but mattresses are a special kind of pre-purchase research hell. Everyone’s got a violently extreme opinion that conflicts with everyone else’s violently extreme opinion. You can spend anywhere from a few hundred bucks to tens of thousands. All the mattress companies seem to deliberately switch model names around so that it is impossible to comparison shop.

We ended up going to a real-world mattress store, and although I threatened to wear a Tyvek suit because I think unsheeted mattresses are super-gross, I managed to deal. We had a chill mattress salesguy who sold us a mattress, a rather expensive one that felt way better than a pile of Pop-Tarts. It gets delivered today and I cannot wait to go to bed.

(I am not going to mention the brand name or even the type, because I am sure someone will write and tell me how much it sucks. Seriously, just go read some mattress reviews. Mattress people be CRAZY.)

—#1 Hypertension - What Does Metoprolol Succ Er Look Like (Metoprolol), Lopressor Is Used For What lives a quiet private life in the marshes of Sqornshellous Zeta.


]]> http://mimismartypants.com/2014/04/03/as-often-as-you-like/feed/ 0 put me in the enemyzone http://mimismartypants.com/2014/03/20/put-me-in-the-enemyzone/ http://mimismartypants.com/2014/03/20/put-me-in-the-enemyzone/#comments Thu, 20 Mar 2014 19:17:53 +0000 http://mimismartypants.com/?p=1812 MEDIA AND SUCH

I am currently stealing HBO GO, via my sister-in-law who shared her password with me, so there has been lots of television-watching on my iPad, in bed, on the couch, in the hockey bleachers, etc, as I catch up on all the documentaries and the rest of Deadwood and so on. And when I am not doing that I am devouring Life After Life, which is so damn awesome. I have always liked Atkinson but I knew nothing about this book going in, not even the barest plot outline, which I think is making it more awesome. (Although, if you follow that link, you will not experience the know-nothing awesomeness. But I think you will still like the book.)

Plus, the horrible people of Real Housewives, New York City flavor, are back and there is a new horrible person! She has a son named Cash and a daughter named Kingsley and that alone boggles my mind, but there is much more boggling than that to be had. I tend to fast-forward through the fights as they are too tedious to watch unless you are not sober, so this season either needs to have more shopping/traveling from them or more drunkenness from me to be fully watchable.


The spring season has barely started and already Nora has talked me into buying her some kind of Tiger Balm-ish muscle-rub stick (for her skinny, sore, little hockey legs), a stickhandling ball (for practicing at home), and the fancy kind of water bottle with the long straw, so you can skate over and squirt it in your mouth right through the helmet’s face-cage. All this stuff was cheap, but still! The gear! The accessories! It is the perfect sport for an obsessive like her.


Or rather, sometimes I just react without thinking and then people get offended.

I walk into the breakroom to fill my water bottle and this conversation is going on between 2 coworkers:

Dumb Coworker With Teenage Children: Oh, that’s great that he did so well! Did you do any of the ACT test prep?

Normal Coworker With Teenage Children: He got some books, and took sample tests online, but that’s about it…

DCWTC: You didn’t do the Kaplan courses at Northwestern? I had my daughter in those starting in 5th grade. Every Saturday morning for 10 weeks! I was like, “This is ridiculous!”

Me, being a jerk and interrupting (see above): Wow, that is ridiculous. Why did you do that?

DCWTC: Because you have to!

Me: Noooooo, you don’t.

DCWTC: [glares at me, probably hates me forever, perhaps feels sorry for my poor unprepped 5th-grader]

Me: [hasty exit]


1. When people need to give me things in order for me to do another thing, and I give those people a deadline for the things, and then I think shit, why was I so generous, all my bits of the thing are done because I’M JUST AWESOME THAT WAY, and the other people will no doubt wait until the last minute.

2. The way my phone has a “message” button, but then I have to press a different button to actually listen to the message, as if listening to the message were not the most common thing I might want to do when pressing the “message” button.

3. Also, WHY ARE YOU CALLING ME ANYWAY. Are your fingers broken? Email, motherfucker. Do you speak it.

—#1 Hypertension - What Does Metoprolol Succ Er Look Like (Metoprolol), Lopressor Is Used For What is the cornerstone of any nutritious breakfast.

