“Many people hear voices when no one is there. Some of them are called mad and are shut up in rooms where they stare at the walls all day. Others are called writers and they do pretty much the same thing.”

— Margaret Chittenden, writer

Dear Internet,

Are you out there, or what? Why no comments? WTF? I mean, really — WTFF? (My mom’s favorite expression: “What the fucking fuck?” Yes, she says this in front of my children. “Ouch, my freakin’ ears!” — “The Simpsons.”)

I’m e-mailing agents. Rather, I’m compiling a list of all the agents who have previously rejected me, so I don’t bother them again.

It’s a fairly long list. I need to change my strategy. You know what I’m thinking I need to do? When I talk on the phone with my granny, I need to write down every freakin’ thing she says, and get that published. (more…)

Dear Hockey God,

You are grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreat! Thanks for all the lovin’.

WM, WG & WB

Hockey God forwarded me an e-mail from our Minneapolis buddy, Big T, with a DVD recommendation. And their fashion tips.

They’re cracking me up here.

wm

Big T: Today I’m wearing dark chocolate slacks and a sky blue power shirt. Brown shoes. I got my head shaved last weekend, and I am pert and bouncy in my step.

Hockey God:
Re: Today’s fashion glimpse
Me: earthen green pocket T, faded black jeans, scuffed black slip-on shoes. I haven’t shaved all week, and I need a hair cut. (In other words, I look like shit.)

Big T: What do you mean? That is a good color combination, and you’re growing a beard. The amazing thing to me is that many formal clothes cost less and are more comfortable than “casual” clothes. Case in point: denim jeans. Way too hot, and they cost astronomical sums.

(He’s right! And the DVD pick? The Third Man, with Joseph Cotten and Orson Welles. I can also recommend Jesus Camp and the Naked Brothers Band. OK, those look odd, grouped together. Nonetheless, have a delicious weekend. wm)

1) We used to always babysit for my cousin Ralphie while Mom and her sister Kay-Kay went out. They’re getting their purses, pulling on their coats, and Ralphie, who is 3 or so at the time, calls out, “You going to No Dogs or the Leaky Roof?” (Two popular tavs at the time. No Dogs Allowed had pictures of dogs on the bathroom doors and two signs: Pointers and Setters. None of us kids could figure out why this was so funny to the grown-ups.)

“We’re going shopping!” they hissed at him.

“Really?” he asked, looking a little baffled.

2) Then there was the time she told me about the guitar player who was entertaining at the pub that night. He sang “Sympathy for the Devil,” an acoustic version, and this table of revelers provided the “woo-woo’s” in all the right places. It became a mission of mine — to find the perfect night, the perfect pub, the perfect crowd. You can spend a lot on dinner, drinks and dancing, but the woo-woo chorus? Priceless.

3) Then there was the Mountain Moving Cafe, this all-ages lesbian-gay-hippie bar (no, seriously. I mean, how great is that?) we used to go to when I was about, 11-12? My friends were all too eager to go because hello? None of us had ever seen women french kiss each other before. Or men. We’d barely seen heteros french kiss. No, really. And they danced, and we danced, and we’d have drinks (just Cokes for us; booze for the adults) and it was righteous.

Also everyone smoked dope. It smelled great in there.

My friends: “When is your mom going to take us to that place again?”

And over the doorway that led into the adjoining bookstore? A print of a woman’s legs, cross-section, and she was inserting a tampon. Ewwwwwwww!!! My mom: “What’s the big deal, anyway?”

4) So a convention of morticians walks into the room… No, seriously. My mom and I were at the beach. I was barely legal. The morticians wanted to chat. And my mom was all too happy to engage them in some scintillating conversation.

“When did you decide to become a mortician?” was her opener. Oh. My. God. OH MY GOD! I made her leave with me and to this day I regret it.

