Mighty Girl
My face.


contact: maggie at mightygirl dot net

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Bryan Mason
Alice
Heather Armstrong
Matthew Baldwin
Sarah Brown
Heather Champ
Matt Haughey
Eden Kennedy
Jason Kottke
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Merlin Mann's 5ives
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6.1.01
I'm in love with Webvan. I know people throw the L-word around pretty lightly these days, so let me clarify: If Webvan had a penis, I would propose.
Webvan brings me flowers, wine, and quality ice cream in little round "this is quality ice cream" containers. Webvan never comes home with a can of smoked oysters and some salsa when I gave Webvan a list of the fresh produce I wanted. Webvan comforts me with ready-made meals after a hard day at work. As soon as Webvan can have sex with me, it's a go.
Unfortunately, no matter what Dionysian wonders modern technology has in store, that day will never come. You see, Webvan is dying, and I think I know why:

A Brief Conversation With the Unenlightened Webvan Delivery Guy:

DG: Yeah, I work on the weekends, so Tuesday and Wednesday is my weekend.
Me: Hm. That's kind of cool. You can do all of your errands without worrying about crowds or stuff closing early.
DG: Actually, you'd be surprised. The grocery store is always packed.
12:11 a.m.
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5.30.01
Gift cards that aim to change your life perspective:
"Listen to me for a moment. Quit being sad. Can't you see the blessings dropping around you like cherry blossoms?"
2 p.m.
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5.29.01
We spent hours planning our meals and arranging gear in the packs: camp stove, wool socks, well-stocked first aid kit, water purifier, kitchen sink, and so on. We stopped for lunch near the trailhead after a five-hour drive, and my camping buddy (the Eagle Scout) had a sudden outburst: "OhmyholymotherofjesusCRAP!"
I jerked around to see what had happened; he just pointed to his shoes. Or rather, to his moccasin slippers.
"I left my hiking boots at home."
3:30 p.m.
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5.22.01
Why I like Molly: Molly and I rode the Fulton 5 home from Bay to Breakers. We sat next to two young men, one was missing a front tooth, the other had moved past intoxicated into catatonic stupor. Our toothless friend (let's call him Uncle Jebb) introduced himself, and tried to draw us into conversation while we ignored him.

(Uncle Jebb begins touching Molly's back for no apparent reason.)
Molly: ...What are you doing?
Jebb: You had some fuzzy things on you. I was getting them off.
Molly: Hmmm. (Continuing conversation with me) blahblahblah.
Comatose Carl: Mmfmmffph.
Jebb: No dude, we're almost there. If you've gotta hurl, hurl out the window.
CC: MMfffmfmMMPH!
Jebb: Dude, you're not getting off.
Me: Jesus, if he has to hurl, let him out.
(Uncle Jebb and I have a brief verbal exchange, edited for length.)
Me: Molly, do you want to move, so he doesn't boot on you?
Molly: I work with kids all week, I've had much nastier things on me than a little puke. I can shower.
Me: OK
(Jebb begins touching Molly's back again.)
Molly: OK. You need to stop touching me now.
Jebb: OK.
Molly: Thank you.

3:27 p.m.
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5.21.01
Greg? Uh.... Greg?
"A year is a long time, and I can't help but think that I should be doing something new. I don't know what it is yet, but it should be something new."
Noooooooooooooooooooooooo!
And thus, my favorite blogger grows out of blogging. Thanks, mister. I had so much fun.
2 p.m.
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5.18.01
Two great words I won't remember in a week:

chivy--to tease or annoy with persistent attacks
desiccate--to drain of emotional or intellectual vitality
11:40 a.m.
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5.17.01
Years ago, I worked at my campus newspaper and used to get letters from inmates. (I think there's a law that allows them free postage to write the press.) The letters were all written in pencil, and many of THEM had RANDOMLY capitalized WORDS, which the author further emphasized by going over them again and again until there were word-shaped holes in the page. Every inmate wanted a female pen pal, so they provided vital stats:

"I like romantic evenings with a beautiful woman where we could go on a picnic and listen to some Tini (sic) Marie. I also like to visit museums, like the La Brea Tard (sic) Pits."

Wistful now? You wish you had an inmate penpal of your very own, don't you? Well, I'm here for you. Jail Babes, "A Pen-Pal and Singles Introduction Service." Enjoy.
10:17 a.m.
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5.16.01
Another reason to read more international news: "Monkey Man Hysteria Grips New Delhi Suburbs" "'It was a monkey alright, and about four foot tall, but as soon as I grabbed it, it turned itself into a cat with tawny, glowing eyes,' the newspaper quoted a resident as saying."

