HAPPY THANKSGIVING, Y’ALL! wm

Thursday Thirteeners and Usual Suspects,

That Vixen. She kills me. She tagged me for a meme, “A Little About Us.” Cuz you know — Hockey God and I wrote the book of love. Steve, mi amor, I adore you.

The basic facts: (more…)

Why I Declared Wednesdays No Arguing With Assclowns on the Internet Day! Woot!

Thursday 13ers and Usual Suspects,

Do you hate to be wrong? I don’t mind it so much when I am, cuz what’s the point? Sometimes I’m wrong, sometimes I’m right. I’d like to think I usually am not an idiot, that I’m learning from my mistakes, but who knows? I could be wrong. I’ve been wrong before! Sometimes I change my mind. Lose interest. Give up and go out for sushi, where the conversation is usually much more interesting than the one I’ve been engaging in on the Internet. That’s right. I “talk” with people on the Internet. (And in person — I do leave the house, have a life, run around, you know. Things that don’t involve the computer.)

Lately? Lately my husband and I have been doing a lot of political work. By “a lot” I mean, “a lot even for us.” Political work is enough to make your head implode. So along come the trolls:

“What do you know about it? You’re selfish and making things up! My preshus children go 2 a chartr skool and they luv it and are rilly rilly smart! Yer children would be smart, 2, if you wern’t such a selfish beoyotch!” Etc.

Then I feel compelled to say things like, hell no I don’t want my kids at your hippie-dippie little feel-good charter school, they’re fine at their neighborhood school. Yes, they unchain them from their desks sometimes. And it’s open to everyone, their school. It’s not hoity. No, actually, charter schools are exclusive and hoity. That’s why there aren’t any black kids/Mexican kids/poor kids, etc. at your school, see? (This is true of Portland charters, anyway. So please excuse me if your charter has the All-Asian Boys’ Juggling Troupe, and if it wasn’t for your special school, they never would have learned how to juggle! “None of the other skools they went 2 ever let them juggle, Witchie-Poo! You’re mean! What do you have against juggling?”)

But there I go again, see? Arguing. I give up, Internets. I will no longer argue! On Wednesdays! If you have occasionally had an “arguing” problem with “The Internets” and want to participate in this fine venture of mine, please send me an e-mail or leave a comment; I would be happy to give you a cheerful SHOUT-OUT!

My 13 reasons:

1) Why bother? No one wins.

2) Everyone thinks they’re a big expert, especially me, the Witchie-Poo of all-time. I will be an expert without typing out, “I am expert, not you,” and then will have a merry little laugh.

3) Head. Implodes. With too much conflict. Less conflict, more playtime.

4) What works for me might not work for someone else. Who cares?

5) I’m all, you know, zen. Cuz I went for acupuncture today.

6) I think, would my acupuncturist waste his time arguing? No, he would not. He’d throw some needles in them and tell them to quiet down their spleens. And then he’d say, Your chi is all out of whack. Let’s rechannel it. Then he’d light some moxa on their bellies, in their belly buttons, and say, Let’s draw some of that out. Then he’d do that, you know, five or six times, ’til they were goofy-relaxed, and ask, Better? They’d be all, What was I saying?

7) Why argue when you can make love? Go for sushi? Walk in the rain? Watch the Zamboni go ’round and ’round?

“There are three things in life that people like to stare at: a flowing stream, a crackling fire and a Zamboni clearing the ice.”
— Charlie Brown

8) I thought, if I can give up arguing on Wednesdays, eventually I’ll be able to branch out to Thursdays. Possibly Tuesdays. Perhaps (dare I hope for this?) seven days a week? Yes.

“Victory is mine/ Victory is mine/ Victory today is mine/ I told Satan/ Get thee behind/ Victory today is mine… (etc.) Love is mine… Joy is mine… Peace is mine…”

Om.

9) Sometimes when people really, really argue with you? And won’t give up? And are determined to make you change your mind? At any cost they just have to or it will kill them… It’s because they’re wrong. They know they’re wrong, and they’ve been wrong for a long time.

10) Nyah. (You can think nyah, but please do not say it out loud.) (The children are listening.)

11) If you argue, even if you’re right, it makes you look defensive. Don’t be defensive — be who you are and stand up for yourself and others, but don’t get defensive. You need to defend yourself if you absolutely have to, though. Like if someone tries to steal your chocolate bar.