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nationwide http://mimismartypants.com/2014/03/14/nationwide/ http://mimismartypants.com/2014/03/14/nationwide/#comments Fri, 14 Mar 2014 17:10:48 +0000 http://mimismartypants.com/?p=1810 INTROVERT PARENT VS. EXTROVERT KID

It has been a family-intensive day and I am finally alone, reading in my bedroom. Nora shows up and plops down on my bed with her own book. She has a terrible habit of wanting to read “the good bits” out loud to me, and she is not very discerning with what constitutes a “good bit.” I ask her several times to not do this. I say I just want to read my book alone for a while. She swears she’ll be quiet, but I think we both know this is not going to happen.

Please, I say. Please just go read in your own room. Nora: “FINE! I might as well go read IN THE MIDDLE OF THE WOODS BY MYSELF!”

Thirty feet of hallway away from me = in the middle of the woods by yourself. Got it.

For more things to file under “Kids Are Such A Mindfuck”—the other night at dinner we were talking about Nora’s current science assignment, which is a small-group project where you have to do a presentation on a planet in the solar system, and give all sorts of facts about the planet while trying to convince people to go there, with a travel brochure and posters and a slideshow. I am not sure why our public magnet schools are training extremely bright children to become interstellar timeshare salespeople, but I digress. Incidentally, the science teacher formed the groups and picked the planet for each group, and she put three of the 5th grade’s goofiest troublemakers into one group AND assigned them the planet Uranus, which actually makes me respect her a little more. I can picture her working on lessons and just saying, “Fuck it, let’s get this over with.”

Nora’s group has Neptune. Neptune is kind of a mess, with its shitload of moons and its ammonia-slushy ocean, but you could do worse. No one has Pluto, since Pluto is not a planet. Nora was ranting about this at dinner (why do kids get so upset about Pluto?) and LT was like well, them’s the breaks, Pluto is too small to be a planet. I said no, I think the demotion was more because Pluto’s orbit is not regular. The no-smartphones-at-the-table thing does not count when you are IN PURSUIT OF KNOWLEDGE, and it turned out LT was right, darn it.

Nora: So what, though. “Planet” is a word we made up. We defined it. The universe doesn’t care what’s a planet and what isn’t. Planets aren’t really real! Words aren’t really real!

Me: Whoa, hey, slow down there Wittgenstein. I mean, we are sitting here eating spaghetti and it’s Tuesday night. Please.

Nora: Not even TIME is real!

Me: Can you get me some more wine?


I fully expect to get my shit took. All the time. I have a flash of genuine, happy surprise when I come back outside to find my bike or my car still there. I never leave important things (my wallet, my phone, my child) unattended if I can help it, even if it’s “just for a second,” because as soon as the words “just for a second” go through my mind I immediately imagine myself crying on television news (in the case of my kid) or bitching to my friends (in the case of a material possession) about how I stopped paying attention “just for a second.”

It’s sort of the same as how, when the plane is taking off, I think of a newscaster saying “crashed shortly after takeoff” and then I have to do complex superstitious hoodoo to wash the words “crashed shortly after takeoff” out of my head, because everyone knows that thinking about the plane crashing will cause the plane to actually crash.

I am actually a happy, well-adjusted person who does not worry ALL of the time. Only like 90% of the time.

To prove how cheerful and carefree I am, here is the second possibly-unknown thing: I am very, very good at singing the Chiquita Banana song,  and I do it a lot. I also have a hip-hop and a death-metal version.


Look, it’s me! Am I not wearing a shirt? Oh my.

—#1 Hypertension - What Does Metoprolol Succ Er Look Like (Metoprolol), Lopressor Is Used For What is flecked with brown and has a golden hue.

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and if you complain once more http://mimismartypants.com/2014/03/05/and-if-you-complain-once-more/ http://mimismartypants.com/2014/03/05/and-if-you-complain-once-more/#comments Wed, 05 Mar 2014 17:18:14 +0000 http://mimismartypants.com/?p=1806 FIVE QUESTIONS I DID NOT ASK THE THAI YOGA MASSAGE THERAPIST

1. How do you keep your hands so warm?

2. You are the smallest adult human without dwarfism I have ever seen in my life, yet you are crazy strong. Explain.

3. Do you have any terrible fart stories? Anyone who was super gross and you had trouble opening your tiny, serene, massage-therapist heart in order to lay hands on his or her grossness? Anyone really greasy, or with horrid dusty dreadlocks, or a bad smell?