Update: This article has pictures! "Deepali Kumari, from Noida, said: 'It has three buttons on its chest. One makes it turn into a monkey, the second gives it extra strength, the third makes it invisible. 'He touches a lock and it breaks. But he is afraid of the light.'" (via MetaFilter)
11:18 a.m.
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5.15.01
The Slate's intelligent spread on the Decline of Fashion Photography. I'm tired of fashion magazines trying so hard to be hip that they forget to be inspiring. (via MetaFilter)
10:38 a.m.
The Icy Hot Stunaz homepage includes a photo of the Freeze "pimpin in front of his crazy sweet Ranger." Rangers are so hot. (via the soapbox.)
9:53 a.m.
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5.14.01
Conversation with my three-year-old nephew, Trevor:

Me: What do pigs say?
Trevor:...ahh.... Oink! Oink!
M: What do dogs say?
T: Bark! Bark!
M: What do elephants say?
T:...aaah....prrrrrbt!
M: What do Trevors say?
T: PLEASE!
2:52 p.m.
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5.11.01
EMAIL MOMENT!
Subject: Summer jobs.
Excerpt:

The first thing I found out about selling cars is that the dumber you are, the better. These women come up and say, "What's the difference between these two convertibles?" So I say, "This one has 190 horsepower, and this one has 170 horsepower." And then they say, "But this one is purple."
3:47 p.m.
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5.10.01
So this guy dies in his rocking chair. Papers keep being delivered, the grass keeps growing, the neighbors are getting pissed. But no one realizes the guy is dead until four years later when someone buys the house at a delinquent taxes auction and finds a corpse in the living room.
10:08 a.m.
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5.9.01
How I read the sign at the bottom of the Muni stairs:

No
Smoking
Drinking
Eating Graffiti
10:51 a.m.
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5.8.01
From Messy Chestnut:
"One month after my second son was born he was notified that he was pre-approved for a Mastercard."

Also, a poem he posted:

Watermelons
Green Buddhas
On the fruit stand.
We eat the smile
And spit out the teeth

-Charles Simic
10:51 a.m.
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5.7.01
At the Cinco de Mayo party, Amit carries over a container of green Margarita salt and calmly points to the slogan. All of us lean forward and exclaim, "WON'T STAIN SKIN!?" We are tipsy, and this is a major selling point. Also, the salt is very green. So green, in fact, that it definitely seems as though it would stain. Briefly, I imagine turning the party into an impromptu episode of "Fight Back!". Calling everyone out into the yard, sprinkling them with a garden hose, and instructing them to roll around in the salt. I glance at all the men wearing Corona shirts and backward visors. These men have unusually square jaws. I decide that they are hardly the types who would cover themselves in salt if given the opportunity. I lick the back of my hand and offer myself up as a guinea pig. An hour later, it washes right off. I'll be damned.
11:09 a.m.
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5.4.01
Seven cheesy things I love anyway:
  • Finger guns in photos
  • Black umbrellas with "sunny sky" detail inside
  • Gilligan hats
  • Fashionistas!
  • Talking to cashiers
  • What-will-I-wear-for-this-important-event? clothing-change montages
  • Old men who wink
9:48 a.m.
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5.3.01
Me: Wait! That's Prince!
R: That's a good reason to put in my Wallflowers CD.
M: Are you kidding me?
R: Prince sucks big dick.
M: Whaaaat? What are you talking about? You have to love Prince. Did you not grow up in the '80s? It's your duty to love Prince.
R: Prince is a has-been, leftover pop-star wannabe, a-sexual, talentless chump. He's no Jakob Dylan.
M: NO JAKOB DYLAN? Are you listening to yourself!? I don't even know you anymore. "Purple Rain?" "Raspberry Beret?" Where were you, brother?
R: Come on, listen to these lyrics, "It takes two to tango/but only one to let go." That's poetry.
M: All I have to say is, "She wore her raspberry beret/the kind you find in a second-hand store/Raspberry beret/ And if it was warm, she wouldn't wear much more."
(extended pause)
R: Touche.
9:43 a.m.
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5.2.01
From a "Survivor" party e-vite:
"Hey folks. With less than a week away, Survivor tension is building, especially in our legs and lower backs."
11:04 a.m.
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