12) The Internet gives bullies a safe place to hide and then (virtually) jump out at people. I’m not hiding — I’m right here, every day. Bullies, be gone. Go get your own blogs.

13) Love. Love and compassion and all that. It works.

Don’t be argumentative, friend. Don’t let the Internet assclowns get you down. Life is good.

Love,

WM

“Are you upset little friend? Have you been lying awake worrying? Well, don’t worry…I’m here. The flood waters will recede, the famine will end, the sun will shine tomorrow, and I will always be here to take care of you.”
— Charlie Brown to Snoopy”

Thursday 13ers and dear, dear Usual Suspects,

Our house is going on the market soon SOON as in… maybe this month? (In my dreams.) Or possibly we’ll wait a few months.

Chores take time. And so does yardwork.

Thirteen EXCELLENT Things About Selling Our Home:

13) One word: Newcarpet. The whole house looks sunny and light now.

12) Our storage space is filling up as the house gets emptied out. Goodwill, friends, trash, storage, or Artfully Arranged: A place for everything and everything in its place. (My desk is the exception to this rule.)

11) No more picking up 800 Dr. Seuss, Little Bear and Magic Treehouse books — they’re packed.

10) Ditto 1/2 of our clothes.

9) The front yard is edged. Well. Half-edged. Our lawn is rarely edged.

8) It’s still covered with weeds, which I’m justifying for this reason: If the new owners want a nice lawn, they can pay for it themselves. If they’re going to cover it with flagstones, ground cover and zero-scaping EXCUSE ME xeriscaping, why should I bother? (Good one, eh? I love my logic when it saves me from weeding.)

7) The beds are weeded, though, and we’ve done about 1/2 the pruning.

6) I have never been so in love with my husband in my life. And honestly, I have been madly, head-over-heels with the guy since he was my neighbor down the street. He has done every single one of the projects we (and by we I mean “he”) needed to tackle. Exposed wires covered, new sprinkler system box installed, touch-up paint done, new back door.. to quote Dooce — After all that, I don’t even need a gin and tonic to get in the mood.

5) Did I mention the weather has been gorgeous in Portland, Ore.? (Trying not to jinx myself.) When it’s sunny, I am much more inclined to work in the yard, keep up with the house, go for walks with the kids… and then I get excited about moving all over again. Why? Because we’ll have a new neighborhood to walk in! Yay.

4) I think we’re going to buy Ikea bedroom furniture. Should I really splurge and spend a couple hundred bucks? Yes. I was quite enamored of my mother-in-law’s new room when we visited her in Denver last summer. Her set-up looks kinda like this. I love my futon and all but I am a grown woman now! Sick of sleeping on floor.

3) The kids are enjoying their rooms more now that they’re decluttered. They have room to play. On the floor. Did you know that bedroom floors could be used for this, and not just toy/debris/clothes storage? It’s a revelation.

2) I can find things in my kitchen now — lids to Tupperware, the corkscrew, cooky cutters — now that we’ve cleared some of it out. And the counters? It’s easier to cook, once the counters are cleared off. Again — a revelation.

1) I won’t miss the Nasty Neighbor one bit. She yelled at our carpet guys! Why? They were cutting carpet. In the street. In front of my house, which is next door to her house. She was rude to them and they were so nice about it. I apologized to them, and to their boss, too. “Yeah, people get a little strange sometimes,” one said.

Yeah, no kidding. I’ll miss most of our neighbors — especially the Nekkid Ones — but her? I try to be a decent person and rise above it. For instance, I didn’t throw a corndog at her when she yelled at the carpet guy. I haven’t called the city on her lately. I haven’t flashed her or anything. But she still insists on throwing the toxic vibe around all the time. I will step aside and let it zing right past me, as much as I can.

You know, I won’t miss her even one little bit.

Happy Thursday, everyone.

WM

HAPPY HALLOWEEN, 13ers and all THE USUAL SUSPECTS!!!!!!!