4. Is this music the “Drone Zone” channel on Soma FM? It totally is, isn’t it? I thought you had some special yoga-lady CD but you just stream music like the rest of us, right?

5. Is it hard not to laugh when you say things like “Give me the weight of your leg” in your gentle mellow yoga-voice? It would be hard for me. I am bad at gentle mellow sincerity.


As evidenced when I accidentally dumped a whole lunch container of almonds into my office recycling bin. I tried to pick most of them out and transfer them to the actual trash (because maybe it is only used for clean office paper and such, but I still can’t really bring myself to eat almonds out of the recycling bin). A lot of almonds ended up staying in the bin, though, because who really has time. But that bred some guilt too, because does the office cleaning person have time? Do that person have time to say wait, almonds are not office paper, now I have an extra step of taking these almonds out of here instead of quickly dumping the recycling bin and moving on? Will the office cleaning secretly think I am an entitled bitch who blithely dumps almonds (which are not an inexpensive nut) wherever she pleases? OH I GROW WEARY OF THESE ALMONDS AND WILL THROW THEM WHEREVER. SEPARATE THE ALMONDS FROM THE RECYCLABLE PAPER, MINIMUM-WAGE PEON.


I wish there were a way to prove that this actually happened, because it was so very freaky—I was on the train, reading a book and listening to a Songza playlist called “Indie Rock Workout” (I know, I hate me too), and I noticed that the woman sitting next to me had her fingernails filed to sharp points. Then I noticed that the woman standing in front of me had her fingernails filed to sharp points. An elderly black man across the way from me coughed and put his hand up to his mouth, and his pinky nail and the one next to it (couldn’t see the rest). In a horror movie, all the train people would have started slowly advancing on me, curling back their lips to reveal that their teeth were also filed to sharp points, and there would be a bloodbath or an action scene or a fade to black, depending on directorial intent.


I apologize to all of you who have already heard me yammer on about this, but I can’t stop thinking about it. There is a thing called Empty Nose Syndrome. Well, probably there is. If you Google you will see that there is some controversy about this—however, most of the naysayers are otolaryngologic surgeons, and it makes sense that they would not want to acknowledge the existence of a condition caused by the surgery they just performed.

I love Empty Nose Syndrome. I mean, I’m sorry for you if you have it, but it is just such a lovely and evocative name. And it has a special resonance with me, as I am prone to odd existential bodily afflictions, such as not knowing exactly where my head belongs on the horizontal axis (a little more forward? a little farther back? balanced right on top of the neck? none of it feels right) or feeling like I have comically large hands whenever I take Nyquil.

Also, maybe some otolaryngologists are unwilling to admit their mistakes, but others are cool people because they invent post-surgery questionnaires like the Sino-Nasal Outcome Test, which of course abbreviates to SNOT. Oh otolaryngologists! You so crazy!

—#1 Hypertension - What Does Metoprolol Succ Er Look Like (Metoprolol), Lopressor Is Used For What partied with the nose surgeons.

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spectacular spectacles http://mimismartypants.com/2014/02/19/spectacular-spectacles/ http://mimismartypants.com/2014/02/19/spectacular-spectacles/#comments Wed, 19 Feb 2014 20:15:27 +0000 http://mimismartypants.com/?p=1802 GOOD MORNING, TREASONOUS FRUIT

The first sentence I spoke yesterday morning happened to be: “Why must you be so disobedient?” I spoke it to a banana, at 5 am, alone in my kitchen. The banana was proving difficult to peel and I dropped it with my sleepy fumblefingers and it was just generally very frustrating. I am not sure what prompted such a sentence, though, except that I am reading Bring Up The Bodies and maybe I was just ready to pack any recalcitrant, back-talking banana off to the Tower.


Later I was waiting at a bus stop and this disheveled guy asked me for directions. Kind of. In a way.

Disheveled Guy: Excuse me, miss? Do you know where there’s a Dunkin’ Donuts?

Me: Uh…there’s one over on Kedzie.

DG: Is it across from a Walgreen’s?

Me: No.

DG: I’m looking for a Dunkin’ Donuts that is, like, kitty-corner from a Walgreen’s. The cross street is…something with a K? Or a K and an R? Like…Krustner? Kastner? Kramwell?

Me: Sorry, none of those are around here. If they exist.