5) My high school boyfriend and I were Dark and Introspective. We’d both lost our fathers, a year apart (mine to suicide — he was schizophrenic; his to heart attack — he was only 38). We liked to party. But we also liked to stay home, make waffles, and watch Speed Racer with my little sister. One night we were staying in, and for no good reason decided to drink an entire case of Hamm’s, just the two of us. Jesus, were we loaded. So when “I Never Promised You a Rose Garden” came on at midnight, we decided to stay up and watch it.

This was not such a hot idea. We’re drunk. He’s crying over my dad, I’m crying over his dad, we’re crying over our own dads. We’re both worried, What if we go crazy, like poor Kathleen Quinlan. It could happen. Then my mom gets home, after the bar closes. She’s in her honky-tonkin’ phase — she’s dressed really cute and has on boots. She’s all “Yee-haw!” down to the basement, gets a load of us and is all, “What the hell’s wrong with you two?”

6) We always tease her about going to the Rovon Inn. “Where’s mom, anyway?” “She just roved on in” or “Call the Rovon — it’s happy hour.” But truly? She doesn’t even drink anymore! She stopped a long time ago. Go figure.

I found this list (from six weeks ago, now) in my purse. Please, Jeebus, let our house never get infested again. (Treating lice and planning a birthday party for my sister. What a woman.) (more…)

My Great-Auntie Vera passed this week. She was 86! I’m sad that we lost her, but how cool is it that she lived to almost 90? Cool, indeed. Yay for long-lived family members. She was funny and sweet. She was a great cook, and sent us a family/church cookbook for a wedding gift. Then my grandma swiped it, then she gave it to my auntie and uncle. I finally tracked it down and got it back. HA! Ha to you, grandma! (Who is herself 87 this July.)

Auntie Vera’s husband, my Great-Uncle Bunny, was best-known for his threat to my aunts and uncles, when they were diving into the river: “If you durn kids drown yourselves I’m gonna whup ya!” It is threats like that that make a family strong.

Here are two recipes from the cookbook for you, in her honor. And really, when you’re from Arkansas like my mom’s family, there is no point to life without bacon, fried. So both recipes include it.

I love you, Aunt Vera. You really were the best.

CORNBREAD SALAD
(from my cousin Debbie)

1/2 lb. bacon, fried
4 tomatoes, chopped
baked cornbread
2 bell peppers, chopped
1 onion, chopped
1/2 cup sweet pickle, chopped
1 cup mayonnaise
1 tablespoon sugar
1/2 cup sweet pickle juice

Crumble cornbread in bottom of casserole dish. Layer onion, tomato and pepper. Crumble bacon on top. Mix sweet pickles, mayonnaise, sugar and sweet pickle juice together. Beat well. Pour over top layers.

Fried Rice
(from my cousin Pam)

1 cup onion, chopped
1 cup celery, chopped
2 cloves garlic, chopped
1 medium bell pepper, chopped
1 cup cooked rice
2-3 tablespoons soy sauce (or to taste)
salt
pepper
6-8 slices bacon, cut up

Fry bacon, add celery, onion, garlic and bell pepper. Fry till tender. Add rice, soy sauce, salt and pepper to taste. Mix well. Cook on low heat 10 to 20 minutes.

Would Che Guevara play hockey, if he were alive today? Will we move to Iowa sooner or later? Should children be allowed to freely swear? If you commit suicide, are you going to Hell? These and other questions, on today’s edition of Thursday Thirteeeeeeeeeeeeeen…

13. Hockey God: “If Che had been Canadian instead of Argentine, he would have played hockey.”

12. This, from the man who designed a T-shirt with (what else?) a pic on the front of Che, suited up in hockey gear. More Hockey/Less War. Cafe Press banned it. Good for them. Someone needs to put a leash on Hockey God, and it’s not going to be me.

11. This, from the man who insisted on playing hockey on Sunday and refused to go on the huge peace march in downtown Portland, Ore. (I was glad, later, that we hadn’t gone. Arrests, pepper spray, some fights, “Little Beirut” reigns again.)

