We have these occupiers protesting in our fine, fair state of Oregon, West Coast, USA. They have a list of demands. Enough about them. Here is my list of demands:

1) I want the Fremont Bridge to be imploded. Now. Like, this weekend would be good. It’s old, it’s ugly, and I have my reasons. Next!

2) I want everyone in my hometown (mine, not yours… ok, maybe it’s yours, but probably it isn’t) my hometown, Portland, to stop being hipsters, and to cease and desist talking about The Decemberists, bacon, beer, whiskey and ganja.

3) I want people to back the hell off when I’m driving. You’re going too fast, and you’re a jerk.

4) Also, I’d like to request that people stop running stop signs because hello, IT SAYS STOP SO STOP ALREADY.

5) I want my kids to stop yelling MOM MOM MOM MOM and I want my students to stop yelling TEACHER TEACHER TEACHER TEACHER. Anyone who wants to yell MAESTRA or GODDESS at me, go ahead, I don’t mind.

6) Upspeak needs to stop. It’s confusing. Also creaky voice needs to go bye-bye. You’re a grown-up, talk like one.

7) Trigger words: housecleaning, dusting, laundry. Please, enough of the trigger words.

8) None of us are getting enough sleep or exercise. None of us are having enough facetime cuz we’re too busy with Facebook (Instagram, Twitter, Snapchat) time. I want some real, meaningful talks. Some naps. Some yoga. I don’t think it’s too much to ask.

OK, anything to add to the list? Please do.

Peace!

nancy

* Steve is off grocery shopping and stopping by the gardening place. We have these fuss-fussy Granny Smith apple trees. They had such bad apple scab last year that all they sent forth was wizened little blackened apples. Well, screw that. If I’m going to have fruit trees, Eve, gimme some fruit. So he will fix them. I hope. We do a nice vegetable garden, and have grown all sorts of vegetables, berries and herbs over the years, but we aren’t big experts on fruit trees. I’ve heard they’re all kind of a pain in the ass, from plums to apples to cherries. True or false, Internets? Please advise.

* My California friends seem to have no problems with their lemon trees, though, go figure. Will keep you posted…

* Yes, our raised garden beds are now torn completely apart and sitting there.

* No, I’m not gardening today, maybe tomorrow.

* Also the deck guys are coming by again (they started yesterday) cuz the deck is a mess. Clean/sand/pound rusty nails down/stain/finish/entertain this summer! I wanted to do it ourselves but god do I hate sanding. I don’t mind the rest of it.

* still revising The Book. I’m at 73,000 words. No, i’m not being fuss-fussy, like the precious-wecious little apple trees but damn, the last time I worked on this manuscript, i left it a mess. I’m having to make it up to my book now. Argh. I may have made this analogy before, so forgive me if you’ve already heard this, but I tore it apart like a busting-at-the-seams rag doll, then stitched it back together with the arms, legs, torso and head all sewed in the wrong spots. Then I couldn’t figure out how to rip it apart again and stitch it up right. Then I wept.

* But when I re-opened the file, a month ago or so, there it all was! and it was as if it came with its own pattern. Oh, you didn’t see the pattern before? Here it is. What a relief for the rest of my life.

* Re-reading Stephen King’s “On Writing.” That one always inspires me. Especially the part about his wife, Tabby, salvaging “Carrie” from his wastebasket and telling him not to give up on it. And then he sold it. And then he sold the paperback rights and they didn’t have to live in their crappy little apartment anymore, and he quit his crappy day job and she quit Dunkin’ Donuts and they could finally afford medicine and food for their kids, and godDAMN that is such good writing. I could read that book five hundred times and I would find something new in it every time, and I would still weep at the part where they Hit It Rich ev’ry fucking time. Stephen and Tabby, if you are reading this, I love you. Hittin’ It Rich couldn’t have happened to two nicer people than you two. Love, Wacky Mommy

* Listening to “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” my dad’s favorite album. And yes, I do have a dark sense of humor, since we all know he committed suicide. By jumping from the Fremont Bridge. But it’s a dark part that I’m re-writing, in my book, and this CD comforts me. (gives big sigh and turns the page.)

