This is one of my favorites. Happy Monday to you.
wm
ps — the word for the day is…
obambulate
PRONUNCIATION:
(o-BAM-byuh-layt)
MEANING:
verb tr.: To walk about.
Alternate meaning: To get elected President.
And after I asked him if he was taking a pumpkin to carve for the contest:
“I’m not taking a pumpkin to carve. There are going to be tattoo artists there! No way am I winning any contests against the tattoo artists.”
(Why didn’t I go? I’ve been sick all week. And I brought home two days’ worth of work to finish at home. Because I am dedicated like that.)
(Also, I told all of my students last week that Halloween is next Friday. Because I thought it was. Mean trick! No treats! Whoops. Guess they’ll figure it out if they try to go tricker treatin’ on Oct. 24th.)
Finally, a memoir where someone doesn’t lie their head off. “Grace After Midnight” is the story of Felicia “Snoop” Pearson (who played Snoop on the acclaimed HBO series “The Wire”). (Grand Central Publishing, 2007, $22, 233 pages.) She is one amazing Baltimore woman. As a teenager, she landed in Jessup State Penitentiary for killing a woman in self-defense.
Whether Pearson is writing about her birth (as a three-pound, cross-eyed baby who was addicted to crack), about her mother tearing the dress off of her baby girl’s body and selling it for drugs, or about her knack for selling dildos and perfume in prison, she writes it raw, pure, and poignantly. She’s got a sense of humor, too, thank God for her. (more…)
I love Tinker Bell, know why? No, why? (Sorry, couldn’t resist.) The new movie is coming out, and I am even more excited about it than my children are. And they are quite excited, having just seen the original Peter Pan not long ago.
(Comments open on full post.)
POEM AGAINST THE FIRST GRADE
by George Venn
“Alex, my son, with backberry jam
smeared ear to ear and laughing,
rides his unbroken joy with words
so fast we let him get away
on the jamjar without clean cheeks first.
He spills frasasass
tea with milk and honey;
a red-chafted schlicker
beats our cottonwood drum.
Thumping the pano keys
like a mudpie chef,
he goes wild with words
at the wittle wooden
arms inside, a hundred
Pinoschios to singsong.
If he can’t wide byebye
bike to the candy store,
where he is Master Rich
with one penny, words turn
to tears in his mouf. Once
in a while, he walks home
with pum-pum-pumpernickel bread
his nose twitching so fast
a wabbit would love him.
Now this language is not taught in first grade.
Alicia, his tister, knows this fact.
But he juggles it around all day
until she makes him spit it out like
a catseye marble or a tack. “Ax,” she says,
“that’s not right.” She’s been among giants
who wipe off the dialect of backberry jam,
then pour hot wax on each bright mistake.
I hope for a bad seal on Ax and tister,
encourage the mold of joyous error
that proper sad giants, armed to the ears
with pencils and rules, all forgot.”
just for the next week or so, I am taking a break and will not be blogging.
xo
wm
When I was young and drunk, I dated a large Irishman, who was 6’5″ and, like me, an English major and writer. He also liked to drink. And have conversations that were apropos of everything and nothing at the same time. (more…)
I believe you already know that nothing makes me, Wacky Mommy, hap-hap-happier than a few new fish! Today I took the only person who loves fish more than I do — my son, Young Wacky Boy — to the fish store, where we purchased:
* 2 little tiny leopard catfish
* 2 more little tiny Killer Dwarf Frogs , to keep our lone Killer Dwarf Frog company. About him, the clerk said, “He did not eat your male guppy. The guppy must have died of natural causes. Probably of a heart attack.” I’m thinking, yeah, he heart attacked while a killer dwarf frog was gobbling him alive. Which brings us to…
* a male Black Velvet guppy, cuz the female, she was lonely
* a tiny freshwater shrimp, who scoots around like a madman and somewhat resembles a seahorse
* another Blackskirt Tetra — this one looks a lot like an angelfish and was lovingly hand-raised by one of the employees at the store, who only agreed to let me take the fish home after I promised I would keep his tank spit-spot clean, not overfeed him, and coo at him through the glass to let him know we adore him
* nine new live plants — some very tall, some very small
* a siphon thingy (thank you, Funsize)
* replacement parts for the filter/pump (foam and charcoal)
* more food
* more dechlorinating drops
* a thing to scrape and clean the walls of the tank AND to plant plants with! (It’s quite a doohickey.)
I know, I am a geeb about all this, but my son and I are so happy now.
My daughter: “I cannot believe you did this. Oh my gosh, look at the catfish they are sooooooo cute!“
I may do yardwork this fine, sunny fall weekend.
I may not.
I may go to church for the first time in months.
I may sleep in with Hockey God.
It’s always good to have options, no?
Whatever you do this weekend, I hope it is relaxing and fun.
love,
wm
POEM AGAINST THE FIRST GRADE
by George Venn
“Alex, my son, with backberry jam
smeared ear to ear and laughing,
rides his unbroken joy with words
so fast we let him get away
on the jamjar without clean cheeks first.
He spills frasasass
tea with milk and honey;
a red-chafted schlicker
beats our cottonwood drum.
Thumping the pano keys
like a mudpie chef,
he goes wild with words
at the wittle wooden
arms inside, a hundred
Pinoschios to singsong.
If he can’t wide byebye
bike to the candy store,
where he is Master Rich
with one penny, words turn
to tears in his mouf. Once
in a while, he walks home
with pum-pum-pumpernickel bread
his nose twitching so fast
a wabbit would love him.
Now this language is not taught in first grade.
Alicia, his tister, knows this fact.
But he juggles it around all day
until she makes him spit it out like
a catseye marble or a tack. “Ax,” she says,
“that’s not right.” She’s been among giants
who wipe off the dialect of backberry jam,
then pour hot wax on each bright mistake.
I hope for a bad seal on Ax and tister,
encourage the mold of joyous error
that proper sad giants, armed to the ears
with pencils and rules, all forgot.”
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