[In my head: Krokodil? Kraken? Kreplach? Krusty Krab? Kryptonite? Why aren’t I in charge of naming streets?]

DG: Aw, damn it. Do you have a phone?

[In my head: Yes.]

Me: No.

DG: See, I’m supposed to be at a job interview at this Dunkin’ Donuts. I was supposed to be there like a half hour ago. It’s like on some kind of street that starts with a K. And it’s across from a Walgreen’s. Or, like, near a Walgreen’s. I think that’s what they said.

Me: Sorry, I can’t think of where that would be.

DG: Okay, thanks anyway.


DG: I’m probably not getting that job, huh?

Me: Yeah, I don’t think you are.

You have to vaguely admire someone who jumps on a train with a half-remembered destination in mind, and then proceeds to sort of crowdsource/feel his way toward a job interview at a doughnut shop. You also have to be happy that you are not the manager of a doughnut shop, and that you are not continually scheduling and conducting interviews with such people.


We took Rocko cat, aka The Guy With Problems, to the vet for a routine check and rabies shot, and of course all who view Rocko need to have Rocko explained to them. Why does he bite all the fur off his belly or legs? Why does he shake and shiver and twitch? Well we don’t know. In the past vets have been like, “Whatever, you’ve got a weird one” and we have moved on, except for a brief run with topical Prozac. But now the vet thinks he has arthritis in his hips and possibly a poorly understood cat nerve disorder, so we have new and different medications to try.

First there was some injectable buprenorphine. This is something people get when they are trying to get off smack. (But unlike methadone, which is usually given under direct observation at a clinic, you often get to take bupe home. So Rocko is a more trustworthy, higher-class version of an opiate addict I guess.) Now we are going to try gabapentin, which is one of those drugs that seem to be used off-label for a bewildering variety of things (seizures AND chronic pain AND migraine AND restless leg syndrome, etc etc). Liver-flavored, chewable gabapentin, which I ordered over the phone from a very nice Texan upon reaching the “call the cat pharmacy” section of my to-do list. Oh what a glamorous life I lead.

Mr Rocko Cat seemed much better on the injectable H, but then who wouldn’t be. I held him in my lap while LT handled the shooting up, and then we would croon a soothing rendition of “Needle in the Hay” and just let the cat nod out and enjoy himself. No overgrooming since, so fingers crossed that new drug will have the same success. Wouldn’t it be nice if Rocko had fur? He would be a very handsome man.

—#1 Hypertension - What Does Metoprolol Succ Er Look Like (Metoprolol), Lopressor Is Used For What meow meow meow cat drugs. 

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a conversation I would have maybe rather not had http://mimismartypants.com/2014/02/10/a-conversation-i-would-have-maybe-rather-not-had/ http://mimismartypants.com/2014/02/10/a-conversation-i-would-have-maybe-rather-not-had/#comments Mon, 10 Feb 2014 15:36:28 +0000 http://mimismartypants.com/?p=1799 Did I mention that Nora turned 11? Of course not, I haven’t written here in ages because I was suffering from JUST DON’T FUCKING FEEL LIKE IT. Not quite writer’s block, not quite ennui, definitely not any sort of performance anxiety.* Just that for weeks, every time I thought, “Hey, should I write some shit down?” the answer was a resounding “nah.”

*Can personal expression be public and yet not performative? Debatable. If yes, then I submit this dumb little blog as an example, since to be a true performance you probably have to care about making a good experience for people. And a blog that made a good experience for you probably wouldn’t have a huge time lag between entries, multiple faux-footnote digressions, and a general lack of concern for reader-friendly wordcraft. I’M SORRY.

Anyway, Nora is now 11 years old. I got a jolt at work when I was reading some pediatrics article with a table of the study subjects’ age groups, and 6-10 is “school age” and 11-14 was “early adolescence.” MY BABY! AN EARLY ADOLESCENT! I keep sniffing her and she does not smell yet, so maybe she’s not 100% “adolescent” yet (I feel like stink will be an early clue), except of course after hockey. She is very proud of her hockey stench. “Wow, smell my shin guard! It smells horrible!” Gosh, no thanks.

Hockey: She is about to start playing on a real team. There will be games, both home and away. Right now there is much watching of the women’s Olympic team, and much excitement to learn that one of its forwards is only 5’2” and 125 pounds. You’re almost halfway there with the poundage, girl! Keep eating!