We love Halloween at our house. I love it so much that I would like to eat a pound of chocolate right now to celebrate. Self-control is good, but on Halloween it goes OUT the window. I will try to not eat too much chocolate. I always try to try. Here are 13 funnies for you:

13) One of the first Halloweens my husband and I spent together, we all three dressed up as princesses — Hockey God, me, and Good Ol’ Wacky Dog, who was adorable in a pink sparkly cape and pointy pink hat. We went to a party where a few friendly lesbians took a liking to him, and spent the evening “frenching” him and feeding him beer. Arooooooooooo! (Here is a picture of him, the cutest dog ever, from last year, with my sister’s dog, who is dressed as a dinosaur.) (He used to like to spend Halloween bum rushing the door every damn time the bell rang, and scaring the kids.) (Good puppy! Why did we not lock him in the office? He was part beaver and would have chewed his way out.) (Poor dog. Poor scared trick or treaters.)

12) One of my favorite memories is my daughter’s second Halloween, when my mother tried to “teach” her how to hand out Halloween candy. Only neither one of them would let go. The neighbor kids found this to be “frustrating.” We have it all on videotape, it’s pretty hilarious and a little goofy.

11) First Halloween for Wacky Girl? I dressed her as a bear. Second? She was a little bunny, and every time a kid came up on the porch she shrieked with glee and nearly scared them off.

10) “Trick or treat and make it snappy!”

9) Wacky Girl is dressed as a pirate tonight; Wacky Boy is dressed as a hippie.

8) Wacky Girl: “On Halloween, little girls go wooooooooooot-wooooooooooooooot! Hallelujah! Tricker treating!”

7) Wacky Boy: “On Halloween, little boys say twick o tweet. TWICK O TWEET FOR UNICEF!!!!”

6) Wacky Girl, upon finding out that trick or treating ends when you turn 12 or 13: “I thought that was horrible and… pretty bad.”

5) How about some candy, y’all?

4) My dad used to take us out trick or treating for blocks and blocks and blocks and never gave up before we did. That is my definition of a great father. My mom used to sort out all of our candy after we went to bed and only ate some of it, not all. That is my definition of a great mom. Also, she used to sew all of our costumes — gypsies, clowns, witches, whatever we wanted.

3) Wacky Girl’s definition of the perfect Halloween: “You get a medium amount of candy. You go home, you eat half of it, and you go to bed. The next day you don’t go to school cuz it’s Candy Hang-over Day. Then after lunch and dinner the next day you eat the rest of your candy. And that’s a perfect Halloween.”

2) Wacky Boy’s definition of the perfect Halloween: “I do not have one.” (Proceeds to wrap ribbon from sword all around the office. “It took me a very long time to do.”)

1) Happy Halloween, and I hope you get lots of treats and hardly any tricks.

WM

13ers,

Do you have any friends? I mean, real-life friends, not just cyber-friends? I do. I have, like 78 or maybe 423. It varies from week to week. It’s because I live in Podunk, Oregon, where I have lived since my parents brought wee little me home from the hospital.

This means I have friends from grade school, high school, college (I went to college in downtown Podunk), and every bar, neighborhood and job I’ve ever known. I am what you call “a people person.”

This does not make me a good friend. However, within this crazy corral of friends, I have four or five true-blue girlfriends, and to them I will remain loyal and steadfast for all of my days.

“A good friend will help you move, but a good girlfriend will help you move a body.”
— Zip

Girlfriends, yes, the ones who know all about your crazy inner-heartaches and who have seen you through several bad haircuts and numerous drafts of your unpublished manuscripts.

Those girlfriends, for me, are Misses P, Zip, M, Leslie, S, and Beth. (That’s six.) (That’s a lot.) (I am lucky and not worthy, even one bit.)

My real-life friends, who never got enough attention to begin with, have been sadly neglected since I started a blog almost three years ago. For instance, my oldest childhood friend, Miss P (and by “oldest” I am not referring to her age. I mean, we have been friends longer than I’ve been friends with anyone else). (Got all that?) The girl lives five minutes from me. Fifteen if I’m walking. But do I see her? No. Does she call? No. It must have been something in the water in our neighborhood because she is as terrible about calling and visiting as I am.

Then comes a message through one of her co-workers, whose daughter is in my Sunday School class. “She lost your number! You have to call her.” (That is how Portland goes — you only catch up with friends when you know someone who knows someone who remembers you or them.) (Or you slept with someone in common, and now you’re both married to other people, and you never see the person you both used to sleep with, but you run into their ex and you’re all, Oh. My. Gosh! It is good to see you! Where are you working now? Are you still playing music? etc.)

