QOTD from rapper Ice-T: “‘My idea of a vacation does not include screaming kids, spilt drinks and wrestling a wet bulldog into a life jacket.”

#stilllivingvicariouslythruvacationsofothers.

When I say, Everyone and his dog is going on vacation, but we’re staying home, well. It’s true!

hahahaha.

— wm

from my friend Terri:

“We all need to learn radical forgiveness whether it is for one who has injured us, for our collective harm in the world, or for ourselves.”

Mischief managed.

I was just at Safeway — “We Didn’t Start the Fire” starts blaring over the loudspeakers. While I do like some of Mr. Joel’s music (the old, old, oldies — “Only the Good Die Young,” “New York State of Mind,” “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant”) man do I hate “We Didn’t Start the Fire.” I think it is one of the most weak-ass songs in the history of weak-ass songs.

But I noticed something strange — everyone, and I mean everyone, whose paths I crossed while the song was playing were really into it. I mean, old people, young people, maladjusted teenage boys who looked like hardcore would be more their thing — everyone — shimmying, singing along, hip-bumping in the aisles.

Trip.

I kept my eyes averted and was fine.

That Suzanne has got me all inspired.

Would you like to write a cookbook, too? Here’s a template. I’m playing around with it right now — easy peasy. We can do it together — this will be fun. Let me know how it goes ;)

Seriously — novel is done. I’ve proofread and edited it, now I’m turning it over to the Real Editors and they can have at it. Then I’ll upload it to Kindle (via CafePress), and I’ll sell you a copy. Yes? Yes.

So I’m moving on to the next project, and it is going to be way easier than The Great American Novel was. Remember when I started working on my Dear Granny’s Life Story and Cookbook, many moons ago? Yeah, me neither. Kidding. Do you remember this post? I am so glad Steve and I shifted our priorities. It was time. I do wish I had been able to finish my Grandma’s cookbook while she was still with us. However. Honestly? Honestly — she would have hated whatever I wrote. She was a frustrated writer, herself. It would have been incredible if she would have been able to write her memoirs, or a cookbook, or a combo, like I am planning. But she didn’t type, didn’t use computers, wrote longhand on yellow pads and in small journals, and I was not patient enough to sit down and work with her on it.

She had (untreated) diabetes and was grouchy from it, most of the time. She lived on those miniature Mounds bars and the Meals on Wheels that I signed her up for. She refused to let me take her out to eat, didn’t like the food I brought over, complained about anything anyone else cooked. She loved my auntie’s teriyaki chicken, rice and macaroni salad. Whew. So that was something. And she loved the church potlucks she helped host.

She was a trip, my Granny, and I loved her dearly. But she was a complicated person.

As I said in that other post, she would tell you, “Well, that was just a situation” and then she’d clam up. She wasn’t one for discussing “feelings” or “making progress” or “monitoring her blood sugar” or “getting exercise.” Man.

“She’s a pistol!” Yep. She was. Oh my gosh, this is one of the funniest stories she ever told me.

So I am easing up a little, on myself, about not finishing her book until now.

Love you Grandma, and I miss you every day.

xo

nancy

ps I can’t leave you without some of her recipes. Bon appetit.

Chewy Chocolate Cookies

Lemon Bundt Cake with Orange Glaze

(for your inner diabetic…) (and…)

Chow-Chow!

Sugar Cookies, Unstuffed Pepper Soup and Apple Pizza

Dear You,

Sometimes, I get so personally attached to a writer, and/or the person’s book, that I just want to hug ’em and not let go and not share them with anyone. Mine, mine, mine. Do you ever get like that? Is it just me?

Anyway, that’s how I feel about Suzanne Beecher and her delightful new memoir/cookbook, “Muffins & Mayhem: Recipes for a Happy (if Disorderly) Life.” Mine, mine, mine. I bought a copy for my Kindle, read it on the iPad just now, and have a hard copy arriving in the mail in a few days.