10. “I’m cold because you didn’t bring my damn gloves!” (Wacky Boy, yelling at me at the park, when I suggested he put on his coat.)

9. FYI, my late father is not in Hell for committing suicide, you freaks and trolls who have suggested as much. Hell is saved for you.

8. Swearing? These two blonde children of mine (ages 4 & 7) curse like sailors. I’m not so cool with this, yet am unwilling to stop swearing. Swearing serves a purpose in my life. Their father has suggested a Free Swear day, where our kids get to cuss all day as much as they want. Only not at school. We had some additional discussion on the following topics: Is “suck” a bad word? Is saying “Oh. My. GOD!” a bad word? Is “stupid” a bad word? I have not the words, honestly.

7. Wacky Boy has started a rewards system for his dad and me. We get post-it notes, with “NICE!” or “U ROCK!” scribbled on the top whenever we behave. Who named him boss? Not me — that’s for frickin’ sure. I mean — damn sure. I mean — darn sure.

6. I want to move to Iowa yesterday. “I WANT TO MOVE TO IOWA YESTERDAY, TOO!” says Wacky Boy. “Can we do that?” No, we cannot, son. Wacky Girl: “I’m fine, either way. Stay, go, move to somewhere else in Portland. I wouldn’t mind staying in Portland ’til it’s after my birthday.” (Next September.) (Also, we’ve discussed moving to heinous Beaverton to be closer to my husband’s work.) “We need to wait a year, then go,” says my husband. I’ll keep you posted.

5. In the meantime, I’ve started looking for work. Here and in Iowa. Because you never know…

4. Wacky Girl gets ice cream when she gets an “11” (all words spelled correctly, plus the challenge word) on her weekly spelling test. This week she got… less than 11. And wrote BLAH BLAH BLAH on the bottom of her test. To which her teacher responded, “Oh, no!”

3. Wacky Girl: “Don’t let Dad see that, willya?”

2. Everyone here has spring fever.

1. I’m still getting the inside of the house painted, move or no move.

HAPPY THURSDAY, YINS!

Because really, there is no point in sticking your head in the oven over it.

Get some Thai food and call it a night.

“I stuck the letter back in the envelope, Scotch-taped it together, and readdressed it to Buddy, without putting on a new stamp. I thought the message was worth a good three cents. Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel. That would fix a lot of people.”

— Sylvia Plath, “The Bell Jar”

The setting: Last Sunday afternoon. I’m lying in bed, hoping my family will leave so I can watch the Las Vegas season finale I have on tape. (I finally watched the whole thing. My review: Creepy, too weird, not enough hott love scenes.)

My husband: “I’ll fix dinner. You always get home cooking on the weekend.”

Me: “I cook during the week!” (…and I’m thinking, not last week I didn’t — we had Thai, pizza, and Indian take-out, then went out on Friday.)

Wacky Girl, who’s sprawled on the bed: “Bullshit.”

(more…)

dear internet,

I miss my dog. The way he slept at the foot of my bed. His crazy Tourette’s-style barking that lasted daily from 3 or 4 in the afternoon until my husband got home at 6 or 7. The kids running to the window to see if their dad’s car had pulled up (at 3:30, 3:45, 4 p.m. — you get the idea) then telling the dog, “He’s still not here, Wacky Dog!” This used to crack me up. His soft nose. His soft ears. The way he’d nuzzle my hand. The way I had to look behind me before I pushed my office chair back, because nine times out of ten he was sleeping there and I didn’t want to roll over his foot or floppy ear.

I miss him all the time.

Please tell me this will get better because I feel like it won’t ever.

Our black cat, Wacky Cat One, has started greeting us at the front door when we get home, just like Wacky Dog used to. She’s never done this before. This makes it a little better. That, and everyone being so nice about the whole thing. I wasn’t the only one who was nuts about that dog.

WM