OK. That was three days ago, when I got that message during Sunday School, but have I called? I am this way with many of my friends. Flighty. Random. Meaning well but not always following through. I’m ready to stop the blogging for a second and go call her. (Home number: disconnected. Work number (even though I know she still works there): wrong number. Parents’ home phone: No go. They’ve moved out of state. Generally, you can find most native Portlanders through their relatives ’cause mostly none of us ever leave. I sometimes get calls from people looking for my mother, sister or one of my cousins.)

Cell phone! Got her.

me: “I’m blogging about you!”
my girlfriend: “You’re what?”
me: “Blog. Ging. Go read it! I’m posting it in two minutes. I’ll call you back after I get the kids to bed…”
my girlfriend: “Cool.”

I am thankful for my friends. For their forgiveness of my flightiness, my quirks, my volatile nature.

I am especially grateful for Planet Nomad (Beth), cuz she, like my girlfriend Miss P who I just hung up on, has stood by me through many years of flightiness. Two decades’ worth, to be almost precise. (Now go read her blog, cuz she posted her first Thursday Thirteen and it is all about me! And it’s not even my birthday! So I wanted to return the favor.)

I am glad to know her, and her sweetheart of a husband, and their three incredible and beautiful kids. I am grateful and a little giddy that they are here from Africa for the year. I do not want them to leave, but that is selfish of me. I think the thought and then I shoot it out of my head and get mad at myself for being so selfish. Then I start crying a little, feeling sorry for me, because they’re not here to stay, and they don’t even know my husband, hardly, or my kids, barely, and what do we have to do, go to Morocco to have coffee with them? (That’s where they’re going next, allegedly.) (And way to enjoy their time here, woo!)

This line of thought is almost as selfish as my having forgotten to invite the Planet Nomads to my wedding. (I spaced on a lot of people, not just them. I kicked myself for about two years after our wedding. Sorry, you guys. It wasn’t that fun, don’t think you missed out.) (Are they out of the room? It was real fun, our wedding, for reals. I am such a lameass.)

Here are 13 things I love about my girl, Planet Nomad:

1. She seems to have forgiven me for no wedding invite.

2. She is a grounded, devout, deep, intelligent, articulate and kind person, and so humble and low-key about it.

3. We have quite different political beliefs (well, we do and we don’t, but it’s complex, where we’re both coming from. Does that make any sense?), but we set it all aside and love and respect one another.

4. That’s because we both want the same thing: For people to love each other, tolerate each other, not hurt each other. We want our kids to grow up healthy and strong and have good, long lives, filled with friends, music, art, books and yummy food to eat.

5. She is an amazing writer. We met at the Portland State University Vanguard, the student newspaper. Even back then, we both took our writing seriously, and took each other’s writing seriously. She was one of the first people I trusted, artistically. (So snooty, eh?)

6. A shout-out to our husbands, who are astounding artists and writers, in addition to being two of the best fathers I’ve ever met: Sahara Jones (and Lumiere) and More Hockey Less War.

7. I love my friend Planet Nomad because the girl, she is always level-headed. Even when she’s shaving her legs while she’s in labor, picking out wine, deciding to pack up her family for an international move, or homeschooling three children in French. She does everything in a calm, practical way.

8. I think we can all learn a little something here.

9. She loves books and Keats as much as I do.

10. She’s always, always, always late. In our social circle, she is as well-known for her lack of punctuality as she is for her korma, fairy cakes, and eggplant specialties. I am not a prompt person, myself, but she makes me look positively uptight and chop-chop about scheduling.

11. This pleases me, because, you know, I like knowing that she’s not perfect.

12. Through Planet Nomad, I met our friend Leslie and I love her, and Libby, who is Leslie and Planet Nomad’s dear friend, and it’s all one big lovefest. Also, Planet Nomad has some complex friendship with one of my Wacky Cousin’s half- or step-siblings and I always forget that they know each other, so she and her husband know my cousin. Also, my sister. Actually, I think they knew my sister, to start, better than they knew me. I always forget this. I kinda forgot to tell her they were back in town until they’d, um, already been here a week? Yeah, don’t think I didn’t get an earful about that.

I was all, “Oh, you know them, too?”

13. Heehee.

Beth, I love you. Happy Thursdays, babies!

WM

1. I can’t bear being seen naked. I’m not exactly a tiny woman. When Sophia Loren is naked, this is a lot of nakedness.

2. I still like me, inside and out. Not in a vain way— I just feel good in my skin.

3. It is very important for an actor or actress to look around at everything and everyone and never forget about real life.

