girls who are boys who like boys to be girls
TEMPUS FUGIT, FOLKS
I am in the dumbest of all possible work situations today where I am dependent on other people doing Things if I want to move my Things forward. Friday was the deadline for the Things, and because the day after July 4 is not a holiday but bloody well should be, I sent a note around saying that today would be fine.
Friends, do I have the Things? I do not. You might think, hey Mimi, enjoy the downtime, but the problem is that time diminishes, man, like sand through the hourglass if you know what I mean, and when I receive their Things I will have to absolutely CRANK on my Thing. Which I am not looking forward to, being a slow and steady sort of person rather than a burst-of-creativity person. Witness my online diary-keeping since 1999 if you want proof: output diminishing, yes (SAND THROUGH THE FUCKING HOURGLASS), but continuing. I never promised you a schedule, in fact I don’t think I promised you anything but some words. Here’s some right now!
CINEMA
It came to light that I had never seen the film Face/Off. This transpired when I expressed surprise that the titular face swap was by no means consensual. I have since watched Face/Off, with my sister, and boy is that a movie. Not a good movie, no. But if you are like, “I want to watch a lot of things happen,” you could do worse than Face/Off. If I only could! I’d make a deal with God! And get him to swap our faces! Thank you Kate Bush, good night now.
(Telling Kate Bush “good night” made me flash back to a thought I always have when I hear “Hips Don’t Lie.” When Wyclef Jean calls out “Shakira Shakira” at the beginning I like to mentally add “dinnertime!” Shakira, come on, where are you? Oh christ, I hope she didn’t get into the crawlspace again.)
TRAGEDY CHEESE
Has anyone else been having trouble with their Babybels? I always have this waxy snack in the house and lately the wax does not come off correctly! The pull tab does not pull smoothly and the cheese disk always breaks in half with the cheese STILL TRAPPED INSIDE THE WAX, and then instead of cheese jubilation there is cheese anguish, as you dig the sad halves out and eat them, and because everything is ruined there is no drive to innovate, no impulse toward creativity, no Divine Muse nudging one’s hand to make a sculpture with the cheese wax. Babybel, you are crushing my spirit. Get your cheese quality control in order.
WEATHER REPORT
On the way home from an unavoidable work-related trip downtown, my El car was empty except for me and a shirtless individual. He was not even CARRYING a shirt, nor did he have any bag that could have contained a shirt, so I assume he left the house that way. He had a bottle of orange juice and was alternately sipping from it and pouring a little bit of it carefully out onto his nipples. Sip, sip; nipple, nipple. He’d take a delicate finger and smear the juice around a little bit each time.
I do not think I’d be alone in labeling this mentally ill behavior but Mr Juice Tits did not seem outwardly mentally ill; despite the lack of a shirt (and the juice anointing) he appeared alert, oriented, and his actions had an organization about them. I cannot explain it much better than that, but if you’ve been a daily CTA rider for years, you just…know the mentally ill when you see them.
In fact, Mr Juice Tits (JT for short) saw me looking in his direction and flashed a smile. Sip, sip, nipple drip. “It’s hot out,” he said.
“Yeah but that’s not the answer,” I replied.
Then JT gave ME a look and moved to the other end of the El car to perform his citrus wudhu in peace because apparently I’m the rude one.
Hot town! Summer in the city!
—mimi smartypants is wheezing like a bus stop.