* made homemade granola for breakfast this morning. I could have sworn that I used brown sugar and maple syrup when I made the original recipe (which I improvised courtesy of Martha Stewart and one of the parents at my old school). I mean, I do have a sweet tooth and all, but that’s a little much, even for me. However. This morning I did not use brown sugar, and you will notice the recipe doesn’t call for brown sugar, so who the hell knows. It turned out great and that’s all I care about. Ate it up with dark cherry yogurt.

* Now I need another cup of coffee. I could drink the hell out of another cup of coffee and I will.

* i want to write this down before i forget, cuz it was such a good dinner: Tuscan white beans, with sauteed garlic and onions, cherry tomatoes and fresh thyme (thank you Debi and Gabriele, you give me food inspiration); homemade mac and cheese (why have i never written this one up here? I can’t find a link to it, if there is one) — secret ingredients: little shell pasta, Swiss cheese, sharp cheddar and parmesan, with bread crumbs sprinkled on top. I baked it in a roasting pan and not a glass pan; it was so crispy, creamy, melty and good; homemade whole wheat bread (i don’t use barley malt, though, i use either honey or white sugar); leftover homemade Best Chocolate Cake (thank you, Steven) (it was Wacky Boy’s 9th birthday this week); and (to balance out the cake, perhaps?) kale chips.

* OK back to the cake for a minute. Just search for “cake” on my blog and Steve’s, and you will come up with so many g.d. cake recipes. When he finished the cake, the four of us did this whole “memory lane” thing. Theme: Cakes and Cookies We Have Requested for Birthdays, A Retrospective. (Which was best? Which is your favorite? Was it the oversized chocolate chip cooky, baked on a pizza pan with a beach scene, complete with palm tree, frosted on top? Was it… the Volcano Cake? With whipped cream or vanilla ice cream, which is better? Was it the chocolate cupcakes with cream cheese filling, with miniature chocolate chips melted inside? And chocolate frosting? Was it… the Family Poundcake? How about just plain old Mexican Wedding Cakes? The list goes on and on and on.

* I don’t think we’ve run this one before, though: Betty Crocker’s Best Chocolate Cake and that’s the one he made. It’s our latest favorite. (“You sweet talker/Betty Crocker…”) But being Steve, he did some crazy variation on it — said he let the chocolate cool too much, I think it was? — and it made the cake taste like it had melted chocolate chips in it or something. Shot through with little crispy bites of chocolate, and this super-rich, tender cake. Man, he can bake. I’m a good baker, too, it’s a problem over here. Wacky Girl decorated it with chocolate-covered marshmallow bunnies, blue Peeps bunnies (kid you not), jelly beans and malt ball robin eggs.

* OK, now to get your taste buds confused. Kale chips are easy and good. I rinsed the leaves, cut off the ends of the stalks, and roasted them with olive oil, sea salt and pepper at 425 degrees. When they looked halfway done, i turned them, then sprinkled them with more salt and pepper, and drizzled more oil on them. They were like… heaven. So good. Like crunchy, salty potato chips. Nice contrast with the mac and cheese.

* Now I’m listening to “Tunnel of Love” and as far as I’m concerned it is just as twisted as “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” (“I got a picture in a locket/that says baby I love you” — Bruce Springsteen) For real. At least I’m not listening to “Nebraska,” i mean, that would be a bad sign.

* This post has taken waaaaaaaaaay too long to write, i’m halfway through my coffee now, gotta go, Spocky and get back to The Book. (I’ve already started the next one, too. To save confusion, I called the file, NEW GODDAMN BOOK. hahaha.)

* best line of the day from my re-write: “I will fucking firebomb the goddamn police station, do you understand me? I have two little children over here.”

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.

Seriously frickin’ grouchy. I lost my uterus, I sold my house, i moved into a new house, I got unassigned at my job, which means I might (or might not!) lose my job, I lost my beloved, crazy granny, all in the last 12 months. That is too much for a 12-month span of time. Stupid grief, menopause, inflexibility, old habits, and my need to have total control over everything, argh.