Mine, mine, mine. But how can I hog her all to myself? I cannot. And so I will share this much with you:

Her book is funny, rich, inspired. Suzanne has been through a lot, and every time she ends up with lemons she just makes a pitcher of lemonade, then sells it by the glass. Her recipes are so yummy… I knew some of them from her blog, and have made several of them over the years (Crockpot Stuffing, Dolly Madison Muffins, Skunk Beans). I appreciate a girl who can cook and write, probably more than your average fan. Who knows why? Oh, wait…

I have written about her so many times here on The Blog (go search for “Suzanne” or “DearReader”), I’m like her one-woman fan club. But not. I have to share her with the nearly half a million readers who follow her book clubs. Also one time she sent me chocolate chip cookies, when I was working at Jefferson High School in beautiful Portland, Ore. I shared them with the students and some of the other teachers and staff. We took pictures of our Cooky Feast and mailed them to Suzanne. She is crazy for pictures. And her grandkids. And her bubble machine. And her pink flamingos. Also she is nuts about her husband. I’m just sayin’ — what a gal.

She is such a good writer, my Internet friend Suzanne. Inspirational and funny, poignant and assertive, business-savvy and artistic, compassionate and not-at-all-perfect. But she’s perfect to me. And if she wasn’t all the way in Florida, and I wasn’t all the way out here in Oregon, I’d go give her a big hug right now.

Only she would probably say, Honey, it’s 11:17 p.m. on a Monday night, shouldn’t you be in bed? Heehee.

Go buy her book, and buy a couple of extra copies to give as gifts. Knowing Suzanne, she will send you a free autographed bookplate and a bookmark.

Bon appetit!

Wacky Mommy

ps — private note to my son, who is very much a 9-year-old: Darling. When I tell you, Go to bed, please go to bed. Do not go stick Silly Putty in your sister’s hair, instead. That is just naughty. We had no choice but to cut it out, and now her hair is all… hunky in that spot. It’s in hunks now. Hunks of hair. Love you so much, Mommy

Today:

A month ago:

http://youtu.be/9gKW4S4fdjM

man. remember when i said, don’t blow anything up outside my bedroom window? what I meant to tell the neighbors was, PLEASE blow up a bunch of fancy fireworks make ’em go boom-boom-boom right outside my window.

i am not one for fireworks, but since Dear Wacky Dog has been gone for some time now, it’s not as bad. God, he had a miserable time with the fireworks. Here’s the story: the “good” fireworks are “illegal” in Oregon, but “legal!!!” in Washington. We lived in North Portland, which is, like, border town to Washington state. So everyone, but not their dogs, because their dogs frickin’ hate fireworks (and not us, because I’m too cheap. Plus I like to keep it legal, thank you) drives across the bridge, loads up on the “good,” fancy fireworks, then drives back and makes ’em go oh-oh-oh BOOM-SNAP-CRACKLE-POP.

When we moved to fancy westside suburbs, I thought, This is no border town. It’s a border town to the Wine Country, and the ocean breezes, that’s about all it’s a border town to.

“Surely people won’t bark at the moon and shoot off their guns out here, like they do in North Portland?”

Last year we were enjoying the ocean breezes, so this was our first Fourth in the new house. Man. People do it UP out here. We walked around the neighborhood and watched the little shows, then walked up the hill and could see four or five big fireworks shows from all over town. Then we figured out the best show around was right out in our backyard. The people in the cul-de-sac behind us partied all day, and once it got dark did a fireworks show that went on forever.

I finally fell asleep about midnight, hearing faint boom-boom-booms from all around. Crazy.

This morning they were out there with their leaf-blowers, cleaning up.

#suburbsareatrip.

Have a great week!

— wm

Dang, summer gets busy, doesn’t it?