4. I’ve never tried to block out the memories of the past, even though some are painful. I don’t understand people who hide from their past. Everything you live through helps to make you the person you are now.

5. I am against all war.

6. When I was a child, fear was common to my life— fear of having nothing to eat, fear of the other children taunting me at school because I was illegitimate, and particularly fear of the big bombers appearing overhead and dropping their lethal bursts from the sky.

7. To prepare for the part I opened the sluices of my memory, letting the bombing raids, the nights in the tunnel, the killings, the rapes and starvation and inhumanity wash back over me. I particularly concentrated on my mother as I remembered her during the war, her fears, connivances and sacrifices, and especially the way she fiercely protected us against the scourges of the war. (On her role in “Two Women”)

8. I was blessed with a sense of my own destiny. I have never sold myself short. I have never judged myself by other people’s standards. I have always expected a great deal of myself, and if I fail, I fail myself.

9. You have to be born a sex symbol. You don’t become one. If you’re born with it, you’ll have it even when you’re 100 years old.

10. For me, it is good to be vulnerable. It makes me nice… weak sometimes, but in a good way, not a tragic way.

11. Everything you see I owe to spaghetti.

12. Beauty is how you feel inside, and it reflects in your eyes. It is not something physical.

13. After all these years, I am still involved in the process of self-discovery. It’s better to explore life and make mistakes than to play it safe. Mistakes are part of the dues one pays for a full life.

(and two bonus quotes:)

* If you haven’t cried, your eyes can’t be beautiful.

* When you are a mother, you are never really alone in your thoughts. A mother always has to think twice, once for herself and once for her child.

(Do you love the Thursday Thirteen? I do.)

Thirteeners! And Usual Suspects!

Nan at Things I’ve Found in Pockets (good blog name, Nan) has requested that I write about…

Political topic please: breastfeeding and working mothers! (more…)

13ers and usual suspects,

Recipes! (more…)

Hullo, hullo, 13ers and Usual Suspects,

For my Thursday Thirteen, I am talking about skin. Its color, specifically. It all feels the same, skin, doesn’t it? When you touch it? Stroke it? Caress it? Burn it? Jab it and make it bleed? It bleeds the same. It hurts the same. We all have skin. It’s just that mine is white. Maybe yours is, maybe it isn’t. It doesn’t matter. But some people think it does.

How did I learn about racism? Oh, lots of ways. I’ll work backwards, from this week, as things come to mind:

1) From Cynthia Harris, the principal (African-American) of our neighborhood high school, Jefferson High School, here in beautiful, open-minded Portland, Oregon, USA. (Here are four links, because no one can agree on what one thing Jefferson should be). Harris told a group of parents and community members that “Black kids are different” and “Almost one in four black students at my school is in special education. Something is wrong there.” So they’re “different” and “really different,” apparently.

Harris refused to answer questions posed by a woman (white) who, like me, is an advocate for kids and a community activist. Why wouldn’t she answer her questions? Harris told the woman “(I) don’t understand why people who aren’t African-American think they should have any say in what happens at Jefferson.”

I say: Ms. Harris, be inclusive. If you can’t be, then you need to not work with students or any communities. I’m a community member, and I want to help make things better. Don’t say no to anyone who is trying to help — say yes. Your word should be yes. Yes, yes, yes. Yes, let’s talk. You don’t have to agree to everything everyone wants, that wouldn’t work. But I am asking that you listen to what people have to say, have a conversation, answer the questions that you are able to answer. Communication. Yes.

(This subject is also being discussed by Terry Olson, Hockey God, Willamette Week and KGW-8, Portland’s NBC affiliate. (And over at The Mercury, they’re talking about race as it relates to drug- and prostitution-free zones.) If you see discussions elsewhere, please e me.)

2) I was being a smart-aleck when I said “beautiful, open-minded Portland.” Because, while the scenery is quite beautiful in Portland, the people can be quite ugly. We have a long, hideous history of racism in Portland. I just lit a candle for Mulugeta Seraw and another one for the Coon Chicken Inn and another one for Tony Stephenson and another one for Jose Meija Poot and another one for everyone. And I lit one, too, for the Portland Police officers who thought they should “decorate” the doorstep of a business (black-owned) with dead possums. Maybe I ought to light two for them.

This isn’t all of it — these are just a few “situations” that came to mind.

