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

the holding of land in exchange for services or labor

SOMETIMES I THINK I’M SMART BUT THEN

I put so many books on my “to read” list. I read book reviews and book blogs and get recommendations from people in my (real and virtual) life. Then I get the books from the library, oh do I ever. I get like a graduate student at a buffet. THIS IS FREE? GIVE ME ALL OF IT!

I currently have 33 books checked out from CPL this minute, please don’t yell at me, they are being read and renewed online (I have not paid a late fee in years, my shit is TIGHT), and sometimes books, especially nonfiction books, are returned quite quickly without needing to be renewed at all. (See below.)

Maybe you do this too? You read or hear about a book and you get big dreams! You get aspirations! You think “I am definitely interested in the history of banks/urban planning/lobster life cycles! I will check out this book and learn all about it!” But then you grab said nonfiction tome off the “to read” stack and 30 pages in you think “man, I don’t care about this shit AT ALL.” Life is short so back to the library you go, book.

The weird thing is, if I met someone who was cool and funny and told good stories* about her expertise in lobster reproduction, banks, or deciding where to put the sewers, I would be totally fascinated and we would have drinks and that would be great. I am just not going to read a whole book about the thing if I don’t care. I overestimate my caring! I blame the book reviewers for making everything sound interesting.

*THIS IS NOT A SHOUT-OUT TO ANYONE IN PARTICULAR okay maybe it is but he’ll never read it. Please be careful when talking about work in social situations. “What do you do?” is not an invitation to teach me about how Tableau interacts with MATLAB. For 20 minutes. Without ever asking me a question. Thanks!

RAGE AGAINST THE MENU

A friend’s tweet reminded me of my personal rule, which I suggest you adopt immediately. Don’t give in to the menu if the menu is stupid. Don’t play the menu’s game. If the menu says, “Potachos,” you’re allowed to order “the tater tot nachos.” If it says, “Lobster Hysteria,” you can just order the “lobster roll.” You never have to say the fake word “egg-cellent” out loud to another human being. Use your own words and point if necessary. Stand up for yourself. Later, in the quiet of the night, you can consider whether you want to continue a relationship with a restaurant that puts that kind of nonsense out into the universe.

IT WAS WAY BETTER THAN THE PLASTIC BAG IN THAT TERRIBLE MOVIE

Walking south on State, starting just south of Kinzie, on a windy day, and I hear a weirdly loud metallic noise from the other side of the street. It was an empty can of Heineken, rolling along in the gutter, pushed by the wind. The can, amazingly, is keeping pace with me—the wind was that serious (and admittedly there is a downward slope toward the river).

I walk onto the bridge and I still hear it. Little empty can of Heineken is crossing the bridge!

I keep walking south and for a while don’t hear the can. But then I do! Heineken can has made it across! I shit you not, it finally rolled to a stop in front of the Wow Bao at State and Lake. That is a little less than a QUARTER MILE, a fantastic journey for a recyclable. Nothing but respect for my future President EMPTY CAN OF HEINEKEN 2020!

OKAY THAT’S ENOUGH

Other than the beautiful moment I shared with a piece of beer trash, 2019 has not been too great so far, at least since I went back to work on the first full week of it.

First: I lost my ATM card somewhere but HOW. I barely ever use it (I am very bad about carrying cash; post-apocalypse you will find me in the smoking ruins of the city trying to pay for worm-infested rice with my Starbucks app). There is no weird activity so I just have to cancel it and get a new one. But when I called the bank to do so, they were like “What’s your password?”

Me: What? Like my PIN?

Bank Dude: No, you have a verbal password you have to say out loud [Ed. Note: yes, that is what “verbal” means] to confirm it’s you on the phone.

Me: I have no idea. Since when is that a thing?

BD: You requested it 5 years ago.

Me: Great.

BD: Any guesses?

Me: Scro-tiddly-tum-tious?

BD: That is… not it.

So anyway I have to go to an actual bank branch with ID because 5-years-ago-me apparently requested a secret, magic, non-scrotum-related password for confirming my identity.

Second: Our dishwasher started doing a weird thing, and the dishwasher guy who came to repair it confirmed that it was probably more our old-house wiring than the dishwasher itself, but it could be the dishwasher itself, hard to say until the electricity gets looked at—so there’s a whole other set of phone calls and service calls and bills to pay. As well as washing dishes by hand, which is awful, but thankfully LT is doing it. I don’t care for “wet work,” do these hands look like they were made to be soaked in dishwater? (*holds up tiny, bitten-cuticle, ragged-nail paws*) (Never mind.)

Small, good thing in the above small bad thing: the dishwasher guy was awesome. His name was Boris and he was kind of weirdly intense about the whole repair, showing me the electrical problem with his beeping thing, calling me back to troubleshoot one more thing even after he had already left, etc. When Boris came in, Rocko cat was at the door, and Boris immediately reached down to pet his head and said something to him in Russian. Normally Rocko yells at guests so I said, “He’s a little old and crabby,” and Boris said, “Aw, he seems cool with me” and did more petting and more Russian, and Rocko WAS cool with him. Which makes a total of 2 people outside the family that Rocko has been cool with: our former cleaning lady (Polish) and Boris the dishwasher repair man (Russian). Rocko cat only likes demonstrably Slavic peoples.

Third and Last: I went to the dentist for a cleaning and she told me I have a lump in my neck and that I should “get it checked out” by my internist. I actually do have a checkup scheduled for the end of February but that seems like a long time to wait when one has FUCKING LUMP NECK and a brain that goes automatically to worst-case scenarios. So now I get to call and see if they have anything sooner. In the meantime I get to be all lumpy. I can actually feel it now that she’s pointed it out (gross) and of course I feel it all the time (uncool, anxiety-provoking, probably troubling to strangers). I am trying to wear a lot of scarves.   

—mimi smartypants is a soft-bodied, marine gastropod mollusc that sheds her shell after the larval stage.