Sam Adams, the Brave New Mayor of Portland, gave a little press conference this afternoon. It gave me a raging headache, which is better than a raging something else, I suppose, which appears to be Sam Adams’ problem.

1) His press conference interrupted my Obama-thon and really, there is no excuse. He is Obama, Sam. You are just some idiot.

2) Well, the rumors were flying during the Adams’ campaign, about his “mentoring” relationship with a young intern. Did he screw a minor? No, of course not. He waited until he turned 18. Oh, sure. I feel a lot better about it now.

I don’t care if it was consensual. What I care about is that he was a kid. Eighteen is still a kid. What I care about is that when grown-ups sexually abuse children and young adults, whether it’s taking advantage of a situation (one extreme) or going in for the kill (the other extreme), they damage something in the other person.

You can damage a person’s heart and soul. You can damage their bodies. That body is not yours to take — it is theirs. May we be clear on this? It is not your body to take.

This is true of adult-on-adult situations, too. (And by “situations,” I mean the whole gamut — from taking advantage of someone because they’ve had too much to drink to doing serious bodily harm to a person.) You can harm another adult, and I might hate you for it, but when you harm a kid, you are a special kind of bastard to me.

Now you want… what, Sam? Forgiveness? You made sure you lied, you made sure that the other person lied, you made sure you got into office and now you want forgiveness? You’re not at church on Sunday morning, hon. Don’t pull a Jimmy Swaggart here, “I have sinned,” etc.

Don’t be that fucked up. You need to figure things out, and I need my city run by someone who’s not in some kind of midlife crisis, thinking he’s a teenager, having some hott teenage sex. You are a grown man. You are my age.

The Brave Little Toaster is much, much braver than our allegedly Brave Little Mayor. So. So, so, so. A note:

Dear Sam,

You said in your press conference that if the people of Portland asked for you to resign, you would. I’m asking, and I’m not the only one. The 900 cops in this town are asking you, too. Politely.

Love and kisses,

Wacky Mommy

Sgt. Scott Westerman, president of the Portland Police Association, tells Willamette Week that Adams’ admitted coverup of the 2005 affair with Beau Breedlove revealed “a dramatic lack of integrity.”

“What would happen if a police officer befriended a 17-year-old cadet, or a high-school girl, and waited until the second she turned 18 to nail her?” Westerman says. “This is the mayor of our city. This is supposed to be the person who dictates the culture.”

Yick.

Honey. Get to stepping.

If I could clone myself I would. One of me would go to work, one would have a spa day, one could keep all my appointments and one could go volunteer at the kids’ school, have lunch with them and give them a lift home.

here are bullets for you…

* It has been a crazy few months.

* I am starting a second new job, because why work just one job when you can work two? (They are both half-time.) (That equals one full-time job, which you math teachers out there probably already figured out.)

* Reading: Harry Potter 5, Everything on a Waffle, Jacob Have I Loved, more Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh.

* I have no appetite, yet am barely losing any weight.

* Our female guppy died, our male guppy, one of the leopard catfish, one of the neon tetras. The shrimp is doing fine, as are the blackskirt tetras, the rest of the neons, and the ugly, despicable snails.

* “Maybe those guppies had some issues” — Wacky Girl

* “Mom, why is it usually skinny people who are on Weight Watchers?” — Wacky Girl, as she balances on my exercise ball.

* “Hey! That’s very personal!” — Wacky Girl

* Friday Night Lights is REVIVED and back on NBC in just half an hour. Gotta go, Spocky.

xxox

wm

I speak broken English, mostly. “Nekkid” for “naked”; “Who dat?” for “Hello, this is Nancy, to whom am I speaking?” when I answer the phone. “I’m not playing these little fuck-fuck games” for “Please, you will cease and desist bothering me. Thank you.”

I would love to be fluent in Spanish. Hell (or “hail,” as my Arkansas-born mama says it), I would love to be fluent in English. I can understand Spanish, sometimes. Bits and pieces. I can get the gist of what someone is trying to say. My comprehension is OK, but when I speak it? Oh, man, do I get shy. My daughter attended an incredible Head Start program for one year of preschool. About half of the parents were native Spanish speakers, and the program coordinator was starting up an English class for them. Would I like to attend?

“You can work on your Spanish, they can work on their English,” she suggested.

I was too shy to even try.

