One of my old friends — who is no longer a friend at all, I am sad to report — became a real hotshot. Got the fancy job, moved out of the country, then to another country, then to another country — became a big dog with her company. Married, sooooooooooooooo happy. Allegedly. Has two adorable children. Not allegedly — they’re real.

(Does she read this blog? I think not. Do I care if she figures out this is her I’m kvetching about? No, not really. I’ve told her all this before, in person.)

Am I jealous? No. I hate flying, and she flies constantly. My kids are also adorable. And we’re all allegedly happy. (Joke — we’re for-real happy.) My husband is, you know, a honey. And plays hockey and is a big strapping guy. Wall of Hockey God, I call him. Also, I actually get to hang out with my kids, whereas she works 50-60 hours a week. Yeah, I need to stop going around calling people “asshat” (thank you Snickrsnack Katie for a new list of insults — “asshat,” “asstroll,” pretty much anything with the word “ass” attached heh heh heh).

Where was I? Am I ADD? Possibly. All I know is that most people, when they take Sudafed, get jittery. I get focused and am able to complete tasks in an orderly fashion. Sudafed: Mommy’s Little Ritalin. We were talking, this former friend and I, it’s been ages ago, and she’s all “blah-blah, my exciting life, blah-blah, off to important meeting at the Consulate… What’s your schedule like this week?” It was a Tuesday, and she’d caught me in a Zen-like (probably Sudafed-induced) moment, so I said:

“On Tuesdays I usually bake bread.”

Feeble, so feeble. My daughter and husband love my homemade bread. We have a breadmaker, it’s easy. Takes five minutes to throw the stuff in the bread pan…

1 1/2 cups warm water
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
3 tablespoons honey or sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup oatmeal
2 1/2 cups whole wheat flour
1/2 cup + 1/3 cup white flour
2 teaspoons yeast

Put on wholewheat setting, light crust. Takes four hours and 10 minutes until it’s done. If you want to make it the “real way,” follow the instructions on a wholewheat bread recipe for the kneading and rising times. Bon fucking appetit from the little mousy housewife. The little mousewife.

I don’t know what I said to her after that. (No, I didn’t give her the recipe — I just put that there for you.) I probably made something up about manuscripts in the works, a bevy of agents beating on my door, sorry gotta go, who knows. All I know is that I let my own, inane remark make me feel feeble and like “oh what a good lil housewife” for quite some time after.

Then Wacky Girl came along one day and saw that I was trying to find my way blindly through my day. Dishes undone. Laundry in heaps. Dog, kids, cats unfed. Hair? Yeah, a mess. Some days just are a disaster around here. She made me a list:

1 Make brid!!!!!! (She then crossed off the “i” and turned it into a “e”)
2 Wash dishis!!!
3 Take a brak for 8 menet’s
4 Plea’s go to bed

Then she worried for awhile. Would it overwhelm me, The List?

“Mommy, is eight minutes a long time? Because I wanted you to have a long break.”

There is nothing feeble about me, or my life. I taped her list to the cupboard and it makes me smile, everyday.

This is a wonderful life. It’s Wednesday. I baked some bread today. And wrote.

I am a Frappacino. How did they know?

It is National Delurking Week, as the Birthday Girl just pointed out.

So delurk, would you? What do you want from me? More recipes? Fewer? More sex talk? Less? More stories about children stabbing themselves? More tragic stories about my past?

More pictures? Dammit, I hate putting up photos. I mean, it’s basic enough, but I just have a mental block about it. That and geometry.

Here’s a funny story about the Crier and her Arch Nemesis:

(more…)

For Today’s Discussion:

I was just e-ing with my friend, a lover of literature and words, about our early influences. She feels, in hindsight, that she was much too harsh on Woolf. And that perhaps she should have branched out from Jonathan Livingston Seagull and Valley of the Dolls. She is wrong. JLS was a fine example of what each of us should strive for in personal growth. And the Dolls? You do not want to end up being a doll or popping dolls. I think we can all learn a little something here.

I can see, in hindsight, that throughout my college years, I loved Toni Morrison and “The Song of Solomon” to the exclusion of everything else. Except Shakespeare. And John Donne. And “Rosemary’s Baby” (the film and the book). And the movie “Sid and Nancy.”

My other early influences, both cinematic and literary? Here goes:

Am/have always been extremely fond of Truman Capote (his Southern writing, and Breakfast at Tiffany’s) and Eudora Welty

Double features my parents took me to as a child:

Jonathan Livingston Seagull/Brian’s Song (at the Bagdad Theatre in Southeast Portland. My dad and his best friend L took us. I remember them bawling like babies — “I love you, man!” Heehee. Pretty sweet.)

Deliverance/Dirty Harry (at the drive-in. Mom and Dad thought my sister and I would sleep through both films. We did not. Not so sweet.)