I am not proud of my city’s heritage, you should be aware of this.

3) I learned about racism when my friends had their house firebombed, windows broken, furniture on their front porch burned, in the early ’90s, by the Skins who lived the next street over. They are an interracial couple — a woman (African-American), her husband (white), and their female roommate (African-American). They chose to leave Portland.

4) When I was in third grade, my girlfriend Teri and I sat down with a table of kids (African-American), at lunch. She proceeded to talk at length about the following: watermelon, and her love of it; her grandparents, and their house in North Portland; did she mention she really loved watermelon?; and how she was always at her grandparents’ house, in North Portland.

I felt really weird, but didn’t know why. I didn’t say anything.

The kids all took their trays and moved to another table. When I asked my mom why, later, she said, “Jesus H. Christ, I cannot believe what an idiot that kid is” and swore for awhile before she explained.

5) In fourth grade, after my dad died, I spent most lunch hours alone on the playground, hoping no one would notice me, and trying not to cry. A pair of twins (African-American) found me. They were a year older than I was, and well-known for their fistfights, which they always won.

“Did your daddy kill hisself?” they asked me.

That’s when I started thinking that black people were mean, and would beat me up if they saw any weaknesses.

6) Then there was fifth grade, when I heard one of the older girls, an eighth-grader (African-American), tell another eight-grader, boy (African-American), “Boy, you are fucking with my nerves.” We did not talk like that at my house and that’s when I learned, sometimes black girls can be mean, but they totally fucking rock. Fuck yeah.

7) Then there was sixth grade, when Paula (African-American) beat me up. I deserved it, I was being a jerk to Dina (bi-racial — African-American and white) and really, I totally deserved it. But they were both friends with me, after that. Dina used to come into the pharmacy where I worked, and the restaurant where I waited tables, just to say hi. Her mom did, too. She’d say, “Dina says hi.”

I ran into Paula a few years ago — it was so good to see her. I told her I had heard that Dina was killed in a car accident, when we were all in our early 20s. It was her husband, I heard. He wanted her dead, there was domestic violence. (I didn’t tell Paula that part; her daughters were there.) Paula told her daughters, “We were all friends.” And I told them, “You just never know how things are going to turn out, so we need to all be good to each other.”

I should light a candle for Dina, too, don’t you think?

9) We had race riots at my school — “Black versus white! Black versus white!” a few kids would scream. They’d all spill out to the park. Some guys (African-American) would break out cake-cutters. They were metal and sharp. Some guys (white) would threaten to have knives, but they only occasionally did. I would watch from the playground next to the park, then I would walk home. Then my mom would ask, “Why are you home early?” and I would say, “Fight.” Where were the grown-ups? I have no idea. Smoking in the teachers’ lounge, I imagine, and complaining about us.

10) I found out that some kids (white) from my neighborhood were being bussed to schools (black), far, far away, in North Portland. (I went to school in Northeast, ten minutes from North). And some kids (black) were being bussed from schools (black) in their neighborhood (North) to my school. Everyone getting on and off the busses seemed to be in a bad mood. There were a lot of fights on that end of the building. I learned to keep my distance. I learned that a lot of times when people got sick of talking they used their fists.

11) Then there was my maternal grandma (white) from Dakota (North) who called Brazil nuts “nigger toes.” Then there were my mom’s relatives (white) from the south who said, “You want some good barbecue, you go get some of that nigger barbecue.”

12) I learned about racism when I fell in love with a man (black) and another man (brown). I learned about racism when I was on jury duty and they asked us, one by one, if we’d ever been involved in an interracial relationship. If you had been, you were disqualified.

“Did you notice that people stared at you when you walked down the street?” the lawyer asked.
“Yes,” I said, “But I just thought it was because we were so good looking.”

13) I learned about racism while we were planning our 20th high school reunion in 2002 and the former cheerleaders (white) insisted on having the reunion and picnic in ritzy areas of town (white) where I told them that a lot of my old friends (African-American and Asian) wouldn’t “feel comfortable” going.

Is that the most stupid expression ever? “Feel comfortable”? “It makes me uncomfortable”? But I didn’t know how to put it. I suggested Peninsula Park, in North Portland. I had talked with Paula, who had talked with some of the other alums. They had asked for Peninsula Park. Cheerleader frowns all around. “It’s too dangerous there.”

It made them “uncomfortable.”