Another time, we had a craft project, working on goody bags to send home with the families. Would I like to sew with them? They brought in 6 or 8 sewing machines, and were planning to fill the goody bags with all kinds of items to send home. (Enough for every family, so no one felt singled out.) I’m shy about my Spanish, but I am super-shy about my sewing and knitting. So I dropped off my requested donation of tangerines and candy and left, making an excuse about having to be somewhere else.

I tell you this now because I wish I had stuck around. I took two years of Spanish in high school, two years in college, and am now trying to practice my Spanish as much as I can. (We live in a neighborhood where Spanish has become the second language.)

So. So, so, so… along comes an item in the New York Times about a councilman’s proposed ballot measure “to limit Nashville government workers to communicating only in English.”

I like second languages. And third languages, and fourth. Use what you’ve got.

I, Wacky Mommy, am officially announcing the following:

Spanish shall be adopted nationwide as America’s official second language.

?Por que no? (That means: Why not?) It’s worked well for Canada, with French and English. It’s worked well for the rest of the world for (fill in the native tongue) and English. People around the world speak English. We have a lot of Spanish speakers here in the states.

(My late uncle, shocked: “Whites are the minority in California now!” me: “Heh heh heh.”)

We could at least attempt to keep up by learning some basic conversational Spanish. I’m all about bilingual signage. Why not?

And Nashville? Maybe it’s time to brush up on your language skills.

You know what I haven’t done all week?

* taken a breath
* watched TV
* spent any time with my own children
* read enough Harry Potter 5
* fed the cats (my daughter has, though — don’t worry!)
* STUDIED
* “dealt with” the laundry
* BLAWGGED

So, that’s what I will do this weekend. You?

wm

PS — our blogs were down for an indeterminate amount of time, i heard from Hockey God. Sorry. We good?

happy almost weekend.

xxox

wm

“Don’t call me shrill, ho.”

The last time I was called shrill, hmm, let’s see. Hmm, hmmm, hummers! That was it! My boss wanted me to blow him and I wouldn’t.

Then one of the other managers (female, unbelievably enough. Oh, wait. Naw, I can believe it) wanted me to explain myself. Apparently he thought blow jobs were part of my job description, complained to her, she was dispatched to “deal” with “the situation.”

“It’s just, you don’t usually sound so… shrill,” she told me.

So forgive me, Anna Griffin, that I am a little “p.o’ed” at you for calling our recently-elected City Commissioner “shrill.”

Steve just wrote a good post about said column. Then told me, “Doesn’t matter, all their links go dead after two weeks, anyway.” So I won’t bother giving them a link. But I’ll give him one. A link! Settle down, now.

Dear World (and by “world” I mean the 14 people out there who still read me),

So. So, so, so.

It is Sunday, January 4th, 2009.

We have a new president moving into the White House pretty soon.

Things are a mess in Gaza. Israel, I would like to ask you: While the rest of us are talking “hope” and “change” and “substance” in the new year, why do you feel the need to kill others? Please stop now. Obama seems to be pretty pro-Israel, pro-hawk, yes? Wanting to hunt down Bin-Laden and all. Maybe Israel is wanting to get in a few punches now, just in case they’re not allowed to later?

Unfortunately, as hopeful as I am about the new American administration, I think Israel is going to continue to be allowed to do whatever the hell they want to do. Israel = bully.

Why is it that while our nation’s schools are focused on policies of no-bullying, no physical violence, no verbal, sexual or mental abuse, no murder, certainly, the grown-ups can’t follow suit? Do as I say not as I do, aiiiiight?

The year my daughter started kindergarten, one of the first-graders wore a button everywhere that said

PUNCHING

with a black line drawn through it.

“Who gave you that, K?” I asked him.

He was all, aw shucks, smiley. “My teacher.”

Smart teacher.

No punching. Just love. And hope for a better world.

I have been meditating, writing in my journal and studying every day. It has helped with the chaos.

After a long, sometimes bumpy winter break (ice, snow, rain, snow, snow, sunshine, flooding, ice), we are heading back to school and work tomorrow. I’m thinking 6 a.m. should be pretty fun, especially since I’ve been sleeping until 9, 10, 10:30 a.m. every day for almost three weeks. Whatever it takes, that’s what I’m saying.

I saw on the news that the Estacada Library underwent a ton of damage (to books, computers, building) during the most recent bout of flooding. If you have a few dollars to spare, I know they would appreciate it.

Estacada Public Library
825 NW Wade
Estacada, OR 97023

peace,

wm

Look for Mother Maybelle and the Carter Sisters in the background on the second song.