My favorite books as a child and teen:
Looking for Mr. Goodbar (which I often refer to when writing the Friday Advice Column for Wacky Mothers & Others)
I’m OK/You’re OK
Transactional Analysis book my mom had
Yellow Brick Road self-help book (mom and dad’s book)
Go Ask Alice (a fraud!!!! Pure fiction! Aiiiiiiii I cannot take it.)
Sunshine (this is still my favorite, and yes, I wrote my senior honors essay on it in high school.)
anything by Judy Blume (esp. “Wifey”) and Norma Klein (esp. “Mom, the Wolfman and Me”)
The Silver Crown/Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH (Robert C. O’Brien — My daughter and I are reading the latter now, she’s liking it)
The Borrowers
Hans Brinkman and the Silver Skates
The Joy of Sex
Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Sex (and Were Afraid to Ask) — I loved this one because it was so… off. Somehow. But I didn’t really know how it was off and had no one to ask.

Your influences? Please list, and describe.

Oh, those bumperstickers. They’re always making me want to chuck a corndog through someone’s window. I was picking up my daughter from school today, we’re driving off down the street that runs in front of the school. I stop to let a mom and her son cross the street in front of us. She waves a thank-you. It’s windy, it’s raining, they’re crossing quickly. A van heading from the other direction stops for them, too. Just as they’re almost across the street, a mom in a van behind me hits the gas, zips around me, comes close to running over the mom and son, almost smacks into the other van, then drives off down the street.

Not doing 20 in a 20 mph school zone, by the way, for any of this.

The bumpersticker on the back of her van says:

Consider Adoption
Another Option

So abortion is wrong, but mowing down pedestrians and other drivers is all right? I am finding some irony in this. Actually, I’m just pissed about it. About ten years ago, a friend of mine saw a similar scenario unfold — driver is letting a pedestrian cross, the driver behind him flips out, zooms around, because, dammit HE IS GOING TO GET TO WHERE HE NEEDS TO GO RIGHT FRICKIN’ NOW.

And he kills the pedestrian.

My friend saw it happen. It was just one of those awful, awful stories. So don’t pull that manuveur, ‘k? Thank you.

Yours in safe driving,

WM

Because sometimes, a quote is the best I can do.

“We act as though comfort and luxury were the chief requirements of life when all we need to make us really happy is something to be enthusiastic about.”
— Anon

For this week’s Thursday Thirteen:

THIRTEEN THINGS MY HUSBAND AND I DISAGREE ON:

1. Sex. He says we waited too long after we met; I say we didn’t wait long enough. (Case in point #1: 10 pound 2 oz. baby girl Wacky. Case in point #2: 9 pound 6 oz. baby boy Wacky. Both inherited his ginormous head. C-sections, thanks for asking.)

2. Using prepositions at the ends of sentences. I say yay; he says nay. I repeat that old joke: Guy 1 asks Guy 2: “Where’s the library at?” Guy 2: “Ah, ah, ah — no preposition.” Guy #1: “OK. Where’s the library at, asshole?” HA!

3. Ice cream and other desserts. As long as I’m working out, hell yes to one dessert a day. (Today I had three. Whoops. But I worked out like a madwoman! I’ll make up for it the next few days. I mean it, Internet. I’ve been losing weight and I want it to stay that way.) He says, What are you, crazy? The kids say, Did someone say chocolate sauce? Vanilla ice cream?

4. Plastic stuff. I like plastic stuff. He prefers wood, or better yet, simplicity (ie — don’t buy the crap to begin with).

5. Dogs. I like dogs. He says no more pets.

6. I am not fond of cats. Especially ours, Pukey 1 and Pukey 2. He says he wants for us to always have a cat. Well, I don’t like spiders. Or mice. So we’ll probably always have a cat.

7. Gardening. I say plant the tomatoes mid-May; he says it’s not warm enough until second week in June.

8. Church. I like church. I believe in God. Not like a white guy, throne, long flowing robe, no no no. I mean more of a great spirit, higher power. My girlfriend (who is a devout Christian) was over today and I’m pretty sure she noticed Steve’s new read that was out in plain sight, The God Delusion. She’s open-minded, I don’t think she’d be offended, if she did see it, but I never want anyone to feel like we’re nyah-nyah-nyah, y’know?

9. Sunday School. I’ve always wanted the kids to attend, he’s always been against it. Then he realized it meant three precious hours to himself every week and now he’s a regular Homer J. Simpson, making Moon Waffles and sleeping in with the dog. I jest. He doesn’t even like waffles.

10. He doesn’t care about a lot of the things I care about. “The Office” (American version). Pedicures. “General Hospital.” Avoiding work. Avoiding housework. Going to the Caribbean. Buying a new puppy. Getting an Impala someday. “Just because I don’t care doesn’t mean I don’t understand.” — Homer J. Simpson. I take comfort in this. I mean, look at Homer and Marge’s happy, long-running marriage. If they can make it, dammit, so can we.