Being 11 in General: All things bodily-function related are still quite hilarious, to my irritation. Recently this happened:

Nora: I have to tell you something SO FUNNY I learned at school. It’s about the toilet though. You’re not going to like it.

Me: Maybe skip it, then.

Nora: No, it’s SO FUNNY. I have to tell you.

Me: Fine.

Nora: It’s a poem. Ready? It goes: “Here I sit, broken-hearted/tried to poop but only farted.”

Me: Yup. Heard that before. Thanks.

But then! A fierce internal debate began to rage! For Nora was clearly telling me a PG-rated version of this verse. If you don’t say “tried to SHIT but only farted” you lose all the internal rhyme, which is much of the “beauty” of the thing. Such as it is.

What to do? Shall we give the upper hand to literature, reveal the unexpurgated version to her, and explain why it is superior? Should we instead appeal to decorum, and avoid exposing children to unnecessary swear words? (She knows the word “shit,” of course, but does she really need to know a catchy, “hilarious” rhyme involving the word?)

Literature won. Several hours later I ended up reintroducing the (stupid) topic, and explaining why, if you MUST repeat that bathroom lyric, “shit” is the right word at the right time.

—#1 Hypertension - What Does Metoprolol Succ Er Look Like (Metoprolol), Lopressor Is Used For What: she, too, dislikes it.

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kick a little something for the G’s http://mimismartypants.com/2014/01/06/kick-a-little-something-for-the-gs/ http://mimismartypants.com/2014/01/06/kick-a-little-something-for-the-gs/#comments Mon, 06 Jan 2014 14:51:06 +0000 http://mimismartypants.com/?p=1796 WELL WHAT DO YOU KNOW

Hello hello twenty fourteen. In twenty thirteen we had new kitchen, new job, new (or at least refurbished) intestines. This year I am looking for a little stability. There is stuff I’d like to do and places I’d like to go, but overall the song could remain the same and I would happily hum along.

We had great holidays, drinking wine and eating smoked salmon* and getting sweaty with Just Dance 2014. (I OWN the high score to Daft Punk’s “Get Lucky,” by the way. This makes Nora extremely frustrated, but oh well kid. Mom’s got skillz.) It was a pretty hockey-intensive Christmas for the Nora, with the big gift being a new stick and the most useful gift being an odor-eater designed especially to toss inside hockey gear bags. Because holy hell, the funk of those shin guards after practice. Unbelievable.

*I do not think I ever had smoked salmon in the house before I purchased it to make a particular holiday appetizer, and Mr. Rocko Cat went INSANE with lust the minute the package was opened, yowling and sniffing and trying to climb up on the counter. How did he not know about this food? It is both of his favorite things: bacon and fish! Fishbacon! He got a tiny scrap on Christmas Day and then licked the plate for ten full minutes. Fishbacon fishbacon fishbacon.


Nora and I like to watch Chopped. Her television choices are invariably factual, she has no time for animation or stories anymore. She watches survival stuff (Bear Grylls, etc) with either one of us, How It’s Made with LT (for I do not giveth one single fuck how it’s made), and competitive cooking shows with me.

She is getting to an age where I more freely share my opinions on social issues and such. I try to leave her lots of room to form her own opinions, but if something seems particularly awesome or particularly wrongheaded I will say so. Chopped offers a lot of opportunities to have such discussions, because a not-very-surprising number of chefs have struggled with things like addictions and homelessness and sexism in professional kitchens, and there are talking-head segments in between the cooking parts that go into that sort of biographical detail.

On this episode one of the contestants was a Korean-American female chef from New York, and she said something about how winning would help her prove to herself that she had made good decisions in her life and career, and further went on to say that she had been adopted as a baby and never really felt at home in her family, and that they were now fairly estranged.

I thought that was pretty damn sad, and I said so. I said that everyone deserves to feel like part of a family, and that I wish that chef and her parents could have had a better relationship, both when she was little and now. Nora was uncharacteristically quiet while I said this stuff, but she snuggled closer to me on the couch.