Happy weekend, y’all.

love,

wm

“We will open the book. Its pages are blank. We are going to put words on them ourselves. The book is called Opportunity and its first chapter is New Year’s Day.” — Vixen

I am such a follower of Ms. Vixen. She makes me laugh my ass off, she makes me cry, she moves me. She deals with stuff and she moves on. She doesn’t forget, ever, but she is constantly moving forward. I can appreciate that. She and her family have been through some tough times this year, and I send them so much love and a ton of best wishes for this new year.

A number of my friends and family members have gone through some exceptionally awful times this year. They have learned things I wish they had never learned. Never had to learn. I wish them peace, and happiness, in this upcoming Year of the Ox.

Here is what I just found out about our friends, the Oxen:

The Ox is the sign of prosperity through fortitude and hard work. This powerful sign is a born leader, being quite dependable and possessing an innate ability to achieve great things. As one might guess, such people are dependable, calm, and modest. Like their animal namesake, the Ox is unswervingly patient, tireless in their work, and capable of enduring any amount of hardship without complaint.

Ox people need peace and quiet to work through their ideas, and when they have set their mind on something it is hard for them to be convinced otherwise.

Maybe this means a year of calm? Peace and quiet and lots of good work? I hope so. I hope the American war against Iraq ends soon. I hope we learn to leave the rest of the world be and focus on what we need to do to heal at home.

I wish all of you the best, my readers. Look into your heart, decide what you really want. What you can’t live without. What you need to change. What you can’t change. Find some peace and quiet. Work on what you need to do. Please get going. We don’t have all the time in the world, here. Sometimes I wish we did; other times I’m thankful we don’t. Count your blessings, every day.

I have been wondering a lot lately about where I’m going with my writing, my blog, my career. I like my new job. I more than like it — I have found myself a career and something I want to do until I retire, which (I hope) won’t happen anytime soon. I’m thinking twenty more years, then, after that, I’ll volunteer at a library for as long as I can. Are you hearing me out there? I found something I will be happy with for the rest of my life.

Whew.

All of you who said that English degree would never do anything for me? Nyah nyah nyah. I love books. I love getting kids reading. I love it.

I am satisfied with the work, the students, almost everything about it. But I need to earn my master’s degree, and I need to find a way, like Hermione in “Harry Potter,” to turn back time so I can be two places at once. And (for obvious reasons) I can’t write about work here, so you miss the funny stories and all that. So I am not all yours anymore.

As my kids get older, I do not want to share as much about our private lives. They’ve asked me not to, and I respect that. But this is a domestic blog, at its heart, and so… So, so, so. What next? Recipes and book reviews, hair tips and sex advice. Political stuff and news about the Nekkid Neighbors. (Although their kids are getting older, too, and maybe won’t want their crazy tales told by their wacky neighbor.)

I don’t like some of the strange e-mails and nasty comments that I’ve received. I love the funny comments and sweet e-mails I’ve received. I mostly ignore the rest and delete as needed. I’ve gone back and marked some of my older posts private.

We’ll see where the new year takes us all, eh? I do plan to spend a lot of time studying, playing with my kids and husband, working hard. I take my work seriously and hope you understand why I’m not always over here, or stopping by your blogs as regularly as I used to. I miss my blogworld, but the “real” world is pretty cool, too. (How can you say anything is more “real” than the blogs though? This is raw and pure.)

And, since I let Vixen have the first words, I’ll let her have the last words, too. Happy 2009, y’all.

nancy

“I wish that your every dream for 2009 come true. That you find yourself surrounded by friends, laughter, and good times. I wish that your every cup runneth over financially, romantically, spiritually, and creatively. That good health be your faithful companion, peace your guarded ally, and love your perpetual guide.”

(OK, can’t resist one more song from “White Christmas.” Just watched the movie again this week — Rosemary Clooney’s commentary on the DVD is frickin’ hilarious. What a class act. I love that girl. wm)

Hockey God is International Stud.

But you already knew that.

First, the Starbucks bloggers are all abuzz over him. So you knew who had to be next, don’t you?

That’s right. The French, they love my husband. (Or, would you prefer it translated?)

Of course the French love Steve. ?Por que no? Oh, wait. That’s Spanish. But say it out loud and it sounds the same in French.

What’s not to love, for reals? All of this coffee and love and international patter reminds me of the Planet Nomadics, when they visited last summer. They stopped by for my birthday, and Elliot missed the singing (in French and English) and candles.

“They sang en Franzosisch!” I told him.

He looked at me, perplexed, “They sang in German?”

Ba-da-BUMP! Ha ha ha ha heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Happy Monday, y’all.