So I’m at school, waiting to pick up Wacky Girl, and one of the mommies is yap-yapping on her cell phone in my ear about, “The c-section rate in this country is 30 percent, and most of them are unnecessary, and it’s all about medical malpractice and yadda-yadda, a lot of women think it’ll just be easier to schedule a c-section…”

And I’m thinking, “I’ve heard this before. I’m so frickin’ beyond sick of this topic.”

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“The problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind.”
— Humprey Bogart

Note to self: Get ads on site, raise a little money, become a full-fledged slut and blog disclaimer.

To my Loyal Readers:

Just because there are ads for martini glasses, sex toys, multi-level marketing scams or whatever the hell else on this site does not mean Wacky Mommy endorses the product/scam in question.

Kisses,

WM

PS — I will heartily endorse Music Together classes though — Wacky Boy loves them and I do, too. Thank you Wacky Neighbor S for recommending these.

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“Throw your dreams into space like a kite, and you do not know what it will bring back, a new life, a new friend, a new love, or a new country.”

— Anais Nin, author (1903-1977)

My lovely, talented in-laws arrive today, so in honor of their visit, I’ve purchased a half-gallon of Tanqueray and a half-gallon of Absolut. Wacky Daddy, even though he was the one who sent me to the liquor store, knowing that I would have both kids with me, knowing that this makes me look like the biggest losingest DRUNK IN LIFE, “Nice influence on your kids, Lady!” did the same. Yes, we now have a gallon of gin and a gallon of vodka in the house. He even bought maraschino cherries, so Wacky Girl and Wacky Boy can have Kiddie Cocktails.

Get ’em started early, that’s our motto. “Mixed nuts with those cocktails, kids? Stuffed olives?” So I’d better write the advice column early, before I’m too drunk to type…

And now, without further ado, The Friday Advice Column for Wacky Mothers & Others…

Dearest Wacky Mommy:

Help! I’ve lost my husband. First there was the goatee. Then there was the mustache that sort of morphed into the goatee. Then the mustache took on a life of its own — sprouting these “handlebar” things –giant curly wisps of hezz hezz hezz. And now…it’s the beard. Not so much a beard as patchy clumps of hez-short and hez-long scattered carelessly about what used to be a very adorable, soft, baby-smooth face.

Hezz! Everywhere! It’s in my mouth and up my nostrils when we kiss. “Stuff” gets in it. Food. Beverage. Lint. Legos. Small animals. My own personal bodily fluid…

The horror. The horror.

It’s gotta go. My husband has turned into some sort of urban Grizzly Adams. We were having sex the other day and I kept getting distracted, thinking he looked like he had a Tribble on his face. The thing is — he knows how I feel about it, and he refuses to…compromise. I’m normally a shaver, but I’m seriously considering letting my dark Slavic genes get their fuzz on. What’s a gal to do?

Signed,

Grizzly’s Wife

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Dear Wacky Mommy:

Signed,
Pizza Mom

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Am writing lovely fluffy freelance article about lovely fluffy place. Will be paid Real Money. Am thrilled. Am also working on third draft (3rd) of my novel. It will sell someday, I must keep believing this. Cuz with the bronchitis, and the unexplainable female hormone craziness (perimenopause? WTF?) the crazy children, and the damp, moldy, wet, disgusting Oregon weather that STAYS LIKE THIS FOR CLOSE TO TEN (10) MONTHS OUT OF THE YEAR JESUS GOD WHY DO WE LIVE IN THIS RAINBELT?

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