How many guests of color at my reunion? Three (Asian, African-American, African-American.) There were close to 400 kids in my graduating class, which was maybe 60 percent white, 20-25 percent Asian, maybe 15-20 percent African-American and a few Hispanic kids.

Three people.

Hey Thirteeners and Usual Suspects,

Will you show me your breasts? Pretty please? C’mon. I just want to see them for a second. Hey! There ya go! Excellent.

Now I’ll show you mine — whooooooo! See how much fun that was? This week, I’m giving you Thirteen Reasons You Should Show People Your Breasts…

by Wacky Mommy, Inc.

13. I’ve been spending a lot of time with my somewhat out-of-hand friend. One of the mommies from school. Let’s call her Little Miss Honey Butt, because that’s her name. OK, it’s not. But it should be. ‘Cause her butt? Oh, honey. She really, really likes to flash the ta-ta’s around. Granted, she’s nursing, but the kid is, I dunno, four or something now? I’m kidding, she’s only 3. Ha! Gotcha! She’s actually 18 months or so. I lose track. Well, since the baby has gotten bigger, she likes to nurse sitting on mom’s lap, facing her. She also likes to do that simultaneously adorable and annoying thing that babies do (both mine did this, too) where they nurse on one side and stroke the other side. Comfort and joy, who can’t relate? But as a nursing mother I was like, damn, baby, it’s not bad enough we’re flashing one side — you want both of them on display? Babies think this is a fun game and everyone should join in.

12. Babies are right. Boobs are a lot of fun. At first I was thinking, Miss Honey Butt, how many times are you going to show my husband your tits? (We spend a fair amount of time together, our two families, at school and play). Then Hockey God, excuse me, Steve, grouses, “You keep talking about her tits, but I’ve never seen ’em” and I’m all, “How can you miss them?” and I’m thinking, “I hate her and her nice tits.” (Not for real hate, just a little jealousy bitchy thing.) (My tits are very nice, in their own right, in case you were wondering.) (Her husband? The man is just so mellow. He’s like, eh, there she goes with the tits again. I love that girl.)

11. Boobs can be a show-stopper.

10. A traffic-stopper.

9. A mood-lightener.

8. A real pick-me-up, even when they’re not all that perky. I mean, think about it…

7. Someone yells, “Show me your tits!” and you just raise your shirt, flash ’em, and go on your way. That’s stunning in its simplicity.

6. Everyone’s running around competing with each other, being catty with each other (women) being curious and dogs (men). Wearing their boob shirts, their decolletage calling out all woo-hoo, here I am! Think of it — you just cut to the chase. “Hi, here are my boobs. Now you know what’s under my sweater.” In a job interview? Someone’s staring at your tits and not listening to your answers to their questions? Flash! All good.

Johnny Cash: “I like to watch you talk.”
June Carter: “I’m talking with my mouth; it’s way up here!”

5. For women who have gone through breast cancer, I think this could be a real empowering thing. Cuz you know — you’ve gone through chemo, maybe radiation, everyone’s wondering, “Did they take one? Both? Was it just a lumpectomy? I can’t remember what Mabel told me. Did she get reconstruction? Is she wearing those jelly-boobs?” And they can’t even concentrate on what you’re saying, because they’re so preoccupied. Show them what you look like. Smile. Move along.

4. Boobs make babies happy. There’s a reason for that.

3. Men get to go around with no shirts — why shouldn’t we?

2. I realize that although showing your tits is not illegal in Oregon (thank you, liberal hippy state! Here, I’m lifting my shirt to you! In Oregon we like to be nekkid) in some states and countries this sort of behavior is illegal. Well, forget that! Let’s make some new rules! Women need to nurse, have some fun, throw the neighbors off their game. I have often been tempted to show the neighbor my boobs. You know why? Just because.

1. Breasts are beautiful.

Happy Thursday to you and yours,

WM

(Edited on Thursday to say — boy. When you use the word “breasts” and “nekkid” and “naked” about 40 times in a blog, you really get the junk mail. Dang.) (PS — Little Miss Honey Butt is fond of her new nickname.)

(Edited later on Thursday to say — I had the perfect chance to flash the neighbor today and missed it. She walks out her door, halts to stare me down, jangles her keys at me, keeps staring, goes to get in her car. Why couldn’t I flash her? I was holding two bags and the recycling bin. She caught me off guard. Dammit. Better luck next time.)