chased by apes
1. Already cranky just because of being on my way to work, and then some guy spilled coffee on me. Yeah, you’re sorry, Coffee Guy. I know you’re sorry. Sorry does not do a damn thing about my COFFEE LEG. (I did not express any of these thoughts, because I am polite. Bitter, dark-roastedly fragrant, damp-thighed [sexy ed. note: oh MY], and annoyed: but polite.)
2. On another day, I was at the gym doing my treadmill thing, and afterwards I cooled down by walking around the track. Two old ladies in sweatsuits passed me, and one nodded in my direction and said, “She’s walking awfully slow.” Excuse me, rude senior citizens, I am right here and I can hear you. I am walking this way because I just ran three miles, and let’s see you try to do that, oh wait you can’t. BITE ME.
3. Of course you can’t say any of that. Old people and apologetic coffee-spillers get away with everything.
4. Brand loyalty: it’s almost like having a personality. Right on!
5. Nora has an Illinois-based guide to animal tracks that also includes drawings to help you identify the animals’ poop. The guide calls it “scat,” I guess in an effort to sound outdoorsy and trapper-ish, but I have a hard time thinking of that word in anything other than a horrifying porn context. So we’ll go with “poop.” I was paging through the book while Nora got ready for bed and the poop-drawings are not even the weirdest thing about it—that would be the authors’ insistence on measuring different animals against common household items. Two different lizards were described as “about the size of a roll of LifeSavers” and “hot-dog-sized,” respectively. A possum is about the size of a four-pack of toilet paper. Uh, okay.
6. Of course, this book is simply adding fuel to Nora’s fantasies of being some kind of hardcore Special-Forces survivalist. We watched an episode of Man vs Wild the other day and she complained that Bear Grylls was “cheating” by having a pocketknife. No knives for Nora! She will fashion her own out of bamboo, or something.
7. Yearly girl-bits checkup was had and my girl-bits are fine. I always keep my socks on at the gynecologist, do you? The doctor can have all the vagina she wants but she’s not getting toes.
8. Speaking of people who need to stay current on their gynecological health, I almost missed a green light the other day because I was gawking at a real-live daytime prostitute working the corner of Peterson and Kimball. Right in front of the Kentucky Fried Chicken! I do hope she wasn’t actually prostituting herself for chicken. Get the cash, sister. Cash or traveler’s checks.
9. Please tell me that your child makes you repeat yourself all the time. That would make me feel better. I was all ready to haul Nora in for a fancy hearing test (she passed the school screening no problem, though) but perhaps eight-year-olds are just busy thinking about whatever the hell they think about, instead of listening to their parents. Hence the frequent refrain of “what”? Occasionally it will be “What did you say?” or even “Pardon?” but usually it is just “what?” I try to stay on an even parenting keel but there are certain days when I really feel like going all Jules Winnfield. SAY “WHAT” AGAIN, I DARE YOU, I DOUBLE-DARE YOU MOTHERFUCKER, SAY “WHAT” ONE MORE GODDAMN TIME! But I have neither firearm nor Jheri-Curl wig. Plus it would not be very nice.
10. Other recent exasperating child-behavior included a meltdown over who-the-fuck-knows, and some words were said (by both of us) and some stomping was done (just by her), and eventually it devolved into You May Not Speak To Me This Way and Go Somewhere Else Until You Are Calm Enough To Apologize. So she stomped off, and I settled down with a book, and about ten minutes later I have a kid in the doorway:
Nora: Mom?
Me: Yes?
Nora: I regret my words.
“Sorry” would have been fine, and regret is not remorse, exactly, but I would rather get along than start a moral-philosophy debate. So. Hugs all around.
11. Nora kind of cracks me up with her word choices in general. She requests a towel because she is ready to “emerge” from the bath. She asks if I can help get the Monopoly board “situated.” She describes a certain type of car alarm as “melodious.” I don’t find her use of these words to be intellectually remarkable or anything, but I think it’s funny that she busts out all these polysyllabic wonders when there are so many ordinary words that would work just as well.
12. “This new concerto is unmitigated trash: the usual strung out sequences of arpeggiated banality, driven by the rise and fall of fast-moving but still leaden triplets, and vacuously formulaic.” Philip Glass gets served (a year ago). I can’t remember why I Googled the 2nd violin concerto but I found this and wow.
13. Philip Glass should not even have bothered with another violin concerto. Take Drew’s advice and don’t do shit.
—mimi smartypants is unmitigated trash.