all the time in the world
SCABBY
All my stomach stitches are out and the Steri-Strips are gone, save for the gross tape residue that doesn’t want to come off no matter how I scrub. That shit is tenacious, yo. This morning I woke up, stretched, and then absentmindedly gave my itchy belly-scar a good hard scratch, and scraped off a portion of torso-scab, whoops. So far nothing has leaked out but what a gross way to start the day. Hey LT, you want some sexy morning time with Lady Miss Frankenstein Guts?
OKAY, THAT’S ENOUGH
Tonight I am taking Nora out for the rare treat of hideous fast food before her last “power skate” clinic—it’s been a hard week and the kid deserves some french fries and relaxation. She deserves a break today. If you will.
Hockey will continue but at least it will be only once a week now, and maybe in between practices my spine can recover from all the bleacher time. I swear, even at the top, against the wall, it is NOT comfortable.
I always say I am going to read during hockey practice, but I usually end up watching Nora. Especially during the scrimmage portion. Watching her skate over to a teammate to bump victory gloves is so cute I want to cry.
A “CONVERSATION” WITH MYSELF WHICH REALLY WASN’T ONE, I’M NOT THAT WEIRD, BUT PRESENTED AS SUCH FOR EASE OF READING
Me: Remember Magic Shell?
Also Me: Yes.
M: I have been having an intrusive and unwelcome thought about a man putting Magic Shell all over his dick, and getting a boner, and then the Magic Shell would crack apart in a cinematic, comic-book way. Like The Hulk’s transformation, or something. It’s not turning me on AT ALL, it’s just a thought that keeps popping up.
AM: Ha ha, “popping up.”
M: Hush.
AM: Wait, I am pretty sure the receiving medium for Magic Shell has to be cold. That’s why it works on ice cream. So the penis would have to be chilled first.
M: Oh.
AM: This is good news, actually, as it makes your recurring unwelcome scenario less likely, and easier to stop thinking about.
M: You’re right! Dum dee dum dee dum (goes on my merry brain-way)
ON THE OTHER END OF THE LINE
I keep getting these silent robo-calls from Minnesota. I know it’s robo-Target, calling me to say one of my prescription meds has been auto-filled, but when I pick up there is never anything on the line but silence. Either there is something wrong with Target headquarters’ robo-call system or Target is just suddenly shy. I’ve taken to answering the phone and speaking into the silence anyway. Hey Target. It’s okay. I know you’re there, you don’t have to say anything. Look, I like you, okay? I’ll be the brave one and say it. And, uh, I’ll see you this weekend at the pharmacy counter. You know, if you want to, like, hang out or something. Or not. Whatever. Later, Target.
BEST STRANGER ENCOUNTER OF THE WEEK
A young woman with a very heavy accent stopped me on the street and asked where she could find “the human society.” At first I really wanted to fling my arms wide and shout, “IT’S ALL AROUND YOU, SISTER!” Then I wondered (to myself) if there really was an institution in downtown Chicago called “The Human Society,” and if so, was it a cult, because that sounds awfully Scientology-esque if you ask me. Then it dawned on me that she was asking about the HUMANE Society, and I happily gave directions. Go adopt a cat, sweet lady! Or volunteer, or gawk at all the cuteness, or whatever you planned to do there.
(All of the above happened in a split second, of course. I probably don’t have to tell you that. I have an obsessive need to document my interior things, the things that wing by and are gone forever unless I type them up, even though they are really too huge and fast and interconnected and slippery to really document properly.)
—mimi smartypants: give her 22 minutes and she’ll give you the world.