I don’t know whether or not you follow Dooce’s monthly love letters to her daughter, Leta, but this month’s is beautiful, and intense. Hang in, Dooce. The Internet loves you, Jon and the Fair Leta.

SO GO READ IT, OKAY, PEOPLES? THEN WATCH SESAME STREET. AND DRINK SOME WATER OUT OF A BIG CUP. YOU’LL FEEL BETTER.

While you’re at it, go send some Internet lovin’ to Our Lady of Amalah, who finds herself a little muddled.

If you have some time, and haven’t yet peeked at Holly’s travel journal at Nothing But Bonfires, by all means, start reading. Sometimes I think I’m an OK writer, then I read Holly’s stuff and I just go like this, “Hugest sigh in life.”

Internet love, to these girls and guys, and to all my friends! But to you, the guys in the big trucks who almost ran us over the other day? You know who you are. One of you turned lickity-split into the parking lot on Killingsworth, trying to make the street live up to its name, apparently. And ignoring the mom with the stroller (me) and her cute little preschooler (Wacky Boy). The other of you refused to slow down, even when you saw we were halfway across the street (trying to escape Truck Guy #1, who was trying to roar back out of driveway. “Roar in, roar out, we are the world, we are the Truck Guys”). Yeah, remember us? You swerved a little bit into oncoming traffic to avoid hitting the stroller. Once you had sped up. Yeah, nice work. You both drive real good. NO INTERNET LOVE FOR YOU.

Off to eat breakfast, finally.

Adieu,

WM

Here’s what we’re doing today. Yay, walking! Yay, biking! Yay, not getting run over by cars, trucks and vans because there are so many of us.

More later…

WM

It’s later. Our walk was such a blast — Hockey God went with us, and a bunch of the neighbor kids, and there were treats and prizes for everyone once we got to school. About half the kids at school participated — coooooooooool!

I’m writing my Thursday Thirteen early because I have too much going on in the next couple of days! Just for you, I have my best excuses, followed by my best reasons, for walking the kids to school. (In honor of International Walk and Bike to School Day.)

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“He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.”

— Friedrich Nietzsche, philosopher (1844-1900)

That’s what I’m saying!

I called the city on my neighbor last week. And the county. And then (because I was on a roll, obviously) Animal Control. If she keeps being so rotten to her aged mother, I’m calling Elder Control, too. (Wait, I don’t think that’s what it’s really called.) Yee-haw, virtual high-fives to me for finally getting up the nerve to do this AFTER SIX YEARS OF HER.

As those of you who regularly read this blog know, I have two neighbors: Angel (Wacky Nekkid Neighbor) and Devil (Evil Neighbor). I am sorry to be so simplistic, but there is just no way around it. I am in Purgatory. Apparently I was really rotten as a child and this is payback. (more…)

We were at dinner. Two tables over I saw this cute family — both kids dressed in their school uniforms. Well, the parents weren’t that cute, they were kind of homely. But the kids were cute, because of the uniforms and all. I’m thinking, like I always think when I see those adorable jumpers and the sharply-creased slacks and the plain white shirts, “I love school uniforms. So practical! So not Hello Kitty and Crazy Doesn’t Even Begin to Cover It (with that stupid bunny that my daughter and all the other girls adore) and My Pretending to Listen to You Should Be Enough and Your Shirt Says ‘Princess’ But Your Face Says ‘Frog.‘” Etc.

(I have a fondness for school uniforms that is not shared by my friends who attended parochial school. Unless their kids are at parochial school, in which case they all say, “School uniforms are the best. You don’t have to hassle every day about what to wear, and it’s cheaper, and NO FIGHTS ABOUT SLUTTY CLOTHES.”)

So I’m daydreaming about uniforms, and cursing crop-tops, low-slung jeans and bitchy T-shirts and I notice that her kids have left her table. And her husband. She’s alone. She’s having a moment of “mommy me time.” And she’s… tongueing something?

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My sister decides she’s going to get a dog. I think, Good! Big dog! Big dogs good!

She says, No big dog, medium dog.

I think, Eh, medium dog OK. Maybe a 40- or 50-pounder?

She is pleased as punch with 16-pound squirrel killer, The Ratter, aka Random Pooper because, you know. These are the reasons Random Pooper has been 86ed from our house, from time to time: Random pooping, licking her own ass and then my kids’ faces, licking the cats’ asses (repeat), kicking the cats’ asses, OH! Litter boxes! MORE cat ass! Good grazing.

Me: Fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa.

My sister: I’m sorry!

Me: Why? Did you poop on the floor?

Then the Random Pooper shows up at my door, dressed up as a dinosaur, and how can I refuse her? (Notice she stays on her leash, so she won’t commit any crimes while she’s here.)

“I won’t fuck with the cats. Or eat their poop. I promise.”

“AIIIIIIIII AIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII I CAN’T SEE! HELP ME!”

“Are the cats here?”

My mom: “I tried to find one in Wacky Dog’s size — they didn’t have one!”

Me: “That was sweet, Mom.”

Wacky Dog: Thank you, Jesus.

Ready for holiday shopping yet?

Look over there — on the right. Cool stuff for sale, designed by Hockey God and approved by me. All proceeds from sales benefit our writing careers and my coffee habit. Hoodies, magnets, bibs, bags, stickers and T’s. Go for it.

Love,

WM

At the Book Fair yesterday at the North Portland Library, we received a FREE copy of one of the Addy, American Girl books. (Wacky Girl adores American Girl anything, especially now that Emily, Molly’s English friend! has arrived! Much excitement at Wacky House over this. I told her if she scams enough Christmas money, then maybe.)

MORE REVIEWS:

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Let’s say you have a dad who is, eh, for the most part pretty nice. Takes you to ice skating lessons, teaches you to ride a two-wheeler, makes you chocolate chip waffles for breakfast. But he has this habit of saying, “Drink your milk. The whole glass. Drink all of it. All of it. Now. Do not pour it down the sink. I said don’t pour it down the sink. I can’t believe you just poured that down the sink after I told you not to.”

A solution?

How about you stand up at the breakfast table, pretend to pour the entire glass of milk in your ear, then douse the front of your nightgown, the chair and the rug with it. Problem solved! Now you’ve just got to clean up the mess.

“What were you thinking?” HG asks.

“I. Don’t. Knoooooooooooow!!!” she trills, jitterbugging around the house.

I (heart) Wacky Girl and her sheer, unbridled enthusiasm for life.

For my Thursday Thirteen I present:

THIRTEEN THINGS MY GRANDMA LIKES TO SAY (over and over and over…)

13. “Depressed my ass! She needs to clean her house!”

12. “Who do you think you are, Little Miss Astor Butt?”

11. “Get on down here to dinner or I’m throwing it out.”

10. “Elvis. That poor boy just had too much too fast.”

9. “Patsy. Ol’ Patsy had her a hard life.”

8. “How are you, sugar?”

7. “Bacon! I love bacon. It is my downfall. But I’ve had to cut back — I only eat it every other day now.”

6. “Randy Travis — your grandpa just loved Randy Travis.”

5. “I made you some of that Ambrosia that you like so much.”

4. “I made your husband some of those Ranger Cookies that he likes so much.”

3. “Now I grew up during the Depression. I do not throw things away, like plastic bags. Your aunt always throws away plastic bags. And shops at Nordstrom. She refuses to shop anywhere but Nordstrom.”

2. “I do not drink. Not even a sip. But I do put wine in my fruitcake.”

1. “Men are like streetcars — there’s another one along every fifteen minutes. Miss one, catch the next.”