* my students. I don’t write about them that often, because they need their privacy. They’re kids, and they’re not “my” kids (even though I possessively, constantly call them “my” students). from the daily hello’s to the drop-ins, from the “i love you” notes in my desk to the way they’ve changed, grown, blown my mind in the two years I’ve known them… they are the best.

* I don’t think any of them read this blog (they rarely read my library blog, even though I keep shoving the url at them), but if they do happen to stop by… I’ll miss you guys, you are great kids. They tell me, You are the best librarian, and all I can say is, With students like you, it’s easy to be good at my job.

* okay, enough, i’m getting all bummed out now.

* i may or may not land a gig next year, who knows. “it is what it is” — anon.

* i’ve been loving all the nature out in our new neighborhood — the greenspaces, parks, frogs, green, green, green, snakes and tons of flowers, trees, flora and fauna. i feel bad i’ve been slamming on the west side for so long. it’s alright out here.

* i tried to make dinner tonight. I really did, i swear to you. you know i’m trying to be better about that, and not giving up and getting pizza 3 nights out of 7.

* But there was a meeting after school, and I spaced and forgot my phone and had to fetch it, so by the time we got home, it was later than usual, and blood sugar was low. It was a hit/miss thing, dinner. Hit: Fed the kids in courses — baby carrots, apples, crackers (what are they, horses?), yogurt and… they didn’t want what we were having, frozen roasted vegetable lasagna (store-bought), and Texas burgers. (Amy’s for both of those items.) Miss: everything else. Oh, wait — the big bowl full of sugared, sliced strawberries was a hit.

* the kids opted for cereal. not hot oatmeal (breakfast for dinner = yes, let’s do that). smart kids. the lasagna was awful, but the Texas burgers were good, once I doctored them up with relish and mango chutney. i would do breakfast for dinner more, but they don’t eat bacon. or fake bacon. sausage. or fake sausage. it’s waffles or pancakes or nuthin’ around here, and Steve usually fixes those on the weekends so…

* red wine was good, at least ;)

now steve’s making music and i’m getting ready for a shower and bed. end of the school year has got me by the throat, but that’s okay.

xo

wm

…and prolly i’ll say it again, but there are 2 reasons why i love country music:

1) the men are always sorry
2) and the women are always leaving

Oh, Ellen Aim & the Attackers, you were always so underrated.

OK, OK, now I know you’re going to want to hear “I Can Dream About You.”

Nighty-night!

xo

wm

found a reference to this in one of the diaries, too. yum. i miss being an English major.

— wm

Chewy Chocolate Cookies a la Granny

1 1/4 sticks Margarine or Butter
2 cups Sugar
2 Eggs
2 t. Vanilla
2 Cups Flour
3/4 cup Dry Cocoa
1 t Salt
1 cup Chopped nuts

Cream Margarine & Sugar & Vanilla, add eggs, beat
Put Flour, Cocoa, Nuts, soda & Salt in Mix.
Mix Well. Chill 30 minutes
Roll in Balls & in Powder Sugar.

Grease Cookie Sheet

Bake at 350 10 to 12 minutes

DON’T OVER BAKE.

You know who gave me this recipe? My Dear Late Granny’s mailwoman, that’s who. I can tell it’s my grandma’s recipe cuz it calls for Powder Sugar (not “powdered sugar”) and cuz she shouts “DON’T OVER BAKE” at me, even from beyond the grave. I love her so.

— wm

i just spent an hour on the floor of my closet re-reading old journals because some of you must go, okay? I just don’t know which ones.

These are the times when I find being a writer to be just… miserable. Writing = more navel-gazing and misery.

What did I find? A whole lot of nothing. I’m telling you. A lot of ranting about what a witch my boss was (she really was. whenever I stayed home sick she would call me mid-day to whimper in my ear, ask me where things were on her desk, and to tell me to come to work), a few sexy descriptions (which are now shredded — nothing I’d want to lift for fiction, just some random sexiness) (no, my kids don’t need to read that crap, after I’m gone) (note to self: stop writing about sex), and speaking of… pages and pages devoted to how it really was going to work out with Mr. Wrong this time, I mean it, Diary! etc. And two good quotes (neither of them from me, shocker I know):

“I pierce you with the ack-ack of love, flowerpot.” — Pepe Le Pew
(from the cartoon “Two Scent’s Worth — 1955)

and…

“I wept because I have lost my pain and am not yet accustomed to its absence. …” — Anais Nin

OK, the hour was worth it.

…but my buddy from high school is! Hi, Chris!

He and his wife do a nice job with the podcasting, go check it out.