I forgot it was late opening and we woke up an hour and a half earlier than we needed to. No, that doesn’t mean that I managed to work out. I did do laundry, though. (thanks Ms. Honeybutt for getting my kid to school, since I had to start work before his school day started.)

Also, I lost the DVDs that were due back at the library. (I know, I know, the irony of a librarian misplacing her library materials is not lost on me. It can happen to the best and the worst of us, folks.) (They’re renewed. For now.)

I’ve lost all kinds of little, medium and big things in the move. We have different voicemail now and I can’t figure out how to work it. (I figured it out! “Press 3, message deleted!” OK, one small triumph.)

Jesus.

It’s five o’clock somewhere, right? In Idaho? It’s 5 o’clock in Idaho. I’m pouring a glass of wine, see you in the moonlight.

— wm

Edited at 9:04 p.m. to say, Thanks, y’all. Thanks, cuz those comments cheered me up and made me laugh so hard that now…

…this is me!

re: Wilson screaming, You lie! at our esteemed President… I’m thinking…

“Black is the new president, bitch.” — Tracy Morgan

Ha. That’s what my late grandma would say. Ha! Yes, she voted for Obama. My Arkansas grandma voted for Obama. I have never been so proud.

I’m reading “Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry” right now and I’m thinking — okay, it was written in 1976 (won the Newbery Medal in 1977), is set in 1933, skillfully deals with racism, KKK, lynchings, night riders — and this book is (UNFORTUNATELY) so relevant today. Go read it. Stay educated. Speak up!

Yeah, no one here will talk about it, for fear of offending someone’s “dog child,” but at least the New York Times dared to tackle the subject. Dogs are a frickin’ problem in Portland. They. Poop. All. OVER THE PLACE. Your dog does not have the same rights as my child, savvy? Besides, my kids are potty-trained and have been for quite some time. Your dog will never be potty-trained. Maybe you can train your pet bunny to use the commode, but the puppy-wuppy? Lost cause. Your dog is not your “child.” You did not birth that furry little poop machine. I know you love him. I know you “adopted” him. But it’s just different.

Aroooooooooooooooooooooooo! You know when I really went all postal on this? When we shared a duplex with a housemate who 1) refused to keep her large dog off the roof that was above our unit (she climbed out through the window and howled at the moon) (and the dog followed suit) 2) never “picked up” after said dog 3) boycotted mowing the grass.

“It is her birthright to have the yard!” (Landlord said we would “share” the yard. Haha to that.)

“Won’t all of the poo just decompose?”

Oh. Dear God. She was a trendsetter! This was ten years ago, but it was the beginning of the end as far as I’m concerned. Dogville, USA ever since then.

The newest trend? Take your doggy grocery shopping. Fun!

My favorite quote from the NYT story: “‘Usually they’ll hold off and not make a complaint until they’ve seen a dog urinate in the grocery store or jump up and try to swipe a pack of meat,’ said Vance Bybee, the head of the food safety division. ‘Or they’ve seen dogs pooping in the aisle, that sort of thing.’

‘That sort of puts them over the edge,’ Mr. Bybee said.”

Imagine.

I was missing my family. My family I haven’t seen cuz I worked all day, then went to meetings, and just now got home.

I missed ’em right up until the point my son came at me with his Dad’s drill. His Dad’s drill that he found lying on the bench upstairs. Then his sister (who is 9, lest you have forgotten) said, “Put that fuckin’ thing down it’s a piece of shit.”

Internets, at that point I told them, all three of them, “I’m glad I didn’t see you guys all day because you all are crazy.”

In my day, if you found a drill lying around, you left it the hell alone because hello, you could hurt someone with that thing. Or they might make you do some remodeling or something and God knows, you didn’t need that, did you?

Also, if we had just gotten back from hunting, and my uncles, their buddies and my grandpa hadn’t had a chance to clean their guns, and the guns were scattered all over the kitchen floor (What? Well, where the hell do you keep your guns?)… here is what you did:

You stepped over the guns.

You did not pick them up, see? You stepped over them. Leave the drills alone, leave the guns alone, keep passing the open windows, it’s not that hard.

