No, said Nanny, an echo in Melena’s mind (and editorializing as usual). No, no, you pretty little pampered hussy. We don’t go on having babies, that’s quite apparent. We only have babies when we’re young enough not to know how grim life turns out. Once we really get the full measure of it — we’re slow learners, we women — we dry up in disgust and sensibly halt production.

from Wicked by Gregory Maguire

This whole vacation-from-blogging thing? Yeah, it went OK. But I have a lot to say and dammit, this is the place to do it. Like the quote? I frickin’ love that quote. Thank you L for sending it to me.

The Internet loves my puppy dog. Isn’t that sweet? I love my sweet lil puppy-wuppy. And not one person said, “Jesus, woman, you stole a dog? What is wrong with you? Dirty hippie. Thief!” No, they rewarded me by saying things along the lines of good job rescuing him and giving him a great home. Sigh. I feel better now. Cuz I have had so much guilt about the dog theft. Unnecessarily it would appear. The kids keep asking where we got him and I keep dodging the question but now I’m thinking I’m just going to ‘fess up.

“I stole him. But I meant to give him back.”

Maybe I should rethink that approach. Don’t want them turning into little thieves, who later excuse their own behavior. I think I’ll keep saying what I’ve been saying: “He was a stray.” Which he was, sort of. At one point. For someone. I’m presuming. (George Costanza: “Jerry, just remember, it’s not a lie if you believe it.”)

Ha! I’m giving my dog a kiss on the noggin right now. The top of his head smells like fried rice and eggs. Is that weird?

Listen. It’s 11:35 p.m. now and I am tired. But I have to tell you something: My kids are beyond spoiled. Beyond. I mean, embarrassing me in public spoiled. We cannot have this. We were walking home from the train this afternoon, after a busy day at the art museum, lunching downtown in the Park Blocks, chasing the pigeons, and I meet a new neighbor. She’s pushing her two-year-old in this tiny umbrella stroller. I mean, looking like it’s for a doll umbrella stroller.

Also she’s hugely pregnant. In this heat. It’s been hot here. Oregon’s on fire. Bad hot. Windy, dry, awful hot. Central and Eastern Oregon, near the coast, people’s homes in Salem and Portland. Too much.

Anyway. There aren’t enough firemen here to put out the flames, cuz apparently California is on fire, too. It’s a little stressful, knowing that all these fires and evacuations are going on. So I thought to myself, Self, I am so glad that’s not me pregnant right now. And I’m a little ADD, y’know, or something, so my second thought is, She needs a double stroller. So I say hey, ask her is she’d like my double stroller, we’ve outgrown it, etc. And she says, “YES! I mean, sure,” (all casual now, trying not to seem desperate) “I guess I could use it. WHERE DO YOU LIVE?”

I’m all, right down the street, I’ll leave it on the front porch with your name on it, ‘k? And Wacky Girl? Let’s see… where is WG at this point? Oh, that’s right, she’s riding in the other stroller. Even though she’s almost seven. I mean, her four-year-old brudder doesn’t fit into this stroller, yet she booted him out, wedged her long legs in there and off we went. I was too tired to fight, I caved. I CAVED! Please, like you never cave? EVERYONE ON THE TRAIN WAS LAUGHING AT US and I did not care. (I think this prompted the realization that my kids have outgrown strollers. Which is sad for me because where am I supposed to stash my purse? The groceries? Wet wipes? Water bottles? Hats? Carry all that shit? What?

My point: The kids start wailing midway through my two-minute talk with this nice preggers mommy, yelling, “NOT THE DOUBLE STROLLER WE NEED OUR STROLLER! NO, NO, NO! WACKY NEKKID NEIGHBOR” (not her real name) “NEEDS THE STROLLER!” (She’s expecting her second.) I said calmly, “Guys, you’ve outgrown the stroller.” Then shrugged to the other mommy, “Kids — what are ya gonna do?” She thought it was funny.

They sobbed all the way home. They do this whenever they have to part with an item (toys they don’t play with, clothes they’ve outgrown, furniture and baby gear we don’t need.) I told them get over it and left the stroller on the front porch. They want for nothing, my kids. Toys scattered all over four rooms, a huge wading pool, a Crazy Daisy, badminton, croquet, more Brio trains, blocks and Duplos then you can wedge into the closet and drawers. Eighty bazillion board games. Forty bazillion DVDs and videotapes. A dollhouse. Three tea sets. A cupboard full of art supplies and beading stuff.

Have made new resolution: Winnow this all down. Stop buying more shit. Stop accepting gifts. No, we don’t need a kid-sized toilet from Pottery Barn Kids. (“Pottery Barn potties! Goodness, what will they think of next?”)

So no more sending my brats toys, got it? Or toilets. And somebody put out the fires here. Please.