how fast it should be moving and so forth
DON'T KNOW MUCH ABOUT ANAL HISTORY
From a list of things to visit in Bristol:
Berkely Castle, where Edward II was murdered in 1327, allegedly “With a hoote brooche through the secret place posteriale.”
The full story on the possibly butt-loving monarch, Edward II.
SMALL BITS OF NOTHING SPECIAL
1. Thought while watching TiVo'd Sopranos: The strippers at the Bada Bing are too hot to be strippers. They are television strippers. Real strippers never look that good.
2. Morning conversation/science experiment carried out on LT, me with keys in hand and briefcase on shoulder, him still lolling around in boxer shorts:
Me: Can I get back in bed and go to sleep?
LT: No, you have to go to heinous work where they are mean to you.
Me: Can I get back in bed and sex you up?
LT: Welcome to bed, can I take your order?
3. Retro born-too-late punk children with hundred-dollar boots and leather everythings on the train, bragging about eating Dumpster food.
4. This story is sketchy at best, and what do you want to bet we will see no follow-up? Nonetheless, it made me feel a bit sick.
5. Oh Courtney.
6. Reading the latest Get Your War On made me snort tea out my nose, giggle hysterically, and then moan a little. Register to vote, people.
7. Sullen goth boy with fishnet on his arms, stomping down Milwaukee Avenue. He got everything right except that he was carrying a takeout hot dog. The truly goth don't admit they eat, right? And they certainly don't eat hot dogs. For shame, O Dark One.
8. I never mentioned this most surreal part of our adoption trip to China, but when you stay at the White Swan Hotel as part of an adoption group (many US families do, since it is right across the street from the consulate), the hotel management gifts you with a limited-edition Barbie doll. It is called the “Coming Home Barbie” and is your standard blonde, ridiculously-proportioned Barbie doll, except that she comes with AN ASIAN-LOOKING BABY. I became seriously weirded out when this thing appeared in our room, as would any THINKING HUMAN BEING who has read EVEN A TINY BIT about cross-cultural adoption issues. We debated leaving it behind, but then thought no, no matter how repellent this seems to us, it is part of the experience and maybe Nora will get a good groan/laugh out of it once she is an adult and better able to reflect on her own unique upbringing. I threw the Barbie in a closet (and the box is all nicely damaged from being squished in the suitcase—horrors! Smithers is twitching right now!) and forgot about it, but recently the “Coming Home Barbie” was mentioned on an adoption messageboard I read, in the context of where can we get one. It turns out there is even a petition to try and get the Chinese subsidiary of Mattel to release the doll commercially, and I was so flabbergasted by this that I felt like making that blpblpblpblpblp noise with my finger and lower lip. I considered posting to the messageboard something along the lines of “uh, is no one else TOTALLY FUCKING OFFENDED by the notion that our daughters are nothing more than fun accessories for a BARBIE DOLL?” but I have learned that one gets nowhere but Frustrationville (population: You) by trying to debate such issues with Cat-Sweatshirt People. So I pour out all my flabbergastedness onto my own webpage, to your detriment.
One more slice of this Rant Quiche and then I'll cover it with foil and put it away. As getupgrrl eloquently puts it (again and again and again), it is retarded that people feel the need to comment on other people's fertility issues, and horrifyingly retarded to ever say, “Why don't you just adopt?” Retarded to the person experiencing* the issues, and also retarded to those of us who have not (experienced fertility issues, that is) but who have adopted, because I assure you that LT and I did not “just” adopt. We didn't yawn and stretch and say what do you want to do today/I don't know what do you want to do/hey maybe we should adopt a Chinese baby. So although I realize that just is just a word, how about you just leave it out.
*Getupgrrl is probably going to take me to task for the bit about “experiencing” infertility, like it is some kind of IMAX theater thing. Or perhaps I am being too preemptively defensive, and anticipating criticism where none was forthcoming, sort of like the classic alcoholic's move of mentally listing FIFTEEN REASONS WHY I DESERVE TO GET DRUNK TONIGHT, complete with a supplementary paragraph about why the reasons are not empty justifications NO MATTER WHAT YOU THINK. Not that I have ever, um, done something like that.
9. I don't hate the article. On the one hand I think the writer could have been kinder and cleaned up some of my “like” and “you know,” and maybe mentioned a few fewer times that I “laughed” or “giggled.” On the other hand, journalistic integrity and all that. I was unaware that my photo would be on the front page, however: all I was told was that the article would be a “feature,” and for all I knew that could have meant a large sidebar or a pull-out insert with scratch-and-sniff stickers featuring my cologne. So it was a little shocking to see myself there in the newspaper box, and even weirder to grab some extra copies for my mother and then have to carefully hold them face-down for the ride home. If I had more Internet Chutzpah I would have proudly flaunted it to fellow transit riders: HELLO, I'M MIMI SMARTYPANTS. YOU MAY REMEMBER ME FROM THE COVER OF FREE LOCAL WEEKLIES SUCH AS THIS ONE HERE.
10. When I was walking to Whole Foods yesterday, this Lexus full of yuppies in beige trenchcoats, laughing inside the car and full of sales rep camaraderie, pulls up to the stop sign of the intersection I am starting to walk through. And overshoots it, and ends up fully in the intersection I am starting to walk through. I have a policy for times like these, which is that as I walk around the car I must gently rap the hood with my knuckles, just to let the driver know that she/he intruded into pedestrian space. So I execute my policy and continue walking, and then notice that the car has made its right turn and is cruising slowly next to me.
“You touched my car,” the driver says.
“I did,” I say, still walking and looking straight ahead. “You were in the intersection.”
“You shouldn't touch people's cars,” he says. “Someone could get mad and have a gun.”
Okay, really: just go away. But I have never been good at shutting up so I say, “Thanks for the tip. I'm willing to die for the pedestrian cause.”
The same microsecond that I started making my smart-ass reply, another portion of my brain shrieked, “Maybe he's the one with the gun! Maybe he's a psycho! Quit antagonizing him!” and a third portion of my brain said, “Shut up, that shit only happens in the movies” and a fourth said, “Quit it, all of you.” And then, with my knuckle-prints still on its hood, the car pulled away and obviously I am still alive so have a nice Friday night, the end.
—mimi smartypants has skin of paper and eyes of ink.