Hello everyone, it’s Wacky Girl. I don’t like my name to be Wacky Girl, that is not even my real name. But mom says I have to. She does not know me.

I just knitted a hat for my brother. It’s white. Grandma made a pom-pom for it but he didn’t want it, so she put it on my dress. I like it. My Grandma is in town from Colorado. We are having really fun. We went on a hike. (Ed: Oxbow Park.)

Wacky Boy: Can we watch a cartoon? Like the Aristocats? Ice Age? American Dragon? Wallace & Gromit? CareBear movies? Cartoons. Cartoons like that, Mom.

WG: Or PBS Kids? Dad does not let us watch TV. But he’s not here. (Ed: He’s at the liquor store, buying rum — good rum, not Bacardi blech — for mojitos. 2006 will be remembered always as the summer we discovered mojitos.)

WG: Mommy won’t let me watch TV either!

WB has no comment. Me? Missing in action? Yes, I was in Gladstone, Ore., housesitting for Zip. I remembered things while I was gone — what I like to fix myself for dinner, for example. (Beef shish kebabs, yogurt, cereal, fruit…) and had fun playing with the two black Labs. I gave up on one manuscript and outlined another. I wrote a whole page of “Things I Would Blog About IF I COULD GET A G.D. INTERNET CONNECTION” but it’s on the laptop and the kids are screaming for TV so…

Tom and Jerry Whiskers Away! it is.

More later,

Love,

WM

“Ah, not a good year for your clan, huh?” a friend of ours asked my sister and me toward the end of 1997. We ran into him at a party. It was the first social event I’d attended in ages, other than funerals.

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From Wacky Boy: “Mom! Flush toilets in Iowa! With a space cracker!”

And really, I did not know what to say to that.

We all have sun poisoning and some of us have mojitos poisoning here after a big, long, fun weekend. Went with our friends and their lovable children to Cannon Beach. Four parents, five blonde kids and the windiest day I’ve ever seen at the beach. The guys immediately begin digging a large hole for us all to put our chairs in. It was an admirable effort, you should have seen it. The women decided to bail and go shopping because Cannon Beach = shopping. I restrained myself and bought only a small gift for my mother-in-law, who is visiting soon, and two tiny bags of rocks for the kids. Not just rocks! Fancy rocks. In tiny black velvet bags. You find yourself doing things like this at Cannon Beach, convincing yourself, or worse, your friend, that more than anything you need that tiny bag of pretty shiny rocks.

And Hockey God forgot to pack a bottle of pinot grigio for me. So what was I supposed to drink, in the hole, with my chair? Away from the wind and the sand and the attacking seagulls. No fear, I had Bocce Pinot Grigio with dinner, and a glass of another white, too. It was… who knows. But it was delicious, as well.

I highly recommend Fultano’s Pizza in Cannon Beach for dinner, and Moe’s Restaurant for breakfast, lunch and dinner. (How many Moe’s are there? Three? One at Siletz Bay, one in Tolovana Park on the far side of Cannon Beach, one… somewhere? Damn. Sorry. Memory lapsing.)

Cannon Beach is home to the Cannon Beach Bakery, where they sell loaves and loaves and loaves of Haystack Bread. You will also see one of the Oregon coast’s Haystack Rocks. (This article says there are two: one at Cannon Beach and one at Pacific City, but an old friend says there is a third, and insists it’s at Rockaway. I can find nothing to back this up, but he’s adamant about it. And says that the one at Pacific City is the “real” Haystack Rock; the others are mere impersonators. Yeah. See what I mean? The beach… rocks… things take on a big significance there, you’d be surprised.)

Must get sleep now, too tired. Have a great week. I’m off to housesit for a friend in a couple of days, and Internet connections are supposedly spotty out her way. How can this be?

Have fun, must run.

Love,

WM

Internet, hello,

How are you? We camped this weekend. (Edited to say: At Mt. Hood. Can’t say where — which river, which campground. Have been sworn to secrecy. Sorry.) It was fine until Hockey God took us on Death March from Hell single file, side-stepping dog shit all over trail, trail that had steep drop-off on one side and scared the hell out of me because MY BABIES! OH MY GOD! What if they fell over the side? I’d dive after them, but would it be Too Late?

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“happy birthday to me/
i am not 43”

yes, i’m 42 now. and drunk, apparently. Hockey God took me and the kids to the beach. Total surprise. Wouldn’t tell me if we were even leaving for the weekend, much less where we were going. We went to the same hotel where he took me the first time we went away to the beach. I was 32 then. it was romantic and gorgeous and the weather was PERFECT and they built a huge sand castle that we decorated with crab shells, seashells, seaweed, rocks and driftwood. We watched “Grease” on cable TV cuz HG had never seen it. What? Funny, huh? For a ’70s kid.

Bonus: traffic wasn’t too bad on the way home. He bought me a huge cake and sneaked it with us. the kids were angels. Mostly. We went to the Blue Heron Cheese Factory for wine tasting on the way home, and the Tillamook Cheese Factory. it was crazy and fun.

we’re listening to “Bemba Colora,” Celia Cruz & Friends, out in the yard. Cuz the little robins flew and we can now use the speakers right by their former nesting grounds. i love those birdies but am thrilled to have the deck and yard back.

Four babies, or possibly only three, two angry bird parents: We’re being held hostage over here by four or five robins.

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“YOU SHOULD SEE HOW MUCH WE’VE CRAPPED ON THEIR DECK. HEH HEH. CAN’T FLY YET, BUT WE CAN LIFT OUR TINY BIRD ASSES AND POOP LIKE DEMONS.”

“THE NEIGHBOR’S WORTHLESS. HARDLY ANY STRAWBERRIES LEFT. WELL, SINCE WE’VE EATEN THEM ALL.”

“FUCKING HATE THE CAT.”

“YO YO BABY, WHAT’S UP?”

(Click on image for a larger view)

One sunny Saturday afternoon a few weeks back we noticed a mommy robin building a nest above the light fixutures on our deck, below the eaves. She was in a pretty big hurry, spazzing and throwing twigs and twine all over the place. (“Flap your wings/just like a birdie!” The Wiggles.) Barking at us when we went out on the deck. Didn’t seem to mind the dog or notice the cats. (But they sure noticed her, from inside the patio door. Bird TV.)

Hockey God was not pleased. The deck was a mess, all littered with debris. “Does she even know what she’s doing?” She started on the light on the right side, then switched to the light on the left. Was looking a little confused. Settled on the left. Flew off. Back. Off. Back.

I told the kids, “We can’t use the light til the babies are gone!” and covered the switch with masking tape.

There is no stopping a robin who’s feathering her nest, and she did know what she was doing! Pretty soon she had mudded up a nice new little condo for herself and the family.

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So. The Lovely Miss Amalah posed the question, re: what to do when you and your spouse can’t agree on how many kids to have (zero? 15? four and a half?): “Whose definition of “complete” did you end up using?”

AND THE READERS WENT COMPLETELY NUTS. It’s a pretty interesting read. But don’t consider jumping into the fray, cuz the comments section, she is closed.

Honestly, people, people, people. The question is not, “How many kids should we have?” but rather, “How the hell do I get rid of this headache that I’ve had for two weeks, that is considerably aggravated by my screaming kids?” One kid, 15, four and a half, it doesn’t matter. They’re going to scream, and you’re going to get a headache.

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