… and if you know the Wacky Family well, you know that means one thing:

Pound Cake.

and a whole lot of fried potatoes.

bon appetit!!!

wm

private note to steve: still love you. xoxoxoxoxo me.

“Cherish the child and the adult will know love.” — my daughter, reading from her fancy birth certificate that’s on the wall.

Both kids hysterical with laughter over this.

“That’s all you need to be happy, that’s all you need to know in life.” — my girl

“Heh heh heh hee heeeee heh heeeeee ya yee yee” — her brother, laughing maniacally

steve, don’t go into shock or anything, but to celebrate your big weekend i will…

1) stay off Facebook
2) avoid e-mails
3) um. cook?

yeah, i will try! happy father’s day to one great dad, husband, son and friend.

xo

me

i read this book once, a great book, and I read so much of course I can’t remember the title, but I know it will turn up again eventually (I seem to have lost a couple of boxes of books, in the move) and then…….. haHA! See? People think my rambling is just so much… rambling… but no. It has a purpose. And that purpose is: I just remembered the name of the book. “Hope Floats”? Nope. That was the book they made into a movie with what’s-her-name and I wasn’t into the book, or the movie. The title is:

“Sorrow Floats,” by Tim Sandlin

From Publishers Weekly: Able storytelling and an engaging cast of dysfunctional modern American pilgrims animate this winning tale of the road. When tipsy, 23-year-old Maurey Pierce Talbot accidentally drives through her Wyoming town with her baby on the roof of her car, she realizes just how far she has sunk since her father’s death left her distraught and almost unhinged. (She writes him daily picture postcards, knowing full well he is gone but unable to come to terms with her loss.) After attempting suicide and being thrown out by her philandering husband, she meets Lloyd and Shane, two recovering alcoholics who have devised a scheme to smuggle Coors beer to the East Coast. Longing to be reunited with her eight-year-old daughter Shannon in North Carolina (Sandlin chronicled Shannon’s birth in Skipped Parts), Maurey decamps on an unlikely odyssey, pulling a horse trailer full of beer behind a broken-down old ambulance, sipping Yukon Jack from the bottle as her companions search for AA meetings. Maurey is not yet ready to deal with her alcoholism or her reluctance to be loved, but the hardships of the road and the bonds that unite this group of refugees (others join them along the way) will change that. Maurey’s wry, cocksure voice evokes both her cowgirl roots and the novel’s ’70s setting. Despite the bickering, sarcasm, cynicism and personal tragedy that season the lives of his colorful, credible characters, Sandlin fashions a convincing tale of redemption.

She writes postcards to her dead dad. I’m telling you — I read that and I thought, that is one helluva good and crazy idea. I keep meaning to do it, but it will have to be just the right postcard. And no, I’m not going to do like Steve’s ex-girlfriend and write teeny-tiny in order to fit more writing on them. (I was snooping through his stuff cleaning our room once and found a card from her. I tried to read it, in case there was anything sexy written on it? Oh, please, like you’ve never done that, gimme a break.

But the writing was so teeeeeeeeeeny and cramped that I couldn’t even read it. When Steve finally came in the room I was all, What the hell?!?? and threw the card at him.

“I can’t even read this, dude!”

Like it was his fault she didn’t know how to write on stationery and stuff it in an envelope instead of going the postcard route.

I guess I wouldn’t need to put stamps on them, if I started mailing my dad cards. Anyway, it does sound cathartic to me. And a little weird, but who cares?

In honor of Memorial Day weekend, my dad’s birthday, and… the weather… I give you three re-runs. Cuz apparently I don’t need to write the guy postcards when I can just write posts for him on Thee Blog. I should call it, Notes to My Dead Dad instead of Wacky Mommy, in all honesty.

this one

and

that one

and…

the best one.

peace.

— wm

“this next one… is the first song… on our new album, which just came out this week! it’s called surrender.” — robin zander

did you know that the first concert i ever saw was Cheap Trick opening for Kiss? that was in Portland. i was 12. my mom let me do whatever i wanted. that was good by me, because i had a lot of friends and a lot of plans.

steve’s first concert was Cheap Trick in Iowa City, when he was 14.

steve: “Doesn’t Rick Nielsen look like Barney Fife here?” (yes.)

no wonder we get along so good, it’s kismet. kissmet!

“When I woke up, Mom and Dad were rolling on the couch
Rolling numbers, rock and rolling, got my Kiss records out”

our kids can relate to the whole “mommy’s alright/daddy’s alright/they just seem a little weird” part.

The Beechers are so nice.

There is very little that bugs me about my husband, Hockey God. (Yes, he claims he’s on sabbatical.) (“There’s no crying in baseball!” — Tom Hanks in “A League of Their Own”) (Yeah, whatever, Mr. I’m-So-Busy, Mr. Sabbatical.)

Anyway. He rocks. He’s a great cook, father, lover, husband and gardener. He pretty much always gives me my way, even when I don’t cry. (“There is crying in marriage.” — Wacky Mommy) He watches “It’s a Wonderful Life,” “White Christmas,” “North by Northwest,” “Vertigo” and “Rear Window” with me, over and over and over. (Is there anything sexier than Grace Kelly telling Jimmy Stewart, “Preview of coming attractions…”? No, there is not.)

He’s buying me a new house because I’ve been ready to go for a long time now.

But one thing about him drives me nuts. OK, two. 1) He can’t stand when I talk during movies, but hello, sometimes I need to ask him what’s happening with the plot, especially if it’s one of those suspense/intrigue type of movies and 2) He thinks he knows the words to Dwight Yoakam’s “Guitars, Cadillacs” and he just doesn’t. Also he thinks he can sing like Dwight (“He sings like Fozzy Bear, it’s not that hard!”) and he just can’t.

Other than that, he’s perfect.

Happy Valentine’s Day, lover. Here’s to many more.