11. I like to vacation in hot places (see above: Caribbean). He doesn’t want to vacation anywhere there’s not hockey. Or at least a hockey rink. Or at least an ice rink. Or at least pond hockey.

12. When we talk about moving it comes down to this: Must be Blue State where they play hockey. I am somewhat more flexible. Savannah, I’ve heard, is gorgeous. Austin is supposed to be rockin’. Somewhere in Arizona? Colorado? Arkansas, where my family is? I mean, we’re talking about a large number of states, X’ed off just like that, if you say no Red States.

13. We agree on this: Agree to disagree and you’re good.

Kids are back in school, I HAVE A SCHEDULE AGAIN THANK YOU JEEBUS, my mom stopped by to pick up a boxload of slides (including some for my sister), Wacky Cousin is picking up a third of them on Thursday, I have another boxload of slides to drop at my auntie’s, but the big news is…

The party was a blast. I mean — to have grown-up talk, with super-nice, intelligent, funny people, who also happen to be my neighbors — it was cool. It was the best way I’ve ever welcomed in a New Year. The kids were great. The babies nursed and slept, smiled and stretched and slept some more. The big kids sang us a ton of songs, including “Jingle Bells,” “Rudolph,” “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.” They were dolls. And when I sent them off to play, they went.

More later on the food — it was fantastic.

Here are my new favorite sites, check them out:

Terrible Mother

Michael Easton

Mrs. Flinger

Vegan Lunchbox

and…

Etch-A-Sketch (who posted this? BusyMom? Yes she’s the one.)

It’s New Year’s Day — happy 2007! I’ve noticed that everyone is writing up cool memes for the new year, listing out resolutions, talking about their plans for their blogs. None of that here at Wacky House, because I am in full party avoidance mood. This always happens to me before we throw a party. I get a bunch of stuff done ahead of time — cleaning, baking, cooking — then the day of I’m all, “Yikes. People are coming over in three hours? Whose idea was that?”

That’s usually when Hockey God swoops in and cleans both bathrooms (which he did), and sometimes does the dishes (I’m still hoping). And it’s when I decide to break out the family slides and re-organize them. You know. In all my free time. No, for real — we were looking for something fun to do with the kids last night, after we had pizza and watched the hockey game. (Do we know how to party over here or what?) I broke out the slide projector, turned an end table around so we could project onto a somewhat blank wall, and found the slides from my Mom’s family.

Way too many slides of Cows in the Front Yard (my grandfather ranched) and not enough of People Acting Goofy. Since I’m the oldest grandkid, and my mom is the oldest kid in her family, you would think that most of the pix would be of us, right? You would be wrong. My grandfather really, really loved his goddamn cows. Here’s one! It’s a cow in the back yard, trying to get in through the sliding glass door. And another — it’s snowing, and a cow is hovering on the front porch, between the house and the spruce hedges. Brrr. Cold cow! Go back to the barn! Here’s my grandpa, cooing at a cow. And my uncle, with a look on his face like he’s thinking, “Cows? WTF? I thought we were going hunting this weekend…”

My favorite pic: My grandma washing her hair in a bucket by the side of the road in Alaska, when she and my grandpa drove up there with their travel trailer for a fishing trip in ’73.

My grandma.

With her head.

In a bucket.

Yeah.

Another large group of slides are of my grandpa, waving various guns around, while he and my uncles are hunting. Ditto: uncles with guns. Ditto: uncles’ friends with guns.

So I’m thinking, “Why am I hanging on to these slides? They’re not of me. They’re boring. Except the bucket picture, which is frickin’ hilarious. Eastern Oregon is pretty and all, but damn, how many photos of ponderosa pines does one family need in the archives? God, I hate cows.”

Then I find a slide in the middle of this jumble, and it’s of my Dad and me. He’s teaching me to fish. I look about three in the photo. Aw. And one of me, holding my newborn sister. Aw. And my mom, looking gorgeous and young (!!! twenty!!! She and my Dad were babies when they got married — he was only 21.) Then I get to a box where it says (in my grandma’s handwriting): GOOD SLIDES. I think, “Hot damn, here we go.”

They’re of the “snow dell trip” “truck in ditch” and my baby sister, posing with two deer heads that my uncles stuck in a detergent box as a joke. (Successful hunting trip, from the looks of it. They must have been in jolly moods. These pix are pre-cow.)

Really, I think this is all you need to know about my family, the essence of who we are. Because truly, she meant it. Those were the GOOD SLIDES. I’m taking all of them, sorting them out in big plastic envelopes, and my uncles get these, my aunts get those, my sister gets the others; my cousins will get a batch. I took a hundred of them to Fred Meyer this morning to be scanned and put on a CD — $38 bucks! Not bad.

My question: What to do with the one of granny washing her hair? I’m thinking eBay.

Happiest New Year’s wishes for organization in your family tree.

Love,

WM