— wm

i read this book once, a great book, and I read so much of course I can’t remember the title, but I know it will turn up again eventually (I seem to have lost a couple of boxes of books, in the move) and then…….. haHA! See? People think my rambling is just so much… rambling… but no. It has a purpose. And that purpose is: I just remembered the name of the book. “Hope Floats”? Nope. That was the book they made into a movie with what’s-her-name and I wasn’t into the book, or the movie. The title is:

“Sorrow Floats,” by Tim Sandlin

From Publishers Weekly: Able storytelling and an engaging cast of dysfunctional modern American pilgrims animate this winning tale of the road. When tipsy, 23-year-old Maurey Pierce Talbot accidentally drives through her Wyoming town with her baby on the roof of her car, she realizes just how far she has sunk since her father’s death left her distraught and almost unhinged. (She writes him daily picture postcards, knowing full well he is gone but unable to come to terms with her loss.) After attempting suicide and being thrown out by her philandering husband, she meets Lloyd and Shane, two recovering alcoholics who have devised a scheme to smuggle Coors beer to the East Coast. Longing to be reunited with her eight-year-old daughter Shannon in North Carolina (Sandlin chronicled Shannon’s birth in Skipped Parts), Maurey decamps on an unlikely odyssey, pulling a horse trailer full of beer behind a broken-down old ambulance, sipping Yukon Jack from the bottle as her companions search for AA meetings. Maurey is not yet ready to deal with her alcoholism or her reluctance to be loved, but the hardships of the road and the bonds that unite this group of refugees (others join them along the way) will change that. Maurey’s wry, cocksure voice evokes both her cowgirl roots and the novel’s ’70s setting. Despite the bickering, sarcasm, cynicism and personal tragedy that season the lives of his colorful, credible characters, Sandlin fashions a convincing tale of redemption.

She writes postcards to her dead dad. I’m telling you — I read that and I thought, that is one helluva good and crazy idea. I keep meaning to do it, but it will have to be just the right postcard. And no, I’m not going to do like Steve’s ex-girlfriend and write teeny-tiny in order to fit more writing on them. (I was snooping through his stuff cleaning our room once and found a card from her. I tried to read it, in case there was anything sexy written on it? Oh, please, like you’ve never done that, gimme a break.

But the writing was so teeeeeeeeeeny and cramped that I couldn’t even read it. When Steve finally came in the room I was all, What the hell?!?? and threw the card at him.

“I can’t even read this, dude!”

Like it was his fault she didn’t know how to write on stationery and stuff it in an envelope instead of going the postcard route.

I guess I wouldn’t need to put stamps on them, if I started mailing my dad cards. Anyway, it does sound cathartic to me. And a little weird, but who cares?

In honor of Memorial Day weekend, my dad’s birthday, and… the weather… I give you three re-runs. Cuz apparently I don’t need to write the guy postcards when I can just write posts for him on Thee Blog. I should call it, Notes to My Dead Dad instead of Wacky Mommy, in all honesty.

this one

and

that one

and…

the best one.

peace.

— wm

i’d forgotten what it was like living with a musician, Steve has been into the politics and out of music for so long. however, the main reason for our getting the hell out of Portland was so we could say buh-bye to the politics and, “Hey, you! You still love me? Sorry I’ve been ignoring you” to writing, reading and music.

yes, we moved to the suburbs so we could get back to being artists. The Only 2 People in the History of the World to pull that one. People, it’s working. The kids have friends over all the time, or they’re at their friends’ houses. There are parks, schools and empty lots within walking distance. They both are into taekwondo (i read while they kick and yowl). I have never spent so little time with my children in… almost 12 years.

Steve’s got the music studio set up now, it’s pretty cool. and i say this as someone who has nary a musical bone in her body. i like to sing, but I don’t think anyone else enjoys it as much as I do. when i sing with my students, I get them started and they take over on “Chicka-Chicka Boom-Boom,” “Down By the Bay” or whatever else ties in with the book we’re reading for story time. (We mainly sing variations on “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider,” ie — “The Big Fat Spider,” where you clap your hands and make your voice go deep, and the “teensy-weensy spider,” where you make your voice as tiny and squeaky as possible. No, the 7th and 8th graders won’t sing with me. Come to think of it, they won’t do story time, either. Why???)

So when I heard car brakes screeching (no the boys didn’t get run over, they were on the sidewalk, allegedly), when the girls were slamming the door in the neighbor’s face (sweet. sweet, sweet girls. I made them take over brownies and apologize) and when I heard, “ewwwwww you can see the dead snake from the front window” (in the front flower bed, where Steve left him. next to the dead salamander. neighbor’s cattle dog is a good little hunter)…

i’m thinking, Steve? Where the hell…?

Oh. In his studio. Headphones on.

Guys are so smart.

OK, i gotta go, Friday Night Lights is on.

— wm