Happy Sunday to y’all. And to those of you patriotic types out there, happy Fourth of July. Try not to blow up anything right outside my bedroom window, okay? OK! Hey, I know I’ve been missing in action. But I also know that you don’t read blogs anymore, cuz you’re so busy with that little hussy, Facebook. I have a whole long essay I’d like to write, re: Facebook, but they did a switch-up and made it so you can easily cancel a friend request, if you so desire. And that makes me happy because, you know. Drunk Facebooking: Why It’s Bad.

Kidding! I stopped drinking two months ago! Just booze. I still drink water and iced tea, fyi.

So I cannot blame The Booze for anything anymore. But I never could, anyway. I don’t really know where I’m going with this, but I’ve lost some weight and my blood sugars seem to be not freaking out as much, and that’s good.

Oh. Here’s a social etiquette FB question for you: Let’s say you have a friend, and your friend changes her home number, her cell number, gets a new job, doesn’t give you any of the three new numbers… OK. That’s bad enough, right?

(“Grab a fucking clue!” — my drug-addicted friend’s drug addict boyfriend, when I called her before noon one time. She hung up, then when I called back, he yelled that in the background and she hung up again. Later, this happened. (Different guy.) Uh, yeah. I used to have the sweetest friends!)

Where was I? OK, the phone number thing, then she de-friends you on FB. But keeps your husband as a friend? I think not. She’s not even real-life friends with him! We were friends from, you know, back in the day, WTF? Steve is all, Cat fight, i’m out of here. hahaha. I sent her a friend request, then thought, What am I, nuts? (Grabbing clue, canceling friend request.) The Nice Girl inside of my head keeps saying, primly, I’m sure it was all a big mistake.

Ha.

Here’s how kids cry in the suburbs: “Hu-waaaaaaaaah, hu-waaaaaaaaaaaaaaah, hu-waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh…”

Here’s what the moms say: “If everyone can’t play together nicely, then everyone will have to go home.”

Kids: “Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!”

(verbatim dialogue from across the street.)

So my question is, I guess: Do I call her? Oh, wait… Alright, if she calls me, do I ask, WTF? Do I send her a message on FB, asking her if we’re still friends? (What am I, a teenager here?) We didn’t have a fight or anything, that I can recall. To the best of my recollection. She got pissed off about something, but that was a long time ago, and I thought we patched it up? (It wasn’t me, anyway — it was a third person, and was just lame.) (I wasn’t even there, alright? Long story, nevermind.)

(here’s some skateboarder dialogue from midnight, the other night. we live on a steep hill that the long-boarders loooooooooooooove. It’s like the Mountain Dew action tour, every frickin’ day):

SPECTACULAR CRASH, followed by:

1st skater: “Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!”

2nd skater: “Dude!”

1st skater: “Dude, seriously. I just fucked up my leg.” (Thirty-second pause.) “It’s okay, it’s just fractured, not broken.”

(thoughts from Dr. Mom: Really? Without an x-ray you just diagnosed that in less than one minute? Wow, you are good!)

2nd skater: “Which direction did your board go?” (we live in the suburbs — it’s like the country out here, at night — dark and everyone asleep in the barn.)

1st skater: “That way. Aiiiiiiiiiiiiii why did I think I could pull that one off?”

Man.

What else? Steve and the kids made me the best birthday dinner last night. (The guys were out of town last week, so we had a belated celebration.) Homemade Cheese Ravioli (thank you, Wacky Girl — your pasta-making skills astound me) and Cake Poppers, a la Zoot. (Thank you, Wacky Boy, for your willingness to smush together cake and frosting and turn it into art). (More pix over here.)

What? It’s not your birthday?

Frances (from “A Birthday for Frances”): “That is how it is, Alice. Your birthday is always the one that is not now.”

i (heart) my family for a lot of reasons, and especially because they always make my birthday special.

Now they’re at a family barbecue, and I am not. Which means I need to get back to editing, already.

hugs and kisses, little fishes,
xoxoxo

me