Later that same chef revealed that one reason she doesn’t talk to her parents is that she was a difficult teenager, with lots of acting out and minor criminal behaviors, and eventually they sent her to a reform school/boot camp place. This is one of my hot-button issues and it caused me to go on a mini-rant. I am sure it is horrendously difficult to live with a family member who is experiencing psychic distress and causing upheaval for everyone else, but for fuck’s sake, the answer is not to GET RID OF THAT PERSON. Oh sure, let me hand my emotionally-wounded child over to nonprofessional, barely trained thugs in an unregulated environment. That is sure to go well.

Yeah, yeah, it’s easy for me to say, since I haven’t been there. But. There are ways to provide structure, boundaries, and compassion all at the same time, and I have no sympathy for parents who throw up their hands and decide to outsource all of that.

Anyway, I said a much shorter and more age-appropriate version of this to Nora, in response to the Chopped contestant’s sad story, although I did not skimp on the moral outrage and unfairness of it all.

We continued to watch the show in silence for a little longer, and suddenly she said, “I love you, Mom.” Which is not something she spontaneously says very often (outside of ritual leave-takings and bedtimes). It was an odd, but extremely sweet, moment. Nora, I will fail you in lots of ways, but I will not kick an underage you out of my life for being difficult. That’s a promise.


(The medically sensitive should go read something more pleasant right about now)

Okay, so I had an ingrown hair on…an area. I was not really sure what to do about it. Asking the internet resulted in some barbaric ideas like digging around in there with sharp tweezers (no…not…in the area). Other people suggested tea tree oil. We actually have tea tree oil in the house, LT bought it and must use it in some secret bathroom skincare capacity that I have never directly witnessed. I dabbed some on the ingrown-hair spot for a few days in a row and it did seem to be drying up the bump pretty well.

Then one night I applied some tea tree oil before going to bed, and I guess in my sleep I must have scratched off the scab and the tea tree oil ended up directly in the wound, and do you know what that feels like? To be woken up out of a dead sleep with the sting of hippie fucking caustic plant oil on an area? To be in the bathroom at 3 am blearily applying a cold compress to an area, and not for any fun aftermath-of-sexual-gymnastics reasons? Blah.

—#1 Hypertension - What Does Metoprolol Succ Er Look Like (Metoprolol), Lopressor Is Used For What is way over her word limit.

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salt water pepper water http://mimismartypants.com/2013/12/03/salt-water-pepper-water/ http://mimismartypants.com/2013/12/03/salt-water-pepper-water/#comments Tue, 03 Dec 2013 16:52:14 +0000 http://mimismartypants.com/?p=1792 GET IN MY CLOSET

Every so often I decide I need to step up my grown-up game, and I go “shopping.” What that really means is that I wander in to a store and hate everything that’s considered fashionable. Then I try on a few things in terrible lighting and feel like a hideous elderly potato. Then sometimes I buy another V-neck sweater and another A-line black skirt, and maybe an extra pair of tights, and leave.

Then I got this promotion and got serious. I went to Nordstrom with an actual personal-shopper lady, who stays in the dressing room with you* and makes you fill out a questionnaire about your “personal style.” Shit got real when I admitted I mostly shop at Target, man. The look in that girl’s eyes was something special.

*When I tell LT this, or whenever I mention the phenomenon of professional bra-fitting, or even talk about how the goddamned surgical-gloved MAMMOGRAM TECHNICIAN helpfully helps you squash your boob in a plastic vise, his mind immediately goes to a porny place. For the last time, IT’S NOT LIKE THAT. Marriage means having no one to listen to your breast-related stories, because your spouse is always busy picturing Whore Island.

Anyway, I got over the awkwardness of having a pal in the dressing room because this personal-shopper girl was great. I learned that I am a whole lot more conservative and less fashion-y than I thought I was (I did not think that was even possible, since I am already the person screaming PLEASE JUST A PLAIN SHIRT AND PLAIN PANTS PLEASE). Shopper girl originally kept bringing me things like a jacket with leather sleeves and other things that made me go whaaaaaat. But she caught on quickly, and we found petite pants that make me feel awesomely slender and bad-ass, so I bought them in every color and Nordstrom threw in free alterations for some of the other things. Which was the least they could do since I was basically pre-spending a bunch of my first new paycheck in advance? Look out here comes a baller! In her tasteful, conservative pants!