Here’s a story I told my kids the other night, about their great-grandpa, who died 11 years ago this week (my mom’s daddy):

When he wanted to get a kid’s attention, he would ask this question:

“‘What say we tell your folks about this?’ Well, no, he didn’t think that was such a good idea. Then I’d say, Son, I have a gun. You might’ve gotten shot. You wouldn’t have liked that, would you?” And he’d say, No sir, I guess I wouldn’t.”

(My kids: “He shot people?” Me: “Just to watch them die. NO, he didn’t shoot people. He just intimated that he would shoot them if they didn’t do what he wanted.” My kids: “Huh.”)

My grandpa was the rockingest dude. Just as long as you didn’t mess with him.

Rants:

* Road rage. Pool rage. Piano lesson rage. Political rage. Me, all week. Rage, rage, rage. Rage on.

* I don’t mind if you have a big truck. I do mind if you fucking don’t know how to drive it. Man up, would you?

* When I’m stopped for a pedestrian, don’t lay on your horn behind me, pissed that I didn’t run the pedestrian over instead of stopping. Show some compassion, would you? Don’t scream “Bitch!” at me, then get out of your car like you’re going to kick my ass. Don’t even attempt to kick my ass. Why don’t you go out on the street and practice falling down for awhile, first? For reals.

* You. Mom at the Pool. I hate you, lady, and here’s why. When you hovercraft, side of pool, it distracts the other kids in the lesson. It pisses them off. When you kick off your fancy sandals and step in the pool, you are looming over the little Angelfish. That pisses me off. You look huge, lady. Even though you’re one of those skinny wenches who prides herself on it. You look huge to them, looming. Then when you get your shorts all wet, because you’re wading in so far? That’s insane. Do a private lesson, and swim with the kid, why don’t you? Or take him to family play swim, or something. Anything.

* “Different parenting styles!!!” No duh.

* Then when you tell your kid, “Do it! Do it, honey! See? The other kids are doing Ring Around the Rosy, see? DO IT, HONEY!!!” at that point? You piss off the swim instructor, all the other parents, and the kids selling concessions and checking people in.

* I want to smack you upside the head, Mom at the Pool. Especially when you’re leaving, and you insist that your little lovey-wovey-dovey put on his flip-flops “Now, honey. DO IT, HONEY! No? OK, then, I’m leaving. I’M LEAVING. I am! Good-bye! Goodbye!” (Did you notice the way your kid was glaring at you? You’ve majorly, thoroughly, pissed him off, too.) (Did you notice the way he didn’t give a damn that you were leaving? That’s because he is not happy, your kid.) Then when you screamed, “GET OVER HERE! NOW!” from across the lobby? At that point, I am not the only one who wanted to push you in the pool, pretty sandals and all.

* I’m tired, Internets. Why won’t people behave?

Now, the raves:

* Yes. It’s The Bacon Show. (That one’s for Amalah.)

* And… isn’t summertime so bitchin’?

Oh. My God.

Now, three good books that landed on my desk this week that I’m sorry, but I am too toasted to post about (sorry, y’all, but at least you’re getting some linky love here):

Today’s books:

“Anger, if not restrained, is frequently more hurtful to us than the injury that provokes it.”

— Lucius Annaeus Seneca, philosopher (BCE 3-65 CE)

Seneca, you were smart! You philosophers — isn’t that the way it always goes? I am smart, too. I am trying to be 1) consistent 2) not angry 3) more patient. With the traffic, with the kids, with the weather, in my relationships. With the stuck-up pool ladies. (No, I’m not saying which pool. But here’s a clue to help narrow it down: The one with the most Stepford Wives. “…one of these things/is not like the other/one of these things/just doesn’t belong…” Can you guess? The thing that doesn’t belong is me.) (more…)

Everyone on the MAX train smells, my friend, except for me and thee. (That’s what my grandpa would say — “Everyone is a bit odd, except me and thee.”) It always smells like pee and B.O. on the MAX train and the bus and it is “nasty.”

Also, I’ve only had two good experiences on the bus. No, three. One time, I saw a sign at the bus stop that said: (more…)