Despite being generally content and upbeat lately, I have been trying to stay away from social media because there is an inexplicable bitchy streak embedded in this good mood. It is probably better not to let that out publicly. I will get the urge to reply to every inane Tweet with “Cool story, bro.” Or the other day, this jerkface homosexual (he happens to be both a jerkface and a homosexual, the traits are not related) mistakenly thought he had school/insulted me on stupid Facebook, and it was ever-so-tempting to comment, “Look everybody! A bitter old queen is talking!” But I was restrained and simply logged out for the day. That’s another thing you can do in your adult pants: leave the drama alone.

I am sort of a rule-follower at heart. I enjoy showing up and clocking in and dressing appropriately and making schedules. I have my dysfunctional, compulsive side, under a measure of control with a probably not-large-enough dose of medication, and you don’t want to see the fucked-up numerological (really) meal-planning lists hidden on my Google Drive. I remember once driving (a short distance) home after ingesting an illegal baked good (don’t do this, kids!) and I got an inordinate amount of pleasure from following all the traffic laws REALLY PRECISELY. Here I am gently pressing the brake until I come to a complete stop. Here I am going the exact speed limit. Watch me use my turn signal, check the mirror, glance over my shoulder.

Of course, every so often my inner maenad breaks through and I end up blind drunk on Twitter, telling anyone who cares to listen that I accidentally got Dorito dust on my breasts. Everything in moderation.

—#1 Hypertension - What Does Metoprolol Succ Er Look Like (Metoprolol), Lopressor Is Used For What is rollin’ in her 4 with 16 switches, got sounds for the bitches, clockin’ all the riches, hollow points for the snitches.

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187 on an undercover cop http://mimismartypants.com/2013/11/09/187-on-an-undercover-cop/ http://mimismartypants.com/2013/11/09/187-on-an-undercover-cop/#comments Sat, 09 Nov 2013 14:11:58 +0000 http://mimismartypants.com/?p=1788 I’D LIKE TO TEACH THE WORLD TO SING (IN THE CAR)

We have an agreement. We will listen to generic pop radio on the way to the ice rink, but I get to plug in my phone for music on the way home. The result is twofold: I end up unable to get certain unbearably overproduced but also unbearably catch Katy Perry songs out of my head; and Nora, in her fatigued, sweaty, post-hockey-practice state, often ends up thoughtfully listening to “my” music and offering critique. It’s critique that would never grace the pages of a real music publication, but it has its pre-teen insights nonetheless.

“BURNING DOWN THE HOUSE,” live version

[I am enthusiastically singing along]

Nora: I’ve heard this before. Who is this?

Me: Talking Heads.

Nora: More like SHOUTING Heads.



Nora: This is pretty good, except for that shaky thing. Someone should calm down with that thing.

Me: What?

Nora: You know, that chikka-chikka-chikka-chikka shaky thing. It’s so loud through the whole song.

Me: Aw, that chikka-chikka shaky thing is my favorite part.

Nora [drily, channeling some kind of BBC butler]: I’m not surprised.


“DEEP COVER,” Dre and Snoop

Me: Whoops. [skipping the song]

Nora: I’ve heard bad rap words before, you know.

Me: I know, I’m just not comfortable playing that kind of thing when you’re in the car.

Nora: Well that’s not very gangster of you.

Me: True dat.


As I recently straight-up bragged (nothing humblebrag about it, dogg) on Twitter, I have been promoted at my job. It took no fewer than five nervewracking interviews with various bigwigs, a whole lot of waiting, and some back-and-forth salary negotiations. To be honest, those negotiations were somewhat fake on my part since I was perfectly content with the first offer, but I wanted to do the dance at least a little bit since I had never done it before, and there’s probably no better time to try it out than at the job where they’ve (finally) decided that they want you pretty badly. So yay. Fun fact: one of the salary-negotiation calls came while I was at my doctor’s lab getting my blood drawn, and nothing makes you feel more like a bad-ass than asking for more dead Presidents with a needle hanging out of your arm. Yo yo yo yo I’m an executive boss lady with severely low levels of vitamin B12! Whazzup?


—#1 Hypertension - What Does Metoprolol Succ Er Look Like (Metoprolol), Lopressor Is Used For What needs an injection.

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eternal lethargy http://mimismartypants.com/2013/10/22/eternal-lethargy/ http://mimismartypants.com/2013/10/22/eternal-lethargy/#comments Tue, 22 Oct 2013 17:52:20 +0000 http://mimismartypants.com/?p=1784 I DID NOT HANG TEN, NOR ANYTHING ELSE

The person who suggested I take a surf lesson during our recent trip to San Diego may not have known me very well. I do not particularly like the idea of being WET and COLD and DROWNED and surrounded by DANGEROUS JELLYFISH. But we had a great time on our weird, whirlwind, for-no-real-reason trip anyway. Nora chatted her way through the friendly skies in a window seat, enjoying the superlative pseudo-scientific copy in the SkyMall catalog. When we landed we rented the most ludicrous, stupid car, which she is still talking about.


Except our rims were way more iced-out the ones in that picture. We felt like drug dealers.

If it weren’t for the planned excursions out of San Diego, we probably wouldn’t have even needed to get a car. Our downtown hotel was right across from the bay and all of downtown is strangely close to the airport. Day 1 we just ate and drank and swam in the hotel pool. Day 2: got on a boat and had a beer before noon, which is very important boat behavior. Also toured the USS Midway Museum. Here are the highlights of that:

1. It is sort of amazing that our Navy was using that antiquated hunk of junk up until 1992. All the dials and switches looked like a 1970s Radio Shack or stuff you’d find in your grandpa’s basement.

2. Nora sat in many cockpits. She filled out a quiz on aircraft carrier facts (using knowledge gleaned from the audio tour), and presented it to some grizzled old veteran to “earn” her “junior pilot wings.” The guy went the whole nine yards with presenting her with this plastic badge—they faced each other, saluted, did the handover, three steps back, more salutes, blah blah, and I think he was a bit taken aback at how seriously Nora took the whole thing and how stiff and for-real her posture and salutes were.

3. Nora also made me go in some virtual-reality fighter-pilot ride where you are strapped into a small box that proceeds to spin around and barrel roll and generally make you quite sick. Maybe it’s not really supposed to do that if you “fly” it properly, but where’s the fun in that? I started out as pilot and Nora as gunner, but I quickly cracked up at the controls the first time we rolled (I believe I was sobbing, “FIX IT! FIX IT!”), so she had to take over.

The next day we got a behind-the-scenes tour at the Safari Park. Fed a giraffe some leaves and learned all about what sex maniacs rhinos are. Our jeep-thing visited the main stud rhino, in his own enclosure because six of his bitches were pregnant already and he needed some downtime. We saw all 5000 pounds of rhino chilling in a muddy pond, eyes half-closed, looking like he was wondering when the Safari Park was going to run cable out to the pasture so he could get his NFL Sunday Ticket, and the keeper rattled her bucket and told him we had apples. For a while it didn’t look like the rhinoceros was interested in apples, but then he seemed to reconsider and lumbered to his feet. We took turns tossing apples into his giant gross mouth and I got rhino saliva on my hand, but it was totally worth it because how often can you say that? Not very often.

After the Safari Park we drove our ridiculous car to La Jolla, picking it sort of at random. Um. Well. The wind in our hair, the smell of wild animal manure on our clothing, the lingering rhino saliva, the absence of stiletto heels for me, a miniature Prada jacket for my child, a Rolex for LT, or a shivering Chihuahua on a leash for any of us—let’s just say we were the grubbiest people in La Jolla. We parked our car all by ourselves (another way you could tell that we did not belong there) and had some really good beers at a brewpub, and then illegally snuck down a gangway between two restaurants to the ocean. There was a sign that said “CAUTION: UNSTABLE CLIFFS” and a little gate, so of course Nora led the way out onto said cliffs. Reward: amazing scenery, sea lions, etc. It was so pretty I almost forgot about the creepy rich people.

It was fun to get away. With an older kid you get to do things like linger at breakfast while she amuses herself by surreptitiously feeding bits of pancake to the koi in the decorative hotel lagoon. (On Tuesday, when there’s no one there but business travelers, the fish must be all like: WHERE ARE OUR PANCAKES.) And I don’t want to be all cheesy about “making memories” (barf) but traveling with kids is much more fun when you’re doing more than hauling them around and buckling them into various seats. Although I still recommend you bring along an enormous  book (thank you, Rick Riordan, for releasing another of your interminable mythological tomes right before our vacation), and an iPod touch or other distraction-device. Because “making memories” aside, nobody wants to talk to their family all the time.

—#1 Hypertension - What Does Metoprolol Succ Er Look Like (Metoprolol), Lopressor Is Used For What, friend to pachyderms.

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